#without navigating a minefield

[v88sy]

Every time I venture into the Bucktommy ao3 tags without filters, for curiosity and to check numbers, I remember why I have my filters so strict.

[minty-bunni]

The craziest thing about PTSD is thinking you're free from it and then getting triggered like 5 mins later by the most random thing.

[vividseoultales]

Jealous Much? ( Karina x Male Reader )

tags : fluff smut

Karina's eyes narrowed as she stared at the plate of half-eaten nachos in front of her. The cheese had started to congeal, but she didn't seem to notice. She was too busy picking at the jalapeños with a frustrated air. You watched her, sipping your soda, trying to understand what had brought on this sudden change in mood.

"Look," you said, setting your drink down with a gentle thud. "What's the big deal with me hanging out with Minjeong?"

Karina's glare intensified, and she jabbed a chip into the cheese with a bit more force than necessary. "Drop it" she said, her voice sharp.

You rolled your eyes, feeling the weight of her accusation but refusing to let it drag you down. "Why are you so obsessed with this?" You asked, your voice calm but firm. "It's not like I'm ignoring you."

Karina huffed and pushed the plate away. "It's just… You guys are always laughing together, sharing secrets. It's like she's taking over our friendship." Her words hung in the air, a hint of sadness lacing through the anger.

You leaned back in your chair, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously?" You said, your voice tinged with a mix of surprise and frustration. "You're acting like a kid who can't share their favorite toy."

Without warning, Karina's leg shot out and connected with yours under the table. The sharp kick sent a bolt of pain up your shin, and you winced, your eyes watering slightly. "Ow!" You exclaimed, rubbing the sore spot.

The din of the bustling diner grew louder as the couple at the next booth turned to glance over, their whispers of concern cutting through the air. The waitress, a young girl with a pink apron, paused mid-stride with a pot of coffee, her gaze flickering from you to Karina and back again. You offered them an apologetic smile, trying to convey that everything was fine, even though the tension between you two was palpable.

Turning back to Karina, you took a deep breath and spoke firmly but gently. "You need to chill out. This isn't a competition. We're friends, not a couple."

Her eyes flashed, and before you could react, her leg swung out again, delivering a second kick to your shin, this one harder than the first. "It feels like it is!" she snapped.

You flinched and gritted your teeth, not letting the pain show on your face. "Karina, that's not fair," you protested, rubbing your leg.

"Fair?" she spat out the word like it was poison. "How is it fair that she just waltzes in and gets all your attention?" Her voice was louder now, and you could feel the eyes of the diner patrons on you, their curiosity piqued.

Ignoring the stares, you leaned closer to her, keeping your voice low. "You're being ridiculous," you said. "Minjeong and I are just friends. We share the same interests, that's all."

But Karina was already sliding out of the booth, her cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. "I can't do this right now," she muttered, grabbing her jacket from the chair next to her. You watched as she shrugged it on, the fabric slipping over her shoulders with a soft rustle.

You mumbled to yourself, "Fuck me," as you rubbed your throbbing shin. You didn't know how the situation had escalated so quickly. You had only been trying to enjoy a casual meal and now, you felt like you were navigating a minefield of unspoken emotions.

The next few days passed with an eerie silence between you and Karina. You've seen her around school, her eyes sliding over you as if you were invisible. It was like the time you forgot her birthday, only this time it was a little more intense. You shrugged it off, chalking it up to one of her mood swings, something you've known for since you two were kids.

But then, the whispers began. They started as a murmur in the hallways, a soft buzz that grew louder until it was all anyone talked about. Karina had started hanging out with Leo, the school's golden boy. He was the kind of guy who could charm a teacher into giving him an A with a single dimpled smile. The kind of guy that had the whole school, especially the girls, eating out of the palm of his hand. And now, it seemed, he was paying special attention to your best friend.

You couldn't blame him for being drawn to her. Karina had always had a penchant for the popular crowd, and with her looks and brains, she fit right in. It was like watching a celebrity couple form right before your eyes. The hallways were ablaze with whispers of "Did you see Karina with Leo?" and "They're so perfect together!" It was nauseating, and you found yourself avoiding the places where you knew they'd be.

