#without ever telling him about the dark ritual

[flowersforthemachines]

inspired by this post by @thewardenisonthecase. I haven't introduced any of these OCs on the blog except for Ghilasara and the tiny bit of Cerastes, and I think that's a great way to go through all of them at once. encouraging everyone to do the same with their OCs as well

* Specifically the part where he counts on her killing him and gets her kicked out of her home. Doesn't actually care about the church as a building.

* Comes clean during the lock-in scene.

[blank-potato]

that's what i like

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training. “So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves. Big mistake. Huge mistake. Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest. You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. Or You love everything Bob does, and he doesn't seem to notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, love confessions, friends to lovers, Bob and reader being cute, thirsting over the void a little

WC: 3.1k

A/N: Thank you again to @fire-joestar for the request/idea. Wrote something with the same kind of concept for John Walker, linked here. Enjoy!

***

Bob Reynolds is ruining your life.

Not in the dramatic, villain-of-your-story kind of way, but in the slow, quiet unravelling of your sanity. It’s too hard to be around him with all the smiling and casual charm and accidental intimacy that he does without even realising it.

And it’s always the little things which somehow make it worse.

His voice, for one. You were obsessed with his voice. He could be reading the back of a cereal box or listing off the ingredients in engine coolant, and it would still sound like poetry. Sometimes he’d actually read to you. You and Bob were the only members of the unofficial Avengers book club.

You’d often talk about books you’d read, trading recommendations like secrets, excitedly dissecting plot twists and favourite characters. It became a quiet ritual between you and Bob.

“There’s no audiobook,” you groaned one night, holding up the newest paperback in your stack. “I was hoping to listen to one so I could fall asleep.”

Bob, ever the calm in your chaos, looked over at you with that soft little smile he always wore when he was about to offer something way too generous.

“I can read it to you,” he said, casual like it wasn’t the most heart-stoppingly sweet thing you’d ever heard.

You blinked. “You sure you don’t mind?” you asked, voice tinged with both hope and hesitation.

But he just shook his head, already pulling a chair up beside your bed, brushing off any notion of it being a burden. “Not at all.”

His voice was too much. It filled the space in your room like a blanket. He didn’t touch you, not once, just sat a few feet away reading by the soft light of your bedside lamp. But somehow it still felt intimate, like his voice alone was petting you gently, like fingertips tracing down your spine, calming every frayed nerve.

But his voice wasn’t just soothing, it was sexy. You’d never tell him or the other Avengers this because of the whole traumatic experience and whatnot, but even when he became the void, his voice was something else.

It was dark and mocking, and it had you feeling some kind of way, only a little, because people were literally being turned into shadows and living out their trauma. But still, it pulled at something deep inside you and maybe made you discover a few things about yourself. Maybe something you should be concerned about, but nevertheless...

Although his voice isn’t the only thing that’s contributing to your downfall. 

Just this morning, you’re barely awake and walk in to be greeted by the sight of Bob making breakfast, one of your favourite sights. 

“Morning,” you mumble, suppressing a yawn.

“Morning…” he replies with an easy smile, going about his routine, setting up to make breakfast.

“Thank you, Bob,” you say, turning to him, feeling completely in control, your head still firmly attached to the rest of you.

But then you catch something, he’s cracking eggs one-handed. Now, you don’t know why that’s so captivating. Maybe it’s how strong and big his hands look, maybe it’s the effortless confidence in the motion. Or maybe it’s just because you’re so hopelessly in love with him that everything he does feels like it’s dipped in gold.

Either way, you liked it. A lot more than you probably should’ve.

“You could crack me like an egg,” you mumble quietly to yourself.

“Did you say something?” Bob asks, not hearing what you said, thank goodness.

“No, nothing at all. You’re looking good, the... the breakfast is looking good, I mean…” You stumble over your words, cheeks warming as you try to play it cool.

This crush you had on him certainly didn’t help when you had to help him train. He was like a baby cow, clumsy, unsure, and somehow always one step away from falling over his own feet. And everything he did just made him that much more endearing. The way he bit his lip when he was concentrating, the little apologetic smiles when he missed a step or fumbled a move, the way he always tried again without complaint. It was everything.

“You have to…um you have to…” You start, but your voice trails off as you catch the way he’s looking at you.

Another one of Bob’s quirks that has you going feral… the eye contact. He’s always so focused, so intent, like he’s really watching you, really seeing you. His eyes hold this sharp, unwavering attention that’s equal parts intense and disarming. It totally throws you off your game.

You’re brought back to your senses by him saying your name repeatedly.

“Where’d you go?” he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. You shake off the Bob-induced daze and look at him with full attention.

“I’m too hopeless a student?” He asks.

“Rather, I’m too hopeless of a teacher,” You reply with a chuckle, and it was true. It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training.

“So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

Big mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. The veins, the muscle, the smooth strength of his arms just disappearing under the fabric of his shirt. You can only imagine what his biceps look like. Or his shoulders. Or—

You shake your head quickly, trying to banish the rapidly spiralling thoughts. You know Bob is probably confused, waiting for an answer, but your eyes? Yeah, they’re glued to his damn forearms.

Damn his forearms.

“Break,” you blurt. “Ten-minute break. Minimum.”

Before he can respond, you practically launch yourself toward the water fountain, needing a distraction, a cooldown, and maybe divine intervention.

You take a long drink, trying not to think about veins. Or rolled-up sleeves. Or Bob at all. 

But Bob lived in your mind; he had taken up residence there as soon as you met, and he wasn’t moving out anytime soon. It wasn’t fair that he was cute but also kind and helpful? It made you want to crash into a wall. 

You were struggling with a particularly stubborn jar, the kind that mocks you with every twist. You could fight ten people with one hand tied behind your back, balance complex equations in your head, but you couldn’t defeat this jar of pickles.

Bob appears, quiet as ever, and silently offers to take it from your hands. You hesitate, then sigh and surrender.

He reaches over, his hand brushing yours, and takes it. In one fluid motion, he opens it like it's nothing. Like it hadn't just reduced you to near madness. Like your struggle had never even happened.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely making it past your lips.

He smiles softly, unbothered, warm. “What are friends for?” he says, placing his hand gently on your shoulder. It’s a brief touch that somehow says more than the words. And then he disappears down the hall, like it was nothing.

Right… friends. 

***

You’re wandering the tower again. When you have nothing to do, your feet always seem to lead you to Bob.

You knock on his door, and after a muffled "Come in," you step inside.

You look around and there he is, shaving in front of a small mirror propped up on the windowsill.

“Hope I’m not intruding…” You say hesitantly.

He glances at you through the mirror, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair is slightly damp and tousled, a few strands falling stubbornly into his eyes. He’s probably just stepped out of the shower a few minutes prior, the smell of his shampoo and lotion filling the air. 

He’s holding a razor, face half-lathered, brow furrowed in concentration. You liked him like this, all cute and focused. There was something about the way he moved with such care, guiding the blade with precise, practised strokes. It was intimate in a way you couldn’t explain.

“You don’t have to, but can you help me?” Bob asks, voice gentle but sure.

“Sure,” you reply, stepping closer.

And again, you’re hit with that electricity that crackles between you when your eyes meet. He watches you, patient and open, and you always wonder if he realises just how much that look affects you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” you whisper, picking up the towel and dabbing away some stray foam. Your hand is steady now, more confident, and with it comes a strange kind of comfort. The scent of him surrounds you, clean, warm, a little woodsy. It was comforting and something else, too. You wanted to dive into it. To stay wrapped up in that scent, in him. You could only imagine waking up to your sheets smelling like him.

How the hell was the way he smelled even sexy?

“You smell good,” you say, without thinking.

You both go extremely still, equally flustered.

“So do you,” he finally replies, and there's another little pause. You stare at each other, your heart performing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine inside your chest.

“W–where’s your aftershave?” you ask, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t the intensity of his gaze.

“Bathroom,” he says, voice lower now.

You nod, quickly turning away. A second later, you’re back with the bottle in hand. You open it, the scent hitting you all over again, it’s undeniably him.

Without asking, you step closer and start applying it for him, your fingers brushing gently against his jaw, his cheek, his neck. Every feature, each line of his face, every angle was something you could get addicted to. A slow study of a man who somehow never felt like too much. 

You glance up.

He’s standing still, letting you do it, but he’s no longer meeting your eyes.

Now he’s the one who can’t make eye contact.

And it’s… adorable.

He’s quiet under your touch, eyes lowered, breath just a little more shallow than before. You can tell he’s holding back. Holding himself still, as if afraid that leaning into your hand might unravel something he’s worked hard to keep together.

The way his lashes flutter when your fingers graze the curve of his jaw. The way his shoulders tense, then ease, like he’s trying not to sink into the warmth of being seen.

He’s touch-starved. You can feel it, not in desperation, but in the aching restraint. The way his fists clenched and unclenched as if to distract himself. 

And you’re not much better off. Your hand lingers, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone, and you’re forced to get a hold of yourself.  

“I’m, uh… all done,” you say, pulling your hands away from his face. You see the way his shoulders drop just slightly as he deflates, but you don’t read into it.

Bob nods, almost like he’s coming out of a trance. Like he can finally breathe again. “Well… thanks,” he says, voice soft.

You offer a quick, awkward smile, and then you’re scurrying your way out of his room like you’ve just committed a felony.

Because, honestly? Being that close to Bob felt like grounds for something dangerous. Emotional trespassing, maybe. Or reckless heart behaviour.

He was too fine for his own good.

And way, way too fine for your good.

***

Bob was always there for you, the most supportive presence anyone could wish for. So when you crashed into his room late at night, just as he’d finally started to fall asleep, he wasn’t mad. Not even close.

“There’s a spider in my room!” you declared, breathless and dramatic.

“It’s midnight…” Bob mumbled, mid-yawn, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Exactly! Imagine my surprise when it came lunging at me from inside my wardrobe. I tried to catch it, but the stubborn fucker escaped and crawled up my wall like it owned the place.”

He blinked at you, then sighed and swung his legs out of bed, already standing. His hair was messy, and his t-shirt clung a little unevenly from sleep. His steady steps led toward your door.

“It’s fine. You can hide behind me,” he said with a soft smile.

Then he casually and instinctively took your hand.

And just like that, something settled in your chest. His hand was warm, steady, and strong. His fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You could’ve let him hold it for hours.

You followed closely behind, using him shamelessly as a human shield. “Where is it?” he asked, already scanning your room like a man on a mission.

“There,” you pointed, spotting the tiny monster halfway up the far wall. “That’s him. The bold bastard.”

Bob narrowed his eyes and, without hesitation, lifted gently off the floor. You blinked. It still caught you off guard, seeing him use his powers. You hadn’t seen him even float since that day. And now here he was, levitating to defeat a spider for you.

It was more than just endearing.

It was… kind of ridiculously attractive.

He could’ve pulverised it. Turned it to dust without blinking. But instead, he hovered close, cupped it carefully in his hands like it was something fragile, and opened the window to let it go. 

Why the fuck was that so hot?

“Thanks…” you said softly, watching him touch back down, the faintest smile still on his lips.

He looked at you, all sleepy eyes and soft concern. “It’s no problem,” he said, his voice low. “Plus, I kind of liked saving you.”

Your heart did a little twist. You swallowed.

“This is… and you are completely within your right to say no, but…”

He tilted his head slightly, curious.

“Would you stay the night?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You know. Just to protect me from any future spider insurgencies.”

His smile widened, just a little. “Well,” he said, moving closer, “can’t leave you defenceless now, can I?”

You smile and shift slightly, making enough space for him in the bed. He hesitates for only a moment before settling beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

You stare at him, his face softly illuminated by the distant glow of streetlights and the scattered lights of other buildings outside the window. His messy hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you can feel his body heat slowly merging with yours, a quiet warmth that pulls you in like gravity.

“Why’d you come and get me? Why not someone else?” Bob asks, his voice gentle as he turns toward you, rolling a little closer.

“You’re the one I want protecting me from evil spiders,” you answer honestly. No one else even came to mind. The moment you were scared or the least bit unsure, you could always turn to Bob. It was like instinct. 

“Why?” he presses, softer this time. He’s not looking at you now, his gaze shifted to the ceiling. You take a moment to just look at him—his side profile, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for something, the small crease between his brows.

“Because…” you begin, the words slow. You pause, focusing on all the little things you like about him. His kindness, his dry humour, his quiet strength, and the way he always seems to make you feel calm.

Maybe it’s because it’s too late at night. Maybe it’s the safety of the dark. Maybe it’s the way your brain feels hazy and open and ready.

But the next words out of your mouth are:

“I like you.”

Bob freezes for a second, then jumps just a little, like the words caught him off guard. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable at first.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares.

And you wait. Heart in your throat. Every second, stretching. Either he was about to tell you he felt the same… or this was the moment your friendship shattered.

“I like you too,” he says.

His voice is soft and low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might wake him from a dream. But his eyes are steady. And you can tell that he’s telling the truth.

You scoot closer, close enough to feel the way your breath mingles.

“So…” you murmur, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile, “what should we do about this little situation we’ve got ourselves in?”

Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it.

He leans in just a little, voice almost a whisper.

“I think we know.”

Tentatively, he reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek with a touch so careful it makes your breath catch. He looks at you like really looks at you as if trying to memorise the moment, commit it to something deeper than memory.

You exhale, slow and steady, and let yourself give in. You lean forward until your lips finally meet.

It’s soft at first, the kind of kiss that makes your heart soar and your whole body ache with relief. Bit by bit, it becomes more passionate as you melt into one another.  He deepens it, cupping your face fully in his hands, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And before you know it, you’re climbing into his lap, your arms around his shoulders, his hands steady at your waist. Everything feels like too much and just enough all at once.

He pauses, just barely pulling back, breath ghosting against your lips.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice husky, careful, but laced with something vulnerable.

You meet his gaze, no hesitation. You were in this for the long haul.

“More than anything.”

The next day, upon seeing Bob’s door wide open and no Bob anywhere to be seen, the team went into immediate panic mode. They searched high and low, worried he’d disappeared on them in the middle of the night.

“Have you seen—?” Yelena begins, swinging open your door mid-sentence, only to stop dead in her tracks at the sight of you and Bob fast asleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

The rest of the team crowds in behind her, eyes wide, jaws dropping.

You jolt awake at the sound, blinking in confusion as you realise the entirety of the Avengers are now in your doorway.

You shriek, diving under the covers and yanking them up to your chin to salvage whatever dignity you have left. “Privacy! Ever heard of it?!”

“Called it,” Ava and John say in perfect sync, like they just won a bet.

You groan, your entire face heating as you sink lower into the sheets, mortified.

Meanwhile, Bob? Still fast asleep, completely unbothered by the intrusion, his arm still draped across your waist like nothing’s changed. How is he sleeping through this?

You glance at him in disbelief, then back at the group.

“Can everyone get out now?!”

Yelena smiles. “We’re so happy for you two.”

“Out!”

Masterlist

[eddiesghxst]

CRUEL INTENTIONS - part three: eden

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: steddie x innocent/shy!reader

summary: you're a new student at All Saints Catholic Academy and Steve and Eddie have every intention to sink their teeth into you.

contains: enemies to lovers between steddie, blasphemy/religious talk, smoking and alcohol use, blood kink, chasing kink, masked man, depictions of a panic attack, depictions of a threesome, descriptions of heavy guilt, corruption kink, mentions of subtle bullying, mentions of shitty parenting, slut shaming, SMUT - 18+ , oral (m and f receiving), cum play, cheating (not on reader), NON-CON/DUB-CON, and stevie having gay panic <3

word count: 9.9k

WARNING: this fic contains dark themes including - NON-CON/ DUB-CON, manipulation, coercion, and corruption. Please fully read the content warnings before proceeding. Again, THIS IS A DARK FIC, do not read it if you're not comfortable with it!

I previous part | next part I

I series masterlist | -main masterlist- l

Steve has a very strict night routine.

Five days out of the week, Steve has rugby practice until 7. Most boys on the team simply take a quick shower and call it a night, but no, Steve has a step-by-step routine that he follows each night— not even Nancy could sway him from the path of his night routine.

Because you see, when Steve was younger, his parents were prissy and precise. Everything was done on time, and every hour had a task. If Steve were to ever stray from that schedule, he’d be made to feel like a failure. It’s ingrained in him, woven into his DNA, this life of doing things by order. 

So it’s a little shocking (and concerning) that Steve immediately threw his nightly ritual out the window the second Eddie told him about tonight.

And it seems as if this will be a reoccurring theme with you— Steve altering his life just to get a glimpse of you. Because ever since you came along, it’s like Steve’s entire world has been flipped and lit on fire. He can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop wanting you. Has to hold your name on his tongue when he’s balls-deep in Nancy because, fuck, you’re the only thing he wants right now. He feels bad, but not enough to stop.

“You’re not fucking her yet, but she has to at least get used to you being around.”

Which is true, Steve supposed. Eddie is many things, but a liar is not one of them. If Steve hopes to ever swing his dick near the pot of gold between your legs, then he has to at least work a little bit for it. This way, he doesn’t have to worry about you running off and telling someone about it.

Trust. Though a distorted version from your point of view, it is still an essential part of this plan.

Steve doesn’t know much about said plan, which is kind of his fault. Because when Eddie approached Steve after a particularly rough day at practice, Steve kind of told Eddie to fuck off, so Eddie just left him with a quick, “If you ever plan on fucking her, then I suggest you haul your ass to my room tonight, asshole.” So, Steve had no choice but to follow through on that.

Because Steve will never get through to you without Eddie. Because Eddie is the catalyst. Eddie is the bridge that Steve needs to reach you— which is annoying because now when Eddie’s got his fist wrapped around his cock, and he’s thinking about you and how pretty you looked with his cum coating your lips, how good you taste, and how pretty you sounded— those familiar brown eyes slip into frame and suddenly Eddie is right there along with you— lingering. Like a phantom.

Steve can’t stand it.

But he needs you. He needs you almost more than he needs air. Because Steve usually gets whatever he wants in the blink of an eye, but you…

You’re forbidden fruit.

And sitting next to you, so close to you, with you squirming and avoiding the screen that displays some cheap porno— Steve thinks he might explode.

You turn to Eddie, shy and scared, digging your fingers into his shirt and tugging. “Eddie, I don’t—“ “Shh, bunny. We’re watching a movie. Didn’t I already tell you not to talk?”

You frown, big, wide eyes soft and wet with tears. You don’t like this; that much is obvious. And Eddie’s struggling to keep a grin off his face like a cocky bastard.

There are soft moans spilling from Eddie’s TV. Two guys, one girl, and oddly enough, the girl looks like you. Steve thinks Eddie did that on purpose, and he can admit it was clever, even if you might be slightly too dumb to notice.

They have the girl on a cheap leather couch, splayed out on her back, with one guy stuffing his face between her legs and the other guy thrusting his cock deep into her throat, wrapping a hand around the bulge in her neck. 

You press your legs together, shifting in your spot again, and Steve catches Eddie’s eye. Eddie subtlety nods towards your lap, giving Steve the green light (not that he fucking needed one), and Steve scoots closer to you.

Steve places a firm hand high up on your thigh, fingers spread deep into the insides of your thighs as he lowly says, “Sit still, sweet girl.”

You frown, caught between two walls with nowhere to go. Nowhere to run— scared little thing, you are.

Steve smooths his hand over your thigh, gently squeezing and molding your skin to his touch, soft and firm yet not enough to bring you pain— Steve doesn’t think he could ever hurt such a sweet thing like you.

The porno is in full swing now, the two men fucking the lady like it’s the last thing they’ll do, and you have big, full tears running down your face as Steve pinches your skin to open you back up. He slinks his hand higher, the lip of your skirt kissing against his wrist, making way for him. His pinky dusts across the hem of your panties, wet as he had expected— all of you wants him, even when you act like it doesn’t.

You gasp and tremble between the boys; your eyes squeezed shut with tears rolling down your cheeks thick as rivers— you look like a small bunny cornered by prey. Precisely what you are.

Eddie coos, shifts so he’s facing you more comfortably. He gently holds your face and coaxes you into opening your eyes. “You like it when Stevie touches you, don’t you?” He says.

You open your mouth to respond, but Eddie quickly butts in, “Ah ah…” He raises a finger to his lips, reminding you that he doesn’t want a single word falling from your lips. And you listen so well— without a single protest— Eddie’s done well on you thus far, but Steve likes to believe you have an obedient nature either way. 

Sentenced to silence, you shake your head no, and Eddie laughs. Soft and deep, brown eyes swimming with hunger and patience, “No?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. “You think I don’t know about you cumming on his tongue?”

You tense at that, body rigid beneath their touch as you turn to gaze at Steve with wide eyes, eyes swimming in guilt and the realization that Steve had lied to you. Your frown deepens then, more tears coming and Steve is now the one cooing. “Of course, I told Eddie, bunny. You knew that, though, didn’t you?” He teases.

You let out a muffled sob, squeezing your eyes shut again as tears fall. “You knew Eddie didn’t say you could open your legs for me, and I would have to tell him about your behavior.” He chastises. “So gullible, gonna get yourself in trouble being so stupid, sweet girl.” He gently coos. Your chest stutters with uneven breaths, and Steve’s cock throbs in his sweats.

With you being so unstable, Steve is able to slip his fingers past your panties without a fight. He slips his fingers through your wet folds, warm and sticky, leaning forward to press a kiss under your jaw as you twitch and squirm beneath his touch.

“Look at you,” Eddie prowls, “Shaking for his touch. Again. Did I ever say he could touch you?” 

You huff, eyebrows pinched in frustration as you shake your head. “Then why do you want it?” Eddie asks. Steve sinks a finger into your warm cunt, wetness spilling around his knuckles as your thighs tremble. “I—” Eddie clicks his tongue, reminding you of his rule of no talking.

Steve crooks his finger up, searching for that gummy spot of yours, leaning forward to press a kiss to your neck as you struggle against him. “God, if I knew you were such a slut I wouldn’t have wasted this much time on you,” Eddie says.

You break your rules then, voice pleading and sad as you claw at Eddie’s shirt, “I’m not! I’m not, I swear. I didn’t know!” You sob. Steve watches in awe at the way you crumble for Eddie. You’re so desperate to please him, to be kept under his arm of security, unbeknownst to you that he’s the one you should be running from.

Steve is jealous… but he wants to learn.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Eddie widens his eyes. You shake your head, hips twitching when Steve begins dragging lazy circles over your clit. “H-he told me you said it was okay.” You frown. “Who did? Stevie?” Eddie asks. You nod, and Eddie’s gaze flickers to Steve, a ghost of a grin dancing in his eyes.

“I don’t remember saying that, sweetheart.” Steve lies. 

“Stevie never said that. So, either you’re lying, or Steve is lying. Are you calling Steve a liar, bunny?”

You look frazzled, seconds away from bursting into an uncontrollable fit of tears as Steve continues playing with you. And the truth is Steve is a liar. He lied to you when he said Eddie gave him the green light to get between your thighs. But you know better than to ever point fingers— again, a product of Eddie’s skilled teachings.

You shake your head no with a frown, and Eddie hums. “Well, did you like it? When Steve licked your slutty little cunt?” Eddie asks.

You’re visibly panicked, wide eyes darting to Steve, knowing he will tell the truth if you lie. There is no way out but through for you, and you know it. You shamefully nod, and Eddie hums again. He pets a gentle hand over your hair, letting you nuzzle into him when you begin to tremble with pleasure. “Would you like him to do it again, bunny?”

And if you’re smart enough, you’ll understand that even if you say no, Eddie will somehow coax you into splitting your thighs open for Steve again. You contemplate longer than Steve would appreciate, but the second he pulls his fingers from you and dips them into his mouth, your eyes flash with this little look that Steve has never seen from you.

Lust.

Steve sucks the juices off his fingers lewdly and greedily, never pulling his gaze from you. You watch, wide-eyed with trembling limbs and a pouty lip, Steve wanting nothing more than to kiss them until they’re sore.

Apprehensive yet interested, you nod your head shyly, and if the two boys hadn’t been watching you like a hawk, they probably wouldn’t have even caught it.

Eddie slinks his fingers through your hair, knuckles gently curling at the root as he drags you closer, kissing you filthy and raw. You whine, thighs closing around Steve’s wrist when he finds his hand back on your warm skin. It’s low against your lips, but Steve hears Eddie tell you, “Come here.” And you follow like an eager puppy wanting to please their owner.

Steve can taste you on his tongue, an overwhelming feeling to taste more as he watches Eddie move you around like you’re a lifeless doll. He places you with your back to his chest, your thighs pressed against Eddie’s knees as he gently tips your head back to kiss you again. Steve stands, shrugging off his jacket and letting it drop off somewhere he could care less about because Eddie is splitting your legs apart, presenting you nice and pretty for Steve.

Eddie’s whispering things in your ear, things Steve can’t hear over the low sound of sex from the TV, but he sees you squirm and pout, and he can only imagine he’s saying something about how dirty you are. How cute you are, all slick and ready for someone to put their hands on your greedy cunt. 

Eddie’s eyes flicker up to Steve’s as his hands trail down your sides, thick and decorated fingers pushing your skirt up and petting over your clothed cunt before hooking his fingers in the of the material and pulling it to the side. 

Steve’s hunger grows like an angry beast. Purrs deep in his chest, and puffs out so big it nearly breaks his ribs. He wants to take you right here and now. Press your thighs out as far as they’ll go, lick into your mouth and shove his cock deep into your cunt. It’ll hurt, probably be a fight to fit every girthy inches of him in, but he’ll make it work. You’re a fighter, anyway. Strong, even if you don’t know it.

“Well, don’t make her wait, Stevie. Look at her, she’s dripping.” Eddie purrs, fingers sliding through your wet folds, parting his fingers into a ‘V’ to show off your throbbing heat. 

Steve dips his knee onto the bed, leaning forward to rest on his stomach between your thighs. He takes you in, just as he did that day in the locker room, eyes casting over every piece of your pretty cunt and saving it to remember when he’s got his hand wrapped around his cock. Steve can smell you, drawing him in closer as you throb and a drop of slick slips from you. He groans, fingers gripping the back of your thighs, squeezing and molding you to his touch. 

“You want my tongue, princess?” He purrs. You whimper, shying beneath his gaze when he looks up at you from between your thighs. Steve blows cool air against you just to see you throb and squirm. You huff, lips pouting as you turn your head to look back at Eddie. Steve reaches forward, fingers gripping your chin to pull your face back down to look at him, “Don’t look at him, look at me.”

He runs a thumb over your lip, wet spit catching the pad of his finger. “Is he the one about to eat your greedy pussy?” Steve teases. You whine, shaking your head no. “Answer my question.”

Your hips squirm, halting when Steve’s fingers dig into your skin. Your answer comes shaky and shy, “Yes, please.”

“Good girl. Using your words,” Steve dips his thumb into your mouth, dragging it over your tongue, letting you get it nice and wet before he pulls away, pressing it to your clit. Your legs tremble, panting when he runs circles around the tight bud. Steve purses his lips, spit drooling from his lips to drip down onto your pussy before he leans forward and places his mouth over your pussy, hungrily lapping and sucking. 

“O-oh! Steve, I—” “Shh, shh. I want you to watch them.” Eddie speaks up, leaning forward to speak into your ear, directing your gaze to the TV. “Look at them. See how they’re using her? See how deep they’re fucking her, bunny?” He asks. You nod, Steve’s gaze fluttering as he devours you, fucking his tongue in and out of your warm hole. 

“You want us to do that to you?” Eddie asks, voice low and husky. It makes Steve’s cock throb in his pants. He thinks he hates it, but his mind is fuzzy enough with lust to ignore it. Steve grunts, nuzzling his face deeper into you, and your eyes widen at the words Eddie is saying. “I—” you huff, “I don’t know— s’so bad. It’s not right.” You slur under a whine. 

Eddie hums with a low chuckle, “Then how will you repay us for making you feel so good, hm?” His hands slip up your shirt, kneading at your chest and cracking a smile when you arch into his touch. Steve’s hips roll into the mattress, eyes rolling back into his skull at the pressure. 

“C-can’t, Teddy—” “But you want to. You want to be fucked, don’t you?” He purrs. You tilt your hips into Steve’s mouth, your body begging for more as you shudder between the two boys. You whimper, and Steve’s eyes are fluttering open, locking onto the view in front of him, your pussy fluttering against his tongue. You frown, your fists balled against the sheets as Eddie holds your chin, directing your gaze onto the TV. “See how much she’s enjoying it?” Eddie purrs into your ear. “See how thankful she is to be getting fucked well?”

You grimace at his words, your body melting into their hold with each passing second— Steve can practically see your brain melting out of your ears. You make the prettiest noises, and you move like you don’t know if you want more or less, but Steve doesn’t give you a choice as he tugs you impossibly closer, taking you for all you are. Eddie kisses your neck, wet and sloppily, and you whine like you hate it, but Steve can feel you pulsing around his tongue. 

“You should be thankful too, princess.” Eddie drawls into your ear, his hands still working beneath your shirt. Steve can’t help it when he reaches up and yanks at the buttoned half of your shirt, groaning into your cunt when you gasp and squirm. The sight of your tits spilling into Eddie’s palms drives Steve’s hips into the bed once more, desperate for some sort of pressure. 

Steve pulls away with a gasp, sinking a finger into your cunt as he looks up at you, his swollen lips parted and wet with your slick. “Go ahead then, doll,” Steve nods at you, “Thank us.”

Your chest rattles with a sob, and Eddie grins as Steve coos, “Say it, princess. Thank us for taking care of your slutty holes.” He demands. You cry out then, legs trembling when Steve brushes against that perfect spot, teasing it to keep you away from that release that you crave.

“T-thank you,” you breathe, eyes squeezed shut, your body tensed as you wriggle between them. Eddie growls, gripping your face, gritting into your ear as he speaks, “For what? What are you thanking us for?”

You gasp as Eddie’s teeth drag along your jaw, your eyes fluttering open to hazily look at Steve between your thighs, moaning when he slips in another finger. Your voice is heavy in shame, but you’re too fucked to refuse it as you say, “T-thank you… for taking care of my s-slutty holes.”

Eddie smiles, “Good girl. Let her cum, Stevie, she’s been so good.”

Steve’s mouth is back on you in record time, lapping and sucking and pulling you closer and closer to the edge until you’re crying out a sob so loud that Eddie has to slap a hand over your mouth. Your hips rise off the bed, and Steve pins them back down, groaning into you as he keeps licking you, your thighs closing around his head. And Steve loves it; he loves the feeling of your cute little thigh-high socks scratching up against his ears and your warm, wet skin on his tongue. Steve thinks he could die here, really.

Eddie’s cooing in your ear, telling you how well you did, how much of a good girl you are, and his gaze snaps down to Steve’s when he pulls away from you with a gasp, wiping his mouth and liking his lips like a lion that’s just demolished its prey. Steve sort of feels like one, honestly.

Eddie grins up at Steve, his eyes falling to the evident tent in Steve’s pants when he rises to his feet. You’re barely cohesive when Eddie lightly slaps your cheek a few times, “Wake up, bunny, we’re not done with your holes yet.”

Your eyes are blurred with pleasure when you blink them open, and Steve presses a palm to his crotch. You blearily blink at him, and he nods, “Come here.”

And like an obedient dog, you peel away from Eddie’s arms, your clothes disheveled and twisted as you crawl over to Steve. He reaches out, his hand slinking into your hair to drag you up until he can smash his lips onto yours, a hungry growl rumbling from his chest. Steve knows he should be more gentle with you, you’re such a fragile little thing, but the feeling of power that surges through him when he tightens his grip on your hair and leads you off the bed is damn near like a drug. He wants it in his veins all the time. 

You stumble off the bed, your socked feet knocking against Steve’s— it’s so fucking cute, Steve nearly coos. “On your knees. Get on your knees.” He orders. And again, like you were programmed for this, you fall to your knees, your hazy eyes slowly blinking as Steve sits at the edge of the bed and tugs his pants down. You watch as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking a few times, his hand still stuck in your hair.

Steve’s voice is kinder than his touch when he asks, “You remember what to do, princess?” Nodding with you when you respond, “Good girl, go on. Show me how thankful you are for me.” He says, and you shuffle forward to take him in greedily and sloppy, Steve’s eyes nearly rolling.

You suck him just as you did the first time, though it’s a little bit better than before; Steve supposes you and Eddie have been practicing more than enough. Even though you’re tired from your orgasm and your actions are less calculated, Steve finds himself enjoying it as if you were a pro.

Steve’s groans and mumbles of praise get closer and more slurred, and he supposes it was easy to tell how close he was because Eddie, a presence he had tried (and failed miserably) to ignore, steps into view right behind you, looking down proudly at his perfect project.

Eddie’s gaze holds a devious glare when he locks eyes with Steve as he sinks to squat next to you. He coasts a hand up your back, his fingers firm but gentle when they grip the back of your neck, his gaze finally leaving Steve to watch as your mouth greedily takes Steve’s cock in and out. And Steve is so close, and his body is so hot that he almost misses what Eddie says to you when he leans in— but Steve hears it loud and clear, “Don’t swallow. I want you to keep his cum in your mouth and show me, do you understand?”

And god, you fucking whimper and nod as best as you can, and Steve is a goner. And Steve usually cums a lot, sure. Nancy hates it, says it’s an inconvenience, but god, you take it like it’s nothing but a gift. You sit there, tear-streaked face, droopy eyes, and an open shirt as Steve cums in heavy spurts, coating every inch of your mouth as he curses. It’s so much that some of it spills out the side of your mouth, and the little bit that dribbles from his cock when you pull away lands on your chin, and Steve can’t help but tap his sticky tip against it.

Steve watches, blissed out and panting, as Eddie turns your face towards him. “Let me see, open your mouth.” He says, grinning when your lips part to show the thick mess in your mouth. “Good bunny.” He lowly hums.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Eddie leans forward, drags his tongue along the spilled cum of your face to lap it up before pressing his lips onto yours. Steve hadn’t seen it coming. Not at all.

He didn’t expect that he would be watching Eddie Munson eat his cum off your face tonight. He can see his tongue dipping into your mouth, lewd noises emptying into the air as he pulls Steve’s cum from your mouth and into his own. Yeah, Steve really didn’t expect that. And he doesn’t expect to feel his cock twitch at the sight of it either.

It’s disgusting, is what it is. Disgusting and downright debauchery, but Steve can’t look away, not even when Eddie pulls away and turns to lick his lips while gazing at Steve, a shit-eating grin spreading across his lips.

Eddie brings his thumb to wipe at the drop of cum that had been on the corner of his mouth before sucking it into his mouth— and Steve nearly cums again, and his cock throbs, and Eddie’s gaze flutters to see the way Steve’s dumb dick has filled with blood yet again. A small smirk rises on Eddie’s lips, and Steve can feel the heat rising in his cheeks— which is surprising, honestly, considering most of his blood is flooding downstairs. Eddie’s gaze flickers back to Steve’s wide eyes, and he finally says— “Not bad, Harrington.”

Steve nearly passes out.

What the fuck?

“Halloween is of pagan origin— therefore, we, as children of god, do not participate in any form of celebration on this day.” 

The week of Halloween has always brought an eerie feeling to you. Gorey movies and costumes of demons and distorted faces— it’s scary. Aside from the candy, you never understood why people loved the holiday so much. Your friends never understood your reasoning or why your parents would never in a million years agree to let you go trick or treating, but their judgment never bothered you enough to change your opinion.

The priest looks at the students, an unwavering expression of sincerity plastered on his face as he says, “Be wise with how you spend your time this weekend. There will be consequences for any of you who choose to participate in any activities pertaining to Halloween; am I understood?”

The room mumbles in agreement, as does yourself, and the priest nods before carrying on to close mass. Beside you, Nancy sits with her bible and journal in her lap; eyes cast forward on the priest. She’s been glancing over at Steve all night, watching him during prayer and nearly half of the service— you know this because you had been watching him right along with her, though your reasoning is not the same as hers.

Steve Harrington, star rugby player with his pretty brown eyes and honey-thick locks, was anything but kind when he pulled you aside before mass. He was greedy, possessive with his hold and grabby when he hiked your skirt up, pressed your face against the janitor's closet door, forced your thighs together, and rutted into them like a dog in heat. He had a rough practice, so he said. 

He apologized for being rough, said he didn’t mean it when he squeezed just a little too hard around your throat, and you all but sniffled and nodded and told him it was okay even though you were scared and your thighs now sting with friction burn. 

He had a tough day, and the least you could do was not make him feel bad about it. That being said, it doesn’t stop the stir of guilt that sat in your chest throughout mass. 

It’s hard not to feel guilty when your roommate's boyfriend's spend is sitting between your thighs, warm and squishy and tucked safely against your folds. It’s sickening, and it nearly makes you dizzy with shame. But Steve said it was okay, that friends do this thing, and Nancy understands; she would just rather not discuss it.

You could barely focus during mass, too busy trying to grasp what you and Steve had just done and trying desperately not to show it on your face. Despite your efforts, you can’t help but feel as if Nancy can see straight through you, and that’s why she's been watching him all night.

As soon as you’re dismissed, you begin working up the nerve to ask her, the words rolling around in your mind as you rise from your seat, but the second you turn to Nancy, she’s turning to go after Steve and you’re being tugged back by a firm hand.

“Where are you running off to, bunny? Don’t we have plans?”

You gaze up at Eddie, glancing over to watch as Nancy slinks out of the pew, and you nod, “Yes, but I—” “Then let’s go. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Eddie all but drags you out of the chapel, tugging you along and slipping past the dark courtyard to get to the back of the dormitory. Nobody ever supervises the back of the dormitories. Eddie told you to always come through this route; that way, you can get into his room without a hassle. 

The path is dark, nothing but the moon and Eddie’s firm hand to guide you, and you try to focus on anything else but the snap of twigs beneath your feet and the burn between your thighs. However, the only thing that comes up in your mind is Nancy. 

“Um, Eddie,” you speak up. 

“What’s up, bunny?”

“I think… I think I may have upset Nancy…” You frown.

Eddie slowly pauses, turning to look at you, lips pressed in a firm line as his eyebrows furrow. “Did you say something to her?” He asks.

He’s towering over you, the darkness swallowing you both, exaggerating his stance. You feel like you’re drowning beneath him, sinking into the mud beneath your feet as you hastily shake your head no.

Eddie is so hard to read in this dim lighting, though he’s never been all that easy to read anyway. You can still hear a slight tone of relief when he says, “Good.”

Eddie turns and pursues the path, leaving you with panic and a racing heart. You didn’t say anything to Nancy— you made sure of it after Steve specifically sat you down and said you could never bring it up. But then, why could she not look at you all through mass? Why does it seem… tense between her and Steve? Are you to blame? Did you do something that may have upset her? 

How do you even ask without revealing the open truth?

The questions swirl in your head like a storm, grey and murky as they slink down your throat and spill into your chest, spreading and laying out with a weight that makes you feel as if the world has just crashed on you. 

You don’t realize you’ve made it to Eddie’s room until a plastic bag is shoved in your hands. You gaze at it briefly, shiny material crinkling between your fingers as you blink and glance toward Eddie.

Eddie nods, “Put it on.”

You step over to Eddie’s bed, put the bag on the mattress, and open it up to pull out the items inside. It’s an outfit, three items to complete a set of what looks to be a bunny costume if the bunny ears are any indication. The only problem, though is the dress, the main piece of the outfit, is incredibly short.

“I can’t wear this.”

You hadn’t noticed, but Eddie was busy getting dressed on the other side of the room. You look over at him, taking in his all-black attire and heavily swallowing when he glances at your laid-out costume. 

“Why not?” He asks. 

You glance at the dress before looking back at him, gesturing down at it as if it’s obvious, “Because it’s revealing!” You exclaim. 

Eddie rolls his eyes and resumes putting on the rest of his clothes, a long black robe-looking thing, “No, it’s not.” He responds. 

Your eyes widen as you look at the short dress, “Eddie, I-I’m not sure this will even cover my entire backside.” You shake your head. And when you lift it and turn it around, you realize that it definitely won’t— at least not comfortably.

“You’ll be fine. Other girls will probably be wearing something worse.” He dismisses. 

Your teeth gnaw into the soft tissue of your lip as you put the dress back on the bed, eyeing it with worry and dread. It’s… gross. Degrading and immodest in every sense of the word, yet Eddie, your friend, is asking you to wear it. You glance over at him, your world spinning again as you realize what this entire plan is: the costume and the urgency to leave all make sense.

You drag in a shaky breath, slinking your arms around your body as you take a step back, “I think,” you clear your throat before speaking louder to get your point across, “I think I’m gonna head to my room… Maybe study a bit and go to bed…” You softly say.

You step toward the door, not even glancing Eddie’s way because you know if you do, you’ll be stuck trying to please him. But Eddie moves quicker than you can, his hand pressing against the wooden door to stop you from opening it. 

“The dress is fine, doll.”

Your gaze dances up his frame, miles of black leading to his dark brown eyes. You want to be strong, put your foot down, and tell him no, but your tongue is tied. As it always is when it comes to Eddie.

You softly say his name, and he tilts his head, an ice-cold glare stuck on your eyes, daring you to say something more. Gravity pulls on your lips and your eyes, water threatening to spill down your cheeks when Eddie lowly and steadily says, “Go put on the outfit.”

You want to cry.

You want to wail and kick and scream until Eddie has no choice but to let you run to your room and stay there until Monday morning. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to wear this costume you’ve been forced into, and you don’t understand why Eddie, who is supposed to be your friend, is being anything but friendly tonight. 

He doesn’t care that you didn’t want to wear the outfit. He doesn’t care that it’s revealing, that you feel uncomfortable, or that it’s hardly forty degrees outside and you’re shivering. He doesn’t care that you have to keep tugging the tiny dress down your thighs or that you’re practically stumbling over your feet with the heels he forced you to wear. And he doesn’t care to ask why your mascara is running when he looks over at you and wipes it away; he simply tells you that you look pretty, “Like a doll.”

You feel disoriented. Far from yourself and disgusted, and you can’t help the aching feeling in your chest when you think about how saddened your parents would be to see you like this. Half dressed in the middle of a Halloween party. They’d disown you, you’re sure of it.

Eddie’s hold is tight on you the whole night, whether on your hand, your waist, or his heavy hand resting on the back of your neck. He always has a hand on you. Oddly enough, Eddie’s touch seems to ground you despite how displaced you feel. It’s comforting to have something familiar while you struggle to grasp your morality. 

What are you doing here? How did you get here? Do you like this? Do you enjoy Eddie’s company enough to brave through this? 

You think you do.

The music is loud, and it’s packed with dancing bodies from wall to wall. You have to repeatedly tip the bunny ears on your head back into place from where they keep slipping, and you debate ripping it off every time. You can feel the bass of the music in your chest, the scent of liquor and smoke filling your lungs as neon lights dance across your eyes. 

Eddie has softened through the night. You’re not sure what had him wound up before, but he is back to doting on you, occasionally turning to you and brushing the skin under your eyes as his gaze softens and he asks if you’re okay. And you’re not. You’re cold and uncomfortable, and you want to go home, but Eddie’s touch is kind, so you find yourself nodding each time. And then he smiles and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool lips brushing against your skin, and returns to whatever he’s been doing all night. Stepping off into corners and sliding these bags to people in exchange for something you can’t quite see in the dim lighting of the house, but when you asked him, he told you not to worry about it. 

There’s a cup in your hands, a drink that Eddie gave you, which you have been slowly sipping for the better part of an hour. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, but there’s a bitter aftertaste that somehow balances it out enough for you to keep sipping on it. 

Eventually, you find yourself squirming with the need to pee, turning to Eddie and leaning up to reach his ear and tell him. He squeezes your hip, “I’ll be here, doll.” And you had hoped that Eddie would tag along with you for your safety and comfort, but he only turns back to the secretive conversation he’d been having.

You find yourself wandering up the stairs, eyes dancing around searching for a restroom. It’s just your luck that the first door you open happens to be one, empty and surprisingly clean for the chaos unfolding throughout the party. 

You try to be quick about it, eager to find your spot back next to Eddie, where you feel something along the lines of tolerable. You don’t miss the reflection of yourself in the mirror as you wash your hands, smudged mascara, taunting bunny ears, whorish clothing. You frown, tears pressing against your waterline as you gaze at yourself. 

Wrong. Open, unrecognizable, and wrong. 

Your shaky fingers grab at the bunny ears on your head, ripping them away and tossing them in the direction of the trash can, clattering to the floor in empty noise. 

After having a moment to breathe by yourself, you think you’ll ask Eddie to leave now, the pending urge to leave only growing stronger by the second.

You flip the bathroom light off and open the door, stepping out without looking, only to slam into a body. Apologies roll off your tongue as you stumble back, nearly falling from your stupid heels. Through your tears, you look up at the person, dressed in black and tall, face covered with a mask of black, distorted eyes, and a wide black mouth. 

You blink, stepping back as you mutter another apology, but they say nothing as they gaze down at you. Your heart races, fear seeping through you and staining like berries as you whip around and walk away— Eddie. Just get back to Eddie.

Unstable on stilts, you make your way back down the stairs and into the lion's den, crowded with drunk people dancing and talking, unmindful of where they go. And this house is big— too big. Big enough that when you glance around and realize you don’t know where you’re going, you start to feel even more panicked. 

Every corner is different yet the same:: dark lighting, flashing lights, and the music is too loud. You don’t know anybody here, and you don’t know your way back to Eddie. A glance over your shoulder and the panic amps to the nines as you realize the masked man is just a few feet away from you.

Is he following you? Why is he following you?

Fear runs through you like a freight train. Your feet carry you faster, weaving through people as your weary gaze jumps from corner to corner. Masked figures, blood, and distorted faces meet you at every turn. You never liked Halloween; you think you hate it now.

Eddie is nowhere to be seen, and you’re scared. Every place you turn is empty of your relief, and every glance back is full of fear. And you don’t feel good. You feel sick. Detached from your hands and feet yet so stuck in the walls of your skin— where is Eddie?

Tears are streaming down your face, but you hardly feel them as you pace towards the sight of a door. You don’t look back anymore, too afraid to see the gaping face of a void staring back at you, waiting to eat you alive— the hungry wolf and the weak lamb— just as Eddie had said.

The clearing of the front door is near, and your legs hardly feel real. You should’ve never come here. You should’ve never put on this outfit. You should’ve never gone out on your own and lost Eddie. You are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and you’re scared.

And just as you come within a few feet of the door, a hand grabs your arm, and you jolt, pushing away until that familiar voice rings in your ear— “Hey, it’s me. It’s just me, where are you—” 

You throw yourself into Eddie’s arms, tears falling in droves as you sob into his chest. Eddie’s embrace is like a nest— a warm, carefully crafted, and woven nest made to hold you and keep you safe. You should’ve never left his side.

His hand gently holds your head, soft coos seeping into your ear as he asks, “What’s wrong, bunny? What happened?”

You cry, body trembling in his hold as you try to piece your words together, “I-I couldn’t find you and somebody— that guy w-was following me,” you cry.

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “What guy?”

Your words come out in choked sobs, a shaky finger lifting past Eddie’s shoulder, “T-the guy in the mask!” You stress. 

Eddie turns, looking in the direction of your finger, confusion and something else etched across his face when he turns to you, “…There’s a lot of masked people here, bunny; you’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that.” He says.

You cry, disoriented and confused because the man is nowhere in sight. Eddie guides you outside with a gentle hand on your back, softly cooing as you sob. The air is cold and sharp against your barely covered skin, but you hardly feel it. 

You’d been spinning all night, around and around in a foggy cloud of discomfort, and the crash hurts more than the fall. But Eddie is here. He is here, and he’s holding you, and he’s wiping your tears, and asking you to breathe, “Tell me what happened, doll. Describe the guy.”

And through wracked sobs and shaky words, you describe what you saw: black cape, white mask, two big black eyes, and a gaping mouth. Hungry and ready to devour you. 

“Woah, what the fuck happened?” 

It’s Nancy; you know it’s Nancy despite your inability to see straight. She steps into frame, a gentle hand on your arm as she looks at your distraught face. Not far behind her stands Steve, a look of concern on his face.

“Some fuckin’ creep was following her,” Eddie mutters.

Your breaths come in shaky gasps, trembling hands coming up to wipe at your wet eyes. You try to speak, but your words hardly make sense, so Nancy softly coos and tells you to calm down.

Another flow of tears fall, and you only want to wrap yourself back in Eddie’s arms. 

“And where were you?” Steve snaps.

Eddie looks at Steve, expression unreadable when he replies, “She went to the restroom.”

“And you didn’t go with her?” Steve prods. 

Nancy consoles you, wiping your tears and telling you you’re okay as Steve and Eddie bicker over things you can hardly manage to wrap your head around. Finally, Nancy turns to them, “Would you two shut up? It doesn’t matter. Let’s just get her home; I think we’ve all had enough of tonight.” She snaps.

And even though you’re upset that Nancy has taken you from your source of comfort, you’re glad she leaves no room for debate. Nancy leads you down the steps of the house and you catch a glimpse of Eddie and think tomorrow you’ll have to apologize for ruining the night. For losing him and making a scene of your own mistake. 

As you fall asleep later, you can’t help the few tears that slip down your face and drop onto your pillow as you all but hope Eddie can forgive you.

Steve’s had a rough weekend. 

What started with a small disagreement with Nancy over his schedule with rugby has spiraled into Nancy completely ignoring him. On top of that, Steve is furious with Eddie’s mistake of not protecting you, and Eddie doesn’t seem to care. And as if that’s not enough, rugby finals are just around the corner, and Steve’s team is falling short to fucking play like they mean it.

Steve woke up with a headache, a sign that today would be just as rough as the night before, where Steve spent the better part of an hour with his father nagging him over the phone. Steve’s not sure what his father wants from him: a college degree or someone to run his company— either way, he won’t get both.

So, with a pounding head and a deep sigh, Steve got out of bed and began his game day rituals.

Morning run, shower, finish assignments, roll out that stubborn muscle in his thigh, and head down to the field.

Practice runs short, as it always does on game day. Steve doesn’t want to waste any energy his players can use on the field, so he lets them off the hook earlier with a warning to not do anything stupid. 

And usually, by the time the game is about to start, Steve is pumped and ready to win; he talks up a big game to his players and riles them up. But today, Steve is merely a silent brewing storm. He’s tense. There’s a chip on his shoulder, and he can’t fucking reach it, and he doesn’t even know where to begin to figure it out. 

Because the truth is, Steve loves Nancy. And he wants you. And he wants to be the perfect son. And he wants to win every game. He wants, he wants, he wants. But how much of it can he actually get?

Midway through the game, Steve’s team is down by enough to put him in a bad mood. His storm is pushing and pulling, churning in dark clouds on the sidelines as he watches his team play like shit. Steve isn’t even here, he thinks. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere between space and the busy thoughts in his head.

And as if the other team making another score isn’t enough, Steve suddenly hears your name tumbling from the lips of another teammate— “Did you see her on Friday? I had a feeling that innocent shit was all an act— she probably fucks like she gets paid for it.”

And Steve bites so hard into his tongue that he tastes metal. Warm and bitter, inking across his tongue like spilled milk.

He shouldn’t say anything. He shouldn’t. Not when Nancy is already on his back, asking about his whereabouts and throwing fits over nothing— because the guys talk. They’ll open their mouths for any pair of walking tits, and Steve can’t afford that. Not now. He doesn’t need it.

But then— “Wait— Harrington, isn’t your girlfriend roommates with her?”

Steve glances at the two boys, snickering like thieves, enjoying the taste of berating you on their tongues. Steve can hardly hold back the snarl on his face when he looks at them and replies, “No.” Stiff and quick.

Noel, the boy who’d made the comment about you, is now sitting right next to Steve and looking at him in confusion, “But they’re friends, right? I see them together all the time.” He points out. 

Steve can’t deny that because it’s true. You and Nancy hang out on campus often, so he curtly nods, “Yeah. They’re friends.”

Noel hums, spreading his thighs to take up space as he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks at Steve and tilts his head as if he’s thinking, which Steve is sure he can’t even do, “So, can you confirm or deny that she’s more of a slut than she lets on.”

Steve looks at Noel, imagining his hands wrapped around his neck as his face twists in distaste, “She’s not a slut.”

Noel scoffs around a laugh, “Sure as hell dressed like one the other night.” he snickers, nudging his other snickering friend, Barry. They laugh as if it’s funny, making a snide comment about how your ass looked in your dress. Steve’s tongue is nearly bitten off. 

“That doesn’t make her a slut.” Steve snaps.

Noel and Barry glance at each other, and laugh in disbelief, “Relax, Harrington. No one’s gonna tell Nancy you cracked a joke about how hot her roommate is.” Barry teases.

Steve doesn’t say anything; just rolls his eyes and glares back at the game. But Noel is nothing if not a fucking test of patience. Steve never liked Noel, and honestly, if he weren’t a good stand-off player, Steve would’ve written him off long ago.

“Think you could put in a word for me, man?”

Steve doesn’t bother looking at Noel as he snaps, “No, dude. Fuck off.”

Noel nudges Steve as if pushing him closer to the line Steve has been dancing on all weekend, “Come on dude, quit being so uptight, it’s just pussy.”

Just pussy. 

Steve doesn’t know what snaps in him, but the second he hears it— just pussy— he hardly thinks twice before standing and curling his fists into Noel's jersey to throw him down off the bench.

“What the fuck—“

Steve steps over him, reaches down to grip the front of his jersey, and pulls him up, anger pumping through him in droves as he glares down at the boy and snaps, “Say one more thing about her.” 

Barry, Noel’s knight in shining armor, steps in and grips Steve’s shoulder, pulling him off his friend and shoving at his chest. He sizes Steve up, face twisted in annoyance as he seethes, “Dude— calm the fuck down.”

Steve shoves the boy off of him, “Fuck you.” He snaps. Steve steps up to him, “You wanna know a real slut, Barry? Ask your sister, I fucked her.” He spits. 

The words slip out easily like water, inky black with leeches to stick to skin and drain his veins— and it fucking works because not a second passes before a fist drives into Steve’s face, blood pooling in his mouth like an open dam. It rings loudly and echoing, with radio static in his ears. Steve can hardly hear his coach yelling, marching over to grab Steve off of Barry.

Steve doesn’t feel the pain in his hand, but he will once the adrenaline wears off, his knuckles tapped from the hard bone of Barry’s cheek. He doesn’t even remember punching him. 

The coach shoves Steve in the opposite direction of Barry, frustration in every vowel of his words as he spits out, “You’re out, Harrington!”

Steve doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t care to be thrown out of the game, hell they were gonna lose anyway. He doesn’t care that he’s the captain and should be setting an example— Steve doesn’t care. He’s pissed off, and he can hardly think straight as he storms off the field. 

Steve’s storm is windy and brutal, the anger so hot in his throat that he can barely swallow. Steve will regret what he did later; he knows he will, but how could he sit there and let them talk about you like that and not do something? 

You, who is so kind and caring to assholes that don’t deserve a second of your attention. You, who has never made yourself a problem yet has been picked on since you’ve come to All Saints. You, who hardly knows right from wrong— because Steve is so, so, so wrong, and still you look at him with these soft, doe eyes that make Steve want to scream and cry simultaneously. You, who Steve thinks about as he falls asleep next to his girlfriend. 

How could anybody speak lowly of you?

You’re worth every bit of regret Steve will face, he thinks. No matter how clouded his judgment is.

There’s blood in his mouth, and dull aching in his jaw that will soon become a throbbing pain, and one would think Steve has had enough fights for the night, but that switch is suddenly flipped yet again when a voice comes from a few feet away— “Rough night, Harrington?”

The locker room is just steps away, and the noise of the losing game is now distant. Across the carpool lane stands Eddie, a cigarette burning between his fingers as the city light dances across his figure. He looks so stupid, standing there like a shadow, taunting Steve as if this is some sort of joke to him.

Steve gazes at Eddie, watching as he brings the cigarette up to his lips, talking around a cloud of smoke when he adds, “You look like shit.”

Shaky breaths, radio static, warm metal. City light, cigarette smoke, stupid fucking shadow.

Steve’s jaw aches when he clenches his teeth before speaking, “Are you following me?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, “Do you want me to follow you?”

Annoying. So fucking annoying, that’s all Eddie has ever been. An annoying asshole with something smart to always say.

“Why would I want you to follow me?”

Eddie shrugs, a hand in his pocket, “Some people like that shit.” He says.

Steve stalks over, unbridled anger in each step as he draws closer to Eddie. He sneers as he glares at Eddie, “The fuck is your problem?” He snaps.

Eddie blinks, brown eyes gazing at Steve as he responds, “I don’t have a problem.”

“Then quit being so fucking weird.” Steve spats, face twisted in disgust. 

Eddie raises an uninterested eyebrow, “Wasn’t aware I was.” He coolly replies. 

Steve’s fingers curl into his palm, an angry fist against his side as he glares at the boy before him. Eddie’s eyes drop to Steve’s fist, lips ticking up in a small smile as his gaze flickers back to Steve’s.

Steve’s face grows hot in anger. He leans in, venom on his tongue when he spats at Eddie, “Fuck you.”

Eddie, like the asshole he is, gets a glint in his eye as he quickly whips back, “Thank you.” As if nothing ever bothers him. Steve sometimes wonders if Eddie knows how to bleed. Does he know how to respond to a punch? A kick? A bite? Steve’s not so sure that he does. 

Steve decides spending another second on Eddie would be a waste, so he turns on and walks away. He’s still hot with anger, still tasting blood in his mouth, still thinking about those assholes on the turf, still thinking about the asshole a few feet away from that knows how he tastes.

“And just so you know,” Steve whips around, storming up to Eddie again. Eddie’s gaze flickers back to Steve, tilting his head in interest. Steve feels a feeling he’s never felt before brewing in his chest— a deep anger that he’s never tasted and comes up sharp on his tongue.

“I’m not fucking gay.” Steve spits.

Eddie blinks and nods once, “Okay.” 

Steve looks at Eddie, the other boys sharp features glowing under the lamplight as he says, “So don’t do that shit again.” 

Eddie looks at Steve, stoic expression plastered across his face before he tilts his head, “Not sure I know what you’re talking about.” He says, voice low and gravely.

Steve’s blood boils. His fists clench by his sides, and he ticks his jaw, pain rising from the punch he’d taken not too long ago, “Fuck you,” he says, “You know what I’m talking about.”

Eddie’s eyes have an annoying glint when he responds, “Seemed like you enjoyed it, Harrington.” He says beneath a subtle smirk. Steve steps forward, fists curling into the leather of Eddie’s jacket as he leans in and seethes, “You’re fucking disgusting. Try pulling that shit again, and I won’t hesitate to fucking kill you.”

Eddie smirks, brown eyes dancing over Steve’s face, a halo of warm light around his curly hair. Eddie’s voice is like hot honey, “That a threat or a promise, captain?” 

“That’s a fucking promise.”

Brown pools of earth swirling like a whirlpool stare into Steve’s eyes. Smoke and cheap cologne, hairspray, leather. Steve’s anger is so loudly rushing through his veins he can hear it, flooding through his ears like a river. 

Steve is in the eye of the storm. The wind is still, the air is crisp, and the light overhead flickers.

Steve doesn’t know how it happens. He doesn’t know who invades whose space, but the taste of his blood mixes with the taste of cigarette smoke, dull with mint and spit. Eddie’s lips are warm and rough because Eddie needs some fucking chapstick, but Steve doesn’t complain. He can’t. Not when Eddie’s dipping his tongue into his mouth and tasting his blood, humming like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. 

Steve’s knuckles are tight in Eddie’s jacket, short nails carving into the leather. Eddie’s tongue is like a curious snake, running over Steve’s tongue, dipping through the valleys and ridges of his teeth, licking over his palate. Eddie’s tongue slinks back into his own mouth, his lips curving against Steve’s lips as his cold fingers brush against Steve’s hips— and suddenly, the winds are picking up, and Steve shoves at the curly-haired boy, stepping away with a heaving chest as he glares at the boy.

Eddie’s lips are tainted a faint red, brown eyes bright yet gloomy as they gaze at Steve. Steve grimaces as he wipes his mouth, spitting out blood onto the concrete as if Eddie’s spit is the worst thing he’s ever tasted. 

Eddie smiles, looks at Steve like he can see right through him, and Steve fucking hates it. Steve turns, body thrumming in some sort of sick and twisted adrenaline, eyes cast ahead of him as he marches toward the door of the locker room.

“By the way, Steve,” Eddie calls out behind him, “It was me.”

Fuck him. Fuck him and fuck everything that he says and does— Steve hates that every word Eddie says leaves him questioning, hanging, wanting more. Steve turns and glares at Eddie, vitriol in his voice as he spits out, “The fuck are you talking about?”

Eddie’s lips tip in a smile, boot-clad feet clicking against the cement as he stalks over to Steve, “The guy following her. It was me.” He shrugs.

Steve looks at Eddie, dancing over his face, looking for a crack in his expression— he finds none. Steve feels… he feels stupid. Stupid for being blind to the little game Eddie is so easily playing, puppeteering you and him with an expertise that makes Steve wonder— how many times has he done this? How many people?

Steve spent the whole weekend churning in anger, only to be told it was Eddie the entire time. He feels naive and dumb.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Eddie snickers with a shrug, stopping in front of Steve, “Made it more entertaining.”

Steve swears he feels Eddie’s lips on his, and if it weren’t for the sight of them splitting into a shit-eating grin, he’d believe they were still pressed against that lamppost, swapping spit and blood.

“Fuck you.” Steve spits.

Eddie’s smile smears in Steve’s vision as he turns his back to him and walks toward the building, heart racing in his chest and bile churning in his stomach.

Eddie’s voice rings in his ears as Steve opens the locker room door, “Goodnight, Harrington.”

Steve hardly sleeps that night.

part four.

freaky lil cutie taglist: @gnrquinn @otterpop13 @sirensleepingsoundly @hugdealer @poppyseed018 @your-nightmaredoll @daysinthephoenix @chaiflvrd @daisy-munson @amira0303 @kellsck @eddiesguitarskills @peaches-roses-sins @ohmeg

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@cherrymedicine13 @hanahkatexo @beeceedub @arthurcerverogf @itdobe-liza @littlered0000 @songbirdofthenight @sweetvalentineheart @rip-quizilla @munsonmuses @rockmusiciscalming12 @chelebelletx

@ratsematary @qtheressurections

a/n: HI HI HIIII !!! first of all, i am so incredibly sorry for how delayed this chapter was, i truly hope you guys even remember this story *cries*, either way, thank you for being so patient <33 this chappy was all about stevie battling his demons (bisexuality) soooo, not much established, but we're getting to the action very soon I promise!!

if you made it this far, thank u so much for reading, any and all feedback is appreciated and loved <3 I hope you all have a wonderful 2025 and stay safe; and as always, thank u and i love you always!!

[pucksandpower]

Lullaby

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which Max is the only lullaby you’ll ever need

Warnings: 18+ content

You stare up at the ceiling, wide awake. The numbers on the alarm clock seem to taunt you, the minutes ticking by as you struggle in vain to fall asleep.

It’s nearly 1 am and Max still isn’t home.

With a sigh, you roll over and bury your face in his pillow, breathing in his familiar scent.

It’s not the same.

Your body craves his warmth, the protective circle of his arms. Sleep just won’t come without him here.

You’ve always been this way, for as long as you can remember. A perpetual insomniac, tossing and turning through the lonely nights.

That is, until you met Max.

The first night you spent together, you were astonished to find yourself drifting off within minutes of being wrapped in his strong embrace. It was like magic. Now, months later, the spell hasn’t broken. Max has become a necessity, not just for your heart but also for your health.

The sound of the front door opening stirs you from your restless thoughts. Muted footsteps make their way to the bedroom and you feel the mattress dip down.

“Hey,” Max whispers, his hand grazing your shoulder. “Sorry I’m so late, the meeting ran long. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting up.”

You roll over to face him, drinking in the sight of his tousled hair and tired eyes. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here.”

He offers you a soft smile, the one he saves only for these quiet intimate moments, and your heart skips. No matter how many times you see it, that smile never fails to make you melt.

“Let me just wash up and I’ll be right there, okay?” He squeezes your hand gently before disappearing into the bathroom.

You listen to the familiar sounds of him getting ready for bed, a ritual you know by heart. The splash of water, the electric hum of his toothbrush, the soft thud of his clothes hitting the hamper.

When he emerges in just his boxers, you lift up the covers in silent invitation. He slides in behind you and tucks your body against his chest, legs tangled together.

You fit so perfectly, two puzzle pieces made for each other.

His arms wrap around you like bands of steel and you feel yourself begin to relax into him. Here, cradled against him with your legs interlocked, is the only place you’ve ever found true peace.

Max brushes his lips over your hair. “Did you miss me?” He murmurs.

You smile into the darkness. “You know I did.”

“I missed you too, schatje.” His voice is husky with fatigue. “I’m exhausted but I had to get back to take care of my girl.”

You snuggle deeper into his embrace. “My hero.”

He chuckles, low and warm like honey flowing over you.

You talk softly as you both unwind from the day, voices hushed in the intimacy of the night. He tells you about the team debrief that ran late and you fill him in on the book you started today, trading thoughts and details as the fuzziness of sleep starts to seep into the she of your consciousness.

Eventually conversation tapers off, words replaced by contented silence. Max’s breathing deepens and you know he’s nearing slumber. But your mind still buzzes, body fighting against its own weariness.

You shift restlessly and Max instantly tightens his hold. “Shh I’ve got you,” he soothes. “Just try to relax.”

One large hand begins massaging gentle circles on your back and you focus on its hypnotic motion, on the sensation of his calloused fingers tracing delicate shapes.

He starts humming softly, a nameless tune that fills you with wistful melancholy. You’ve never asked where he learned it. It belongs to these fragile midnight moments, when he coaxes you to stillness with his voice and touch.

Between the comfort of his embrace and the lullaby reverberations rumbling through his chest, you finally feel sleep approaching. Your thoughts drift away until only the present remains — Max surrounding you, his warmth, his scent, the combined rhythm of your heartbeats.

Just as your heavy eyelids begin to close, Max shifts suddenly and cages you beneath him. You gasp as he presses urgent kisses under your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin.

“Max!” You squirm half-heartedly. “I was almost asleep.”

“Not quite yet, schatje. We’re not done.” His voice is gravelly with arousal that makes your belly swoop. “I need you.”

He kisses you deeply until you’re clinging to him, nails digging into the flexing muscles of his back. This man unravels you with barely a touch, your body open and pliant to him like a flower turns to the sun.

When he enters you it feels like coming home. You let out a shaky exhale, overwhelmed by the perfection of his body joining yours. This connection, this wholeness, is all you’ve ever wanted.

Max sets a slow, deep rhythm. His eyes blaze into you, grey flickering with lust and love and possession. “You’re mine,” he rasps, thrusting harder. “This is right where you belong. Under me, surrounding me, taking all of me.”

“Yes, yes I’m yours,” you gasp. The slide and drag of your bodies is maddening, tension coiling at the base of your spine.

Max grips your thigh, hooking it over his hip to drive himself deeper. “No one else gets to have you like this. You only come apart for me. I’m the only one who gets to feel you shatter.”

You cry out as he hits that perfect spot inside, stars bursting behind your eyelids. “Max, please …”

He crushes you closer, thin control fraying. “Please what? Tell me. I’ll give you anything you need.”

A particularly deep thrust wrings a wanton moan from you. You’re so close now, balanced on a knife’s edge of bliss. “Just you,” you manage to say. “I just need you.”

Max smiles, satisfied. “That’s my girl.” Then his lips slant over yours, swallowing your sobs of pleasure as his hips piston faster. The tension crests, higher and higher, until finally it breaks and you’re swept away on waves of dizzying ecstasy.

Max tenses and follows you over with a rough groan, your name a prayer on his lips. He collapses heavily against you, breath coming in harsh pants.

For long moments you just cling together, fingerprints bruising, heartbeats thundering through one another.