But every time you saw them together, laughing and whispering, her arm draped around his, you couldn't help but think—was this Karina's way of getting back at you? A pang of jealousy stabbed through you, sharper than you'd like to admit. You knew you had no right to feel this way, but it was the principle of it all. It felt like she was flaunting her new friendship in your face, as if to say, "Look what I have now!"

So, one day, after school, you decided enough was enough. You marched over to Karina's house, the same house you'd been to a hundred times before, but this time it felt like enemy territory. The walk was short, but it felt like a mile, each step heavier than the last. You knocked on the door with a firmness that matched your resolve. The door swung open to reveal Karina, her eyes widening in surprise.

"What are you doing here?" she snarled, her arms crossing over her chest.

You ignored her, stepping into the living room where her parents looked up from their evening TV show with puzzled expressions. "Hey Mr. and Mrs. Yu," you called out, plastering a smile on your face.

"Oh, hi sweetie!" Mrs. Yu exclaimed, setting her knitting aside and rising from the couch. "What a surprise! are you staying over for dinner?"

You nodded politely, keeping your eyes on Karina. "If it's not too much trouble," you said, walking past her into the hallway.

Her mother's footsteps trailed behind you. "Of course not," she called out. "You know you're always welcome."

Mr. Yu's boisterous voice echoed from the living room. "Hey, Y/N! Did you catch the game last night?"

Without missing a beat, you called back, "Nope, but I heard they were going to lose even if I did watch!"

Mr. Yu's laugh boomed through the house. "Always the optimist" he chuckled.

You marched up the stairs, each step a silent challenge to Karina, who followed with a smirk playing on her lips. You knew she thought she had the upper hand, but you weren't about to let this go. You needed to set the record straight.

When you reached her room, you close the door as soon as she enters. You turned to face her, your eyes narrowed. "Enough games," you said, your voice a mix of frustration and determination. "What's going on with you and Leo?"

Karina sat at the edge of her bed, her smirk never wavering. She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the floor. "What do you mean?" she asked, playing dumb.

You rolled your eyes. "Don't pretend," you said, your voice tight. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." You took a deep breath, trying to keep your cool. "What's the deal with Leo? You trying to get back at me because I started hanging out with Minjeong?"

Karina's smirk faltered for a moment before she shrugged. "What if I am?" she said, her eyes flashing. "It's not like you've been the best at being a best friend lately."

The words hit you like a slap in the face. You felt your cheeks heat up with a mix of anger and guilt. "What's that supposed to mean?" you demanded, your voice shaking slightly.

Karina's eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. "You stupid?" she spat out.

Without thinking, you found yourself stepping closer to her, your hands reaching out and grabbing her wrists. With surprising strength, you pushed her backwards until she toppled onto her bed, your body hovering over hers. "What the hell is your problem?" you hissed, pinning her hands above her head.

Karina's smirk grew wider, and she met your gaze without flinching. "Now you know how it feels" she said, her voice low and mocking.

It was true. You had been so focused on your newfound friendship with Minjeong that you'd neglected Karina. But you hadn't realized the extent of her jealousy until now. She had been trying to get your attention by hanging out with Leo, hoping it would make you feel the same way she felt when she saw you with Minjeong. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, and you felt a twinge of regret for not noticing her pain sooner.

With a heavy sigh, you released Karina's wrists and flopped down next to her on the bed, your legs dangling over the edge. "You know," you said, "you really play these games too much."

Karina's smile was a tight line, but her eyes were gleaming with a strange sort of triumph. "At least now you know how I feel," she said, rolling onto her side to face you.

"Don't you dare start dating him," you told her, your voice low and serious. You knew it was a ridiculous thing to say, but you needed to lay down the law, to assert some kind of control over the chaos that was your friendship.

Karina's laughter was like a slap to the face. It was light and airy, as if you had said something utterly absurd. She rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling with each mocking giggle. "Leo?" she said, as if his name was a joke. "As if he's my type anyway."

After a few seconds of silence with surprising agility, Karina straddled you, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your hips. She leaned in close, her breath hot against your face. "Minjeong, do you like her?"

You felt the weight of the question, the way it seemed to hang in the air between you, thick and heavy. "Here we go again" you said, trying to sit up, but she pushed you back down with surprising strength.

"Answer me," Karina demanded, her eyes boring into yours. "Do you like her?"