Eventually Max stirs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. But he doesn’t separate your bodies. He knows you’ll rest easier staying connected, so he simply shifts just enough to take some of his weight off you.

You let out a small sigh of contentment, his warmth seeping into every inch of you like a blanket. Utterly spent and sated, you quickly begin drifting off. But before sleep claims you, Max’s quiet voice cuts through the haze.

“I’ll always come back to you. Every night, just like this. You’re my home.”

His words wrap around your heart, a vow and a lullaby in one. You manage to murmur a quiet “love you” before finally succumbing to sleep, safe in the harbor of his arms.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Where three months change everything again, or the three times Spencer lost you and the one time he found you at the next door.

Words: 11,8k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of therapy. angst. hurt/comfort. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I still can't believe this is the final chapter, and I'm still in shock because after so much writing, it's here. I can only thank all of you who have made it this far and have given a chance to my dear neighbor!reader and her eternal and complex story with Spencer.

Please don't think this is the end of The Next Door; there is so much more to tell, and I plan to do it through more one-shots (pre- and post series!)...I love you all ♡ thanks again!

I. I Look in People’s Windows by Taylor Swift

Spencer Reid was exhausted.

He stepped out of the elevator with shoulders bowed beneath the weight of exhaustion, dark shadows etched like bruises beneath his eyes. His travel bag hung limply from one hand, the strap digging into his palm, while his satchel tugged at the opposite shoulder, threatening to unbalance him with every sluggish step. The last case had drained him dry, six relentless days trailing a serial arsonist across the frozen backroads of the Midwest, chasing leads through smoke-scarred crime scenes and soot-covered rubble. His back ached from nights spent hunched over motel desks and cramped airplane seats, his posture worse than ever, every muscle stiff with fatigue.

All he wanted now was silence. The kind that wrapped around you like a blanket, undisturbed by screaming sirens or the hiss of fire. He craved the familiarity of his own four walls, the quiet hum of his apartment, and the way the light pooled lazily across his worn hardwood floors. The feel of his sheets: cool, threadbare, comforting. Maybe even a long, scalding shower to melt the tension from his shoulders.

And chamomile tea, if he could keep his eyes open long enough to make it, if he didn’t risk nodding off and burning himself with the water. He just needed something soft. Something gentle enough to coax him down from the harshness still clinging to his skin. It was a habit he had picked up from you without even noticing. You used to make it for him on the hard days, when the weight in your chest became too much, when the world outside felt too loud, too sharp. You never asked if he wanted any; you just handed him a mug and sat beside him in silence. And somewhere along the way, it became his ritual too. Now, he brewed it at the same moment you once did, after a case, when the adrenaline faded and the ache set in…or when you weren’t there.

Especially when you weren’t there.

Now, Spencer walked slowly down the familiar hallway to his apartment, his body heavy with exhaustion, each step dragging like it cost more than it should. He craned his neck with a quiet grimace, trying to ease the persistent stiffness that had settled in during the long flight and countless hours hunched over files. His fingers fumbled absently for his keys, muscle memory guiding him toward his door, but his eyes, as always, betrayed him.

They drifted sideways, almost involuntarily, landing on your door.

It was quiet, as it had been for weeks now. Still. Closed off. Just like you.

He paused, keys resting in his hand, thumb brushing over the worn metal. Maybe, just maybe, he could knock. Ask if you wanted tea. Just a cup in your favorite mug, nothing more. He could pretend it was casual, make some awkward comment about turbulence and bad coffee in the station, and mentally beg you to say yes. Even after everything. Even after nearly a month of silence.

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, maybe because he’d finally let a few truths slip in those painfully slow sessions with his therapist, he’d started to believe that effort might matter. That change had to start with him. That if he could just show you he was trying, that he was sorry in ways words had failed to express, maybe you’d open the door again.

Maybe you’d still be on the other side, waiting for something soft too.

His fingers hovered over the key in the lock, trembling with fatigue. For a moment, Spencer stood motionless, suspended between exhaustion and something far more dangerous: hope. The kind of hope that blooms quietly in the ribs, uninvited and unsustainable. His body ached from the case, from the travel, and from the weight of everything left unsaid. He could practically hear his therapist’s voice in his head:“Make the effort, even if it scares you.”

So he turned. Just three steps across the hall.

The overhead light flickered once, then dimmed. He raised his hand and knocked, softly at first, then firmer. Three measured beats. A rhythm more like a confession than a greeting.

He held his breath.

There was a pause. A distant sound, muffled through the door; movement, shuffling, the dull thud of footsteps on hardwood. He straightened his spine, ignoring the throb in his lower back and the way his throat suddenly felt too tight. Maybe you were asleep. Maybe you wouldn’t answer. Maybe—

The door opened.

But oh.

It wasn’t you.

It was a man. Half-dressed, water still glistening on his skin like dew under morning light. Beads traced the lines of his collarbone and slid down the flat plane of his chest, disappearing beneath a towel, your purple towel, slung low around his hips. His hair was wet, pushed back hastily from his forehead, darkened by the shower, and still clinging in damp strands to his temples. Steam drifted out behind him, curling into the hallway light like a ghost of warmth from your apartment, a place Spencer had once known like the rhythm of his own breathing.

He froze.

His heart stopped, then lurched forward violently, skipping in panic before it remembered how to beat. But it wasn’t the sight of the man standing there, relaxed and unbothered in your doorway, that knocked the air from Spencer’s lungs.

It was the scent.

Your scent: sweet, warm, heartbreakingly familiar. That delicate blend of honeyed vanilla and soft lavender, the fragrance he had come to associate with comfort, safety, and the pleasure of being close to you. He’d memorized it. Not just noticed it, memorized it, imprinted it somewhere so deep in his brain that it had become a reflex. The same way he remembered the sound of your laugh or the way your fingers curled when you slept.

That scent had been his anchor through sleepless nights. A quiet tether when you lay against him, your head resting on his chest, breath brushing over his skin as his fingers traced slow circles in your hair. It was the scent that had lingered on his clothes long after you’d left, nestled into his pillows and his thoughts like an echo that refused to fade.

And now it was clinging to someone else.

Not just in the air. On him. Your shampoo. Your towel. Your home. The most intimate, unguarded pieces of you worn by a man Spencer had never seen before, standing in the threshold like he belonged there.

It was wrong. Every cell in his body rejected it. And yet it was real.

He stood there, rooted to the spot, as the stranger finally noticed him.

The man met Spencer’s gaze with a casual nod, neutral but not exactly friendly. Not hostile either, just that effortless confidence of someone who didn’t feel the need to ask permission. His fingers reached down with unhurried ease to adjust the towel, securing it at his waist like this moment meant nothing at all.

“Hey,” he said, his voice calm and unreadable, like they were neighbors meeting over a trash can. “You need something?”

Spencer blinked.

The question hit him like cold water. He flinched, visibly, as if his brain had forgotten how language worked.

“Uh…I—yeah.” His voice barely made it above a whisper. He gestured vaguely toward his own door, but the motion fell apart midway through. His hand dropped limply to his side, as if even that small act of honesty—that he lived next door, that he still came looking—was too much to carry. “I was just…looking for her.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and something sly curled faintly at the edge of his mouth.

“Oh, right,” he said smoothly, cutting Spencer off before he could add anything else. His gaze swept over him, slow and deliberate, like he was reading a book he’d already skimmed before. “You’re that neighbor.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Not cruel. Not overtly. But loaded.

Familiarity laced with disapproval. A subtle judgment passed in four syllables.

Spencer's breath caught. He didn't respond, not right away. He was still trying to breathe through the sharp pain that had settled under his ribs and his desire to want to know what you had told this stranger about him.

All the bad? Some of the good from the past?

“She’s not here,” the man added, tilting his head with a casual shrug. “She left town a few days ago. Took her cat with her.”

Mittens. You took Mittens. Of course.

Spencer’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, the smallest crease appearing between his eyebrows. “She didn’t say where?”

“Nope.” The man leaned a shoulder against the doorframe like it was second nature, like he belonged there. Like this was normal. “Just said she needed a break. Some space. Mentioned she might be gone a few weeks. Maybe longer.”

A few weeks. Maybe longer.

Spencer nodded, his throat dry, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface. He tried to mask the flicker of something sharp in his chest: hurt, jealousy, and guilt, all tangled into something bitter. His eyes drifted past the man’s shoulder, uninvited but instinctive, into the apartment he used to know like a second skin.

It was still your apartment. Your furniture. Your curtains. But something had changed. The light felt different. The air felt lived-in by someone else. A pair of shoes by the door that weren’t yours. A jacket slung over the back of the couch that he didn’t recognize. A mug on the counter, not your favorite one.

It wasn’t just that you were gone.

Someone else was there now.

Someone who might’ve made you laugh recently. Who might’ve cooked you dinner. Who might’ve kissed you.

Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was a friend. Maybe he was just watching the place. Maybe he was doing you a favor and using your towel, your shampoo, and your home while you were hundreds of miles away trying to forget the damage he had done.

Maybe.

But there was something about the man, his ease, the way he leaned against your doorframe like it was his too, and the casual authority in the way he talked about you, as if he knew you better than Spencer ever had, that made his stomach twist in on itself, and he hated it so much.

He forced his expression to stay neutral. He’d trained for this kind of thing: poker face under pressure. But this wasn’t a profile. This wasn’t a suspect. This was you. And the sadness creeping into his chest was harder to school than he expected.

“I see,” Spencer murmured.

The man studied him for a moment longer, tilting his head slightly. “You want me to tell her you stopped by?” he asked. “When she calls or checks in?”

Spencer hesitated.

Every instinct in him screamed yes.

Yes. Tell her. Let her know I came. Let her know I still care. That I still think about her every night. That I still wonder if I did something right. That I still hope.

But another voice—quieter, older, and more tired—held him still.

If she wanted to know, it whispered, she would’ve come to you. She would’ve knocked on your door. She would’ve said something. She always knew where you lived. She always had.

So finally, he shook his head slowly, his eyes dropping to the floor. “No,” he said, voice low. “That’s okay. You don’t have to mention it.”

The man shrugged. Indifferent. “Alright. Take care.”

The door began to close. Not harshly. Just firmly.

And then Spencer was alone again, standing in the hallway with nothing but your fading scent in the air and the steady, unbearable quiet pressing in from every direction.

He stared at the door as if it were about to open again. Like you could undo the last five minutes. Like you were going to be there, in an oversized sweatshirt and mismatched socks, laughing at how dramatic it all was and how crooked his glasses were after he accidentally sat on them two days ago in a case.

But it didn’t open again.

The door stayed closed.

You were gone.

And Spencer had no claim to you. He’d let you walk away months ago. He’d fumbled the words when you needed them most. He said nothing when everything inside him had begged him to say everything.

Maybe this was what moving on looked like.

Maybe this was the consequence of silence. Of lies. Of pride. Of only finding the courage to say sorry when it was already too late.

However, when he turned around and walked back into his apartment, he felt the air colder than usual. The walls are quieter. More empty. And for the first time in weeks, he didn't know what to do with his hands because he wasn't at work and there was no case to solve.

All he could think about was the last time you’d shown up at his door, your voice shaking as you whispered, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And now…maybe you’d finally found somewhere.

Someone.

And it wasn’t next door.

It wasn’t him.

And all Spencer could do was move through his apartment like a ghost.

He went through the motions: shoes off, bag set by the door, jacket on the hook. He filled the kettle and placed it on the stove with practiced hands, but everything felt hollow, like muscle memory guiding him through a life he no longer fit into. The apartment smelled like stale paper and dust. Not vanilla. Not lavender. Not you.

He stood at the counter, a chipped mug cradled in his hands, the porcelain worn smooth by years of use, your favorite one, the one you always teased him for refusing to throw out. The kettle hadn’t even started to steam yet, but his mind was already somewhere else, his eyes drifting, again and again, toward the desk in the corner of the room.

It sat quietly in the shadows, tucked between the bookcase and the wall, the laptop closed and motionless on its surface. But it wasn’t the laptop itself that held his attention—it was the small, fading sticker of a daisy pressed onto the corner of the lid. A silly thing, really. You’d handed it to him months ago, pressing it into his palm with a smile and saying, “So you don’t forget to look at something soft when work gets hard.”

He never did forget.

Now, the sticker was starting to peel at the edges, its brightness dulled by time, but it still called to him like a whisper. Like you did, even in your silence.

After a moment, Spencer crossed the room, sat slowly, the chair creaking under his weight, and opened the laptop. The screen bathed his face in cold light. The email client blinked open with a soft chime.

He hovered over the Compose button.

Clicked.

Blank screen. Cursor blinking.

He stared at it for a long time before finally typing.

To: iluvmittens3@gmail.com

Subject: I don’t know if I should send this.

I’m not sure where you are. Or if you’re checking this email anymore. Or if the sight of my name in your inbox would feel like a wound or something softer. I keep debating whether writing to you is selfish or honest, or both. I know I forfeited the right to uncomplicated communication with you the day I decided silence was safer than the truth.

Today I stood outside your door. I hadn’t planned to knock. I wasn’t even sure what I was doing until I heard the echo of my own knuckles. It was muscle memory more than intent. Hope, maybe. Or delusion. I told myself it was just to say hello. Just tea. Just a moment of normal.

But you weren’t there.

And someone else was.

And now I can’t help but think…maybe you’ve moved on. Maybe you found something softer, gentler than what I could give you. Someone who makes you feel safer, more seen.

If that’s true, I don’t blame you. I want you to be happy because you deserve it.

I wanted you to know I’ve started therapy again. Voluntarily, this time. I found someone who doesn’t work for the Bureau, someone objective. Someone who didn’t know me before the arrest. Before the trial. Before everything came apart. She doesn’t flinch when I talk about prison. Or addiction. Or how silence sometimes makes me feel like I’m disappearing. She just listens. And I talk. Eventually. I talk more than I thought I could.

And I thought you should know I’m not seeing anyone. Romantically, I mean. I realized that might’ve been unclear the way I worded it, and I don’t want you to get confused. No one else has taken up the space in my heart or my apartment where you and your books still sit. I haven’t been able to move them. I reshelved the others last week—yes, still by Dewey Decimal—but yours, I left exactly where you put them. Spine facing slightly outward, like you always did with your favorites. Sometimes I pull one down just to feel the weight in my hands. As if the pages will remember you even more than I can.

I started teaching again. Just a single seminar at Georgetown, Criminal Psychology, Wednesdays at 9:00 a.m. The first day, I stood in front of the classroom and felt like my body wasn’t mine. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the marker. Then someone raised their hand. And it was like something reconnected inside of me. Like a circuit that had been broken for years and suddenly sparked back to life.

And I thought of you.

I thought of how you used to say I lit up when I talked about something I loved. That my entire posture changed, that my voice got louder without realizing, and that my hands would start moving like they were trying to catch the thoughts before they ran away.

You were the first person who ever said that like it was beautiful. Like I was beautiful.

I don’t expect a reply. I don’t even expect you to read this.

But if you do, if even part of you remembers the version of us before the silences…I just want you to know that I miss you, and somehow my mom does too. She keeps asking about my “girlfriend who paints and makes good tea” in her good moments (I know we are not a couple, I’m sorry).

And if I ever made you feel like you were invisible, or alone, or secondary to the things I was too afraid to share—

I am so, deeply, unforgivably sorry.

(Draft saved: 22:38 PM)

Spencer shut the laptop. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the silence.

And somewhere behind his ribs, a part of him folded in on itself.

II. Free Now by Gracie Abrams

The studio smelled faintly of linseed oil, pencil shavings, and the sweet, stale dust left behind by the morning’s cake, a leftover from Mrs. Alder’s retirement celebration in the next room. The windows were cracked open, letting in the salted breath of San Francisco and the distant chime of a streetcar bell as it curved down Market. You loved that sound. The hum of a city that didn’t know your name. A place where no one knew what you had left behind. No memories carved into doorframes, no fingerprints on glass. No ghosts waiting at the crosswalk.

It had been two months since you had taken your cat and left your apartment. Two months since you packed a suitcase with more emotions than clothes and left behind everything that reminded you of him. Of the softness that never became solid. Of the way silence grew like mold between two people who once spoke with their eyes.

Now you are here. In a new place. Teaching art at a local community school three days a week. Oil painting on Tuesdays, watercolors on Fridays, and on Sundays, “Expression Through Form” for the quiet children, the ones who hadn’t yet learned how to name what they felt but carried colors like secrets under their tongues.

Today was Friday.

You stood at the front of the classroom with your sleeves pushed up to your elbows, blue paint smudged across your fingers, and a stubborn streak near your wrist that you hadn’t noticed until it dried. You were fishing through your bag, elbow-deep in sketchbooks and lesson plans, while the soft din of the room buzzed behind you: the scratch of chairs, the rustle of paper, and the quiet chatter of children settling in.

“Okay,” you said distractedly, flipping open the familiar worn sketchbook. “Today we’re going to talk about shadow and how it changes the way we see form, how it gives volume, emotion…”

You trailed off.

The sketchbook was open, but not to your lesson notes.

Not to the carefully prepared diagrams or the simplified compositions you used for demos.

No, this page belonged to something else entirely. Something older. Something personal.

The charcoal drawing stared back at you like a secret laid bare.

Spencer.

Asleep on your old couch, curled on his side like something left behind in a dream. His fingers tangled absently in Mittens’ fur, the cat curled into his chest with a devotion you could never quite name but always envied. The shading around her face was softer than the rest, smudged and delicate, as if you had drawn her over and over again just to keep her from fading. Or maybe to keep the memory from slipping out of reach.

You turned the page too quickly, fingers trembling.

But the next one was worse.

Spencer again.

His back to you this time, barefoot and hunched slightly, wrapped in that oversized oatmeal cardigan he always wore on colder nights, the one you had once stolen and returned smelling of paint and lavender shampoo. He was standing in front of his bookshelf, hand paused mid-page, a soft lamplight haloing his outline. The shadows in the sketch stretched out like silence itself, and yet he looked still, almost holy, caught in the quiet act of thinking.

And then another.

And another.

Spencer in profile, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he read on the floor, his shoulder pressed lightly against your leg.

Spencer smiling—half, crooked—probably at something dumb you’d said.

Spencer at the window, distant and unreachable, his face bathed in the last of the afternoon light.

And in the margins—always, always—Mittens. Curled at his feet, perched on his lap, peeking from behind the edge of his coat like she belonged nowhere else.

You froze, hands halfway to closing the sketchbook, breath caught sharp in your throat. But before you could move—

“Miss.”

A voice, high and unsure, pulled you back.

You looked up too fast.

It was Mateo, row three. Ten years old, the one who barely spoke above a whisper. He tilted his head with that narrow squint he wore when trying to solve a puzzle.

“Why is that guy in all your pictures?”

A small wave of laughter rolled through the classroom, gentle but amused. You heard someone whisper, “Yeah, he’s in the other ones too,” and a few more heads leaned forward, curious now. Interested in a way they hadn’t been when it was just shadows and light.

Your fingers curled tighter around the sketchbook’s edge.

“That…” you said carefully, throat dry, “was someone I know.”

Mateo blinked. “Is he your friend?”

You looked down at the page again, at Spencer’s long hands, the soft fall of his hair, the ache of something you’d tried so hard to forget rendered in ink and memory.

“Yes,” you said, after a beat too long. “He is my friend.”

But was he?

You weren’t sure anymore.

Friends didn't lie to each other. Friends did not ignore each other in the hallway. Friends didn't kiss. And yet, you two had already done it all.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you gave a gentle smile and closed the book carefully, like you were sealing something fragile inside. Like you were afraid it might still be alive.

“Now,” you said, picking up a piece of chalk, “if the light is coming from this side of the figure, who can tell me where the shadow would fall?”

But even as you spoke, even as the lesson continued, your hands moved on autopilot. The question clung to you. The weight of him in your drawings. The quiet, unrelenting imprint of a man you hadn’t spoken to in almost sixty days but somehow still carried like breath.

You’d left because you didn’t know how to stay after what you’d seen.

And now, a ten-year-old had seen what you had tried so hard to unsee.

You could leave a city. Leave an apartment.

But you hadn’t left him.

Not really.

Because in every piece of art you made, there was Spencer Reid.

Still reaching.

The classroom had emptied an hour ago, but you hadn’t moved.

Paintbrushes sat drying in a jar of cloudy water near the sink, and tiny flecks of blue and ochre dotted your forearms from helping one of the younger students finish their skyline project. The floor was littered with paper trimmings, masking tape, and a few forgotten smocks. The sun had dipped low behind the tall buildings across the street, casting long amber shadows through the wide windows and painting the walls in fading warmth. Still, you sat there, hunched slightly over your desk, hands clasped, your sketchbook closed beside you like a sleeping animal.

It felt heavier now.

Your mind was still stuck on the moment earlier that day, on the way a child’s voice, so casual and curious, had cracked something open inside you.

The words echoed again as if the walls of the classroom had stored them like sound trapped in a cave. You hadn’t answered them. You’d only laughed it off, gently changed the subject, guiding them back to mixing greens and grays. But your hand had trembled slightly when you closed the sketchbook.

Now, under the classroom’s dim overhead lights, with only the low hum of traffic outside and the soft ticking of the old clock above the whiteboard, you opened your laptop.

You stared at the screen for a long time. Not thinking. Just…feeling.

When the email client finally loaded, your fingers hovered over the keyboard. It took longer than it should have to type in his address because your hands were cold and because your stomach was tight.

You sat back, drawing in a breath.

Then, with a shaky exhale, you began to write.

To: s.reid3@gmail.com

Subject: I don’t know.

Hi.

I don’t even know if this email will reach you. I don’t know if this is still your email. I don’t know if you’d even want to read anything from me. And honestly, I don’t even know why I’m writing this. No, that’s not true. I do know. I just wish I didn’t.

I broke my phone a few months ago. I was running across the street in the rain and dropped it; the screen shattered. Nearly got hit by a car. My knees were bleeding. I didn’t even care, because all I could think about was that I hadn’t backed anything up. Not your number. Not the texts. Not the voicemails. The ones you sent when you were away on cases, the ones I used to play on loop when I couldn’t sleep. Gone. All of it. And it felt like losing you all over again.

Only this time, I didn’t even get to keep the evidence that we ever existed.

I thought maybe it was the universe giving me a sign. That maybe I wasn’t supposed to hold onto all that anymore.

But today, I realized I haven’t let go. Not really.

I moved. New city. New job. New apartment with stained floors and a door that sticks when it rains (I miss the old one, my best friend's boyfriend is staying there, I hope he won't be so noisy and let you sleep well, I warned him). I teach art now, of all things. Can you believe that? I’m painting again. Teaching messy, brilliant kids at a community center how to smear their feelings onto paper. It’s chaos. It’s loud. It smells like glue and fruit snacks. But it pays the rent and buys the fancy cat food Mittens insists on. She’s still as demanding and dramatic as ever, by the way.

They make me laugh, those kids. They pull me out of my head when I forget how to breathe. One of them told me I looked like a “dragon princess” last week, and I have no idea what that means, but I smiled anyway because it felt kind. Today, one of them found the wrong sketchbook and flipped it open in front of the class. And there you were. Over and over and over again. Dozens of versions of you I didn’t even know I’d drawn. I didn’t even realize how many times I’d painted your face. Your hands. Your eyes. You holding things. You thinking. You asleep. It felt like someone had turned me inside out.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain the obsession I used to have with painting you in every moment. I can’t even explain this to you when maybe I should have, much less to a kid.

I think about you more than I should. More than I want to admit. Sometimes I wonder if you ever think about me—maybe in the middle of your impossible, heroic job. (Congratulations, by the way. JJ said you’re back. I hope you’re being careful. I hope you’re sleeping.)

Sometimes I wonder if I meant as much to you as you did to me. Or if I was just someone who showed up in the wrong moment, saw too much, and asked too many questions. If I stumbled across the wrong pieces of your past and ruined something that maybe, just maybe, could’ve turned into something good.

I’m not angry anymore. I don’t scream your name in my sleep or dream about throwing things at your head. I don’t feel that fire in my chest that used to make me shake. I think…I think I understand, a little, what you meant back then. When you talked about silence. About how heavy everything is and how much it costs to carry things alone.

I just wish I could’ve carried it with you. I know I could have. I would’ve been okay doing it. For you. With you. I wish I hadn’t met you at the wrong time. I wish we could’ve had a better one.

Anyway. I guess I just wanted to say I’m still standing. Still painting. Still figuring it out. I spend more time with kids than with adults now, which maybe says something about me. Maybe I don’t want to be understood by people who expect polished versions of me anymore.

I hope you are too—okay, I mean. Or at least…getting there.

Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this. Maybe it’s unfair to reach out like this after I left the way I did, without saying the things I should’ve, without explaining that I wasn’t running from you, I was just…terrified. Of loving someone that much. Of hurting or being hurt. Of messing it all up like I always seem to do.

Maybe this is selfish. Maybe I just want to know if you still think about me. Maybe I’m hoping that somewhere, buried under all that brilliant chaos of yours, there’s still a small, stupid part of you that misses me too.

But I won’t send this.

Not because I don’t mean every word, but because I’m scared. So scared that you won’t answer, and also scared that you will.

(Draft saved: 15:38 PM)

The tab closed with a soft, hollow click.

You sat back in your chair, suddenly feeling colder. The classroom was quiet again—too quiet—and the city outside felt distant, unfamiliar, despite the months you’d been living in it. You reached for your coat, gathered your things, and turned off the lights.

As you walked home that afternoon, wrapped in silence and city wind, you tried not to wonder if Spencer had ever opened a new email, stared at a blank screen, and left his heart behind in words he never sent.

Maybe that’s all you were now. Unsent messages. Unfinished paintings.

Still somehow full of each other.

III. Coney Island by Taylor Swift ft. The National

The bullpen was nearly empty, cast in the dull gold hue of late evening and the sterile glow of overhead fluorescents. Only the low hum of computers and the occasional creak of the building settling filled the silence. Spencer Reid sat at his desk, surrounded by a semi-chaotic sprawl of open files, coffee-stained memos, and a half-finished profile scribbled in his precise, looping script. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his tie loosened and askew, and the red pen in his hand was twitching restlessly between his fingers.

He had been reading the same paragraph for the better part of twenty minutes. Each word on the page blurred and sharpened with every blink, rearranging itself into phrases that meant nothing. The facts of the case, dates, patterns, motive theories, rubbed harshly against thoughts he hadn’t invited. Thoughts that weren’t even about the case.

His eyes wandered to the corner of his desk, like always.

The drawing was still there. Exactly where he always kept it, framed in something simple and thin, slightly tilted from where his elbow had bumped it last week. The Tenth Doctor stared back at him, caught in mid-motion, sketched in soft charcoal lines and striking contrast. The detail in the eyes always caught him off guard. That quiet depth, the melancholy, the knowing. It wasn’t just a drawing anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

He blinked slowly, and before he realized it, the memory unfurled.

There had been a knock at his apartment door. Three light taps: hesitant, unpracticed, like you were hoping he’d open but half-hoping he wouldn’t.

It was already late. He’d been curled on the couch in mismatched socks, flannel pajama pants, and a vintage MIT hoodie with ink stains on the sleeves. His hair was slightly damp from a post-shower routine he hadn’t fully finished, a book half-open on the cushion beside him. He froze at the sound, his heart skipping once, not in alarm, but in quiet confusion.

When he looked through the peephole, he blinked.

You.

He opened the door slowly, not sure whether to be concerned or curious. You stood just outside the frame, illuminated by the dim hallway light, shifting your weight from foot to foot like the floor might disappear beneath you if you stood still too long. Your hands were wrapped protectively around something—paper, maybe. He noticed the light smudges of graphite on your fingertips.

“Hi,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice carried all the tentative warmth of someone who wasn’t sure they were welcome.

“Hi,” he echoed, his brow knitting gently. “Is everything…okay?”

You let out a shaky breath, your grip tightening on the paper. “Yeah. I mean—yeah, it’s fine. I just…I wanted to give you something. Before I lost the nerve.”

That caught him off guard. You stepped forward and unfolded the sheet carefully, holding it out like a fragile confession.

“I drew this. I know it’s not perfect, I haven’t done much drawing lately, but…I remembered how much you love Doctor Who. I thought maybe…you’d like it.”

He took it carefully, with both hands, as if it might vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.

It was stunning.

The Tenth Doctor—his posture, his expression, the flare of his coat mid-step. It wasn’t just accurate—it was felt. There was emotion layered into every shaded crease of the jacket, every delicate contour of the face. You had captured the quiet tension in his eyes, the weight of a thousand years of running, and something else too, something unspoken. Something Spencer couldn’t name but recognized instantly.

He stared at it for several long seconds, absorbing every line. His brain, always too fast, catalogued each detail: the pressure differentials in the graphite, the slightly darker strokes at the chin, and the swirl of motion around the hem of the coat. His heart, slower and less practiced, just…took it in.

He didn’t speak.

And in that silence, you started to fidget. “You don’t have to keep it,” you said quickly, already pulling your sleeves down over your hands. “I know it’s not your birthday or anything, I just…I thought of you when I drew it. That’s all. It’s kind of dumb.”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then again, softer. “No. It’s not dumb.”

He looked up at you, really looked at you, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. “No one’s ever drawn something for me before.”

You blinked, surprised by how honest he sounded.

He cleared his throat, flustered now. “It’s…actually remarkable. The line work alone suggests you spent at least four or five hours on it. The anatomy is precise. You even got the asymmetrical twitch in his left eyebrow, which most people miss unless they’ve rewatched series three with frame-by-frame analysis, which, statistically speaking, is pretty uncommon—”

You smiled.

That broke the tension. He saw it: your nerves easing a fraction, your shoulders loosening, and your eyes warming. It changed your whole face.

“I thought you’d like it,” you said.

“I do. I really do.” He glanced between the drawing and your face. “Do you want to come in?”

There was a moment where the question hung between you, vulnerable and uncertain.

You nodded.

As you stepped inside, the edge of your arm brushed his. It was barely a touch, but it lingered in the air between you like static. Spencer closed the door behind you slowly, and something inside him shifted. Like the beginning of a story, he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting to be written.

Now, after three months without seeing your face, back in the stillness of the bullpen, the memory slipped away like mist. Spencer reached out and adjusted the frame, realigning it with careful precision. His fingers hovered at the edge of the glass, brushing it once, lightly, just enough to feel the coolness beneath his skin. Just enough to feel grounded.

The profile in front of him remained unfinished. The pen had stilled completely.

But something in his chest had quieted.

He didn’t hear the elevator ding, didn’t register the soft footfalls on the carpeted floor, not until a delicate scent brushed against the edge of his consciousness like a whisper.

He looked up.

JJ stood just inside the room, illuminated by the hallway light behind her. Her hair was curled and pinned to one side, and her dress—sleek, deep navy satin with a subtle shimmer—clung to her with the kind of elegance that demanded a double take. Silver earrings caught the light when she tilted her head, amused by his startled expression.

Spencer blinked, startled. “You’re…dressed up.”

She tilted her head, amusement tugging at one corner of her mouth. “You say that like you don’t already know why.”

“I do,” he murmured, his gaze dropping back to the papers scattered across his desk. His pen stilled. “You’re going to the exposition.”

“Her exposition,” JJ corrected, her voice gentle as she stepped closer. “The one I invited you to. Three times.”

Oh, that.

Because after disappearing for more days than he liked to count, you had returned to the city to present your art. It was your first official exhibition, and he hadn't even received an invitation.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound barely audible above the low hum of forgotten electronics. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of a folder as if anchoring himself to the world of facts and patterns, things he could quantify, things that wouldn’t look at him like his friend might.

“Right.”

JJ didn’t sit. She didn’t tease him like she usually did and didn’t lean in with a joke to coax him into something lighter. She just stood there, quiet, poised, and calm. The kind of calm that invited honesty by simply refusing to look away.

“I’m picking up the boys on the way,” she said after a beat, glancing briefly at her phone before slipping it into her clutch. “They’re excited.”

Spencer’s smile was small, almost apologetic, and didn’t come anywhere close to his eyes. “They like her.”

JJ softened. “They love her.”

He nodded once, his gaze drifting somewhere over her shoulder, to the space beyond the bullpen, beyond the walls. “Yeah. It’s easy to.”

She took a step closer, her voice low and careful. “You’ve been quiet about it. About her. About the exposition.”

Spencer gave a small shrug, the kind that didn’t mean nothing, but everything. The kind that said I don’t know how to talk about this without unraveling. He closed the file in front of him with more force than necessary and stared at the worn folder cover as if it held the answer to a question he couldn’t bear to ask.

JJ didn’t flinch. She didn’t fill the silence.

“I saw the look on your face when I told you she left,” she said, carefully. “I remember what it did to you.”

And of course she remembered.

How could she not?

That day was etched into Spencer’s memory with surgical precision, as vivid and unrelenting as any crime scene he’d ever walked into. He hadn’t slept the night before, not really. He’d spent the early hours in his apartment, pacing between bookshelves and windows, rehearsing the things he might say to you if you came in that morning. How he’d apologize for not calling, for freezing up in the hallway, for the way he’d let things fray at the edges when they had barely begun to hold. He’d thought maybe, just maybe, you were giving him space. Time. That there was still room for a second chance.

That you had left him, just like everyone else eventually did.

His father. Gideon. Maeve.

And now you.

People always left. And he always stayed behind, trying to make sense of the silence they left behind.

He swallowed hard, throat tight. “I don’t know what showing up would even mean now,” he admitted. “What it would do. What it would…undo.”

“You don’t have to undo anything,” JJ said, gently but clearly. “This isn’t about fixing the past, Spence. It’s about showing up for the present. For her.”

His jaw twitched, and he looked away. “She left without a word.”

JJ didn’t flinch. “And you let her.”

The truth landed like a dropped stone. Not cruel, just undeniable. His eyes lifted to hers, and the look there was raw. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“It never is,” she agreed. “But you still think about her. I know you do.”

He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

“I think…” JJ began, choosing her words slowly, “I think you’ve convinced yourself you’re not welcome. That after the silence, after the distance, after how broken it got…going would be a mistake.”

He hesitated. Then: “Maybe I don’t deserve to see what she’s made without me.”

That confession sat heavy in the air.

JJ crouched beside his desk, bringing herself down to eye level. Her voice steadied, but her eyes shone. “Spence, it’s not about what you deserve. It’s about being there. It’s about standing in the same room as someone who meant something to you, who maybe still means something, whether or not you’re ready to say it out loud.”

He leaned back slightly and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand. “What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

JJ tilted her head. “What if she does? She gave me five invitations; I know one was for you.”

He didn’t answer, but something shifted in his body, shoulders slackening, breath deeper, like a muscle finally letting go after being held too long. His hands trembled just enough to betray him.

Jennifer stood slowly. She offered him a small smile, gentle and knowing. “We’ll save you a seat.”

Spencer didn’t move right away. He sat there for a moment longer, the bullpen quiet around him, the weight of her words lingering like perfume in the air. When she turned to go, her heels clicking softly against the floor, he finally spoke, just loud enough for himself.

“Maybe I’ll come.”

And, finally, he did.

He went home first, to his small apartment with its cluttered bookshelves and soft lamplight. It took him longer than he’d admit to pick out something to wear, his fingers skimming over shirts, over ties that felt either too formal or not enough. He settled on a charcoal suit, the fabric slightly wrinkled from lack of use, and a navy tie that brought out the color in his eyes. He brushed his curls back. He put on cologne he hadn’t worn in months.

Before leaving, he stopped by a flower shop.

He stared at the buckets of blooms, indecisive, until his eyes landed on a simple bunch of daisies wrapped in paper printed with little cats and cartoon hearts. He smiled to himself, just a little. You would like that. You always found whimsy in things other people dismissed.

The gallery was full by the time he arrived. Voices bounced gently off the high ceilings. There was soft music playing—somewhere between jazz and ambient—and every wall was lined with color, expression, and pieces of you. But Spencer Reid barely registered any of it. His eyes were fixed on the painting in front of him.

It was abstract, not a literal portrait, but he knew, he knew, it was him.

The brushstrokes were careful and emotional, full of restrained energy. Lines that built and pulled apart again. A swirl of deep blues and thoughtful golds, like storm clouds wrapped around a quiet sun. It wasn’t a face. But it was him. Or maybe the version of himself that you saw. The one you studied across a kitchen table, in the rearview mirror of a shared car ride, in the moments between heartbeats and hard days.

His fingers curled tighter around the bouquet of daisies in his hand. It had felt right when he bought it. Whimsical. You. Now it just made him feel like a child at the wrong party.

Then, quietly, like breath at the back of his neck, your voice found him.

“You came.”

He turned.

And for a moment, the room vanished.

You looked beautiful.

Not in the obvious, magazine-cover way. But in that undeniable, soul-stirring way that knocked the wind out of his lungs. Your dress hugged you like it had been made with you in mind, the color a soft echo of the blush in your cheeks. Your hair curled softly around your face. But it was your eyes that stopped him cold.

Because they still knew him.

Because they still hurt.

You gave a small, surprised smile, your hands loosely clasped in front of you. “JJ mentioned something. I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Spencer blinked slowly. “I—yeah. I wasn’t sure I could.”

He shifted his weight awkwardly and moved the bouquet behind his back without meaning to. Reflex. Like he’d just remembered how long it had been. How much silence had grown between you.

A strange pause stretched between you. Not cold. Just…fragile.

You glanced at the painting he’d been looking at. “That one’s…a little chaotic.”

“It’s me,” he said, before he could stop himself.

You looked back at him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.

“I didn’t mean for it to be obvious,” you murmured.

His throat tightened.

“How are you?” you asked quietly. “It’s been a while.”

Three months. Ninety-four days. More than two million heartbeats, and still, somehow, every one of them had echoed like your name.

His throat tightened.

He wanted to say everything. That he hadn’t stopped thinking about you. That he missed your laugh echoing in his apartment. That he still reached for his phone on late nights before remembering you weren’t on the other end of it anymore.

But instead, he said:

“I’m fine. I’m…I’ve been working a lot. It’s been busy.”

The pause that followed was strange. Hollow. Like two people pretending they didn’t already know each other’s scars by name.

“So…” You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, a nervous gesture he knew too well. “What do you think? Is it…good?”

He frowned, confused. “What?”

“The exposition,” you clarified gently. “I know it’s not, like, Monet or anything, but…I don’t know. I hoped maybe it meant something. I mean—it’s okay if it doesn’t, I just…”

Your voice faltered.

That’s when he really saw it: how nervous you were.

Not because of the crowd. Not because of the critics. But because he was standing there, your heart was still tangled up in what he thought of you.

Spencer stepped forward, just a little. “It’s perfect.”

You blinked, startled.

He searched your face, that little crease in your brow you got when you didn’t believe someone. “Everything you do,” he said, slower now, “has always been perfect. You have…this way. Of turning moments into something magic.”

You looked down, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “You used to say magic wasn’t real.”

“I was wrong,” he said, almost breathless. “You made it real. For me.”

And then, before he could second-guess it, before his brain could run through the probability of regret, the spiral of logic, the equations of heartbreak—

“I love you.”

There was no ceremony in it. No dramatic music swelling in the background. Just the soft, certain truth of it in the air between you. He said it there, in front of a painting you’d made about him without ever telling him.

“Spencer…” you breathed, barely a whisper, as if the dream might break if you spoke too loud.

“I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer. “I love you. I never stopped. And I’m proud of you. For this. For all of it.”

He smiled then, the real one, the one that made your knees weak once, the one he used to only show you in quiet kitchens, late-night talks, and stolen mornings.

You smiled, something soft and aching. “If life keeps pulling us apart like this…maybe this is the moment we’re supposed to find each other again.”

He smiled back. For real this time. A little crooked, a little sad. But real.

“Spencer Reid,” you began, your voice barely a whisper, “I—”

“There you are!”

JJ’s voice rang out, cheerful and apologetic, dragging both of you back to earth.

You turned as she approached, Henry and Michael flanking her with excited grins and crumpled drawings in hand.

Jennifer slowed when she saw the two of you. Her gaze flicked between your expression and Spencer’s flushed cheeks. She paused, knowing.

“Sorry. The boys wanted to see you. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No,” Spencer said quickly, too quickly. His voice sharper than he meant. “It wasn’t important.”

That was it.

He stepped back before you could find the words again.

And maybe he meant it wasn’t important. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe it hurt too much to risk your silence again.

You turned toward the boys, heart still thudding, mouth still half-open with things unsaid. You bent to receive the flowers they held out—bright pinks and oranges and crayon-colored gift tags—and smiled through the ache. You knelt to hug them, asking about school, pretending not to feel the cold space beside you where Spencer had been.

It wasn’t until the third conversation, the third child’s story, and the third wave of laughter that you noticed the bouquet.

Still there.

The daisies were wrapped in that ridiculous cat-and-heart paper.

Alone.

And that’s when you realized he was gone.

Not just left the room.

Gone.

Again.

IV. Packing It Up by Gracie Abrams

You woke slowly, as if surfacing from the bottom of a dark, endless ocean, breath returning in fragments.

The world above sleep didn’t come rushing back in a wave; it crept in through your eyelashes, soft and disoriented. A headache hummed low behind your right eye, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You were tangled in a nest of sheets twisted tightly around your limbs, the cotton bunched at your waist and still warm with sleep. Every inch of your body ached, not with pain, but with the echo of adrenaline, of emotional whiplash, of too many things felt too quickly and all at once. This wasn’t ordinary exhaustion. This was the kind that burrows into your marrow and stays. The kind that makes even breathing feel like work.

The room was steeped in stillness, painted with the pale, grey-blue light of early morning. Thin ribbons of sun slipped through the crooked slats of your blinds, striping across your bare thighs and the floor littered with yesterday’s remains, your heels kicked off haphazardly near the door, a champagne glass tipped sideways on the dresser, and a paper program from the exhibition folded in half beside a dried-out lipstick tube.

Your mouth was dry, your tongue heavy with the cloying aftertaste of cheap champagne and buttercream frosting, probably from the strawberry cake JJ had brought in your honor. Or maybe it was just the memory of nerves, swallowed whole with every smile you forced last night.

You blinked up at the ceiling slowly. Your eyes stung from dried mascara, lashes stiff and itchy at the corners. Your hair was a mess of flattened curls and flyaways, the scent of hairspray and sweat clinging to your pillowcase like smoke after a fire. One of your legs was sore where the strap of your heel had rubbed all night, and your arms still held the faint ache of too many hugs, too many clutched champagne flutes, and too many walls you’d tried to keep upright with nothing but willpower.

And then, in one bright, golden rush, it all came back.

The lights. The art. Your name printed cleanly on a placard, framed beneath gallery glass.

The faces—familiar and not—smiling, nodding, standing too close, or just far enough.

Henry, who’d hugged you like he was five again. JJ, whose eyes had shined with a kind of quiet, maternal pride.

The subtle electric hum of voices lingering near your work.

And then…Spencer.

Spencer.

You turned your head slowly toward the other side of your bed.

Empty.

Of course.

It had been empty for six long months, six months of missed calls and unread drafts, of silence that said everything louder than words could. And yet, last night, he had come. He had stood in front of the painting you weren’t even sure you’d have the courage to hang. The one of him.

He’d looked at it for too long. Looked at you like he’d never stopped. Then, he said it. Three words. Gentle. Steady.

“I love you.”

And then—

Gone again.

Swept away in the hum of the crowd. Interrupted by JJ’s voice. Interrupted by life and destiny.

You hadn’t known what to do with the pieces he left behind. So you smiled. Laughed. Took pictures. Let the world congratulate you while you crumbled in the space between heartbeats. Someone handed you another glass of champagne. Someone else toasted your future. You said thank you. You posed for photos. You pressed a napkin to your eyes in the bathroom and said it was just the mascara.

Eventually, the crowd thinned. You came home alone.

You hadn’t even wiped your face, just peeled off your dress, pulled on your softest old T-shirt, and collapsed onto the mattress like a tree felled in silence. Face-down. Spine still stiff with tension. You didn’t even pull the covers up. Sleep took you because there was nothing else left.

You didn’t dream.

Or maybe you did, and your heart had chosen not to remember.

Until—

Meow.

It was sharp. Clear. Real.

Your eyes snapped open.

At first, you thought it was in your head. Just a phantom noise made by your aching heart.

Then—

Meow.

Louder this time. Slightly impatient.

You sat up too quickly. Your vision swam. Your lungs forgot how to breathe for a moment.

There was a second of silence. Then:

Meow.

You bolted.

The blanket tangled around your calves as you staggered to your feet. You nearly tripped over a pair of boots left by the closet. Your apartment was still dim, full of yesterday’s perfume and the faint metallic tang of watercolor paint drying in your studio corner. The world outside your windows was just waking up, the soft murmur of early traffic floating up from the street like a distant lullaby.

And yet—

That sound. Her sound.

Your heart had already reached the door before your hands could.

You fumbled with the lock, palms damp with disbelief. The door creaked open, slow and cautious on its hinges.

And the world…stopped.

She was there.

Mittens. Your cat.

Perched like a queen on your welcome mat, tail tucked elegantly around her tiny white paws. Her grey fur was a little dusty, slightly wind-ruffled, but otherwise perfect, those familiar green eyes blinking up at you with that mix of casual disdain and unwavering affection only cats could master.

“Mittens?” You whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of awe.

She gave you a loud, scolding meow. As if to say, Well? Are you going to invite me in or what?

And then, your breath hitched.

You weren’t alone.

There, crouched just beside her, barely two feet from your threshold, was him.

Spencer.

He was crouched low, one hand outstretched toward her as if he’d been mid-pet when you opened the door. His hoodie—an old, soft thing you recognized from a thousand quiet evenings past—was wrinkled around his elbows. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he looked like he hadn’t slept either. The shadows beneath his eyes were tender. Honest.

And there, resting quietly beside him on the floor, were two bags.

A duffel. A small suitcase. Neatly packed. No frills. Practical. The kind of bags you pack when you don’t know how long you’ll stay but hope it’s for a while.

You stood frozen in the doorway. Still barefoot. Still wearing your sleep-soft T-shirt and yesterday’s mascara smudged like bruises under your eyes.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Mittens sat between you like a bridge. Or maybe a question.

Spencer looked up at you slowly, eyes soft. There was no defensiveness in his posture. No barrier in his gaze. He looked hopeful. Maybe scared. But most of all, he looked here.

You opened your mouth to speak. But the words didn’t come. They sat too high in your throat, tangled in disbelief and everything unsaid.

So he stood slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. He left the bags where they were.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Spencer said, his voice low and rough with morning. “She showed up on my fire escape last night. Scratched the glass until I opened it. I—I thought maybe she was trying to find her way home.”

The words settled gently between you, like snowflakes landing on warm skin.

Your eyes stung, lashes damp with something not quite tears, but close enough to burn.

“Thank you,” you whispered, throat tight. Your gaze drifted from his face down to the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, then to the small suitcase by his feet, its wheels smudged with city grit. “You didn’t have to bring her back at six in the morning…I would’ve come for her later.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I didn’t just come for her.”

The air shifted.

Something inside your chest pulled taut, breath catching mid-inhale.

Your eyes flicked back to the bags again, to the subtle wear in the stitching, to the way his knuckles curled slightly around the handle like he’d been holding onto it for too long.

“Are you…” You hesitated, the question afraid of its own answer. “Are you leaving?”

Spencer nodded, just once, slow and quiet, like it hurt to do it.

“I’m going back to Vegas,” he said. “Just for a while. My mom’s been asking about me…She’s there now, and the Bureau’s…giving me time.”

You swallowed. The hallway around you felt impossibly still, the kind of silence that made your own heartbeat sound too loud in your ears.

“And you thought…” You managed, voice barely audible, “You thought you’d stop here first?”

He didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he looked at you the way someone looks at something they thought they’d lost forever. Like he was imprinting the image of you in this light, in this moment—barefoot and sleep-tousled and raw—as if trying to etch it into memory, afraid the edges would fade.

“I didn’t know if I should,” he said finally, soft and uncertain. “But I couldn’t just disappear. Not again. Not without saying something.”

The floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you stepped out of your apartment, the chill of the tile waking you more fully. The door stood open behind you, spilling warm amber light from inside your home into the quiet hallway.

“She waited by my door all night,” he said, gesturing gently toward the small grey blur at your feet. “I think she wanted me to come back to you.”

Your chest squeezed.

You bent down slowly, hands trembling just enough to notice as you scooped Mittens up and cradled her against your heart. Her familiar weight melted into you immediately. She nuzzled under your chin with a low, rumbling purr that sounded almost smug.

Like she’d known.

Like this had been her plan all along.

“You could’ve knocked,” you said, voice softer now, muffled slightly against her fur. “Last night. Or the night before that. You could’ve said something.”

Spencer nodded, guilt flickering through his features.

“I didn’t know if you’d wanted to see me,” he murmured. “After the exhibition. After I left.”

Your eyes lifted to his. They were tired. Red-rimmed. Honest in a way you hadn’t seen in too long. The weight of all your unsaid words hung between you like a bridge made of fog, delicate and waiting.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me either,” you admitted. The confession felt like a relief. Like an opening.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The hallway was suspended in stillness, dust dancing in the morning light. The smell of coffee from a neighbor’s kitchen drifted faintly down the hall, grounding you in the moment.

Then Spencer shifted. His fingers curled slowly around the handle of his suitcase. A movement so simple, and yet it made your chest ache.

“I should go,” he said gently. “I have a flight in a few hours.”

Something inside you tugged.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Then, with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, “Wait.”

He stilled.

You stepped forward, hesitant but sure. One hand still wrapped protectively around Mittens, the other reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against the sleeve of his hoodie, soft cotton worn thin from too many washes. Familiar.

“I’m glad you didn’t disappear,” you said. The words came out quietly. Vulnerable. “Even if it’s just for a minute.”

He smiled then.

A real one.

Small. Crooked. Tired. But real.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “I mean it this time.”

You nodded, the movement shaky.

“I…I have a new number,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you turned slightly, glancing over your shoulder into the apartment behind you. Your movements were quick but uncertain, like you were afraid the moment might slip through your fingers if you took too long.

You found an old notepad on the counter—half crumpled, its edges curled—and grabbed the nearest pencil, the lead dulled but usable. Your hand trembled as you wrote, the numbers etched in quick, looping strokes. You hesitated only once, just before the last digit. Then you ripped the page free and held it out.

Spencer took it like it was something sacred. He folded it once, twice, and slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie without breaking eye contact.

“There is…” You swallowed, lifting your gaze back to him. “Will you call me?”

The question hung in the air, delicate as spun sugar. A fragile thing, so easily broken.

His response came without hesitation. No pause, no doubt. Just:

“I already want to.”

Something cracked wide open inside you at those words, like a window being pushed up after months of stale air. Like sunlight finally reaching a part of you that had been kept in the dark too long.

Before you could think, before your body could talk you out of it, you rose up onto your toes. The movement was instinctual, gentle, like muscle memory. Your free hand hovered uncertainly for just a moment, then steadied on his arm.

And then, you leaned in.

Your lips brushed the curve of his cheek, just barely, softly, and featherlightly. The skin there was warm, maybe from sleep or maybe from the early morning light just beginning to spill through the hallway window. He smelled like faint cologne and clean cotton and something unmistakably him, a scent that hit you somewhere low and aching.

It wasn’t a kiss meant to seduce or provoke. It wasn’t loud.

It was thank you.

It was don’t forget me.

It was I still care.

“Me too,” you whispered against his skin, the words ghosting over him like a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding for six months.

When you pulled back, Mittens let out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind of feline exhale that said she had done all the hard work and would now be accepting praise.

Spencer laughed under his breath.

It was quiet. It was short. But it was real. And it sounded like something had shifted, something small, something important.

He looked at you one last time, his eyes tracing over you like he was trying to memorize everything: the slope of your shoulders in the doorway, the faint smudge of mascara beneath your lashes, and the way your arms curled around the cat pressed to your chest. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Something inside you was caught, suspended, breathless.

Then, finally, he folded the slip of paper carefully, once, then twice, and tucked it into the front pocket of his hoodie like it was something more than just a phone number. Like it was a lifeline. A promise.

His fingers lingered there a second too long.

And then…he turned.

Slowly, Spencer reached down, fingers wrapping around the handle of his suitcase again. The faint metallic click echoed louder than it should have in the still hallway. He began to walk away, measured, quiet steps. The soft thud of rubber soles on tile. The low, whispering wheel of his suitcase trailed behind him like a tether unraveling.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

But oh.

Just when the elevator doors were beginning to close—quiet, metallic, indifferent—a hand shot out, palm flat against the seam.

Thud.

The doors bounced open with a dull chime.

And you saw him again.

Not hesitant. Not uncertain.

Determined.

His bags were abandoned, just sitting there on the hallway floor like they didn’t matter. Because in that moment, they didn’t.

Spencer moved like something had snapped loose inside him, like some silent tether holding him back had finally broken. He was walking fast, almost running, and his eyes never left yours.

You didn’t even have time to breathe before he was there. Right in front of you.

And then you were in his arms.

His hands found your waist, fingers splaying wide like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. The force of him made you stumble back half a step, your heel brushing against the frame of the door. But he caught you. Anchored you.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy.

It was like gravity collapsing. Like air rushing back into lungs that had been empty for far too long.

His mouth pressed to yours with a desperation that bordered on reverence: slow at first, savoring the contact, then deeper, hungrier, full of every word he’d never said and every moment he’d stayed away.

You made a soft, broken noise into his mouth and dropped Mittens gently to the floor. She gave a disgruntled meow but padded away with a flick of her tail like she’d known this was coming all along.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair. He kissed you like he needed it to survive, like your lips were a promise and a memory all at once. You clutched at the front of his hoodie, curling the fabric in your fists, anchoring yourself to him, afraid that if you let go, he’d vanish like a dream.

His mouth was warm, familiar, so achingly familiar. And he tasted like coffee and the early morning air and something deeper beneath it. Something you’d missed so much it hurt to feel it again.

When you finally pulled apart, it was slow and reluctant.

Your foreheads touched first. Then your noses. His breath fanned across your cheek, uneven and warm.

“I thought you were leaving,” you whispered, the words trembling at the edges.

His arms tightened around you. His voice, low and raw, cracked slightly as he answered.

“Not again.” A pause. “Never again.”

Your eyes stung, tears building behind your lashes, not sharp and painful, but warm. Full of something too big for words.

Behind you, Mittens circled once, then flopped dramatically onto the floor, letting out a long, theatrical sigh like she was exhausted from orchestrating this entire reunion and would now be taking credit for your reconciliation.

Spencer let out a quiet laugh against your temple. A real one. Soft. Breathless. His lips brushed your hairline like a secret.

“I couldn’t do it,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse with the weight of everything behind it. “I got as far as the elevator and…I just couldn’t.”

Your eyes shimmered. “So you came back.”

“I came home,” he corrected gently.

Your grip tightened on him. On his hoodie. On the certainty of this—this kiss, this moment, this him—anchoring you to something you didn’t know how badly you needed.

Behind you, the hallway was quiet again, still holding its breath.

The sun had begun to spill fuller through the high windows, casting soft amber on the floor between you, warming the tiles, catching in Spencer’s curls, turning him golden at the edges.

He leaned in again, slower this time, kissing you like a promise.

And you let him.

You let yourself believe this was exactly how it was supposed to be.

Just like your best dream, Spencer finally was kissing you in the hallway.

Extra note: After much thought, I still don't know what to say other than this is the ending I always wanted for them because they deserve it, and it's fate putting Spencer in the same situation with the possibility of acting differently this time. I hope this series will touch your hearts because that's all I ever wanted. See you in the extras, xoxo ♡ !

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee @23moonjellies @lolnothx06 @nnab

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[zylokv]

I LEFT YOU EVERYTHING, YOU LEFT ME WAITING. — MINATOZAKI SANA

❝ what if i did a solo performance? just for you. ❞

synopsis — they weren’t supposed to fall. not like that. not in stolen moments behind the cameras or in the quiet lull between takes. but somehow, it happened anyway — slowly, gently, like a secret being kept. and just as quietly, it all fell apart. someone trusted made sure of that. and now it’s been weeks. she still checks her phone in the middle of the night, hoping. you still think about her smile, and wonder if any of it was ever real. both of you still waiting. both of you still in the dark. notice — emotional angst/unrequited love, miscommunication, implied sabotage, idolxnon-idol, written with realism, metaphors, and a slow and painful unravelling love story. pairing — minatozaki sana x reader ! disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. all events are fictional. while this story may feature public figures (e.g., sana from twice), it is not meant to reflect their real thoughts, actions, or relationships. please remember: nothing depicted in this story actually happened.

you’re early, but so’s the sun. it spills over the rooftops like it has nowhere better to be, catching on the palm fronds and rust-red tin of the surf shack across the street. myna birds argue overhead in the breadfruit tree. usual noise.

you lean against the old tour van, logo half-faded, bumper held together by duct tape and denial. the iced coffee in your hand is more ritual than refreshment.

“you hear 'em yet?” comes a voice behind you.

you glance back. keoni’s stepping out of the gear shed, chewing on dried mango, curls smashed under a cap that’s seen better years.

“nah,” you reply, “but if they’re late, you’re doing the intro hike in that hat.”

he laughs. “they’re idols, not royalty.”

you arch a brow. “tell that to the last crew who filmed here and needed someone to ‘escort the mosquitoes away.’”

“i escorted them straight into the gulch.”

you snort. silence settles for a breath. the crew’s been buzzing—two artists visiting on a break, no cameras yet, just a private walk. low-key, but big. some newer guides offered to take it, but they asked for you. probably because you don’t ask for autographs. probably because you don’t talk much.

a van pulls up, sleek and black, windows tinted like a secret.

keoni gives a low whistle. “showtime.”

you push off the bumper, brush the sand off your legs, walk toward the driveway as the door slides open.

first out: sharp eyes, clipboard, no patience. manager. she gives you a look like she’s seen every kind of idiot and hopes you’re the exception.

“you’re the guide?”

“yep. and you’re the one who’ll yell at me if i let them touch sea turtles, right?”

her lip twitches—almost a smile. she steps aside.

and then they step out.

sana, all light and limbs, laughing at something inside the van. miyeon follows, sunglasses too big for her face, waving like there’s a red carpet no one else can see. they look like they were airlifted straight from a magazine into the humidity without even blinking.

you keep your tone easy. “aloha. welcome to hale‘iwa. i’m your guide today. just me. no cameras yet, so you’re stuck with my jokes until they get here.”

sana gives you a once-over, curious but not unfriendly. “we heard you’re the best.”

“that was probably my mom,” you say. “she has a lot of burner accounts.”

miyeon snorts. “yah—if this turns out to be the 'oops i forgot the water' tour, i’m calling dispatch.”

“deluxe package,” you say. “we only lose a few people on that one.”

behind them, keoni appears with a crate of gear. you nod toward him.

“this is keoni. if you fall into a lava tube, he’s in charge of pretending we trained for that.”

he waves. “i left my rope at home.”

“that’s a joke,” you add. “kind of.”

you help distribute water bottles and light packs. miyeon chatters while adjusting her straps, and sana asks about the flower behind a staff member’s ear.

“left side,” you say, overhearing. “means they’re taken. right side, single.”

sana turns, brows up. “and you? which side do you wear yours on?”

her voice is light. but her eyes aren’t.

you look at her, then smile. “depends on the day.”

“mm,” she says, like she’s filing that away.

you gesture toward the path carved between trees. “alright, we’ll head through a shaded route up to a lookout. no drones, no crowds, just us and the mosquitoes. try not to flirt with them. they take it seriously.”

“do they bite harder when you lead them on?” miyeon asks.

“worse,” you say. “they ghost you after.”

sana lets out a small chuckle.

the trail begins with soft ground, old roots reaching like fingers across the dirt. you point out ‘ōhi‘a trees, explain the legends of pele and hi‘iaka. your voice is steady, practiced—but you’re watching them. especially her.

sana stays close. not too close. she asks about the birdsong, the smooth black rock, the kapu signs carved near the tree line. she listens like she’s used to noise and this quiet unnerves her in a good way.

miyeon’s already up ahead, spinning in slow circles, filming her feet.

the wind shifts. you smell the ocean again, faint but constant, and the distant trace of charcoal from someone grilling down by the beach road.

the first scenic stop opens ahead, a bluff over shallow tidepools and lava shelves. the camera crew’s waiting at a distance, giving you space. they haven’t started filming yet.

you pause at the edge, the sun low behind you, painting sana and miyeon in warm orange light. miyeon lifts her phone, posing without being asked.

sana steps beside you.

“you really live here?” she asks.

you nod. “grew up bouncing between islands. this one stuck.”

“doesn’t it get lonely?”

you watch the horizon. “sometimes. but the view’s decent.”

"yeah, it's beautiful."

she turns her head. just slightly. her eyes linger. not on the ocean.

the tide’s gone quiet, pulled back just enough to reveal the black stone pools scattered like mirrors across the lava shelf. water glints in the shallows. a kolea bird watches from the edge, still as carved bone, its eyes sharp like it remembers more than it should.

hermit crabs trace slow spirals in the wet sand. their shells catch the sun like dropped garnets.

you stand off to the side, close enough to explain things, far enough that they’ll cut you out of the final shot. there’s a mic clipped to your collar anyway. the sound tech gave you a thumbs-up earlier like you did something brave. you’re trying not to think about that.

miyeon’s crouched near a tidepool, poking at the reflection of a fish with a twig she definitely wasn’t supposed to take.

“what happens if i fall in?” she asks, grinning.

“free exfoliation,” you say, and then with a glance at the camera, “not recommended.”

sana laughs behind her, clear and bright like she’s never been tired. she’s squinting into the sun, shielding her eyes with one hand and fiddling with the mic pack at her waist with the other. her hair’s clipped up, loose pieces catching the wind. the stylist tries again to help, but sana waves them off.

“this water’s so clear,” she says, leaning closer to the tidepool. “it’s like a glass bowl.” she pauses. “are the crabs single?”

you blink. “…what?”

she glances over her shoulder with a smile too sharp to be innocent. “you said earlier the flower behind your ear means you’re single. what about the crabs? do they wear little hibiscus too?”

“only the hot ones.”

laughter bubbles up—real, from the crew and from miyeon, who actually claps. sana laughs too, cheeks turning slightly pink as she looks away, back toward the water.

“i like you,” she says.

your breath catches.

then—“i mean the dad jokes,” she adds quickly, teasing. “good material.”

you rub the back of your neck. one of the camera guys catches it and snorts behind the lens. you step sideways again, pretending to check the rocks, subtly trying to disappear.

she doesn’t let you, though.

not really.

her gaze follows you whenever she thinks you won’t notice. when you talk, she listens too carefully. when you point out the limu kohu, the petroglyphs carved deep into the lava, she hums under her breath like she wants to memorize the rhythm of your voice.

you talk about the mo‘olelo behind the sea caves, about the bones buried beneath stone that no one touches anymore. miyeon is still skipping ahead, half-dancing over uneven ground, but sana’s gone still.

she only moves again when you do.

“can we take selfies with the rock that looks like a turtle?” miyeon calls out. “i want to send it to our manager and pretend it followed us home.”

“sure,” you say. “i’ll make sure they consent.”

the boom operator snorts. miyeon throws you a wink like you’ve just auditioned for her next sitcom.

they film for twenty more minutes. the wind pulls at sana’s sleeves. sun glints off the curve of her earring. her questions never stop—what flower is that? how old is this lava? did you always live here?

but it’s not the questions that get to you.

it’s the way she asks. like she’s testing something. like she already knows the answer but wants to hear your voice wrap around it anyway. her eyes flick to you when you think she’s distracted. her shoulder brushes yours once. twice. again.

and you—

you pretend not to notice.

mostly.

when the crew finally calls a cut, it’s late enough the rocks are warming underfoot. someone shouts for a break to reset gear. you lead them higher, where the trail plateaus under a grove of hau trees—broad-limbed and slanted toward the sun, their yellow blossoms falling like pieces of afternoon.

you pass around water bottles, then sit off to the side near a beat-up cooler. your shirt sticks slightly to your back, damp from the walk, but you don’t tug at it. miyeon fans herself with a palm frond, dramatically narrating her own personal survival doc. sana drops down near her, sweat at her temples, but still watching you.

you’re talking with one of the writers—older, in a sunhat and sunglasses and a linen shirt that might’ve been white once. her notebook rests on her knees, the pages half-crumpled from years of use.

“you still eat those li hing mui mangoes?” she teases, scribbling something.

you lean back on your hands. “only when i want to experience death recreationally.”

“please. you loved them in college.”

“i had fewer taste buds back then.”

she laughs, and sana turns her head a little.

college?

miyeon’s still babbling into her phone off to the side, pretending to sell lychee juice like it’s the last product on earth. sana doesn’t look at her.

the writer lowers her voice a little. “you know, i told them you don’t really do this.”

you shrug. “i don’t.”

“they asked why. i said it’s usually a no unless i’m the one asking. and even then, only if it’s raining and you’re bored.”

you glance at her, but say nothing.

sana shifts. the wind picks up, shaking petals from the hau branches. they drift like lazy confetti across the dirt.

“so what changed?” she asks suddenly.

you turn. she’s lounging like she doesn’t care, one leg crossed over the other, arms slack, gaze tilted away from yours. but her voice is steady. deceptively so.

“what do you mean?”

“why’d you take this one?” she asks, still looking at the writer, not you. “if you don’t usually take people like us.”

your jaw works quietly. you glance at the writer. she lifts a shoulder, amused.

“they’ve got their reasons,” she says vaguely, biting the cap of her pen. “probably something poetic. i’ve been trying to squeeze it out for a decade.”

you exhale. “it wasn’t the cameras,” you say at last.

sana raises an eyebrow, just slightly.

“it wasn’t the schedule,” you add. “wasn’t the crew. wasn’t the fee.”

“then what was it?” she presses, eyes on you now.

you glance at her, then back at the dirt.

you remind me of someone. “she was really persistent..” you say blaming the write with a slight grin.

sana’s lips part, but miyeon bounds back in at that exact moment, clutching a lychee like it’s her firstborn. “guys. guys. are we talking about how lucky we are yet? because i’d like to thank the academy and also my sweat glands for keeping it real.”

you chuckle under your breath.

sana doesn’t laugh. she just keeps watching you.

“you’re good at this,” she says, quieter now. “talking about hawaii. like it’s not just a place.”

you glance at her.

“like it’s alive,” she finishes. “like it’s part of you.”

you look down at your hands. your thumbs run slow over the ridges of your water bottle.

“it is,” you murmur.

the breeze softens. miyeon flops dramatically onto a picnic blanket, muttering about hydration. the sun slips through the trees like warm syrup, pooling in patches of gold.

sana stretches back with a sigh. “you should be on camera more.”

“not my thing,” you say.

“why not?”

you half-smile. “i’m better off behind it.”

“maybe,” she says. “but you make it hard to look away.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you anymore, not exactly. her gaze drifts somewhere just to the side, like she’s already trying to turn that moment into memory.

you don’t answer.

the wind stirs again—leaves rustling, petals spinning—and for a second, you think the island might be answering for you.

don’t touch that—”

crack.

“…never mind.”

you blinked down at the snapped guava branch in miyeon’s hand. she froze like a guilty raccoon. sana stifled a laugh behind her fingers.

“that was structural,” you muttered, kneeling to check the low railing.

“it looked like a stick,” miyeon said innocently.

“a stick holding up the hillside,” you replied, brushing dirt from the crumbling base.

“well that’s... poor design,” she offered.

behind her, sana giggled again—soft, melodic, eyes crinkling.

“we’ll glue it back later?” she said.

“yeah,” you deadpanned. “we’ll patch it up with good intentions.”

“or duct tape,” miyeon added helpfully.

“or prayer,” you said under your breath.

keoni passed by, handing you a reflector bag. “i gotta check the van. you’re the boss till i get back.”

you gave him a small salute. “pray for me.”

he winked. “always.”

ahead, a lei-making station sat shaded beneath a wide mango tree, the aunty running it already eyeing you with the kind of mischief only decades could earn.