You swallowed hard, the question echoing in your mind. You had liked hanging out with Minjeong, her laughter infectious and her smile a beacon of light in the dullness of school days. But now, with Karina's hands on your chest, her eyes searching yours, you couldn't help but feel a pang of something else—something that had been there all along but had been overshadowed by the excitement of the new.

"Karina," you began, but she cut you off with a shake of her head.

"Just tell me," she insisted, her grip tightening slightly. "Do you have a crush on Minjeong?"

You felt the blood rush to your cheeks as you stared into her eyes. It was true. Minjeong's company had become something you craved, her laughter a melody that filled the quiet spaces in your heart. But with Karina's accusation hanging in the air, you couldn't ignore the conflicted emotions roiling within you. The friendship between you two had always been complex, a tapestry of shared secrets and unspoken feelings that had been stretched thin by the arrival of your new companion.

Without thinking, the words spilled out of your mouth, raw and unfiltered. "I like you more than her, if that's what you want to know," you said, your voice barely a whisper. Karina's expression froze, a mix of surprise and satisfaction.

For a moment, she didn't move, just stared at you, her eyes searching yours for any sign of insincerity. Then, she leaned in closer, her gaze never leaving yours. "Prove it," she murmured, her voice a challenge.

You felt the heat from her body and the sudden closeness was both exhilarating and terrifying. You had never felt this way before, not with your best friend, not with anyone. But here you were, your heart racing as she waited for your response.

Taking a deep breath, you pulled Karina close, so that your foreheads touched, and your breaths mingled. "There's no going back after this," you whispered, your voice a mix of determination and fear.

Her smile grew, and she nodded, her eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. "There never was," she said, her voice filled with a strange sort of relief.

And then, without any more hesitation, you leaned in and kissed her. It was a soft, tentative press of your lips to hers, a question and an answer all rolled into one. Karina's eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in deeper, her mouth moving against yours with a hunger that took you by storm. Her kiss was demanding, insistent, and you responded in kind, your arms wrapping around her waist as she deepened the kiss.

Her hands slid up your chest and tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, and you felt yourself melting into her touch. It was overwhelming, the passion that had been simmering just beneath the surface for who knows how long. It was like she had been waiting for this moment, craving it, and now that it was here, she was consuming you whole. You could feel the years of tension and unspoken feelings coiling around you, tightening like a spring ready to snap.

You guided her hips, pressing them down to grind against your own, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your body. It was a dance you had never done before, but it felt natural, like you had been practicing for this moment without knowing it. Your hands roamed over her body, learning every curve and dip, every inch of her that you had never been allowed to explore before.

Karina's eyes were closed, her breath coming in quick pants as she moved against you. The sound of your kisses filled the room, a cacophony of passion that seemed to drown out the rest of the world. You could feel her heart racing beneath her ribs, the rapid beat matching the rhythm of your own. Her legs were wrapped around you now, pulling you closer, and you knew that this was it—the moment that would change everything.

But just as your hands found the hem of her shirt, a voice pierced the bubble of your intimacy. "Y/N, Karina dinner's ready!" Mrs. Yu's call echoed up the stairs, breaking the spell that had been woven around you both.

You pulled away, breathless and slightly dizzy, staring at Karina's flushed face. "Guess I'm having you for dessert instead" you murmured, the words a promise and a tease. Karina's eyes narrowed in mock annoyance, but the corner of her mouth twitched up into a smirk.

"You're terrible," she said, rolling off you and smoothing down her shirt. But she didn't look away from you, her gaze holding yours, a silent understanding passing between you.

With a smug smile, you pushed yourself up from the bed, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in for one more kiss. It was deeper this time, your hand sliding down to squeeze her ass playfully. Karina giggled against your lips, the sound muffled by the pressure of your mouth on hers.

You felt a thrill rush through you as you broke the kiss, your hand lingering on the soft curve of her body. You knew this was crossing lines, but the heat of the moment was too intense to resist. "Dinner's waiting," you murmured, as the both of you go down to eat.

The dinner was a tense affair, with Mr. and Mrs. Yu's oblivious chatter filling the void that had been left by your silent glances. You couldn't help but feel the electricity between you, the way your legs brushed together under the table and the occasional hand that reached for a serving spoon that was just a little too far. Every move felt loaded with meaning, every gesture a silent promise of what was to come.