“eh!”

you flinched automatically.

aunty leina sat cross-legged on a low mat, ti leaves in her lap and a grin on her face that could split coconuts.

“you letting these girls break the valley now?” she called, eyebrows up.

you held up both palms. “not my fault, aunty. i said no touching. they touched anyway.”

“you gotta bring stronger tape,” she said, nodding at miyeon. “or one leash. or two.”

miyeon gasped dramatically. “is this bullying?”

“not unless you cry,” aunty said.

you stepped forward, grinning. “aunty, you still mad about that mango bread or what?”

“i should be. was dry as sand.”

“you ate the whole thing.”

“because i was being polite!”

you laughed and bent into a half-bow, holding both hands out as you approached her mat. she grabbed them immediately, pulling you down beside her with a grunt of approval.

“what you bringing me today?” she asked, glancing past you. “celebrities again?”

“not my fault,” you said. “they keep signing up.”

“bring me someone who knows how to hold scissors.”

“we’re working on it,” you said. “miyeon’s banned from touching plant life.”

aunty leina snorted. “you better be getting overtime for this.”

you looked sheepish. “i got lunch duty instead.”

she nudged you gently with her elbow, her voice lowering. “you still the same,” she said. “all quiet till you get somewhere safe. then boom—talking story like you live in my kitchen.”

“you’ve seen me in your kitchen,” you reminded her.

“exactly,” she said. “you forget to shut up.”

sana and miyeon caught up just as you laughed again, wiping your hands on your pants. miyeon dropped onto the mat and started inspecting the flower piles with the reverence of a child in a candy store.

sana stayed standing, brushing her long skirt with one hand.

aunty leaned closer to you again, voice sly. “eh... that one,” she said, nodding toward sana. “she got the eyes. soft kind. watching you like you grew from this land.”

you pressed your lips together. “aunty...”

“what?” she said, all innocence. “i’m just pointing.”

“you’re matchmaking.”

“same thing.”

sana stepped forward just then, crouching beside you. “these are so beautiful,” she said, eyes bright as she gently touched a strand of plumeria. “i don’t want to ruin them.”

“you won’t,” you said. “ti leaf first. fold it once, then thread the flower. you’ll get it.”

she looked at you. “you’re really patient.”

you shrugged, glancing at aunty leina. “i’ve had good teachers.”

aunty grunted proudly, as if you were her valedictorian.

“besides,” you added, handing sana a flower, “you’re better at this than miyeon.”

“hey,” miyeon called from across the mat, flower crown crooked on her head. “i’m art.”

“you’re chaos,” you corrected.

“art is chaos.”

you shook your head, but your smile betrayed you. the camera crew was still adjusting lenses, not yet rolling, and you—usually quiet, usually distant—were sitting easy in the middle of it all, fingers threading plumeria like you’d been born to do it.

aunty leina turned to one of the interns and whispered—loudly—“see how calm they are? that’s why everyone falls in love on this island.”

you looked up. “aunty…”

“i’m just saying,” she said, holding up her hands. “no shame in being charming. just don’t make her cry, eh?”

you blinked—startled by how quickly the teasing could turn real.

sana glanced between the two of you, the corners of her lips lifting. her shoulder brushed yours as she leaned down again, a little closer this time.

“you really are different when you’re not working,” she said, almost to herself.

you didn’t answer. you just handed her the next flower.

the sun caught the tops of the ti plants just right — sharp, soft green against the red of miyeon’s skirt and the white lei she had somehow managed to drape across her shoulder like a fashion statement. she laughed like the whole valley could hear her. probably could.

you kept to the edge of the clearing.

hands in your pockets. back to the wind.

“shoot, no one told me there’d be bugs with wings this confident.”

miyeon was mid-complaint, swatting gently at the air with the back of her hand as a persistent ʻōpeʻapeʻa hovered near her ear. she wasn’t scared—just annoyed, and dramatically so.

you leaned on the nearest rock, the kind smoothed down by generations of rain. the air smelled like crushed guava and warm dust. your boots pressed soft into the soil. the shade wasn’t much, but it was something. the mountain air was cooler here than down by the coast, and softer too. the kind of breeze that told you rain wasn’t far off.

sana’s hands were slower than miyeon’s, more careful. she looked up once — past the camera, past the boom mic — straight toward where you stood. it was just a glance. quick. not meant to land.

but it did.

you tilted your head a little. said nothing.

“leave the it alone,” someone from the crew called out with a grin. “he’s just flirting.”

“he’s standing like he’s auditioning for a romance movie poster,” miyeon shot back. “brooding by a rock.”

“looks like the quiet type,” the sound tech said. “probably writes poems at lunch.”

“no, he carves them into driftwood,” miyeon said proudly. “and releases them into the tide like messages in a bottle.”

sana, kneeling beside her, let out that light kind of laugh she always used when she was on camera floaty, practiced, just a little amused. but her eyes kept darting to the lei she was threading. fingers slow, deliberate. quieter.

“okay, what about you, sana?” miyeon leaned toward her, flowers half-finished and already tangled in her lap. “you like the sweet ones, right?”

“mm…” sana didn’t look up. her voice was soft, thoughtful. “i like when someone listens. really listens. not because they’re waiting to speak.”

one of the younger staffers made a low “oooh” from the side, and miyeon slapped her own thigh.

“wait, that was good. write that down. someone tweet it.”

the director behind the camera gave them a small cue to keep going, motioning a loop with his fingers. filler talk. b-roll footage. make it fun. make it personal.

you shifted your weight near the back of the set, adjusting the strap of your bag as a local aunty passed by carrying iced tea bottles. she nudged your shoulder with hers.

“you watching the show or the girl?” she whispered, grinning.

you gave her a small smile, shook your head. “watching the flowers, aunty.”

she snorted. “the flowers not the only thing blooming.”

you laughed under your breath and leaned a little on the rock behind you. from where you stood, you had a clean view of the clearing — and sana, who kept looking up with these barely-there glances. like she was checking for something. or someone.

you didn’t plan to step forward. but something pulled you. maybe curiosity. maybe just boredom. maybe it was her voice when she said

“and they should love nature. not like, documentary nature. real nature. messy hair and muddy shoes kind.”

you shifted, curious now, and stepped forward. just a little. just enough to stand behind the cam crew. between the lens and the valley, in a quiet limbo where only the breeze could touch you.

she didn’t say anything, but the look she gave you was new. like the warm part of the tide when it first wraps around your ankles.

sana noticed.

her shoulders straightened. her smile twitched.

she noticed immediately.

but she just blinked once and adjusted the strand of her lei. her expression didn’t change much, but something softened. the gaze she gave the camera next was… steady. direct. like she was saying something without opening her mouth.

miyeon clapped her hands. “i want a hot disaster. where’s my hot disaster?”

“in the microwave,” someone from the audio team muttered.

a few people laughed. you didn’t. you were still watching sana.

she was still watching you.

sana kept her hands moving, threading flower after flower. “it’s not that complicated,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “just want someone who makes you feel like… like you’re home.”

you weren’t sure why that stuck with you. maybe because she didn’t say it to the camera. maybe because she said it like it was true.

but you didn’t say anything. you just looked away.

the petals kept turning in her hands.

and somewhere in the footage, a glance was caught. a quick one, soft, aimed right where you stood — too quick to cut, too subtle to explain.

no one noticed on set. not even you.

not really-

but sana’s next smile lingered longer than the last.

just a little. ;)

the director called cut.

not loud — just a quiet wave of his hand, a soft “okay, let’s reset” as the audio crew unclipped wires from behind sana’s back. miyeon immediately flopped sideways onto the grass like she’d been holding up a skyscraper with her spine.

“i’m done,” she announced. “take me home. return me to factory settings.”

sana laughed, brushing stray petals off her lap. “you’re not even sweating.”

“exactly. that’s how you know i’m serious. this is internal damage.”

“internal damage from what?”

“from life, sana. from living.”

the youngest camera op passed by, hefting the b-cam onto their shoulder. “you’ve been sitting down the whole time.”

miyeon sat up just to glare. “i’ve been emotionally standing.”

aunty leina was already weaving between them with a basket, collecting the finished lei and handing out light scoldings. “no toss ‘em like trash,” she said, wagging a finger at miyeon. “you wear it, you respect it. even if you made it ugly.”

“mine is conceptual,” miyeon said, trying to untangle hers from her sleeve. “it tells a story.”

aunty gave her a look. “yeah. a sad one.”

“she keeps lookin’ at you,” he said.

you didn’t ask who. you just lifted the edge of the tarp, pretending not to hear.

“don’t play,” keoni added, grinning. “you know who.”

“nah,” you said. “too hot to think.”

he snorted. “nah, it’s her making you sweat.”

you were saved by a call from one of the producers — they were wrapping early today to give the team enough time to get footage back to the hotel and prep tomorrow’s shoot. that meant packing up, a long van ride back, and the final few minutes of down-time where everyone felt a little looser.

you ducked out from behind the tree and crossed the clearing again, arms behind your back as the breeze shifted west. your steps slowed when you saw sana still kneeling by the lei-making mat, hands resting in her lap. she looked up at the sound of your boots in the dirt.

“hey,” she said, soft.

you crouched beside her, careful not to knock any of the materials still strewn around. “hey.”

her eyes traced yours for a second. a long one.

she looked at you a second too long to be casual. then, like it was just conversation, “so… is this your main job? or do you have a secret life?”

you blinked. “secret life?”

“mm. spy? florist by day, vigilante by night?”

you gave a small laugh. “nothing that interesting.”

her smile curved. “i don’t believe you.”

you hesitated. normally you kept the line pretty firm — smile, wave, answer only what they needed for the show. but the way she looked at you then, like the question was less for the show and more for herself… you found your voice.

“i help out at a café,” you said, eyes flicking toward the trees. “in town. a friend of my uncle’s runs it. nothing fancy, just coffee, pastries, regulars who like arguing about the weather.”

“sounds cozy,” she said.

“it’s loud.”

“still sounds nice.”

you glanced at her — her hair catching the light, her posture relaxed for the first time all day.

“you work a lot?” she asked.

you shrugged. “depends. here when they need me. café when the schedule’s light. not really the sit-still kind.”

she smiled again, but this time it folded deeper. “me neither.”

you didn’t mean to ask it — it just fell out. “do you ever get tired of cameras?”

her smile turned quiet. “yes,” she said, honest. “but… i like meeting people like this. places like this.”

you didn’t answer. you were still watching her eyes when she reached to adjust the lei near her knees. the thread snagged slightly and she tipped forward to fix it — just a little shift of balance, barely a stumble.

you caught her elbow before she could fall.

“careful.”

sana laughed, a bit breathless. “oops.”

you didn’t let go right away. her skin was warm. soft. a few staff glanced your way, but no one said anything. not this time.

keoni’s voice crackled from the radio on your hip. “van’s ready. we rollin’?”

you tapped the mic. “copy. heading back.”

you let go gently and stood, brushing dirt off your palm. sana followed, slower. her eyes still lingered on your face.

as the group began making their way back toward the main trail, you fell into step behind the crew, trailing just far enough to keep an eye on the path.

sana dropped back too, matching your pace.

after a while, she said — lightly, like it didn’t matter — “so… are you guiding us again tomorrow?”

you paused, then nodded. “yeah. you got me till the end.”

she smiled. bright. quiet.

“good,” she said. “i was hoping so.”

you didn’t say anything — not out loud. but you felt something shift in the way she looked at you again.

like she was filing something away. tucking it behind her smile.

you kept walking.

ahead, miyeon tripped over a root and screamed something about cursed trees. the crew laughed.

sana didn’t.

she just looked at you again.

the clouds barely held together above hanapēpē, drifting thin and drowsy like they'd overslept. the air smelled faintly of seawater and roasted beans.

you had your head bent over the espresso machine, steam hissing softly, a practiced hand steadying the portafilter. your apron, worn and flecked with milk dust, hung loose over your frame. same routine, different day. behind you, the regulars muttered about surf forecasts and the price of mangoes. someone’s kid laughed near the pastry counter. outside, the breeze carried the chime of a wind-battered bell on the door.

you didn’t look up right away when it opened.

your head was down, one hand steadying the portafilter as the espresso ran slow into the shot glass. the smell of milk steaming, the sound of someone slicing into banana bread behind you. your sleeves were rolled up above your elbows.

you glanced up, halfway through a pour.

and there she was.

sana stood near the door like she hadn’t just scoured the whole damn town for you. her hair pulled loosely back, a light blue tank just visible beneath an open white button-down that fluttered slightly when the door shut behind her. a floral skirt swayed at her ankles — patterned, soft, the same blue as her top. like sunlight filtered through water.

you blinked once. nearly over-poured.

she smiled.

"hey," she said, a little breathless. “so… you do exist outside of trailheads.”

your first thought was she matched me. your second was she looks like summer on purpose.

your third was somewhere between how the hell did she find me and don’t smile too much, you’ll look ridiculous.

“only on days off,” you replied, sliding the used portafilter aside. “and only when i need to fund my overly lavish lifestyle.”

she gave a soft laugh, stepping closer to the counter. her hands touched the wood like she was testing its warmth. “mystery solved.”

you raised a brow. “you asked around?”

her cheeks tinted just barely. “i didn’t have that much to go on. miyeon was no help. she said something like, ‘if you wander around with fate in your heart, you’ll find them.’”

you snorted. “sounds like her.”

“and… i did find you.”

you stared at her, fingers stilling on the counter. you weren’t used to people looking for you like that. especially not in a skirt that matched your whole outfit.

“what’ll you have?” you asked after a pause, because you needed to do something, because standing still in front of her felt dangerous.

sana leaned her arms on the counter, watching your face. “something simple. americano.”

“iced or hot?”

“surprise me.”

you glanced down at her skirt again. “iced. you look like you’ve been outside too long.”

she laughed, head tilting. “i have.”

as you prepped the shot, she watched — not in that casual way tourists do, but carefully. you realized you kind of liked her watching. you kind of hated how much you liked it.

“so…” she said, her voice light, “you didn't really say where this beautiful coffee shop were”

you shrugged, keeping your eyes on the espresso. “didn’t think you’d want more caffeine after miyeon.”

“well. miyeon and i got lunch. and then i wandered.” she shrugs slightly feeling as it wasn't worth to mention how she walked for an hour to find you and already had two coffee with miyeon earlier.

you looked up at her then. “wandered?”

her smile twitched. “yeah. i have a good sense of direction.”

you stared for a beat longer. you tamped the espresso with more pressure than necessary.

you didn’t answer.

steam rose between you. she leaned closer through it.

“i like when you’re like this,” she said, and her voice was gentle, not teasing. “you’re… not what i expected.”

you just turned back to the drink. because that thing in your chest — that old twitchy thing that didn’t like being seen — was already shifting too much.

“you’ve got a lot of expectations for someone you’ve known three days,” you said.

“maybe.” she reached out — just a little. and brushed her fingers against a napkin holder. like she wanted to reach you, but was afraid of spooking something. “but you let me ask questions. you don’t stop me.”

“not yet.”

“i think that’s why i came.”

you handed her the cup, warm between both palms. her fingers brushed yours when she took it.

“try not to spill,” you said. you reached for a ragged towel that seen better days while wiping the counter

she took it, brushing her fingers against yours. “are you always this soft when you flirt?”

you blinked confused still wiping the counter clean. “i’m not flirting.”

“okay,” she said, sipping anyway. “but you still haven’t told me if you’re single.”

that made your hand freeze mid-wipe on the counter.

you looked at her carefully. “you always open with that?”

“only when i’ve already watched someone make coffee for me, be soft with a group of grandmothers, and explain lava rock to a camera with their hands behind their back like they don’t want to exist.”

she let her fingertips trace along the edge of her cup, soft and aimless, like she didn’t know what to do with the silence she’d created. you watched her, the slope of her lashes, how the sunlight through the window caught in her hair like it belonged there. like she belonged here.

you wiped your hand on a cloth and came around. you sat across from sana by the window, the light slanting gold between you both.

you opened your mouth. closed it.

then: “...i’m single.”

you didn’t mean to speak. but your voice came out anyway.

she smiled, looking down at her cup like it was just a casual thing. the corner of her mouth lifted, not a smirk, not a grin—something lighter. quieter. like she'd known but wanted to hear it anyway.

“thought so,” she said. low, teasing, but her gaze dropped a second too late for it to be casual.

you leaned your forearms against the table, shoulder tilted in her direction. “you’re very confident for someone who called me mysterious like twelve times this week.”

“i didn’t say mysterious,” she replied, a little sing-song. “i said quiet. and maybe avoidant.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re not helping your case.”

her laugh was soft. she swirled her cup absently, like she was stalling. then turned her head to you, half-curious, half-playful. “so… do you know who we are?”

you blinked. “you and miyeon?”

she made a face. “nooo, i mean, yes, but—like... the group i’m in.”

you tilted your head at her slowly. “uhh... twice.”

her brows rose, impressed. “you do know.”

you shrugged. “teenage girl i know is a fan.”

her eyes lit up. “really?”

“she’s not here,” you said. “so you’re safe.”

sana laughed, the real kind that crinkles the skin around her eyes. “and you?”

“me?”

“do you like us?”

i like you.

the words came up like steam, fogging your thoughts. but you didn’t say them. you just leaned a little forward and said, “i haven’t heard enough to say.”

her gaze caught yours. “maybe you should.”

“you offering a concert?”

she leaned forward a little. “i could.”

“hm.” she tapped her fingers on the side of her cup. “what if i did a solo performance? just for you.”

your pulse hitched. you blinked once, then exhaled a little laugh into your sleeve.

“you’re too fast,” you murmured.

“you’re too slow,” she shot back, still smiling.

another pause, a longer one. the room faded around her for a second.

your pulse did something strange.

you looked down, biting back a smile,

“so,” she said eventually, her chin resting on her hand. “how’s life these days? giving tours in the morning, drinks in the afternoon?”

“normal,” you said. “no camera at least ”

“i missed you guys already,” she teased. “keoni was my favorite.”

“he liked you too.”

she tilted her head. “what about you?” she leaned forward slightly, like the distance between your knees wasn’t already criminal.

you blinked. “what about me?”

“do you like me?”

it knocked the breath out of your chest. she was smiling, that same bright grin she gave everyone, but there was a question behind it she hadn’t quite hidden. her eyes didn’t match the joke.

you didn’t answer right away. your gaze dropped to her hands wrapped around her cup. the chipped polish on her nails. the slight red tint on her knuckles from the sun.

“i think you’re good at talking,” you said slowly.

she squinted, suspicious. “that’s not a yes.”

you shook your head, a quiet huff of a laugh leaving your lips. “that’s a very nervous yes.”

her smile curled, softer now. she looked at you like you’d just given her a secret.

she leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. “you never answer my real questions.”

“you keep asking them in public,” you said. “that’s your fault.”

she tilted her head. “is this public?”

your throat dried. the café was mostly quiet now, the only sounds the soft clatter of dishes in the back and the hum of a machine you’d forgotten was running. one of the baristas, kahi, glanced over.

you raised your hand, beckoning her.

“can you take over for a bit?” you asked. “gonna take my break.”

kahi smiled knowingly. “sure. take your time.”

sana leaned back in her chair like she’d just won something.

“so,” she said again, grinning. “do you get bored of guiding people around here?”

you shook your head. “not really.”

“why not?”

“because most people leave. and when they do, it’s quiet again.”

she tilted her head. “you like it quiet?”

you looked at her. “i like it when people mean it when they say they’ll remember.”

sana blinked. her lips parted just slightly, like she wanted to ask something else, but her phone buzzed on the table. her eyes flicked to the screen. miyeon.

she picked it up and typed something quick. then she stood slowly, brushing her skirt down.

“i have to go,” she said. “miyeon’s waiting.” she reached for her cup, drank the last of it, then hesitated. her fingers played with the edge of the saucer.

you nodded, standing too, out of instinct more than anything.

she took her time standing, fingers lingering on the table’s edge. the hem of her white overshirt fluttered a little when she turned toward the door.

you stood with her.

she hesitated there, right by the frame, like the sunlight didn’t know which one of you to choose.

you walked her out.

she turned once, soft steps pausing near the corner. “hey... do you have instagram?”

you hesitated. blinked. “uh… i mean. i barely use it.”

“but you have one?”

“…yeah.”

“give it to me anyway,” she smiled.

your fingers hesitated, then reached into your apron for your phone. you pulled it out and handed it over, watching her eyes light up as she typed.

she took it like it was normal, like this happened all the time. except she wasn’t searching for the usual account.

her thumb hovered.

“i’m giving you my private one,” she said.

you blinked again.

“don’t tell anyone.” her smile curved, just a little. “miyeon doesn’t even know i give this out.”

you stared at her.

she tapped around on your phone for a moment, then stifled a laugh.

“wait,” she said, flashing the screen at you. “this is really your username? brewing.beach?”

you looked. winced.

“you said you didn’t really use it,” she said, scrolling. “but this is criminal. zero posts?”

“i wasn’t lying.”

“no bio. no story. no highlights.” her eyes were wide with mock horror. “you’re just… a digital ghost.”

you took your phone back. “i log in. i just don’t live there.”

“yeah, i can tell.” she grinned. “i feel like i followed a shadow.”

“it’s mysterious,” you said flatly.

“it’s suspicious,” she corrected. “feels like i just gave my private account to a tourist who might disappear into the ocean.”

you raised an eyebrow. “isn’t that what you’re doing this week?”

she gasped. hand to chest. “that’s cold.”

you almost smiled. almost. “you’ll survive.”

“i better,” she said. “i just gave my secret account to a stranger with no posts and an unflattering username.”

you shrugged. “you didn’t have to.”

“mm,” she hummed, slow and dramatic. “but i wanted to.”

then her voice lowered. “don’t make me regret it.”

and then she looked up, full eye contact, like she could hear your heart going off in your chest. “that okay?”

“yeah,” you said, but it came out hoarse. “yeah. i won’t tell.”

her smile softened. she typed, handed your phone back, and her username was already followed.

then she didn’t move.

neither did you.

and that was when something in the air changed.

you thought she was about to leave, she even glanced toward the door, like she should—but her feet didn’t follow. instead, she turned back around.

and stepped closer.

your breath caught.

there was barely a handspan between you. her perfume was faint but sweet, like citrus and skin-warmed flowers. your heart thudded stupidly loud in your ears.

“you have this... way of looking at people,” she murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant, but you didn’t ask.

you couldn’t ask. not when she was this close. not when she was tilting her head, eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second and then back up again.

you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but you didn’t get the chance.

she leaned in.

and kissed your cheek.

but not quickly. not playfully. not the kind you’d brush off with a joke.

no—she pressed her lips there like it meant something.

like it was a secret she couldn’t say out loud yet.

you felt it in your spine. your stomach. your knees.

it was soft. it was slow. it was warm enough to burn through the fabric of your shirt and straight into your bloodstream.

and when she pulled back—barely—her lips ghosted over your skin like she was memorizing it. like maybe she wanted to stay there.

your eyes didn’t open right away.

and when they did, she was smiling.

just a little.

the kind of smile that made the sun look second-best.

“see you around,” she whispered.

then finally—finally—she turned and walked out the door.

and you just stood there.

heart pounding. hand still curled around your phone. breath caught somewhere behind your ribs.

her lipstick light pink, faint, left the softest trace on your cheek.

you didn’t wipe it off.

you weren’t sure you ever could.

your cheek still felt her.

and somewhere in your pocket, your phone buzzed again—new notification. new follower.

shy.shibatozaki accepted your follow request

and suddenly, the room felt like it wasn’t yours anymore.

it was hers.

and you wanted her to come back.

you don’t remember the exact moment your face started heating up for no reason — just that it had something to do with her name lighting up your phone at 11:47 p.m., while the ocean outside your window made that low, steady hush, like even it was trying to hear what she’d say next.

the sheets were tangled around your legs. your hair still damp from the shower. a bead of water slid down your neck, caught in the collar of your shirt. it clung too close at the back. and your chest — it was doing that thing again. not thudding like fear, not fluttering like joy, just… loud. constant. like a knock that wouldn’t stop.

shy.shibatozaki 11:47 p.m. guess what me and miyeon are watching ! i missed you already i loved the coffee you gave ~ !

you didn’t even have to guess. you could already imagine her curled under a fuzzy blanket, face half-glowing in tv light, head leaning into miyeon’s shoulder. something warm stirred in your stomach.

shy.shibatozaki 11:48 p.m. also me and miyeon are wearing our matching pjs 💙🩷 anddd she took the yellow bear headband >:(( not fair right?? :(

a photo came with that one. slightly blurry, but enough to make your chest tighten — sana in blue pajamas, she was wearing her glasses and it was slipping down her nose, hair tied back lazily with a few strands falling over her cheek. miyeon was beside her, grinning while mid jump, wearing a yellow bear headband. it looked like home. she looked like the kind of perfect you didn’t want to blink at in case it vanished.

you bit your pillow and groaned into it.

then you answered. (on some nonchalant shi she aint even know it)

you 11:51 p.m. perhaps queen of tears..? thats the only kdrama i know hahaa...

shy.shibatozaki 11:52 p.m. HEYYY we're not watching qot! HOMETOWN CHA-CHA-CHA!! miyeon said i act like yoon hye jin..? BUT NO >:( anddd they eat so much in this drama :( i luvvv hawaii food but like ugh i miss korean foods :(

you stared at that message longer than necessary. something about it made you sit up. the air had cooled — you hadn’t noticed — but the breeze coming in smelled faintly of rain and seaweed. maybe you were imagining it, but it felt like a different kind of night.

you told yourself she was just being cute. she was always cute. it didn’t mean anything. her cheeks didn’t make your fingers tingle. her texts didn’t sit warm in your pocket. your chest wasn’t rising like tidewater with every buzz.

you were not smiling.

your phone buzzed again.

shy.shibatozaki 11:55 p.m. hellooo did u fall asleep..? earth to tour guide cutie?

you blinked.

cutie???

your legs were moving before your thoughts could catch up. you grabbed your keys. hoodie. slippers. hair still damp. didn’t care. you stepped outside. paused. cursed. ran back in for your wallet. stepped out again.

the streets were quiet — wet pavement glowing gold beneath the streetlights. your footsteps echoed softly. your hoodie clung to your back. a gecko darted across the sidewalk near your foot, but you didn’t flinch. your head was somewhere else. somewhere with blue pajamas and sleepy eyes that missed korean foods at midnight.

you passed the surfboard rental hut. slowed. stopped.

on impulse — stupid, reckless, flirt-level impulse — you pulled out your phone and sent a photo. an old one. from earlier this week. waves curling over the shore, a bright sky behind it, and someone surfing in the distance.

you 12:04 a.m hey, isn't chief hong like a surfer.. or something..? maybe i can help you learn how to surf yk? :) i'm good at riding the waves.

the second it sent, regret bloomed full-bodied through your spine.

wow, you regretted even saying that.

holy fuck should i delete that? was i too straight forward? was that too much? was that real? should you delete it? why did you say that???

shy.shibatozaki 12:05 a.m. WHATT YOU SURF!! AHHH YES maybe you can teach me when i do come back :) ill rate your flips maybeee from you arms~

you almost tripped over the curb outside the store.

you couldn’t even laugh properly. just gripped your phone, heart thrashing, and slipped inside the brightly lit corner mart like it might hold answers on a shelf.

you needed to focus. get the food. get out. do not spontaneously combust in the ramen aisle.

you got ramen. rice cakes. gim. sesame oil. carrots. pickled radish. banana milk. a new blender blade. more gochujang than one person should legally own. frozen mangoes. why. who knew.

you stared at the shopping cart.

“what the hell am i doing,” you whispered.

you don’t even like smoothies.

but your hand still reaches for strawberries.

back home, you dropped the bags on the counter, half-shivering from the night air, half-sweating from the chaos inside your chest. turned on a recipe video. leaned too close. muted it again. swore when the rice stuck to your hands. tried again. heartbeat climbing steadily, unreasonably, like it knew where this night was heading before you did.

you were mid-slice — carrots wet and bright on the cutting board — when your phone buzzed again.

       incoming video call:

       shy.shibatozaki

you wiped your hands on a dish towel and answered without thinking.

“yaaaah,” she whined, face filling your screen, voice low like she was trying not to wake miyeon. “where did you go? you disappeared.”

you pressed your lips together,

“just stepped out.”

“you didn’t reply to my text for like... nine minutes.”

“how do you know the exact time?”

“because i counted,” she whined. “you’re so mean...”

“just… had something to do,” you said, camera aimed slightly too high on purpose. the kitchen lights were on behind you.

“mmm,” she narrowed her eyes. “are you cooking?”

you tried not to look guilty. “why would i be cooking at midnight?”

“are you at your kitchen..?” she whispered.

you blinked, heart thudding. “...you’re seeing things.”

she pouted. “liar.”

you turned away, pretending to check something on the stove — when really, you were just trying to hide the dumb smile spreading across your face.

on her side, sana yawned. the blanket now tucked under her chin. her glasses had started slipping again, and she didn’t fix them.

“you’re not telling me what you’re making…” she mumbled, eyes blinking slower now.

“nothing important.”

“hmm.” she let that go, surprisingly. “oh, by the way… we might start preparing for our next comeback soon. nothing confirmed but i’m kinda excited. i want a sexy theme” she grinned sleepily. “if we get one… i’ll tell you first.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you didn’t move. just kept spreading rice over gim like your hands had never learned to do anything else. your chest felt… weird. tight. like standing thigh-deep in surf, waiting for a wave you couldn’t see coming.

“and maybe,” she mumbled, almost to herself, “i’ll bring you something from seoul... like a signed photocard... or a bag of korean snacks... or me.”

or me.

your breath stalled.

she didn’t even seem to notice. her eyes fluttered shut, cheek pressed into her pillow. hair all tangled. lips parted slightly, like she didn’t even realize what she said.

your ears were on fire.

you didn’t say a word. didn’t dare to breathe too loud. just finished wrapping the kimbap roll with your heart pounding like it had picked up the rhythm of every wave slapping the shore that night.

not falling. you were not falling. this was just... curiosity. friendliness. a professional obligation to keep her happy and full.

you smiled. not because of what she said — but because she didn’t finish the sentence. her breathing slowed, soft. the blanket shifted a little as she turned, and her hand stayed on her cheek, curled like she was dreaming something warm.

the strawberry not yet a smoothie. the wind outside whispered her name again — like it was in on the joke. like the waves knew exactly how hard your heart was crashing tonight.

you didn’t wake her.

then you sat down on the floor.

looked at her again.

you weren’t falling. you didn’t do this. you didn’t blush. you didn’t cook for people who flirted with you at midnight. you didn’t send surfing thirst traps.

you weren’t insane.

some mornings feel scripted.

not by the sky or the sun or even the alarm — but by something quieter. something like fate, or a dream that refuses to end.

this is one of those mornings.

the first thing sana sees is the curve of light spilling through the curtains. the second is the soft hum of her phone, still propped under the pillow like a secret. the screen glows faintly at the foot of the bed. not loud, not obvious. just there. waiting.

“...miyeon?” she whispers, still half-asleep.

“present,” miyeon chirps from across the room, already in glam-mode with one eyebrow lined and her pink pajama slightly askew. she’s crouched near the mirror, filming, one hand holding a blush brush like a dagger.

“why is the call still—”

“shhh. don’t ruin it. we’re in the middle of a cinematic masterpiece.”

sana squints. the image is angled badly, tilted like someone dropped the phone and never bothered fixing it. the camera lens is fogged a little from the a/c, edges soft and cloudy like a dream.

but it’s enough.

you’re not speaking. not even looking. just... there. folding a shirt. your hair’s still damp from the shower. your white tank top clings slightly at the back, and the loose white trousers hang soft and low at your hips as you lean over to straighten something on the floor.

the light hits the back of your neck like it missed you all night.

like you were born inside a slow-motion montage. like the universe forgot to warn her that people like you exist in real life.

sana forgets to breathe.

“...why do they look like that,” she mumbles, blinking hard.

“right??” miyeon says, spinning the phone to record sana now. “like excuse me, who gave them the right to clean so attractively.”

“do they even know we’re still on the call…”

“and they’ve been like that for an hour. just tidying things in slow motion like they’re filming a skincare ad for lonely people.”

sana groans and hides her face in the pillow. “don’t say that…”

“you’re blushing.”

“i’m not.”

“you’re in love.”

“shut up—”

“you’re so in love it’s embarrassing,” miyeon says gleefully, zooming in on her. “look at how they're dressed up, they clean up good.”

sana peeks from behind the bear. “…they’re just… really clean.”

“do you think they're an ISFJ? they’re that quiet, competent character who always walks their lover home and then disappears without asking for anything.”

“miyeonnn—”

“sana,” miyeon sing-songs. “do you—wait for it—do you likey~?”

sana groans, kicking at the blanket harder. “you’re the worst.”

but then you look up.

no rush. no shock. just a glance at your screen like you already knew it was still on. your gaze flickers, soft and unhurried, before your lips curl into the gentlest, sleep-warm smile.

your hand lifts in a lazy wave.

“morning,” you say, voice low and quiet. “hope you two slept well. we’ve got the atv tour today, so… time to get up.”

sana short-circuits.

miyeon howls with laughter in the corner.

“you didn’t hang up…?” sana manages, barely above a whisper.

you scratch the side of your neck. “why would i?”

you sound so casual. too casual. like you didn’t just make her heart skip two entire steps.

but then — you pause.

just enough to tilt your head a little, like something’s still on your mind.

“also,” you say, almost as an afterthought. “you didn’t finish what you were gonna say last night.”

sana freezes.

miyeon drops her brush on the table in slow motion.

“so,” you add, still smiling, “i didn’t want to hang up.”

and that’s it. no dramatic music. no fireworks.

sana dies.

just the most quietly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to her.

sana curls deeper into the blanket, face burning so red it could power a city.

miyeon is filming everything.

“okay, bye now,” you say, eyes already scanning off-screen. “gotta get the keys from keoni.”

click.

call ended.

the screen goes black.

sana stares at the screen like she’s been hit by a truck made of flower petals and longing.

her fingers twitch.

her soul leaves her body and ascends into the soft sheets of the afterlife.

then she lets out a squeak so high-pitched it sounds like a dolphin being emotionally overwhelmed.

“THEY SAID THAT???” she cries into the pillow.

“they remembered i didn’t finish what i was saying,” she whispers into the pillow, half-horrified, half-melting. “and they said it in their morning voice…”

“they didn’t want to end the call,” miyeon repeats, gleefully filming the aftermath. “do you understand what level of romance that is? that’s a novel ending. that’s page 374 of a fanfic. that’s—”

“i can’t go on the atv,” sana groans, burying herself completely now. “i’ll crash it just looking at them.. i’ll never recover.”

miyeon just smiles like the devil herself.

“you’ve already crashed,” she says, scrolling back to rewatch the smile. “and you’re so not getting up.”

sana bolts upright. “you recorded it, right..?”

“duh.” miyeon holds the phone aloft like it’s a national treasure. “my phone was already rolling since you were asleep. i got the back muscles, the tank top, the morning voice, the part where they said they didn’t want to hang up because you weren’t done talking—”

sana lunges. “let me see it!!”

“oHOH,” miyeon squeals, twisting away like a gremlin, phone clutched to her chest. “you want the video?? you need the video???”

“miyeon, please.”

“say the magic words~”

“i will literally cry,” sana threatens, face already turning red as she tries to grab the phone again. “give me the—miyeon, i’m serious!”

“you’re serious?? like serious-serious??” miyeon’s eyes sparkle like she’s hosting a game show. “on a scale from one to ‘i’m-down-bad,’ how serious are we talking?”

“i won't buy you those tanned friends”

“no you won’t,” miyeon says smugly. “you’re too in love to be mean.”

sana lets out a wail and collapses into the blanket, face burning. “miyeoooonnn…”

“oh my gosh, she folded.” miyeon falls dramatically beside her. “someone’s in loooove.”

sana peeks from the covers. “just let me watch it once.”

miyeon hums. “what’s the magic word?”

sana glares. “airdrop it.”

miyeon gasps, delighted. “OH. OH??? she said airdrop!! she’s desperate. this is beautiful. hold on—lemme queue it up for full emotional impact—rewinding to the part where they scratch their neck, ready—aaaand play.”

sana watches.

watches the exact moment your voice, all soft and quiet and unbearably gentle, says it again.

“you didn’t finish what you were gonna say.”

“so i didn’t want to hang up.”

she actually squeaks. like a mouse. or a broken record. or a seventeen-year-old girl watching her first romance drama in 4k.

and then she slaps miyeon’s arm, hard.

“DON’T PLAY IT AGAIN—”

“TOO LATE, I’M LOOPING IT.”

“STOPPP—”

“it’s okay,” miyeon sighs, falling back onto the bed beside her. “if they looked at me like that and said that in that voice, i’d record it in 4k and build a shrine.”

sana turns slowly. “you mean you did record it in 4k.”

the atvs are parked in a half-circle near the trail’s edge, their engines quiet but still radiating heat. someone’s checking the tires, someone else is untangling cords for the mounted cameras. the air smells like red dirt and sun-dried leaves.

you’re wiping down the atv with a rag that was clean twenty minutes ago. the handlebar grips are dusted over, already sweating beneath your hands. your white tank clings a little from the humidity, loose at the edges but damp at the spine. the same white cotton trousers from earlier—creased, stained faintly at the knees—hang low and light at your hips. your black backpack leans forgotten by the tire, half-zipped, a water bottle poking out.

you don’t notice them watching you.

sana notices all of it. unintentionally.

“they’re gonna get dirty again in five minutes,” keoni says loudly from where he’s standing with sana and miyeon, watching you from across the lot.

“they’re too clean to accept that,” miyeon replies, biting back a grin. “look at that form. they’re washing it like it’s a first date.”

keoni raises a brow. “i’m just sayin’. no point polishing a pig.”

“don’t say that,” sana says, elbowing him with a soft smile. “the atvs are cute.”

“the atvs,” keoni mutters. “or them.”

before anyone can respond, you stand and stretch your arm out—then toss the dirty rag in a perfect arc. it lands square on keoni’s chest, leaving a dark smear on his light shirt.

he stares down at it.

you smirk, still flushed from the sun. “guess now you’re the dirty one.”

keoni lifts the rag off like it’s cursed. “you’re lucky i can’t throw this back. you’re wearin’ your best heartbreak outfit today.”

sana feels something in her chest clench slightly—unreasonably—but she laughs anyway. miyeon snorts and fans herself dramatically.

you’re laughing now too, leaning into the side of the atv where eunji—the writer—stands beside you, both of you mid-conversation. she says something that makes you tilt your head back and laugh harder, hand on your hip, face tilted toward her like this is normal. like this is yours.

sana blinks.

college, she remembers suddenly. that throwaway comment from before. the way eunji looked at you.

but then she shakes it off. maybe they just go way back. maybe it’s nothing.

“so,” keoni claps his hands once. “we divin’ these up or what?”

“dibs on riding with the prettiest,” miyeon declares, flinging her hand toward sana dramatically.

“alright,” keoni calls, tossing a small bag into the front of the seat. “miyeon—you’re with sana. we don't need you crashing all of us and possibly driving us off.”

a few of the crew laugh. people start pairing up, bags start getting tossed into backs, helmets passed around, bags pulled tight with lazy grunts. the clearing smells like hot dust and engine oil.

eunji is already slipping her sunglasses on, stepping lightly toward you.

you’re tightening the gear bag on the back of your atv, easy and quiet. eunji sits behind you like it’s second nature. your backpack bumps gently into her knee. she leans forward to say something near your ear and whatever it is—it makes you laugh.

sana watches that laugh.

miyeon watches her watching it.

then: “girl, you're jealous,” miyeon says flatly. “do you want me to swap?”

“i’m not—!” sana starts, then stops. “just—get in.”

miyeon grins, climbing on like it’s her birthday.

keoni throws his arm around one of the cameramen. “you better hold the camera steady..”

sana shifts slightly, adjusting the strap of her vest. she’s watching the way how you lean a little, how comfortable you look with her.

then, like it sneaks up on her:

“…shouldn’t they ride with the cameraman?”

it’s soft. too soft for the question to make sense, really.

keoni frowns. “why?”

“aren’t they the better driver?”

miyeon squints at her. “uhhh… why do you care so much all of a sudden?”

sana blinks fast. “i don’t.”

keoni shrugs. “they’re always the better driver. but eunji calls shotgun.”

sana looks away, pretending to adjust her strap.

miyeon leans into her side.

“someone’s jealous,” she sings quietly.

“shut up,” sana whispers, cheeks warm.

miyeon grins wide. “don't worry i'll try my best to hear what they're talking about!"

sana only looked back with a frown trying to make sense when miyeon was further away than her.

and then the engines start, one after another. the grove fills with sound, dust kicking, laughter overlapping, the hum of sun and wheels and things unsaid.

you don’t look back as the atv peels forward.

but sana looks forward at you.

and for a moment, it feels like she missed something that used to be hers, even if it never really was.

the beach greets you with its quiet curve of white sand, hemmed in by palms and black rock. no signs, no tourists—just the hush of waves and a wide blue that feels untouched.

you pull the atv to a slow stop at the edge, tires crunching lightly over shell bits and drift.

behind you, eunji swings off without a word. the sun hits her hair and shoulders like it’s warming up just for her.

“still can’t believe this place,” she says, shielding her eyes. “it’s like a movie set.”

you nod. toss the keys to your palm, slide your black backpack off one shoulder and keep it close.

eunji adjusts her sunglasses and starts toward the trees. you follow a few steps behind, half listening to the sea—until, loud and fast—

“YAAHHHHHH—” “sana ya we’re literally gonna die—”

a second atv swerves into view, kicking sand as it jolts to a stop just a few feet from yours.

sana is at the wheel—white tie-strap beach top, loose blue pants, hair already tangled from the ride. miyeon’s behind her, windblown and yelling, one hand still holding her phone up, clearly filming the chaos.

except....

now she’s wearing a green baseball cap (idk what kinda cap it is sorry.), the brim low and lopsided over her brow. and a pale blue long-sleeve thrown over her top, sleeves pushed up to her elbows like she borrowed it in a hurry.

you blink. she hadn’t had that on earlier.

your first thought is that someone from staff gave it to her. the sun’s stronger now, and she’d been squinting earlier, rubbing at her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

it makes sense.

still… you wonder if she asked. or if someone just noticed. offered before she had to.

you wonder if she would’ve asked you.

and then immediately hate that thought—because what would you have given her? your tank top?

you glance down. white cotton. thin, barely enough for yourself, let alone her. now your shoulders are out, your neck already warm, and you frown.

stupid. why didn’t you bring a hoodie or something?

why didn’t you even think—

sana beams, squinting. “we made it!!”

miyeon coughs dramatically. “barely.”

you’re already stepping forward, one hand steadying the atv.

sana swings her leg off and stumbles slightly, laughing. her eyes meet yours for just a second—and you offer your hand. she takes it without thinking, and you help her down. a little dust clings to her shoulder, and you glance away.

“was i that scary?” sana asks, brushing sand off her wrist.

“you were focused,” you say.

miyeon hops off next. “she was possessed,” she mutters. “she didn’t blink for three whole minutes. i checked.”

sana frowns. “yah. you were screaming into my ear the whole time.”

“i was saying your name in prayer.”

staff start laughing behind them finally arriving. one of the managers lifts a camera, catching the girls mid-bicker.

“let’s take photos before miyeon sweats off her foundation,” someone calls out.

“TOO LATE,” miyeon yells back, fixing her hair.

sana looks around. “wait… this place is way too pretty. i need to mark our territory.”

she digs a stick out from the sand, starts writing their names in huge curved strokes: sana ♥ miyeon. then reaches into her bag, pulls out a flag printout of a selfie—the two of them in bear headbands, cheeks puffed—and plants it in the sand like a little flag.

“perfect.”

it lasted for 20 seconds.

a wave creeps in, silent and sharp—and then rolls straight over it.

“NOOOO—!!” “sana do something!!”

the names dissolve. the flag topples.

you’re already walking toward it, knee-deep in saltwater in seconds. you crouch without a word, lift the soggy print gently, and hand it off as you walk back.

sana accepts it with both hands.

“…you saved it,” she says quietly, blinking down at the wrinkled photo.

you glance down. then back up. “…i mean. i tried.”

she reaches out like she’s being careful not to scare it. takes it from you with both hands. the photo is soggy. the ink’s a little smeared. one corner is folded.

“…still cute,” she says.

you rub the back of your neck. “it’s limited edition now.”

miyeon pouts. “the beach is jealous of our love.”

keoni steps in finally, waving the group into motion. “alright, girls, let’s go. hours to film a reel. and then we can like go shopping for souvenirs” his tone knowing at how influencers are so predictable

sana turns, still cradling the picture. “we’re taking some together, right?”

miyeon perks up. “of course. we need cute poses. maybe one where i pretend to propose.”

“again?” sana laughs.

“yah. it’s tradition.”

they start toward the rocks, still bickering, still smiling.

you follow at a slower pace—off-cam, quiet, steady.

and when sana glances back once, half over her shoulder, like she’s checking something she didn’t mean to leave behind—

you’re already looking at her.

while someone looks at the both of you.

the sky is soft and orange, like someone brushed it gently with gold and peach. the kind of light that makes everything feel like it matters a little more than it should. palm trees lean gently over the patio. somewhere below, the ocean taps against the rocks like it’s trying to get someone’s attention.

they’d just finished shopping—bags half-full, miyeon dragging her feet and whining about not buying enough of those tanned friends—and now everyone’s gathered at the long dinner table for one last shoot. the cameras are rolling. the mics are clipped. this is the final scene.

the ache is there.

you sit behind the camera setups, off to the side, your black backpack’s looped over one shoulder like always, like something unfinished. you haven't touched a plate. you just focus the frame.

you don’t eat.

you just watch the light fade.

and maybe that’s why you don’t realize you’re moving until you’re already pulling eunji aside—out of frame, around the corner of the beach patio where it’s quiet enough to hear the waves.

behind you, sana’s eyes flick up for a moment — casual. automatic.

she sees you turn the corner with eunji. she doesn’t look away.

“so, sana-ssi,” miyeon says into her mic, “what are you gonna miss the most about hawaii?”

sana hesitates.

her gaze lingers a beat too long at the edge of the patio.

off-camera.

eunji follows without question. “what’s up?” she asks softly.

you unzip your bag. the black one you’ve carried every day of the tour. from inside, you pull out a small tupperware—wrapped in cloth to keep the shape—and a smoothie bottle. it’s no longer cold. the condensation’s long gone. the ice melted hours ago.

“can you give this to her?” you ask, not looking up. “on the drive back. just say it’s from the crew if you want. i just—i don’t want to make it weird.”

eunji stares at the items. "oh.. kimbab?”

you nod. “and a strawberry smoothie.”

“there’s a note. inside the wrap. give it to her on the drive back. please.”

eunji smiles gently, hesitating on something before she then tucks the food into her own tote. “yeah. of course. i got it.”

you nod once. say nothing more.

and you don’t see the way sana looked up just then from her seat—eyes landing on you and eunji in the shadows. she blinks once. then turns back to miyeon.

on the patio, the camera’s still rolling.

“probably this view,” sana says suddenly, answering the earlier question. “or the shrimp.”

miyeon holds back a smile. “not the crew?”

“they’re part of the view,” sana jokes, looking straight ahead. but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

she doesn’t say what she wanted to say.

not with you just around the corner, not with something she won’t understand tightening in her chest.

she glances toward the ocean.

not you.

the shoot’s over.

it ends in a blur of bowing staff, camera bags thudding shut, thank-yous muffled by tired voices and the low crash of the ocean below. someone’s still scraping plates into a bin. someone else is laughing near the curb. the whole place feels like the backstage of a play that ended five minutes too soon.

you stand by the entryway, tucked between two rusted railings and a low stone planter blooming with yellow hibiscus. your weight shifts slow in your shoes, like the ground isn’t quite yours. your hands stay buried in your pockets. it’s not for warmth. it’s for restraint.

you hear her before you see her. not her voice — not yet — just the soft scuff of her sandals on the pavement. the sound of someone light on their feet, like she’s trying not to disturb the night.

then:

“there you are.”

you turn.

sana’s walking over, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes already finding yours like she’d been scanning the whole set for them. same soft top. strands of hair stuck to her cheek. her mouth is pinker than it was earlier — maybe from the sun, maybe from the drink miyeon forced her to finish.

and for a second, your heart is stupid enough to think she might run to you.

instead, she walks slowly. calm. unreadable.

“thought you left already,” you say.

“nope,” she replies, easy. “i was looking for you.”

your throat catches around nothing.

“me?”

“mm.” she glances away for a second — then back. “you kinda disappeared after wrap.”

“you noticed?”

she rolls her eyes. “you think i wouldn’t?”

“you were really good today,” you say quickly to avoid an awkward silence. “both of you.”

she blinks. “seriously?”

“yeah. miyeon too. you guys were— i dunno. like a good pair in a romcom..?”

“what if that's what we we're going for?”

“doubt it.”

she grins. a little bashful now.

then you add, “good luck, by the way. with the next comeback.”

“oh.” she tilts her head. “you remember what i said?”

“barely. and miyeon gave me a twice song quiz and uhh i failed...”

sana snorts. “which one did you miss?”

“all of them.”

“wow.”

“i’m a disgrace to my generation.”

she laughs again — and this time, she smooths a crease from your shirt, fingers brushing you so gently it feels like she’s saying goodbye without really saying it.

“hey,” she says. softer now. “thank you. really.”

her eyes flick to your mouth for half a second too long.

you don’t move.

“for what?”

“just… everything. for making this trip feel special. even when the cameras weren’t rolling.”

you swallow.

the words sit too neatly in your chest. they stack themselves like a house you start to believe in.

“same to you,” you say. “you made it easy.”

she glances at you again — not away from you, not past you — at you.

and in that moment, you believe it. you believe she means it.

you believe she’s holding something back, and maybe it’s only distance, maybe it’s only fear — but it’s not indifference.

“i’ll miss you,” she murmurs.

you freeze.

you want to ask if she means it. you want to ask if she’ll text. if this was ever more than just a week of light flirting and pretty lies.

but you smile anyway. not big. just enough. “i’ll keep failing your quizzes from afar.”

“and i’ll be disappointed in you from korea,” she shoots back, but it’s gentle. fond.

she waves once. then again when she’s at the van. you raise your hand, but she’s already turned away.

the door shuts. miyeon says something loud. sana laughs. they drive off.

you wait. just long enough to be sure she’s not coming back. just long enough to be sure that was the end of it.

then you sling your bag over your shoulder. it feels too light, like something’s been taken out of it.

maybe it’s just the part of you that believed you’d get to say more.

you’re halfway to the curb when someone shouts behind you.

“excuse me!”

you turn.

he jogs up, holding a small cloth-wrapped tupperware and a tumbler bottle, slightly fogged over but clearly warm now.

“this was left at the table,” the waiter says. “one of the guests forgot it?”

you stare.

for a second, you don’t move.

you don’t even need to open it.

you know.

the weight of it. the shape. the faint sweet smell leaking through the folds.

then slowly—slowly—you take it. unwrap it. see the handwriting you recognize. your own.

please eat well. you told me you miss this type of food. remember to tell me about your comeback. with all the love i can't say, your guide.

you stare at it.

the kimbab. the smoothie. the whole thing.

your hand curls tighter around the cloth. you feel the glass bottle shift inside. the smoothie’s warm now.

untouched.

you swallow. the ocean sounds louder all of a sudden.

your chest hollows out.

you stare at it for a long time.

not because you don’t understand —

but because you do.

you don’t even think of eunji. she wouldn’t forget something like this, right? not something made with care. not something that mattered to someone else that isn't her.

but sana—

she didn’t forget.

she chose not to bring it.

you rolled the kimbap in silence at 12am, hands shaky from too little sleep. blended the smoothie twice because the first one didn’t taste like you remembered her describing in one of those tv shows she was in. added an extra note. rewrote it when it felt too much.

you imagined her holding it on the ride to the airport. sipping it on the plane. maybe thinking of you, just a little.

you imagined it meant something.

but it didn’t.

not enough. not to her.

and then, without thinking, you turn and walk—past the entrance, down the small stone path that leads to the trash bins. you lift the lid. and drop the whole bundle in.

no hesitation.

just silence.

you let the lid fall.

and walk away with nothing but silence.

not even the lie that she cared.

two weeks.

that’s how long it’s been since hawaii.

since the wind tasted like salt and sunscreen, since your laugh still echoed when she closed her eyes. since miyeon dragged her half-asleep through customs, arms full of souvenirs they didn’t need but bought anyway, because it reminded her of you — stupid stuff, like the peach keyring you touched once at a market stall, the tiny charm shaped like a surfboard.

since sana sat by the plane window for six silent hours, headphones in but music off, the screen in front of her playing some romcom she didn’t watch. just static. just motion. just the city shrinking behind clouds, and the empty weight of a phone that hadn’t buzzed once.

you didn’t text.

and maybe she should’ve known then.

maybe she should’ve let go the moment the message bubble stayed empty. maybe she shouldn’t have memorized the time difference, shouldn’t have set silent alarms for 2:17 a.m., just in case you replied while she was sleeping — as if knowing the exact minute you might’ve sent something could stop her from missing it.

but she couldn’t help it. she was still waiting.

she took more photos than usual. not for instagram. not for the fancafe. just dumb little things — her coffee order, the new hoodie she thought you’d like, the earrings miyeon said made her look “way too pretty to be single.”

she saved them all.

none of them ever got sent.

it’s late now. practice ran long. her hoodie’s damp at the collar, some strands falling loose.

but her fingers are restless.

so she goes live.

the car is dark. quiet. the windows blur with streetlights, smearing gold across her cheekbones, and the screen lights her face just enough to catch the pink gloss still clinging to her bottom lip. her voice is a little hoarse, like it’s been tucked away too long.

“hi~” she says, drawing it out, soft and breathy. “did you miss me?”

hearts explode. comments fire in from all corners of the world.

she laughs, ducking her head, rubbing at her eye with the back of her wrist. “i look like a mess today, huh? no filters. bare face. very exclusive.”

“you look beautiful no matter what!!” someone writes.

she gasps, presses a hand to her heart. “don’t lie to me like this! not when i’m already so weak.”

fans fill the chat with crying emojis and heart showers.

“we had practice all day today,” she says, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. “comeback soon, right? do you guys wanna know the concept?”

they scream in the comments. she hums thoughtfully, as if considering.

“hmm~ what if i give you a hint? just a little one,” she says, holding her fingers close together. “okay. one word only. spicy.”

the chaos that follows makes her giggle for real. someone spams pepper emojis. someone else types “IS IT A DANCE SONG IS IT SEDUCTIVE??”

“yah! it’s a secret!” she scolds, then immediately leans closer to whisper, “...yes.”

she leans back with a wink. the mood is light. good. silly in the way she knows how to be.

but her thumb keeps slipping.

to the viewer list. to the names she doesn’t mean to look for.

and then —

@brewing.beach joined.

her breath catches. only for a second. just long enough that something inside her forgets to move.

you’re here.

you’re watching.

your name — your screenname — floats at the top of the list like a bruise she doesn’t want to press, but can’t stop touching.

she swallows. hard. finds her place in the conversation again.

“also,” she says quickly, “nayeon unnie tripped over her own shoe during cooldown. i wish i could show you, it was like… you know those baby deer videos?” she holds up both hands and wiggles them like flailing limbs. “legs everywhere.”

laughs fill the screen. someone tells her she should post the clip. another fan says you’re cuter than a deer though.

she smiles. lets it land somewhere softer. but the glow doesn’t stay long.

someone else asks about hawaii.

“miyeon said you had the idea for the vlog!! what was your favorite part?”

her breath sticks in her throat for a second too long.

but she makes her voice gentle. normal.

“filming was fun,” she says. “but… honestly, i was kind of out of it by the end.”

a beat. the comments fly too fast to catch.

“i think i got sunburned on like… just one ear?” she touches her earlobe. “very fashionable. very cool. right, once?”

they answer with chaos again. sunscreen jokes. marriage proposals. someone starts a fake petition called justice for sana’s ears.

she laughs, but it’s thinner now. quiet at the edges.

you’re still watching.

and still not saying anything.

you never did.

you didn’t say anything the day she left. not when she waved from the van. not when she said she’d miss you, even though her voice cracked on it. you didn’t reply to her message, didn’t text after the plane landed.

you didn’t even react to the gift.

she had made sure of it — she’d written her number on the back of a photocard, one she picked herself from a pack of outtakes. she wasn’t even looking at the camera in it, just smiling off to the side. the same way she always looked at you when she thought no one would notice.

she slipped it into the box. sealed it herself.

and asked eunji — sweet, harmless, helpful eunji — to give it to you while she was shooting with miyeon.

“just slide it to them when you say goodbye,” she whispered. “please?”

eunji smiled. said of course. said sure. said leave it to me.

but you never reached out.

and sana… believed you had gotten it.

for two weeks, she believed it.

in the back of this car, the memory hits her differently.

eunji's laugh too sharp.

her tone too playful.

how she never looked sana in the eye when she came back.

sana’s heart aches in the shape of something slow and sickening.

“anyway… i’m home now~” she says softly, even though the car is still moving. “i’ll rest. i’ll… i’ll message you guys next time, okay?”

lie.

the fans fill the chat with goodnights. hearts. we love you!!

she ends the live.

the silence after is unbearable.

her driver hums low under his breath. the city leans past the window in smears of yellow and gray. she watches her own reflection. the curve of her mouth. the shine of her eyes.

she unlocks her phone.

scrolls to your name.

still empty.

still no finally got your number.

still no thank you.

no i miss you.

she opens the messages anyway. stares at the blank thread. waits for it to become something else.

but it doesn’t.

it stays quiet.

the same way you did.

her eyes burn first.

but she doesn’t blink. not yet. just breathes.

once. twice.

then —

quietly. gently.

like it doesn’t even belong to her — like the heartache is someone else’s, and she’s just borrowing it for a while — the tears start to fall.

one slips past her cheek. then another. then they don’t stop.

they hit the fabric of her hoodie without a sound. soak into the sleeves she tugs up to her mouth. the kind of crying you do when you're trying not to. the kind that hurts more because no one sees it but you.

she curls tighter in the seat. presses her phone to her chest. wishes she never wrote her number. wishes she didn’t check. wishes she knew how to stop hoping.

the city moves on.

and sana stays behind, muffling her sobs into the hoodie she wore for you.

forgotten.

kino's note — took 2 weeks for this ahh writing.. i miss my beautiful girl so i thought to break my heart with this :D idk abt a part 2 but ill try my best.

[dollyswishingwell]

Lately, I've been actively coming across your work and I have a request that I've wanted to implement for a long time. What if the guys from lad's met a rich girl, how would it affect their relationships in everyday life and in dating? I would be grateful if you accept this request!

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Rich girl

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, i always imagined that the reader from my housewife series was rich before marrying them anyways. like born rich. that way her attitude makes sense.

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ The boys with a rich reader

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

- Rafayel is smug about it. He always knew his pretty girl had expensive taste. He thinks it’s hot. “Of course my baby grew up in a palace. How else would she know how to sit on my lap like that?”

- He loves that you’re spoiled, it means he doesn’t have to explain a damn thing. He shows you a new marble-tiled gallery and you’re already picking out crown molding and chandelier crystals. You get it.

- On a dark note: he does have a twisted little obsession with becoming the only one who spoils you. Even if you have your own bank accounts, he wants you to depend on him emotionally and indulgently.

- He’ll outspend your past. “Your dad bought you a pony? Cute. I bought you an island for your birthday. Wanna name the volcano after yourself?”

- You two get in the dumbest fights about luxury. “You drew on the Hermes bag again??” / “It’s art, baby. You wouldn’t understand.”

- In dating, he loved that you had high standards because it made winning you over so much more satisfying. “You didn’t even look at other men. They couldn’t even afford your perfume.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

- Zayne never flinched at your wealth. If anything, it made him more determined to match your standards. He refused to be outdone, no matter how much money you had, he was going to be the one pampering you, not the other way around.

- He loves that you were used to the finer things, it gives him a high standard to meet. Private villa vacations? Designer heels flown in overnight? Good. He’s proud he can meet your tastes.

- Early in dating, he took quiet mental notes of every luxury you were used to, every brand you wore, every little spa ritual you indulged in. He made sure when you moved in with him, nothing felt like a downgrade.

- He’s a little possessive when it comes to spending. If you ever try to use your own card, he gets lowkey annoyed. “Put it away. I told you, I’m your husband. Let me handle it.”

- Lowkey lives for when you ask him for things. Even though you could buy it yourself, the fact that you ask him makes his protective, provider side purr.

- And when you’re being a brat about something money-related (“My stylist said he’s not free tomorrow, can you call the hospital and tell them I’m depressed?”)… he just sighs and cancels surgery like, “Fine. Let’s go shopping. I’ll book you a new stylist myself.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

- Xavier secretly adored that you were already spoiled, it made him feel like you were his little treasure from the start. He saw you shining before anyone else.

- Even if he’s not loud about it, he made sure your new life with him felt like upgrading heaven. Bigger penthouse. Softer sheets. Rarer jewelry. You never had to lift a finger, and you never will.

- He’s very observant, remembers which luxury skincare brand you used before meeting him, then buys the entire line in bulk and stocks your bathroom without telling you.

- Dates with Xavier are never flashy. He books out entire aquariums, empty museums, hidden gardens for you. It’s intimate wealth. The kind of pampering that whispers, you’re the only person who exists right now.

- His only little jealousy? He doesn’t like hearing about how others used to spoil you. He’ll smile politely, but he’s dying inside like: That man gave her a yacht? Should I launch a galaxy in her name instead?

- In private, he lets you cuddle into his lap and show him whatever expensive thing you’re browsing. “Do you want it?” he mumbles, eyes half-closed. “I’ll buy it for you… just don’t stop touching me.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

- Sylus never blinked twice at your wealth. To him, it just meant you were born for him. “My queen should never settle for less.”

- He’s probably richer anyway, but he loved how bratty and untouchable you were when he met you. He made it his personal goal to tame the princess.

- Dating you was a game of power, he didn’t just want your body or attention. He wanted to own the pedestal you stood on. And then raise it.

- “Your family bought you a cruise line? I just had five of their board members fired. Check your stocks, sweetheart.”

- You two fight over ridiculous luxury things. “Sylus, I told you I don’t like that designer anymore, he made me look short!!” / “Then I’ll buy the brand and fire him. Don’t cry.”

- He encourages you to stay bratty. Stay spoiled. Throw tantrums if something isn’t up to standard. It makes him laugh, and it makes him even more obsessed with keeping you in your glass castle.

- He only gets mad if you ever try to act like you don’t need him. “Use your own card again and I’ll burn the damn boutique. Let me spoil you.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

- Caleb was pissed the first time he realized how rich your upbringing was. He wasn’t jealous, but he hated the thought of anyone else ever having taken care of you. Ever.

- He’s controlling in the sweetest way. “You were spoiled before? Good. It means you already know how to act when I put your heels on for you.”

- Early in dating, he tried to act cool about your lifestyle, but secretly stalked every gala, every yacht party you attended before him. Not to punish you, just to learn how to top it all.

- Your relationship now? He’s gentler, but he still locks you in that penthouse and fills your world with everything luxurious so you’ll never, ever crave the outside again.

- He’s a little pouty if you ever compare his spoiling to your old life. “Your last villa had a koi pond? Fine. I’ll build a damn aquarium in the living room.”

- But he’s also nostalgic. He remembers when you were just that pretty, rich little girl who always came back to him with bright eyes and shopping bags. And now you’re his. He won’t let the world take you back.

- “Doesn’t matter who spoiled you before, pipsqueak. You’re mine now. I know what you like better than anyone.”

[swetblom]

hii can u make doll reader x dexter

didn’t really have anything set in mind right now soo i just decided on canons!

᧔•᧓

⊹. DOLL READER thinks he’s shy — quiet and thoughtful with that crooked little smile she adores. he thinks she’s unreal — a walking bubblegum fantasy who floats through his darkness without even noticing it.

⊹. DOLL! READER who holds his hand with both of hers, swinging them as they walk, talking about the way the clouds looked like marshmallows this morning. dexter listens, hums sometimes, and she thinks that means he’s really engaged. but he’s trying to figure her out. how someone so open, so soft, hasn’t been broken by the world yet.

⊹. DOLL! READER who takes pictures of their shoes side by side and captions it “me n my mysterious cutie <3”.

⊹. DOLL! READER thinks his silence is sweet. he thinks her voice could drown out every dark thought he’s ever had.

⊹. DOLL! READER who shows up at miami metro with an iced coffee in each hand — one with extra whipped cream and vanilla drizzle, and one just black, no sugar, because “you like your coffee like your shirts, baby. boring.” and she giggles like it’s the funniest thing ever.

⊹. DOLL! READER lounges across his couch in short shorts and tank, her phone full of photos of him looking away or blinking — the only pictures he’ll allow. she drapes her legs over his lap and hums, “you’d look sooo cute in pastels, y’know. like lavender or baby blue.”

DEXTER, who’s elbow-deep in blood reports and ritual crime scenes, just glances at her and says, “you’d look cuter in anything.” she gasps. “you’re getting soooo good at compliments! I’m a good influence.” and she is. without trying.

⊹. DOLL! READER who thinks it’s adorable when he zones out, not realizing he’s mentally cataloguing dismemberment patterns. she taps his nose and says, “hellooo? earth to dexter,” and he snaps back to her like she’s the only real thing in the room. and maybe she is. maybe she’s the only thing keeping him grounded in the present, in normalcy, in something that feels close to good.

⊹. DOLL! READER traces his knuckles with her glossy fingertips and says, “you’ve got the hands of someone who builds things.” he doesn’t. but he doesn’t tell her that. he lets her believe it. lets her create a world where he’s a little shy, a little awkward, a little hers (he’s a lot hers)

⊹. DOLL! READER gets defensive fast if someone talks about dexter like he’s odd. “he’s just quiet!” she chirps, wide-eyed and sunny. “quiet boys are hot, actually.” (someone mutters, “that guy gives me the creeps,” and she just goes, “well, i think he’s sweet and he always opens doors for me, sooo.”)

⊹. DOLL! READER always brings up dexter in comparisons. “that guy was so rude—dexter would never.” “ugh, this weather makes me miss dexter’s car. it always smells like clean laundry.” “they didn’t even double-check the file—dexter would’ve.” he’s her gold standard and she says it with her whole chest, every time.

⊹. DEXTER doesn’t touch people. but she touches him constantly and he lets her. an arm looped through his. a kiss on his cheek. a soft pat to his chest when he makes her laugh. even uses him like a wall. resting her chin on his shoulder when she’s sleepy. she acts like he’s her built-in shelter, and weirdly… he kind of is.

[jukey]

yandere! ness headcanons

⸻

“he doesn’t get jealous—he gets surgical.”

ness doesn’t rage. he doesn’t explode. he plots. he watches the way your friend lingers near you, how that stranger makes you laugh a little too loud. and instead of confronting you, he starts to twist things behind the scenes.

rumors you’ll never trace back.

moments that quietly isolate you, one by one.

he’s cleaning your world out for your own good, of course. if you’re left with no one else, then you’ll finally see what he’s known all along: he’s the only one who truly belongs in your life.

“he makes you doubt yourself softly.”

it’s the way he says your name when you talk about leaving.

like it wounds him.

like he’s been betrayed.

“after everything we’ve been through?” he murmurs, even if you remember things differently.

he never raises his voice. he doesn’t need to.

his words settle into your brain like fog, thick and slow.

“wasn’t it you who came to me first?”

(you didn’t.)

“you said you’d never leave me.”

(you didn’t.)

but the way he looks at you—so trusting, so hurt—you start to wonder if maybe you did say those things.

if maybe this is all your fault.