After dinner, Karina's parents retreated to their favorite show, leaving the two of you to clean up. You grabbed a sponge and started scrubbing at a stubborn stain on a plate, trying to ignore the racing of your heart. Karina was by your side, her movements efficient as she rinsed off the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher.

As you finished the last plate and handed it over to her, you couldn't help but glance into the living room. The flicker of the TV screen cast shadows on Mr. and Mrs. Yu's faces, their attention fully absorbed in whatever drama unfolded before them. The sound of laugh tracks and commercial jingles floated through the air, a stark contrast to the silence in the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to Karina, feeling the heat from her body. She stiffened slightly, her eyes meeting yours in surprise, before a knowing smile curled on her lips. You reached around her, your hand brushing against her stomach, and pulled her closer. With a gentle nudge, you pressed your crotch against her ass, feeling the softness of her curves through the fabric of her shorts.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned back into you, her body responding to your touch. You felt a thrill of power, of desire, as you began to move against her, your hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm. The sound of the TV grew distant, the laughter of the sitcom audience a faint backdrop to the symphony of your ragged breaths. Your hand slid up to cup her breast, and she arched her back, pushing into your palm.

With a whispered word that sent shivers down your spine, she suggested, "Let's go back to my room." You nodded, unable to form coherent words, your heart hammering in your chest. The kitchen light glinted off the clean dishes as you turned off the faucet and dried your hands, leaving the sponge in the sink. Hand in hand, you tiptoed out of the kitchen, trying not to alert her parents to the shift in the atmosphere.

The door to Karina's room clicked shut behind you, and you felt a rush of excitement mingled with nerves. This was new territory for both of you, but the desire that had been simmering between you was now a roaring fire. You didn't waste any time; with a gentle shove, you pushed her onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest. She landed with a soft bounce, her hair fanning out around her head like a fiery halo. Her eyes danced with challenge, daring you to take the next step.

With trembling hands, you reached for the hem of her shorts, sliding them down her legs with a slowness that was almost painful. Each inch of skin revealed was a treasure, a piece of her that you hadn't seen before, and you couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of her bare thighs. As the fabric hit the floor, she kicked her legs free, and your gaze was drawn to the lacy panties that barely contained her. You felt your mouth go dry, and your heart thumped in your chest like a drum.

With a smoldering look, Karina hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid them down, revealing herself to you inch by inch. You watched, transfixed, as the fabric fell away, exposing the soft mound of her sex, glistening in the soft light that filtered through the curtains. The sight was almost too much to bear, and you had to clench your fists to keep from reaching for her.

Your cock was already straining against your pants, eager to claim what it had desired for so long. You stepped closer to the bed, your hand shaking slightly as you undid your fly and pulled out your erection. It bobbed before you, a testament to the passion that burned within you.

Karina's eyes darkened as she watched you, her own desire mirrored in the way she licked her lips. "Take me," she murmured, her voice thick with lust. "Make me fucking yours"

You didn't need another invitation. You climbed onto the bed, positioning yourself between her legs. The scent of her arousal filled the room, making your mouth water and your cock ache. You leaned down to kiss her, your hands sliding up her body to cup her breasts, feeling the hardness of her nipples against your palms. She arched into your touch, her legs spreading wider, silently begging for you to fill her.

With one hand, you guided your cock to her slick entrance, feeling the warmth of her against the sensitive head. The anticipation was killing you, and you had to fight the urge to plunge into her right away. Instead, you slid in slowly, feeling the tightness of her pussy give way to you inch by agonizing inch. She moaned into your mouth, her nails digging into your back as you pushed deeper, feeling her body stretch to accommodate you.

The sensation was like nothing you'd ever felt before—hot, wet, and so incredibly tight. You had to pause for a moment to get used to the feeling, to savor the way she felt around you. Then, you pulled back slightly before pushing in again, a little harder, a little faster. Karina's legs tightened around your waist, urging you on, her hips rising to meet each of your thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal beat that matched the thunder of your heart.

Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, and she moaned with each stroke. You leaned down to kiss her neck, your teeth grazing the soft skin, tasting the salt of her sweat. Her breaths were coming in short gasps now, and you could feel her body tense beneath you. You knew she was close, and the thought of making her come, of being the one to push her over that edge, was almost more than you could handle.