“he talks about you like a religion (and worship isn’t always holy).”

to ness, you aren’t just someone he loves.

you’re sacred. you’re ritual.

he says your name under his breath like prayer—quiet and trembling, whispered into the dark when he’s alone in bed, breath shaky, hand slow.

every thought of you is punishment. every release, a sacrifice. he keeps his eyes closed and pictures you exactly the way you were that day—lips parted, head tilted, a laugh you didn’t mean to give him.

he doesn’t need your touch.

not yet.

just the image of you. the ghost of your voice.

he doesn’t imagine you loving him back.

that’s not the point.

worship doesn’t ask for permission. it only asks for devotion.

“he lets you leave—but he knows you’ll come back.”

sometimes he vanishes. no calls. no messages.

and for a moment, you think maybe it’s over. that he’s finally gone.

but he wants you to think that. he wants you to test what life is like without him.

he wants the silence to scare you.

because when it gets too quiet, too cold—he’s still there.

waiting.

and he welcomes you back like nothing ever happened.

you’re his. you always were. you just needed to remember.

“he clings without touching.”

there’s a presence to him. like a shadow you can’t shake. you say his name and he’s already behind you. you turn off your phone and he still finds a way through.

he doesn’t ask where you go anymore.

he just knows.

and when you finally ask how he’s always there, he just smiles.

“i pay attention,” he says.

you have no idea how easy you are to follow.

“he would rather ruin everything than lose you.”

you talk about leaving, and his smile doesn’t falter.

he tells you he understands.

and then your plans start unraveling.

your safety net frays.

things fall through in ways that are too convenient to be accidents.

you try to trace the source and all roads lead nowhere.

except him.

always him.

always smiling, arms open, voice soft:

“you don’t have to run. you never did.”

⸻

A/N: begone with all the cute stuff i DO NOT CARE ANYMORE i needed to get this out of the way

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: explicit sexual content, cowgirl, vaginal sex, light bondage, power dynamics, teasing/edging, sweating Kento out because that's what I love most, established relationship, MDNI!

WC: ~5.9K

Summary: What happens when you playfully suggest a new dynamic in the bedroom? Utter torment for Nanami, of course. What else is new?

a/n: The writer's block has been absolutely atrocious, but I was able to break free of its clutches with this. Is it Sheriff Nanami? No. But it is smut that's been sitting in my mind so long that it gave me a fever. So...here ya go lol.

Ao3 | JJK Masterlist | Divider: @cafekitsune @strangergraphics | Part Two | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

The silk of his favorite tie is familiar to him—the way it slides through his fingers each morning when he gets ready for work, the weight of it loose around his neck as he shaves, the pop of black against gold in his reflection when he secures it beneath his collar. But it’s never quite felt like this—wrapped snugly around his wrists, rumpled and stretching with every pull of his hands, growing damp with sweat from his wrists as he watches you ride him within an inch of his life.

Nanami hisses, dark blonde eyebrows pitched deep in concentration as he gazes up at you. His usually immaculate hair is a mess, flaxen strands plastered to his forehead with sweat that trails down his neck like a lover’s caress, slipping beneath his shoulder blades to soak into the sheets of your shared bed.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grits out. He means to sound indignant, frustrated in light of what he’s gotten himself into, but his body tells a different story. His hips itch to cant upward, fingers clench like a madman for purchase into your skin, jaw clicking as he grinds his teeth against mounting pleasure.

You snort as if the very thought of conceding is laughable. The consistent jump of your hips stops, the action shooting a flare of want up his stomach. Your fingers flex on his chest, pressing further as you lift your hips up and up, exposing more of his wet cock to the cool air until just the tip remains encased in your heat. He yanks at the restraints before he can stop himself, a silent plea that makes you smile.

“Are you sure?” you tease, rotating your hips, and the feel of it makes his eyes cross. “If you’re not comfortable, Ken, we can stop.”

The thought of stopping makes his cock throb traitorously, even as his body feels flayed open, every nerve ending exposed and singing. He did agree to this, after all. 

It was meant as a joke. Just a random comment you made three mornings ago while fixing his tie like any other day. Like always, Nanami used those precious moments before departing for work to drink you in—his own private ritual of worship. The gentle sweep of your eyelashes as you focused on his Windsor knot, the way the morning light caught the rich undertones of your melanin-kissed skin, that unconscious purse of your lips that made him want to be late every morning. 

“You ever thought about letting me tie you up?”

The question struck him like a match against kindling. Nanami is not really the adventurous one in the bedroom—that’s your domain, and he follows willingly where you lead. But the thought of being at your mercy, of letting go of his ingrained control to watch you take whatever you want from him, had his ears ringing. It was something about the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes, the subtle dip of one side of your cheek as you bit down on it, the want radiating from you like heat from a flame…

When it comes to you, he will try anything once. 

A joke that became an agreement. An agreement turned into tonight—you in that devastating dress over dinner, his fingers leveling enough strength not to shatter the wine glass he drank frivolously from as he watched you toy with your necklace, knowing what was to come. An agreement turned into a frantic mess of hands undoing zippers and buttons, of smoothing along the soft planes of your inner thighs before his mouth feasted on the pearl in the center, of you giggling like a wanton feign as you wrapped his wrists and notched them to the bed frame. 

Just a joke. Just an agreement. Now, here he rests, on his back, on fire, and subtly regretting his choices because he’s a selfish man who wants all of you all the time. And Nanami, like the fool he is when it comes to you, truly thought he could bear it. 

“Focus, Ken.”

An absolute fool.

“I’m not uncomfortable. But you’re hardly playing fair.”

You never do. How could you? You’re divinity made flesh, mischief molded from clay—a goddess who delights in reducing him to prayers and pleas. He loves you, desperately so, and has long since accepted that his soul will forever chase the wonderful chaos you bring to his carefully ordered world. 

“What could you possibly mean?” you’re coquettish in your question, biting the corner of your lip in that way that makes his spine straighten. His eyes linger on that lip, remembering how it feels beneath his thumb, against his tongue, between his teeth.

“Darling—”

He doesn’t get far. Before the rest of his words can leave his mouth, you’re dropping back down onto him, enveloping his cock in a blistering heat so intense it borders on religious experience. Every nerve ending ignites at once, pleasure searing through him like a brand.

“No talking.”

And isn’t that funny? Because any words Nanami has disintegrated into a powdery mist seconds ago. So, of course, Nanami has no choice but to bite the inside of his cheek until he can taste coppery tang, pulling at his restraints for the nth time of the night and wishing in this very moment to be oblivious to the sounds of your wanton moans that echo in the air.

Nanami’s groan starts deep in his chest, reverberating through him like a growing monsoon as you lean forward, trailing your nose along his throat. Your scent—Shea butter and feminine heat—fills his lungs like incense, a temptation he can’t answer, a shrine he cannot appreciate despite every cell in his body screaming to touch.

“You agreed.”

“To the restraints, not torture.” He can hear the hitch in your breath, that light choke as you try to hold back a laugh. Your hips give another sensual twirl, and Nanami can hear the clench of his teeth. “I want—I need to touch you.”

“Come now, Kento,” you coo in his ear, sliding your tongue along his lobe before you bite down into the cartilage. He grunts, flinching back even as his cock twitches inside of you. “You married me remember? Surely you know my ways.”

“My love—” You twirl your hips again and again and again. Each swivel is representative of a slow churn of his rapidly loosening arousal. 

Nanami has always been spellbound by your beauty. From the moment his eyes open in the morning to the moment they close at night, you are all he knows. The curve of your smile makes his heart beat faster, the music of your laugh fills his stomach with butterflies. Without intention, you undo him.

Even now, bouncing on his cock like the vixen you are, you are ethereal. Your box braids sway with each movement, catching the artificial light as they brush across your shoulders that gleam with exertion. Sweat has transformed your baby hairs into delicate curls against your temples and hairline, giving you an almost feral beauty that makes his mouth run dry. 

That’s what makes it all the more painful for him. The way sweat slides down your brown skin, the pebble of perspiration along the curve of your stomach, the hypnotic sway of your breasts as you take what you want, it all beckons to him. His mouth waters like a starving man at a feast he’s forbidden to partake in. The base of his spine coils with an inexplicable pressure that blooms along his back. The tips of his fingers tingle from the loss of blood from the restraints and with the desire to touch you.

It’s not fair. 

It’s frustrating. Agonizing to the very depth of his soul how badly he wants to reach for you. He’s strong enough to snap these damn restraints—he could easily do it. The image floods his mind unbidden—how easy it would be to snap these ties, to flip you on your back and fuck you so hard you’re crying his name. He can almost feel it—the sharp sting of your nails (freshly done, he notices even in his delirium) scraping down his back as he drives into you without mercy, the way you’d arch beneath him, how your defiance would melt into pleas. His muscles coil with the phantom sensation, his ears echoing the ghost of your cries he could draw from you.

But you wanted this. You’ve asked for a slither of control he freely gives, and he refuses to see a shred of disappointment on your face because he was impatient. 

So he waits. Even though his skin is burning from the inside out. Even though his heart is beating so fast, it feels like his chest might cave in. He waits. His cock feels so tight that he’s almost feverish with worry if he can hold on much longer. The feel of your essence coating his thighs and balls, the sound of your moans, the sight of the column of your throat when you throw your head back.

It’s truly not fair.

“My love, please,” he can’t help but beg. He’s never against begging. Not when it comes to you. Not when it comes to unraveling the knot you easily twist inside of him. Already, he’s backtracking. He reaches up just a little, hoping you’ll grant him some part of you—the smell of your skin along his nose, the taste of your sweat on his tongue, anything.

“No.”

You leave no room for argument, pressing against his chest to force him back into submission. Frustration flares like a demon in his chest, curdling and dying instantly against the want that oozes from him. 

“Come on, Kento,” you chide, moaning breathlessly as you double your efforts. “Don’t you want to give me what I want?”

Of course, he does. But in moments like this, Nanami wishes he were a weaker man because you’re too wet, too hot, too soft, and tight around him. The silk-soft clutch of your body is turning his mind to static.

Just the thought of how you feel around him threatens to shatter his composure. Pleasure pools molten in his lower abdomen, every muscle tight as a bowstring as he fights his body’s betrayal. He hisses through bared teeth, digs his fingers into the silk encased around his wrists, and yanks until the bed frame groans. His control is quickly failing him, your moans a siren’s song in his head urging surrender. His body responds without question—feet seeking purchase on the mattress, thighs tensing as instinct fights restraint. It will only take a second for him to plant his feet and drive up into you until you’re seeing stars.

But you’re faster. You lean forward to slide your hands behind his neck, delicate fingers weaving through the sweaty strands of his hair before you pull tight, angling his head back so his neck is bared to you in willful submission. The sharp difference between your soft touch and the display of dominance makes his eyes roll back, swimming in the viscera of his brain as a broken sound escapes him, his resistance melting away. His heels slide back onto the bed, forgotten.

Your soft lips press at the juncture of his neck, your braids falling around you both like a curtain, the ends tickling his chest. The scent of your coconut hair oil mingles with the Shea from your skin, making his head spin. The feel of your smirk on his neck—victorious—makes his cock throb, a tight rubber band behind his belly button fraying on the edges, warning him that his time is running out. 

You move agonizingly slow with each roll of your hips, sending electricity up his spine, searing his skin everywhere you touch and aching where you don’t. His skin feels too tight, like his bones don’t fit, and the discomfort is as satisfying as it is jarring. He yanks, sweat beading at his temples, sliding down his neck, making everything feel slick and hot and maddening.

When you sit up, you trail your hands down the rigid lines of his straining muscles, admiring the jutting veins and sinew. You hum in appreciation, pupils blown black as you take him in. The small of Nanami’s back arches in just so, preening under your rapturous gaze because he hopes he’s doing well. Even like this—bound and helpless beneath you—his desire to be good wars with his desperation to touch. The praise in your eyes soothes even as it burns.

Look how still he stays for you. Look how good he’s being. 

Nanami’s thighs tremble with the effort not to thrust, not to take, not to claim. Each second stretches like the most painful torture as his mind fractures into desperation—just one thrust, one press of his tongue to your skin, one moment of control. Please. Please. The word burns behind his teeth, unspoken and curdling but screaming like a banshee in his blood. 

“Getting frustrated, Ken?” Your voice is honey-sweet poison, made breathier by your movements. He won’t rise to your taunts; he lacks the strength for it. So he basks in the attention you lavish with your eyes, your silent praise like invisible hands along his skin. Just as quickly, he closes his eyes tight. If he looks a moment longer, this night will have an unfortunate end for you both.

“Look at me.”

Your demand cuts through the haze of his desire, sharp and unyielding. He’s too slow to respond to you, and all too quickly, he feels your fingers dig slightly into his jaw, forcing his surrender as his eyes flutter open. His restlessness must show because there’s that wicked glint in your eyes, and you thrive on his misery, rewarding him with a kiss so quick and gentle that he’s chasing after your lips for more. You press your hands firmly to his chest, a clear command to be still. With no friction, it’s just blistering heat, his cock pulsing, a whimper dying in the back of his throat.

You shift, and Nanami’s ears register a faint click that he catches with his eyes. Your heels, oh, those clear heels, glimmer up at him as you plant your feet on the soft sheets. Delicate clear straps wrap around your ankles like ribbons on a gift he’s held all night and still not allowed to unwrap, the nude leather making your brown skin glow in the dim lamplight. 

The moment you put them on earlier in the evening, they haunted him—from the restaurant to the ride home, the way they made your legs look endless in that dress when you crossed them in the passenger seat. Now, they dig into the sheets on either side of his hips as you use them for leverage, the crystal clear stilettos catching the light like ice. The sheer difference of something so elegant being used in such a primal way makes his breath catch—much like yourself, refined on the outside but capable of reducing him to nothing but baseless need.

“Watch me,” you command. As if Nanami could look away if he tried. Damn you. “Watch how well I ride you while you can’t touch.”

He loathes how the new angle makes his vision swim at the edges, hates even more how each movement strips away another layer of his composure. Every bounce drives him deeper into insanity, making him strain harder against the ties that keep him from you.

“You poor thing,” you coo, the false sympathy in your voice making his upper lip curl, a growl simmering in the back of his throat. “You want to touch so badly, don’t you?”

God. He wants, he wants. He wants with an intensity that frightens him.

You’re a taunting vision above him, and he eyes the champagne-colored dress that’s now bunched carelessly at your waist. It was the perfect compliment for you, silken and caressing your body during dinner while he swallowed his bubbling desire with every generous gulp of red wine. A halter top dress fastened behind your neck that was quickly undone when you pushed him on the bed, your breasts spilling from their lustrous confines.

The hem is rumpled, kissing the tops of your curvy thighs and falling open with your new position so he can see everything between your legs. Dimpled skin that rises up and down, beckoning that he grip your hips and trace your curves with his tongue. 

The wet sound of skin on skin drowns out even his thundering heartbeat, and he can’t decide which is worse—watching you take your pleasure or being forced to listen to how perfectly you use his body for your own needs. That controls splinters, cracks, disintegrates, and flutters like ash in the wind. 

He’s never wished more in this moment for you to tire out, for your stamina to be next to nothing. But no. You knew exactly what you were doing when you fastened his tie three days ago. 

“You ever thought about letting me tie you up?”

Nanami, in his stupidity and endless love for you, saw what he wanted in your eyes. What he mistook for aimless curiosity, was actually calculated, unadulterated mischief. 

Of course, he would agree.

That’s why you punctuated your victory with this dress. That’s why you got your hair done yesterday. That’s why you wore these new heels and lathered your body in the Shea butter lotion he loves so much.

A level of strategy so calculated that Gojo Satoru himself would be envious of its perfection.

God, he loves you. Even as he silently begs whatever entity will listen to him to be free of this prison you’ve created, he loves you beyond reason.

“Poor Kento,” you purr, your words cracking through his spiraling thoughts like a whip. You lean back on one hand, the arch of your back pushes your breasts forward, and his mouth waters at the sight. Every cell in his body strains toward you, pressing beneath the surface of his skin and coagulating into a congealed mass.

But it’s the sight of you spreading your legs wider, of giving him a view of all of you, of your other hand sliding down your stomach that truly threatens to break him. Your fingers find your clit, and the wet sound of you touching yourself while he’s buried deep inside makes his vision blur. Those should be his fingers bringing you pleasure, his touch pushing you toward release. Instead, he can only watch, desperate and aching, as you chase your own pleasure.

“Look how wet I am,” you breathe, and his hips buck involuntarily at your words. He doesn’t even bother to feel shame at the glare you shoot his way for disobeying. “Don’t you wish these were your fingers? Making me feel good?”

“Don’t be cruel.” The ties might actually snap from how hard he’s pulling now, watching your fingers work in tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves, your cunt squeezing him like a vice. You’re getting close—he can tell from the way your thighs start to tremble, the way your breath shakes.

Your laugh in response sends searing heat down his spine—musical and breathless and utterly wicked, even though it makes his blood boil. The sound mingles with the wet noises of your fingers working between your legs, the sight and sound of you nearly driving him mad.

“I need—” he chokes on the words as you clench around him in reprimand, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I need to cum. Please.”

“No.” Your voice is firm despite your breathlessness, your fingers never stopping their circles against your clit. “Not until I’m done with you. Can you hold on? Can you be good for me, Ken?”

Good.

A word so simple to a weaker man, but absolute devastation to him. His cock throbs to the increased tempo of his pulse, the festering heat of pleasure pulls behind his belly button, the base of his spine coiling like a snake backed into a corner. His wrists burn from the careful strain of being at your mercy and not breaking free. He’s fighting, but he’s trying—fuck help him, he’s trying to be good for you. 

You purposefully clench around him, tight and hot and perfect, watching his face contort in pain. “Stop,” he growls, the sound raw and anguished in his throat.

Your answering giggle is like a knife to his chest, delighted by his desperation. “Make me,” you challenge, knowing full well he can’t. You do it again, squeezing around him as your fingers work faster. “What’s wrong, Ken? Too much?”

His growl turns into something close to a whimper as you torment him with another deliberate clench. And another, and another, and another. The ties creak ominously, his whole body trembling with the effort to hold back.

“You’re cruel,” he pants, but the accusation only makes you smile wider, your movements growing more erratic as you get closer to your peak.

Every bounce of your breasts, every flutter of your lashes, every rapturous moan—it’s all burning into his memory like an iron on his skin. His hands ache for the soft crease where your thighs meet, where your thick curves swell so perfectly beneath his thirsty gaze. The sheen of sweat between your breasts calls to his tongue, taunting him with memories of your salty taste. Everything within reach, yet forbidden.

Nanami licks his lips, his tongue catching the subtle tang of your fading arousal from earlier in the evening when his face was buried between your thighs. Saliva pools in his mouth with the phantom taste of you. His breath catches in the dry crevices of his throat, gargling on a guttural whimper as he catalogs you in your utter devastation.

The crystal clear heels, purchased on that rainy Saturday when you’d lingered at the store window with wanting eyes. The champagne silk dress now bunched carelessly at your waist, chosen by him because he loved how the fabric made you shiver when you ran your fingers against it at the store last week. Those delicate black lace panties, pushed to one side of your pussy and soaked through, that he’d selected with trembling fingers weeks ago, imagining the many times you’d left them on while he fucked you into the mattress.

The gold chain at your throat catches the light with each bounce of your body, dancing across your collarbones like encapsulated sunshine. He remembers fastening it there for the first time on your anniversary, his lips following the metal’s path. Your body is decorated in diamonds like stars—the studs in your ears, the tennis bracelet on your wrist, the anklet that glints at him from his restraints. But it’s the wedding ring that truly breaks him—that symbol of his eternal devotion joining two other fingers that now press against your clit as you climb higher.

His marks cover you like a map of worship—the jewelry he chose, the silk he bought, the lingerie he selected. Every adornment screams his claim, but his hands remain tied, denied by the very exquisite canvas he’s painted with such adoration.

He sees the faint vestiges of the finish line, that light at the end of the tunnel when your hips stutter in movement and your breathless pants fall into a surprised moan that makes you stop. Your head falls back again, exposing the delicious column of your throat. His gums itch, inner cheeks sweating with saliva with the primal urge to dig his teeth into your soft skin. Your body is normally decorated with little marks from him—bruises from his fingers on your hips and thighs, hickeys on the curve of your breasts, cum dripping from your cunt. But tonight, you’re a blemish-free beauty in appearance, devilish in motivation. 

“Untie me,” Nanami whispers, not bothering to coat the begging lilt in his tone. “Untie me, and I’ll give you everything you want, love.”

Your head rolls to the side with serpentine grace until your dangerous gaze meets his. You’re glaring without any heat, narrowing your eyes in that playful manner that is always preceded by making Nanami’s life blissfully miserable.

You lift your hips slowly, slowly, slowly, and his eyes fall on the inches of his thick cock that become more exposed to the elements. He takes the abundance of your slick coating him, the thin gossamer bands that lengthen from your joined bodies and snap as the distance grows, the subtle flutter of your walls that suffocate him. Then, without warning—you drop. The sudden rush of wet heat around him shoots electricity up his spine and along his molars that he grinds into dust. He moans harshly, deep, and tortured, shaking from his mouth like a staccato as he tilts his head into the pillow beneath him.

“So good,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, the words falling from your lips like a prayer. “So good for me, Ken. Always so good.”

The praise pierces something raw inside him. His cock throbs with each word, his fingers cramping white-knuckled around the ties as his body screams louder for release. Your movements grow erratic—hips stuttering and the careful teasing you brandished like a sword dissolving into pure need as your fingers frantically rub against your clit. He cranes his head forward just in time to watch you fall onto your knees, planting one hand on his shin while the other chases your orgasm with single-minded determination.

“Such a good boy,” you gasp, and the words feel like salvation against his skin and damnation all at once. “So good, so perfect, letting me take what I need—staying so still for me—such a good boy—”

He’s never heard those words from your lips before, never heard this particular praise, never heard you whisper in such a way that it sounds like you’re in disbelief by his submission. Something fundamental splinters inside him. The veneer that he’s precariously kept around himself all night fractures with each bounce of your hips. Every muscle in his body pulls taut as he watches you, your breathless chant of “good boy” pushing him dangerously close to his limit. 

Your pleasure crests like a tsunami. The bed protests beneath you both, a symphony of creaking wood and flesh on flesh as your hips slam down on him. Your voice rises, tight and pinched fuckfuckfuck's spilling from your lips like a mantra.

Even though he can practically taste his orgasm, his vision tunnels, focusing only on you. He takes in the violent brush of your box braids against your shoulders, the bunching of your stomach, the pebble of tears that gather at the corners of your eyes like the diamonds on your body. Your cunt grips him tighter, so impossibly tight, a velvet vice that threatens to rip his soul from his body.

And then you shatter. Your head snaps back; your jaw drops in shocked ecstasy as his name tears from your throat like a revelation. The sight of you coming undone above him, because of him, despite his restraints, worms itself into his memory. Your walls pulse around him, your fingers rapidly rubbing your clit to draw out your orgasm, milking his cock with an intensity that nearly destroys him. But he waits, trembling on the knife’s edge of his own release until you draw in one shaking breath. 

Then he snaps.

With a sharp crack, the ties give way, snapping from the bed posts but still dangling from his wrists. In one fluid motion, he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, gathering you in his arms with barely concealed strength. One hand tangles into the braids at the nape of your neck while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’ve had your fun, love. Now let me have mine,” he growls against your ear, pulling your lobe into his mouth and using the leverage of your body and feet planted on the ground to drive up into your oversensitive and still fluttering heat. 

The feeling of finally, finally being able to touch you after being denied so long makes his head spin. The feel of you along his fingertips is enough to make him spill inside of you prematurely. Instead, he pistons his hips upwards, sliding his tongue along the skin of your neck as his pants dry his saliva on your skin. He’s earned this—earned every whimper, every clench of your pussy, every broken sound you make. Now it’s his to swallow and take as he chases the burning in his lower back.

You’re completely undone from your orgasm, arms draped loosely around his neck, and barely able to hold yourself up as the painful pleasure of over-sensitivity wracks your body. The sound of you in his ear, the press of your cheek on his skin, and the wet feel of what has to be drool on his shoulder, only drives him faster.

Every thrust up makes you whimper, all exposed nerves, and helpless to do anything but take what he gives. The hand on your hip guides you down to meet each drive of his cock, the movement desperate and precise. Control—something he’s prided himself on his entire life—is slipping through his fingers like water with each pulse of your walls around him.

“Perfect,” he pants against your ear, feeling you shudder at his voice, at how it breaks with need. “So perfect for me. Taking me so well even after—” Words fail him, dissolving into a heady groan as pleasure hot like ecstasy builds in his core, a tide rising higher and higher with each thrust. The sight of you so thoroughly claimed, slurred renditions of yes, yes, please, Ken, please sliding into his ear only drives him faster.

“Always teasing me,” he growls, digging his fingers into your hip and punctuating his words with a particularly deep thrust that makes you whine. “You love—you loved it, didn’t you? Making me wait—making me watch?”

Your only response is another broken moan, your body pliant and trembling in his arms, your cunt hot and thrashing around him. He groans softly, kissing your neck once before he digs his teeth into your skin. You yelp from the feeling, clenching around him so tightly that he feels his orgasm creep like a shadow at the edges of his consciousness.

“I’ll have to get you back for this.”

His threat is undermined by the pure devotion in his voice, the way his hand gentles in your hair even as his hips maintain their relentless pace. 

As quickly as his ferocity comes, it fades. He has no more strength to whisper grievances in your ear, no more energy to enjoy your body before he walks to the finish line.

No. Now, he sprints.

That rubber band behind his belly button begins to fray, a thin sliver being held together. The pressure at the base of his spine balloons, pressing against his nerves to make them pulse in time with his thundering heartbeat. His world narrows to only sensation—the wet heat of you, the silk of your skin, the wet smack of his balls against your throbbing pussy, the pounding of his heart against his ribs. He can feel it at the base of his cock, tingling and tight, begging to be let loose and fill you up.

Right there, right there, so close he can taste it on his tongue. His teeth dig deeper into your neck, anchoring himself to you as if he might float away in the thick fog of pleasure. The bed screams, and the broken ties—now a symbol of his freedom—dance along his forearms. But just as he teeters on the precipice, just as he’s about to topple over the edge, you find your strength again. His fierce, untamable love presses fingers into his back, and your lips brush his ear with deliberate wickedness.

“Be a good boy,” you whisper, voice hoarse but triumphant, “and cum for me. Fill me up, baby.”

He’s learned nothing from your devious ways. Those words—though repeated through the night—strike like lightning to his core. Gone is his rhythm. Gone is his control. Nanami’s jaw slackens, a desperate sound caught in his throat as his hips stutter and fail. 

His orgasm punches him in the gut, a moan belting from his throat and mixing with sounds he didn’t know he could make. He crushes you against him as he finally breaks, vision whiting out at the edges, hips snapping erratically as he chases every last spark of pleasure you offer him.

Your name falls like reverent worship from his lips, deep moans sliding along your skin like honey as you hold him through it. He’s lightheaded from you—your breathing on his shoulder, the press of your skin against him, the feel of his cum and your slick sliding between his ass. He relaxes his hold on your hip, smoothing his touch over the crescents in your skin and massaging the muscle, feral need giving way to worshiping love.

Seconds pass, then minutes. His mind slowly pieces itself together, orienting himself to reality as pleasure oozes over his skin like molten lava.

His breath is still evening out when he feels you shaking against him. You’re giggling freely, and he can smell the mischief that leaks from your pores. You’re proud of yourself; like all times when you can make him blush and trip over his words, this is no exception. He pulls back to level you with a look that’s meant to be stern, but your laughter only grows, bright and unrepentant as you card your hands through his loose and sweaty hair. 

He takes the time to admire you, his beautiful wife. Your skin glows in the aftermath of your lovemaking, the subtle sheen of sweat on your neck and breasts beckoning his gaze. The curling baby hairs kiss the tops of your ears, the glint in your eyes shining with endless love. You kiss him softly, giggling against his lips before pulling away to litter kisses down his neck.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask sweetly, a smile evident in your voice as you trail your love along his collarbone.

His hand strokes up your spine, humming softly. “Never. Though you will pay for this, love.” The threat holds no real heat— how could it, when you’re curled against him so perfectly, when your laughter makes his heart feel so full in his chest that he aches?

“Is that so?” you purr, disbelieving but fully prepared for the punishment if and whenever it arises. “I don’t think you have it in you.”

He won’t rise to your taunts. No, Nanami will get you back, and the next time those tears gather in your eyes, it will be because he’s dangled you over the precipice for so long that you won’t remember your name.

But that’s plans for another day.

For now, he’s content to pinch your side in playful reproach and relish in the harmonious giggle you give him. Before he can react, you’re pressing him back into the mattress, claiming his lips in a deep kiss that tastes of the wine that you both had at dinner. He melts into it despite himself, arousal stoking to life as his cock, still nestled in your warmth, twitches inside of you, his hands sliding up your back as he forgives you without words.

Thanks for reading!!

[jossamology]

josssam headcanons. (part one)

josh constantly teasing sam, but there's always that soft, protective look in his eyes. like, sure, he throws out all the sarcastic comments and light-hearted jabs, but it's just to mask the fact he's been falling for her for way longer than he'd ever want to admit. humor's his shield, but the way he watches her—yeah, that says everything.

late-night drives to nowhere, windows down, music low, and josh's mind is racing faster than the car. every time he thinks about telling her how he really feels, the words just get stuck in his throat. he wants to say something—anything—but he always stays quiet, convincing himself she deserves better than the chaos in his head. so, instead, he just drives, stealing glances at her when he thinks she’s not looking, and keeps it all locked away.

sam brings josh coffee without even asking, knowing exactly how he likes it—way too strong. but she always sneaks in a little extra sugar, just for him. she has no idea how much it means to him that she notices the little things.

sharing headphones on rainy days, josh savoring the quiet moments, stealing glances at her. she looks so fragile, and all he can think about is how broken he is—how he’s too much of a mess to risk pulling her into his chaos.

josh uses his dark humor to calm sam after a nightmare, his jokes a shield for the fear he hides—that getting too close might ruin the one good, pure thing in his life.

josh lights a cigarette, smirking as he offers it to sam, knowing she’ll refuse. it’s their little routine, one of the few things that keeps him grounded when he feels like his mind is on the verge of unraveling.

arguments that end in soft apologies—josh running a hand through sam’s hair, guilt eating at him, because he’s hiding his feelings to protect her from the darkness he can’t escape.

sam pretends to be bad at things just so josh can give her tips, but secretly, she’s better than him. every time she smiles, he fights the urge to let her in, convinced she deserves better than the mess he is.

josh finds himself looking at sam’s journal when she’s not around—not to invade her privacy, but because he wants to understand her world. he craves that connection, even though he’s sure he’s too broken to ever fit into it.

josh and sam calling each other before bed—their nightly ritual. josh always feels like he can vent to her about minor issues, big problems, and everything in between. her voice is soothing, and it helps him calm his mind, allowing him to sleep easier. he confides in her about things he can’t tell anyone else, knowing she won’t judge him and that she’ll listen with a patient ear. sam never rushes him, always letting him say whatever’s on his mind, making him feel like he doesn’t have to carry his burdens alone.

[obiwanwhat]

I know someone has probably said this better but. There's really so much about Luke & Ahsoka interactions that can be explored. Because honestly they have every reason to resent each other?

Anakin was arguably much more of a father to Ahsoka than he ever was to Luke (even if he was more of an older brother figure to Ahsoka than an actual father figure). He trained her and built her lightsabers and had a dumb nickname for her and made dad jokes and like - everything Luke ever could have wanted out of his dad. She knew him when he was still Anakin Skywalker and not Darth Vader. She knew Padme!! Padme also was kind of her mom! Luke doesn't even know Padme's name until sometime post ROTJ - it's possible Ahsoka was the first person who could have told it to him.

Not only that, but she had the Jedi Order. She was trained by the Order at its peak, raised from infancy in the rituals and knowledge that Luke now must piece together from whispers from ghosts and whatever old texts he can scrounge up from the corners of the galaxy the Empire somehow missed. He is doing all of this on his own with no guidance, no oversight, meanwhile it's knowledge that came to her as easy as breathing.

And she walked away from all of it. Everything Luke has ever wanted - a relationship with his parents, proper Jedi training, the Jedi Order itself - she had without ever asking for it, and she walked away from it without a backward glance. And she's still walking away from it - she's not a Jedi, she won't claim that title, she won't join Luke's new Order. Maybe she shows up from time to time and tells him some stories and shares from knowledge, but she won't train him, and somewhere deep down he knows that he will never be as much of a Jedi as she is even though she doesn't claim that title anymore, and part of the reason because is she won't help him.

And for Ahsoka's part. Anakin returned from the Dark Side for Luke. He couldn't - or wouldn't - return for Ahsoka, who he trained, who knew him and loved him and would have died for him. He tried to kill her and would have if Ezra hadn't saved her. But this boy, who shares nothing with Anakin but a name and half his DNA - he was enough to bring Anakin back. She wasn't, not with everything they shared, not with all the times she'd almost died for him, and he'd saved her, and she'd saved him. How do you not kind of hate someone for that?

And besides, he's trying to bring back the Jedi Order. The Order that cast her aside as soon as it was convenient for them, the Order that allowed Anakin Skywalker to become what he did and was too blind to see a Sith Lord under their noses and that died for those mistakes. And sure, he's trying to do it differently, he's trying to do it better, but what does this boy know of better? What can he know of the sins of the Jedi Order? When he speaks of the Order with stars in his eyes, what can he know of the pain that she suffered? That so many suffered? How can he correct what he doesn't understand?

I just think it would be cool to see more of that explored in canon.

[drewsstars]

rafe cameron x reader — class reunion

chaos.

that’s really the only word that ever fit when it came to your high school years. not drama, not rivalry, not even hate, just chaos.

you and Rafe Cameron were like oil and water, if oil and water could talk shit and throw side eyes across the hallway. you weren’t enemies, not officially. but god, the tension was loud. the kind of loud that made people pick sides without realizing they’d picked. teachers, classmates, the random freshman who just wanted to survive algebra, they all felt it. a prank here, a rumor there, a glare that could slice through glass. it was stupid, immature, and if you were honest (which you’re not), a little intoxicating.

but that was twelve years ago.

you’re not that version of yourself anymore. not even close. now, you walk into the same gymnasium where you once failed PE on purpose, only this time, you’re wearing heels that cost more than your entire prom outfit and clothes tailored within an inch of its life. your name tag says your full name, not a nickname. people read it and nod like it means something.

it does.

the school looks smaller than you remember. the lighting’s too bright. the music’s trying too hard. old banners still hang like ghosts from the ceiling beams, and the punch still tastes like a dare. you tell a few stories, make people laugh, but the air starts to press in after a while, too many faces you almost remember. so you excuse yourself, say you need some air.

you slip out the side door like you’ve done a hundred times before. outside, you light a cigarette. it’s not a habit anymore, just a ritual. you exhale smoke

and then you hear it.

and for a second, just a second, you forget you're welcome. because there he is.

Rafe Cameron

he steps out his car like time never touched him, like this is still his kingdom. same smirk, same eyes, same everything, except maybe a little more grown, more weathered, but still so him it almost hurts.

he sees you, and that smirk deepens, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. you roll your eyes, muscle memory, but you're smiling. Jesus, you're actually smiling.

"You've got to be kidding me," you mutter, smoke curling past your lips. he starts walking towards you.

"So… no hug?" he asks, voice smooth you exhale, letting the smoke blur the space between you.

"missed me that much, Cameron?." he doesn’t answer right away. he just looks at the cigarette between your fingers and smirks.

“you still smoke those cheap menthols?” he asks, voice just above a whisper, like the night isn’t ready for full volume yet.

you glance at the cigarette, lips twitching. “only on special occasions,” you say, blowing out smoke in a slow, practiced drag. “like regretting a high school reunion.”

he grins, slow and easy, like he’s remembering exactly who you were “i’m the regret?”

“always have been,” you reply, not even looking at him. but your voice is soft, no venom, no teeth.

he laughs under his breath, low and genuine. then he shifts, leaning fully against the brick. for a moment, nothing moves. no cars, no wind, not even you. just the sound of faraway bass and the soft hiss of your cigarette burning down.

“i didn’t think you’d come,” he says eventually, still not looking at you. “thought you’d be too busy running the world or whatever it is you do now.”

You raise an eyebrow, turning toward him “you know what i do?”

he shrugs, gaze still fixed somewhere out in the dark. “people talk.”

you take another drag. “and what do they say?”

This time, his eyes find yours. “that you got smart, got richer.”

you laugh. short, sharp, like it caught you off guard. “damn. they make it sound cleaner than it was.”

“isn’t it always?” he replies, a quiet kind of knowing in his voice that didn’t used to be there. you watch him for a beat, letting silence settle back in.

“what about you?” you ask, flicking ash to the cracked pavement. “last i heard, you were still trying to win fights that don’t exist.”

he doesn’t flinch, just smiles that crooked smile again. “yeah. took me a while to realize i was the only one throwing punches.”

“so what now?” you ask. “you sell houses?”

“and fix ‘em,” he says. “keeps my hands busy.” you snort. “never thought i’d hear rafe cameron talk about drywall.”

“never thought i’d hear you not insult me in the first five minutes.”

“give it time,” you mutter, flicking the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under your heel. he laughs again, quiet and real. and god, it’s stupid how familiar that laugh still feels.

“you look good, by the way,” he says.

you roll your eyes, automatic, but the warmth spreads anyway. “don’t start.”

“i’m serious,” he says, softer now. “better than back then.”

“well, yeah,” you say, brushing nonexistent dust off your clothes. “back then, i was too busy trying to one up you.”

“same,” he admits. “honestly? it was kinda fun.”

you glance at him, brow raised. “kinda?”

he smiles, shrugs.

[ginnysgraffiti]

Patrick with a yn during the period is crazy

uhhh this is a tricky one!!

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

the first time you mention you’re on your period, he freezes — not out of disgust, but out of calculation.

his expression doesn’t change. no visible recoil. but behind the stillness, you can feel something mechanical shifting, like he’s rearranging data.

period…she has period.

his relationship with bodily functions — especially other people’s — is complicated. he compartmentalizes. categorizes. if it can’t be toned, trained, or numbed with an imported cleanser, it unnerves him.

but then there’s you.

and if it’s you, it must be manageable.

he nods once, crisp and short, like you’ve given him a new variable to solve for.

within hours, his medicine cabinet suddenly contains an array of tampons, pads, painkillers, supplements, and two different kinds of heating pads — one disposable, one ergonomic and bluetooth-powered.

you didn’t even ask.

he watches you like he’s studying symptoms, not behavior.

the shift in your mood. the way you curl tighter into the couch. the tone in your voice when you’re short with him.

to someone else, it might register as empathy, but to patrick, it’s about control through observation.

he doesn’t like things he can’t fix.

and if pain is something you just endure, he feels equal parts offended and fascinated by the biology of it — and deeply, deeply irritated that it’s something you have to go through without any useful solution.

he’ll murmur things like, “you’re not drinking enough water today.” or “you haven’t moved in three hours, that’s not going to help your circulation.”

not out of care, but compulsion. still — it’s care in the only way he knows how.

in private, he treats it like something sacred.

there’s something primitive in the idea that your body bleeds and survives. it unearths something strange and reverent in him.

he doesn’t like the mess — of course he doesn’t — but if he ever walks in on you changing, or resting with a faint stain on your pajama shorts, he doesn’t comment.

his jaw tightens. but not from revulsion. from restraint.

like it sparks something territorial and ceremonial in him.

“this is a cycle,” he tells himself. “a natural, necessary process. come on patrick, you know what period is.”

he’ll pour you tea like it’s a ritual. bring you ice cream and painkillers, place them silently on the nightstand, and sit beside you with a book he won’t really read.

he becomes possessive in strange, quiet ways.

when you’re curled up, aching and exhausted, you’re more pliant — softer in your movement, slower in your responses.

patrick notices.

he doesn’t exploit it, but he leans into it.

he’ll slip into bed behind you without being asked.

rest a hand on your lower stomach, palm flat, and press the heat of his body against your spine.

you’ll ask if he minds. he’ll say, “of course not. your stomach needs to be kept warm.”

and it’s the rare moment he means it — not for show, not for sex, not for power.

just to be there and be the comfort you’re looking for.

he would most likely fall asleep with his big veiny hand tracing shooting circles on your belly to make sure it’s warm enough.

and yes — he still wants you. weird, right?

he’s vain enough to find the hormonal flush on your cheeks attractive.

and though he won’t say it outright, he’s…curious.

about what it would feel like to be close to you like that when you’re most vulnerable, and your body’s more reactive, more sensitive.

he’ll test boundaries.

“you’re sure it hurts too much?” he’ll murmur one night, voice low in the dark. “you just looked like you needed a distraction.”

if you say no, he won’t press.

if you say yes — even tentatively — he’ll be careful. unnervingly so.

he’ll still want control, but in a way that prioritizes your comfort first.

because this version of you — flushed, tired, trusting — is something sacred to him.

and he treats it accordingly.

how patrick reacts to not being able to have sex — at first, he sees it as a personal offense.

not in a cruel or loud way — but in the exact, cold manner of someone who’s so entitled to you, so used to receiving what he wants, that denial feels like insult.

he’ll retreat into silence for a beat. maybe two.

his hands will still — one resting on your thigh, or curled around your wrist. his mouth will press into a flat line, almost like a boy being told he can’t open a present yet.

“i see,” he says — quietly, but clearly annoyed.

he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. he asks how long it’s going to last.

“is it…so bad this time?”

but once the mood shifts and he collects himself, he doesn’t argue.

he’s too image-conscious, too disciplined, to force anything.

instead, he’ll refocus all of that repressed energy into exercise, grooming, or being aggressively helpful — not because he wants to serve, but because if he can’t touch you sexually, he needs to dominate the situation some other way. (he will of course jerk off when you’re not there).

eventually, he finds a way to make the restriction feel intimate — and under his control.

patrick doesn’t cope well with being told “not now” but once he accepts that this is recurring — that it will happen again, and again — he reframes it.

if he can’t have sex, then fine.

he’ll act as if he’s the one choosing not to, which helps restore the illusion of power in his mind.

he might lean over you with a glint in his eye, voice low, and say something like: “you need rest. not me. i’ll take care of everything else.”

and then he’ll draw a bath, heat a towel, clean the sheets. not because he cares — not in the normal, empathetic sense, but because when he can’t have you, he needs to own your environment.

he’ll make you tea while dressed in a thousand-dollar robe. he’ll fold your laundry in gloves, turn down your bed like it’s a hotel. he won’t stop hovering.

to patrick, sex might be off the table, but dominance never is.

what if you realize how needy he is and, knowing how much he usually craves sex, you decide to tell him yes anyway?

if you say yes—knowing what it means to him, knowing how physically driven he is, how intolerant of delay or denial he can be—and you offer yourself up anyway, cramps and all, voice soft with guilt or affection or something between the two?

patrick goes very still.

not with disbelief, exactly. but with a kind of dark, internal stillness. like a man suddenly aware of how easily the world gives to him when he wants something badly enough.

he doesn’t lunge. doesn’t strip you down or devour you the way he normally might.

because you’ve changed something.

you’ve turned this into a gift. a choice. and it disorients him.

“…are you sure?”

it’s barely audible. not out of concern for you, really—more like he’s double-checking the universe. like he can’t quite believe this offer is real, and he’s terrified to handle it the wrong way and have it taken back.

if you confirm, if you say “yes. i want to,” or “yes, for you,” then you watch something fracture in him, behind the eyes. not violently—almost reverently.

he exhales through his nose, long and slow, and there’s a flicker of something in his posture: the businessman still, but reduced, like you’ve just peeled him out of the immaculate shell and what’s left underneath is…softer. needier.

he’ll touch you very gently at first. reverent. worshipful, even. not out of romance, but out of greed.

because you’re not supposed to say yes right now.

you’re supposed to be off-limits. fragile. in pain.

and yet here you are—giving yourself to him anyway, despite the discomfort, despite the inconvenience. he’ll murmur under his breath as he undresses you: “you always do this to me…”

“you don’t even know what that does to me…”

“you’re still in time to back off.”

and for once, it’s not purely about power or ego. it’s about you choosing him when you don’t have to. and that? that wrecks him.

he’ll be intense—but careful. restrained in a way that feels obsessive. hyper-aware of your breath, your flinches, your pain—but not because he wants to stop, because he wants to consume around it. like he’s trying to claim you without breaking you.

afterwards, he stays closer than he normally does. he cleans you immediately, wipes you down with a cloth warmed in the bathroom sink. places his head against your stomach like some beautiful, terrible thing trying to tether himself to your body just a bit longer.

he won’t say thank you—he doesn’t know how.

but he’ll hold your hips like he’s anchoring himself, and he’ll mutter again under his breath, over and over: “mine. mine. mine.”

because you gave yourself to him when you didn’t have to.

and in bateman’s warped little psyche, that’s more sacred than any expensive dinner, any tailored suit, any perfect night.

you said yes when you were supposed to say no.

and to him, that makes you the only thing on earth worth ruining for.

out in public — especially at an upscale restaurant — he spirals internally if you begin to cramp.

you excuse yourself halfway through the wine list, your fingers pressing against your lower abdomen — and he watches you go, pupils dilating, lip twitching like he’s trying not to scowl.

not at you — but at the sheer lack of control.

he hates the idea that something biological could pull your attention away from him.

when you return, his jaw’s tense. he asks in a voice that’s both concerned and irritated: “do you want to leave?”

he hopes you say yes.

he doesn’t want you seen like this — uncomfortable, unfocused, not the luminous, pristine version of you that reflects well on him.

if you do want to leave, he’ll cover the bill immediately, take your coat himself, walk you out with a palm on the small of your back like he’s shielding you from onlookers.

but if you insist on staying, he will compensate.

he’ll flag down the sommelier, demand a different wine pairing, change the music volume, quietly scold the waiter if the lighting seems too dim or the water wasn’t poured fast enough.

because if he can’t fix you, he’ll fix everything else in the room.

if you say “i’m sorry for ruining your reservation. i know how much effort it took, you booked it three months in advance”?

you watch him go still, his expression unreadable in that terrifyingly blank patrick bateman way, like he’s been momentarily rebooted.

for a moment, there’s that flicker behind his eyes. ego. resentment. the innate bateman response to imperfection, especially public imperfection, especially if it reflects on him.

but then he exhales, slowly. something shifts. it isn’t kindness. it’s possession.

“you think that’s what i care about right now?”

his voice is cold, low, with that weirdly composed hostility that somehow never raises in volume, and yet pins you in place. but he leans forward just slightly, enough to make his words feel private.

“what’s the point of the reservation if you’re sitting there in pain?”

“you looked like you were about to pass out on the way back from the restroom.”

he’ll look down at your hand—or maybe your abdomen—like he’s memorizing the way you curl into yourself. like he’s cataloguing it. not with pity, but a strange kind of dark protectiveness.

and then: “i can make another reservation, i can’t make another you.”

he says it stiffly, like the words taste foreign in his mouth—but real, nonetheless. because if there’s one thing patrick bateman doesn’t tolerate, it’s losing his things. and tonight, you’ve just reminded him how human you are.

and in some twisted corner of his psyche, that only makes him grip tighter.

he pays the bill with a cutting glare at the sommelier, takes your coat himself, and helps you into the car without a word—but all through the ride, his hand rests over yours like an anchor.

when you get home, he silently tucks you into bed, disappears into the bathroom…and returns with water, medicine, and the silkiest robe he owns.

he doesn’t comment on the ruined evening again.

but later, when you’re half-asleep under the covers, you feel his fingers ghost over your arm.

“no, don’t say that again. i knew you were about to.” quiet. commanding. “you didn’t ruin anything.”

because as much as he cares about status, exclusivity, and perfection—he cares more about the ownership of the one person who makes him feel something beyond the hollow.

and that, to him, is worth rescheduling dorsia.

later, he asks too many questions — most of them clinical. he’s genuinely curious.

“how long does this last for you, usually?”

“is it heavier at night? are the mood swings worse in the afternoon?”

“what does your doctor say about the cramping? do you chart your cycle?”

he sounds like a spreadsheet come to life. but this is how he deals — he turns emotion into data.

and once he knows what to expect, he builds rituals around it.

your preferred brand of pads is now stocked in the guest bathroom.

your painkillers are sorted by potency and expiration date in the medicine drawer.

he keeps your “softest” clothes folded in a drawer in his closet, just for those days.

he’d never admit it, but he also programs reminders into his calendar — “check-in. day 3. extra irritable?”

because when he knows, he feels in control. and when he feels in control, he can care.

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

Jan 27th

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1. Hii! I’m looking for a fic and it’s titled something around wondering if there is a place for me in your life. This focuses on teen lan sizhui coping with the feelings of his father wwx dating again after spending 11 (?) years without someone. Wei Wuxian goes to the hospital at some point (he’s fine though) and Lan Sizhui finds a way to invite LWJ into his life after breaking a gift he gave him. I can follow up with more details if needed! The author was trying to write about a-yuan not immediately warming up to wangxian getting together! Thank you so much for all your hard work!

FOUND! Picture Perfect by manaika (M, 22k, WangXian, WWX/Other(s), Past Relationship(s), Widower WWX, Grief/Mourning, Getting Together, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Stepfather WWX, WWX is the father who stepped up, LSZ is a Wei, Single Parent WWX, Asexual Character, Aromantic Relationship, Platonic Life Partners, it's all in the past and only mentioned/discussed when relevant, Sex-Favorable Asexual WWX, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Modern, Past Character Death, Food Intake Related Medical Issue (not what you think))

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2. hi! I'm looking for a fic where WWX is seriously injured at qiongqi path, and he's barely kept alive by talismans(?). JC hides his body at lotus pier, but everyone thinks he's dead. idk how he wakes, but there's still the 13 year gap where everyone still thinks he's dead. sorry this is so vague, tysm in advance!!!

from the 1/27 fic finder: #2 isnt the fic im looking for, but thanks for helping out! the fic wasn’t a dark, anti-JC fic, but very much a JC loves his brother ofc hes gonna do whatever it takes to keep him alive. LWJ def thinks hes dead tho

NOT FOUND! on restitution by glitteringmoonlight (M, 98k, LSZ & WWX, WWX & JL, WangXian, Dark JC, not JC friendly, Captivity, Angst with a Happy Ending, no reconciliation, Crossdressing, Non-Graphic Torture, Violence)

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3. Hi! I'm looking for a fic that I'm pretty sure has been asked for in the past, that has been likely deleted, I know someone had the pdf but I can't find the post or the pdf anymore so I'm here–

I'm looking for a fic where modern wwx receives a book from baoshan sanren that tells the story of yllz wwx. Modern wwx reads a ritual and ends up in the past with everyone while past yllz ends up in the future. If I'm correct it's a two fic series, with the second one being incomplete where yllz goes to the future.

I also remember that modern wwx gathered people from each clan and talked about the future that he knows. I know that at one point he talks about his family (lz and sizhui). There's also a madam yu redemption, and at one point modern wwx calls fengmian dad? PLS HELP ME FIND IT @dollettw

FOUND! bluekittenfire said: #3 This should be the deleted "Loving Future, Distant Past" by yareyarejojosan. I have a copy of it and the second fic "I am loved".

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4. Hello!! I'm looking for a modern AU - what I remember is Lan Zhan seeing Wei Ying on tv and, like, knowing he is The One in a mystical way - I want to say that the process was called The Call or something, as in 'he heard The Call and knew WWX was his soulmate'. I think WWX was oblivious to this for Reasons (par for the course) - not sure if it was A/B/O but had something of that vibe! @stackingturtles

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5. hiiii im looking for this fic where lwj's mom is some kind of heavenly official and before she escapes her husband to return to heaven, she gives lwj a magical robe (or somethijng like that) that holds images of his memories, and every time something major happens an image/symbol of that appears on his cape @ashxi-wx

FOUND? One for Heaven and Earth by cerbykerby (T, 7k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Madam Lán Lives, inspired by wangxian selkie au, Getting Together) Mama Lan was a celestial maiden though, not a heavenly official.

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6. This is for fic finder btw. First thank you who ever runs this account. In the fic I’m looking for wei ying isn’t dead and is alive for Lan Zhans whipping/ punishment and he hears what’s happening and tries to stop it but Lan Zhang uncle just says to beat Wei Ying to (I think he was like really injured not sure tho). Then one of them ( whoever’s POV it was blacks out). There is a chance this was an omegaverse fic but idk. Thanks again your like gods 🙏🙏

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7. Ello! Looking for a lwj-centric fic that I forgot the name of (⁠｡⁠ŏ⁠﹏⁠ŏ⁠) Pretty sure this is an au where wwx is adopted by the lans, and wwx teaches the lan disciples about talismans. The thing I most remember about it is lwj being named rivals with su minshan and jiang cheng for the attentions of wwx. Wwx is also probably older? Thanks so much in advance!

FOUND?🔒As Years Pass Us By by Loqui (T, 32k, WIP, WangXian, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiangs, Age Difference, Younger LWJ, Older WWX, LWJ Has Feelings, Pining LWJ, Introspective LWJ, Canon Divergence, Fluff and Humor, Slow Burn, very light, Light Angst, WWX is a Lan, POV LWJ)

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8. Hi!! does anyone know of a ghost wy fic where he teaches ayuan demonic cultivation and he kind of like follows him around and protects him? @yesibest

FOUND! as i stumble homewards by the_pretzel (T, 27k, wangxian, canonical character death, found family, food issues, trauma, LSZ pov, angst w/ happy ending, fluff)

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9. Hey guys do you know a fic when Lan Xichen started a different Gusu Lan sect that went back to the basic rules? I think the Lans dad was alive in it and he disapproved and was leading the other one. @kyuubikuroba

FOUND! In Defence of Murder by WhiteWitchDark (T, 18k, WangXian, NHS & NMJ, Hurt/Comfort, Time Travel, Angst)

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10. For fic finder

Does anyone have that fic where WWX gets turned into a woman post canon, he and LWJ decide to try for a kid, it doesnt work at first, when it happens LWJ thinks WWX doesnt want one anymore and tries to apologize for asking him to keep it?

WWX was fine with having the baby by the way, thinking he didn’t was because during the time it didn’t work they assumed it wasn’t possible and he decided he wasn’t going to dwell and make himself upset wondering why it didn’t happen

FOUND! In Sickness and In Health (And In Strange and Unexpected Times Too) by purplemonster (E, 28k, WangXian, Fem WWX, Mpreg, well technically not mpreg since he's a woman, Fluff and Smut, also I know I know I ticked the m/m box because it is wangxian)

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11. hello, i'm looking for an au where cultivators choose their secondary gender after "trying out" each one. Wwx decided on beta and LWJ omega. NHS was agender. At one point, LWJ is threatened/almost forced to permanently pick the wrong assignation for some reason. This fic was not the one by everythingispoetry, though there are similarities to their fic. Ty for your help!

FOUND? Pairfire by PaidSubscription (E, 65k, WangXian, LXC/NMJ, JC/NHS, MM/WQ, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Relationships 101, Literally...the fic is a relationship course, Getting Together, First Time, Explicit Consent, Bordering on Kink Levels of Communication, Elements of Assigned-ish Marriage-ish, Non-Traditional A/B/O Dynamics, A/B/O With a twist, Because Cultivators CHOOSE Their Gender During This Course, After Trying Out All Three, It’s a Three Course Meal and WangXian’s Gender Acceptance is the Dessert, But Horny Pining is the Main Meal and the Most of the Snacks, Bottom LWJ, Bossy Bottom/Henpecked Top Energy, Everyone is over 21, Gender Choice Raises Issues for Most But I Promise Happy Endings + Everyone Comfy in Their Own Skin, Side Couple Aro/Ace/Agender Storylines)

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12. I've been looking for this fic for years now but I do remember the premise it's an postcanon AU?? where in a bid to stabilize the power WWX was betrothed to Lan Xichen and LWJ was not so happy abt the whole thing (I scoured my history and all but I cant find it)

FOUND? still left with the river by TooSel (E, 77k, WangXian, ChengQing, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Arranged Marriage, Political Alliances, Yílíng Wèi Sect, Slow BurnF, riends to Lovers, Pining, Jealousy, Infidelity, Adoption,Angst with a Happy Ending, Golden Core Reveal, Cultivation Sect Politics)

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13. Wondering about the identity of a fic that I remember only one little scene from. LWJ was visiting Lotus Pier and decided to drink about all his pining. While drunk, he demonstrated his feelings to WWX by removing the strings from his guqin and saying "Wangji without Wei Ying". Hopefully this will ring bells for someone. Thank you! 🐇💙 @linderel

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14. looking for a fic! canon era/setting with a bad ending, where wx are ayuan's biological parents. ayuan lives with wwx and the wens in the burial mounds. wwx dies either from the attack at qiongqi path, or in the burial mounds for some other reason. I rmb vividly a scene where wwx is buried in the burial mounds and ayuan cries and lies above the grave, saying that his mother is gone, in front of everyone else like the lans, jins, and nies.

FOUND! To Offer a Heart by WhiteCrane (M, 111k, WangXian, major character death, Sad WWX, Hurt WWX, YLLZ WWX, soft wangxian, Cinnamon Roll WN, WWX Whump, WQ is a good sister, WN is a good brother, everybody loves wwx, yunmeng siblings, Triggers, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Taking care of WWX, Give WWX a break, Canon Divergence, Disturbing Themes, Changing Perspectives, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Grief/Mourning, Temporary Character Death, Getting Together, Redemption, Sibling Bonding, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brother-Sister Relationships, Parent-Child Relationship, Sad and Sweet, Tragedy, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF JYL, BAMF WQ, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Everyone Needs A Hug, WIP) Is it possible #14 is mixing up two different fics? Because the bit about A-Yuan lying on WWX's grave in the Burial Mounds and crying about his mother sounds a lot like To Offer a Heart but he's not Wangxian's bio child in that. The bit where the visitors witness A-Yuan crying at the grave is in chapter 11.

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15. Hello, and thank you again for all your hard work! ❤️ For Fic Finder, please help with locating a fic where WWX dies and the truth about JGShit, JGY, JZXun and XY (maybe even SShit, idk) comes out immediately. Here's what I remember: he sent letter to expose them, people investigate and everything comes to light. Everyone except MY is executed in gruesome ways. JZX with lingchi I think. JGShit through being slowly impaled by bamboo. MY ends up giving his golden core to WWX when he comes back. @boxedbutterfly

FOUND? bluekittenfire said: #15 I think this is the deleted "When Im gone" by qiankun_pouch. I can share my copy.

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16. Looking for fic in which Wei Wuxian's core is given to yanli and it becomes too much for her body and the core explodes because of childbirth and she dies wei Ying is also like lab rat for all clans wanting to know how he cultivated core in such young age I also remember that mxy actually was the real parent of sizhui who was trusted upon weu Wuxian to raise and keep safe pls help me find the fix i would also like to thank you for all the previous times you all helped me <3 @yuukikonnos-world

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17. I'm looking for a story I thought I had saved: after canon, asexual WWX, married to LWJ, but in a female!MX body. They tried M/F sex, but both found it weird. WWX one day realizes that LWJ used to look at (old, male) WWX with lust, but no longer does. LWJ tells him he used to dream of bottoming for WWX. WWX wants to fulfil that dream for him, and (via NHS?) finds someone to create a wooden penis/harness. LWJ enjoys it a lot (WWX also likes being a service top essentially)

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18. Hello! I'm looking for a complete fic on AO3 where Qin Su did the sacrifice ritual to bring back Wei Wuxian. He is now a woman. She left him a letter explaining why/what she wanted, and he has to keep up the act of being Qin Su for a little while until he can come up with an excuse to get out of Koi tower.

I don't remember what he was running around doing once he got out, but along the way he bumped into Lan Wangji, who is travelling with "Mo Xuanyu" investigating the demonic arm.Mo Xuanyu actually summoned Jin Zixuan using the ritual, though I don't remember if that was on purpose or if JZX was just the next best target with WWX already summoned. Because of Qin Su's letter to WWX (? They knew somehow), JZX knows that WWX is technically his sister now.

I don't remember much else apart from some minor stiff arguing on JZX end because LWJ is seducing his technical sister or something like that. He's not impressed/pleased. WWX is just as happy about being related to the peacock now. LWJ realises he is WWX-sexual. Yadda yadda.

Based on other fics I know I read around the same time, the publication/final update should be no later than 2022, but I might be wrong.

If this fic could be found, I would really appreciate it. Thanks in advance! @ramblebrambleamble

FOUND? The Tales of Despereaux by stiltonbasket (T, 53k, WIP, WangXian, LXC/NMJ, JC & WWX, JYL/JZX, JC/WQ, Canon Divergence, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, (when applicable), major ships are listed but others might pop up!) It's the first 23 chapters. Stilton's tumblr also has its masterlist

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19. looking for a fic! i remember it was either someone needs to fight lwj and win(?) to get his hand in marriage, or he needed to give them an item like a token or smth. wwx is in an animal form of sorts i can't remember, and lwj freely gives the item to him while in animal form

FOUND? it’s you, it was always you by myung (G, 7k, WangXian, Bunny LWJ, Mutual Pining, Light angst, Based on Tumblr post) sounds like it's you, it was always you but Lan Zhan is the shapeshifter who gives Wei Ying his forehead ribbon while in rabbit form.

FOUND? heartkeeper by postingpebbles (G, 7k, WangXian, Animal Transformation, Canon Divergence, no war au, Shapeshifting, light convos abt the jiang family dynamic, WWX draws a lot and talks to a rabbit: the fic, Fantasy, Mojo's bookmark, heartkeeper [podfic] by esbielle) Lwj is a rabbit with a chain with a key to hanguang-jun’s heart

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20. Hello :) I need help finding a fic, I don't know if it was deleted or not, but it was a time travel fic where I think sizhui and jingyi went back to either just before the sunshot campaign or just after it but they were either together or the feelings were there they got wangxian together early and wangxian I vaguely remember adopted both older (kinda not officially) and baby sizhui (officially) and I remember also kinda vaguely know but I can't remember if it was Jingyi or older sizhui dying I remember jingyi and older sizhui got married before the death, there is a memorable scene of older sizhui and wangji flying together and sizhui was telling him about his life as a kid with wangji please if you can help it would be appreciated also I do know it's not 'Tragedy is not the end' by Hobbsy3 thank you!!! @lotus-cloudbunny

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[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

Your Afton headcannon stuff? AMAZING. You have the best takes.

So, William Afton and alcohol. What is he like when he’s tipsy? Does he get drunk often, if ever? Being intoxicated can certainly take control out of someone’s hands- what is that like for him? And, as a side note, what does he do if reader’s really drunk?

William Afton and Alcohol—Control, Indulgence, and Weakness

William and control are inseparable concepts. He thrives on it, demands it. He is deliberate in everything he does, which means he doesn’t get drunk often. Not unless he wants to.

Does He Drink?

Yes, but in moderation. Measured. He drinks the same way he does everything else—with purpose.

Prefers dark liquor—whiskey, scotch, or a well-aged brandy. Something smooth but strong, with depth (much like himself, or so he’d say).

He’s the type to pour himself a drink at the end of a long day, alone in his office or while going over paperwork. It’s more of a ritual than a means to actually get drunk.

He values his control too much to indulge often. Getting too intoxicated means letting his guard down, and he hates that.

When He’s Tipsy—Loosening at the Edges

William is not the kind of man to laugh loudly or stumble around when intoxicated. If anything, his edges just become… softer.

🔹 His sharpness dulls, his wit slows down—just slightly.

🔹 He gets quieter. Thoughtful.

🔹 His usual sarcasm? Still there, but lazier. Less bite, more drawl.

1. More Relaxed, Less Guarded

There’s a certain tension that William always carries. When tipsy? It eases.

He leans back more, sprawls a little instead of sitting so rigidly.

If he’s drinking with company, he might actually let conversations flow naturally instead of constantly controlling them.

2. A Tad Too Smug

He’s already insufferably smug, but tipsy William? Even worse.

He drawls his words a little more, voice lazier, deeper, and takes his sweet time responding just to toy with people.

Smirks last longer. Pauses just a bit too long to make someone uncomfortable.

If someone challenges him? He loves it and will provoke just for fun.

3. Surprisingly Talkative (Especially About Himself)

If you ask him about his work, ideas, or even past experiences?

Oh, he’ll go on. He enjoys an audience.

Expect a dramatic retelling of whatever topic you’ve given him.

May even go into theatrical monologues, gesturing with his glass. (He thinks he’s being profound. You think he’s being ridiculous.)

But—if you ask about anything too personal? He shifts, suddenly more guarded, changes the subject, or deflects with humor.

4. Slightly Too Hands-On (If You’re Close to Him)

William isn’t naturally affectionate, but alcohol loosens him up.

If he trusts you? He might:

Lean in closer while talking, voice quieter, more intimate.

Rest a hand on your shoulder without really thinking about it.

Brush his fingers over yours when taking his glass back. (Subtle, but intentional? Hard to tell.)

Example:

You say something, and instead of his usual cutting reply, he just chuckles—low, slow, and almost… warm. His head tilts, his silver-cloudgray eyes gleaming not with calculation, but with something looser.

"Mm. That so?" he murmurs, rolling his glass between his fingers. "Say it again, darling. I wasn't listening."

It’s disarming. Because he never acts like this. It’s William—but not quite.

Drunk? No.

Rarely. It’s a rare occasion for him to drink past the point of tipsy.

The idea of completely losing control is abhorrent to him.

William doesn’t get messy when he drinks—but there’s a noticeable shift in his behavior when the alcohol starts to settle in. He does not get drunk. At least, not in a way that makes him lose himself. He hates the feeling of his mind being clouded.

🔹 He values control too much. If he drinks more than he should, he compensates—forces himself to stay alert.

🔹 His tolerance is deceptively high. He’s used to controlling his reactions, even when intoxicated.

🔹 If he ever does slip up? It’s in the privacy of his own space. Never where anyone can see.

But on the rare occasion he drinks too much? It’s either:

🔹An exceptionally bad night. Something has unraveled him, and this is his way of quieting the noise in his head.

🔹A moment of indulgence. Maybe it’s a private moment with someone he trusts. Maybe, just once, he allows himself to let go.

🔹 His words get slower, more drawn out.

🔹 He might let things slip. Things he wouldn’t normally say. Regrets. Memories. Desires.

🔹 His grip on reality doesn’t break, but it softens. He gets nostalgic. Pensive.

🔹 He’ll sit in silence for long periods, staring at nothing—lost in thoughts he never speaks out loud. If you ask, he’ll wave you off. But his gaze lingers, like he’s seeing something long gone.

Drunk William? Oh, That’s Dangerous.

Surprisingly quiet. Not slurring or stumbling—just watching.

Smiles more. But they don’t always reach his eyes.

Either unbearably teasing… or oddly sentimental.

If he’s in a good mood? Expect mocking praise, whispered words, smirks that make your stomach flip.

If he’s in a bad mood? His words cut sharper than usual.

You, Drunk?

Now, this is where things get interesting. Because if you get drunk, William’s reaction depends entirely on how bad it is.

🔹 If you’re just tipsy? He’s amused. Very amused. He’ll tease you mercilessly.

🔹 If you’re fully drunk? His amusement fades into annoyance. He hates unpredictability, and drunk people are entirely unpredictable.

🔹 If you’re loud and stumbling? He’s irritated, but watchful.

🔹 If you’re slurring and emotional? He tenses. Because he doesn’t know how to handle that.

🔹 If you’re reckless? He drops all pretense. He won’t let you out of his sight.

"That’s enough," he says, voice low and firm, pulling your drink away. If you protest? He just stares. The kind of look that makes people shut up immediately.

If you try to wander off? His hand clamps onto your wrist. Not rough, but unrelenting.

"Sit down, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere."

It’s not about caring—at least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s about control. Safety. Keeping things in order.

But if you lean against him, drowsy, trusting?

…He hesitates. Just for a second. His hand, which was firm, loosens. He exhales.

"Tch. You're a mess." His tone is dry, but his hand doesn’t let go.