You picked up the pace, driving into her harder, faster, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through you. The bed creaked in protest, but you didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the feel of her, the tight grip of her pussy, the way her body responded to your every move. You slid your hand down her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver and jump beneath your fingertips, until you found her clit. With a gentle touch, you began to rub it in slow circles, matching the rhythm of your hips.

Karina's moans grew louder, her breath coming in ragged pants. You could feel the tension building inside her, her muscles tightening around your cock like a vice. You watched her face, the way her eyes fluttered open and shut, the way her lips parted in silent cries. You knew you had her, that you were in control of her pleasure. The thought was intoxicating, making you want to push her further, to see just how much you could make her beg.

With each thrust, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge, your orgasm building like a storm in your balls. You could feel the heat rising in your body, the pressure building until it was almost unbearable. But you held back, waiting for her, determined to make sure she came first. Your thumb flicked over her clit faster, the wet sound of your skin on hers driving you wild. Her hips bucked against you, her breath hitching in her throat.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open, locking onto yours with a desperate intensity. "Y/N," she moaned, her voice tight with pleasure. "I'm going to come."

It was all the encouragement you needed. You slammed into her faster and harder, feeling her body tense up, her muscles spasm around you. Then she was screaming your name, her orgasm ripping through her like a bolt of lightning. Her pussy clamped down on your cock, sending waves of pleasure through your body, and you knew you couldn't hold on much longer.

With one final, desperate thrust, you buried yourself inside her, letting go with a roar. Your cum spurted out, filling her up, marking her as yours. The feeling was so intense it was almost painful, and you collapsed onto her, your breathing ragged and uneven. Karina's legs tightened around you, her body shuddering with the aftershocks of her climax.

For a few moments, there was only the sound of your heavy breathing and the thud of your hearts beating together. Then, Karina's arms wrapped around your neck, pulling you closer. "This took way too long to finally happen" she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. You couldn't help but chuckle, the tension of the moment dissipating into a warm, fuzzy glow.

As you both caught your breath, you looked down at her, her eyes groggy and a serene smile on her lips. The sight was so beautiful it took your breath away. You kissed her gently, savoring the taste of her, the way she felt beneath you. The reality of what had just happened was setting in, but you didn't feel guilty or confused. You felt…right.

"You know," Karina began, her voice still a little shaky from her orgasm, "I can't wait to go to school tomorrow and show everyone how much of a clingy girlfriend I'm going to be." She giggled, her eyes glinting mischievously.

You groaned, burying your face in her neck. "Don't you dare," you murmured, your voice muffled by her skin. The thought of the school knowing about you two was both exhilarating and terrifying. But Karina didn't seem to care. She was already planning your love story for the world to see.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

‼️NSFW Announcement‼️ This is the only announcement on a chapter I’ll be doing, so if you’re under 18 do not attempt to read from this chapter on. I do not go very mild when I write smut, this is the tamest I’ll be going so if you don’t like it and don’t want it don’t continue. I don’t let you know when smut starts and ends so read with caution. I also know knotting is a big part in a/b/o lore, however I’m not a big fan of it. I mention it, I acknowledge that it’s a thing and respect it but I don’t go into detail. My characters in this don’t wrap it up, it’s not good irl. Always wrap it up! Enjoy����

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Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 9: Breaking Point

The week following the pool incident had been a study in escalating tension. Whatever barriers had been holding the members back seemed to have crumbled completely after Hongjoong's public kiss, leaving you navigating a minefield of heated glances, lingering touches, and barely concealed desire from seven different alphas.

Your body felt like it was on fire constantly now. Even with your scent blockers firmly in place, your omega seemed to be responding to their collective alpha attention in ways that left you restless, overheated, and aching for something you couldn't quite name. Sleep had become nearly impossible, your dreams filled with phantom scents and touches that left you waking up disoriented and wanting.

Wooyoung and San had become your constant shadows, their natural affectionate natures now amplified to an almost overwhelming degree. Gone were the casual touches—replaced by deliberate cuddling sessions that left your skin tingling and your heart racing.

"You look tired, Tulip," San had observed just that morning, settling beside you on the couch where you'd been reviewing schedules. Without asking permission, he'd pulled you against his side, his arm wrapping around you with possessive comfort. "Rest for a bit."

The warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, should have been soothing. Instead, it had sent electric currents through your nervous system, your omega practically purring at the alpha contact while your rational mind struggled to maintain professional boundaries.

Wooyoung had appeared moments later, as if summoned by some invisible signal, settling on your other side and casually draping his legs across yours. "Group cuddle session?" he'd suggested with that mischievous smile, though his eyes held a heat that had nothing to do with playfulness.

"I'm supposed to be working," you'd protested weakly, even as your body had instinctively relaxed between them.

"Work can wait," Wooyoung had murmured, his fingers beginning to play with strands of your hair. "Taking care of our Tulip is more important."

The possessive "our" had sent a shiver down your spine that both alphas had definitely noticed, judging by their satisfied expressions.

Mingi and Yunho had taken a different approach, but no less effective in driving you to distraction. Every interaction seemed to involve some excuse for physical contact—Mingi's hand on the small of your back as he guided you through doorways, Yunho's fingers brushing yours for just a moment too long when passing you documents.

"You've got an eyelash," Yunho had said yesterday, appearing beside your desk with that bright smile that never failed to make your heart skip. Before you could protest, his thumb had gently brushed against your cheek, the touch so tender it had made your breath catch.

"There," he'd murmured, showing you the non-existent eyelash on his finger. "Make a wish."

The intimacy of the moment, the way his eyes had lingered on your face, had left you speechless and flustered in a way that had clearly pleased him immensely.

Even Jongho and Yeosang, typically the most reserved of the group, had begun showing their interest in ways that surprised you. Jongho had started bringing you small gifts—your favorite coffee in the morning, a book he thought you'd enjoy, a small potted plant for your desk. Each offering came with minimal explanation but maximum impact, his dark eyes studying your reaction with quiet intensity.

Yeosang's approach was more subtle but perhaps more devastating. He'd begun engaging you in deeper conversations, his perceptive observations and thoughtful questions creating an intimacy that was purely intellectual but no less affecting. Yesterday, he'd spent an hour discussing a book you'd both read, his quiet voice and insightful commentary drawing you into a bubble of connection that had felt almost as intimate as physical touch.

"You have a beautiful mind," he'd said as you'd wrapped up the conversation, the simple compliment delivered with such sincerity that it had stayed with you for hours.

And then there was Hongjoong. The leader had become bold in a way that left you constantly on edge, stealing moments whenever you found yourselves alone. A kiss pressed against your temple as he'd leaned over to check something on your computer. His lips brushing your knuckles when you'd handed him a document. Yesterday, he'd cornered you in the supply closet, pressing you against the wall for a kiss that had left you breathless and wanting more.

"I can't stop thinking about the pool," he'd murmured against your lips, his hands framing your face with reverent care. "About how you felt in my arms."

The memory alone was enough to make heat pool low in your belly, your omega responding to his alpha presence with an intensity that sometimes frightened you.

But it was Seonghwa's behavior that confused you most. The eldest member seemed to be the only one maintaining his distance, though you often caught him watching you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. There was warmth in his gaze, certainly, and something that might have been longing, but he kept himself carefully apart from the increasingly bold advances of his packmates.

The contradiction was maddening. You found yourself craving his touch, his attention, in a way that seemed disproportionate to his reserved behavior. Sometimes you caught him looking at you with such intensity that your skin would flush, but he never acted on whatever he was feeling, maintaining that friendly but professional distance that left you wondering if you were imagining the heat in his gaze.

Your omega was becoming increasingly agitated by the mixed signals, by the constant state of arousal without resolution. Your scent blocker felt like both a necessity and a prison—protecting your secret while preventing you from fully experiencing the alpha pheromones that your body was clearly craving.

You'd started having moments where you seriously considered removing the blocker, just to see what would happen. The thought terrified and thrilled you in equal measure. What would it be like to smell Hongjoong's scent?!Wooyoung's ? San's? How would they react to your own scent of jasmine and vanilla?

But fear always won out. Fear of changing the dynamic irrevocably, of complicating your professional relationship, of facing the reality of what you all seemed to be building toward.

---

Tonight, that careful balance finally shattered.

You'd retreated to the guesthouse early, claiming exhaustion from the day's packed schedule. In reality, you'd reached your limit for alpha attention without resolution, your body feeling like a live wire from the constant state of arousal their touches and glances induced.

You'd taken a cold shower, hoping to calm your overheated system, but even that hadn't helped. Now you sat on your bed in just a oversized t-shirt and shorts, your skin still feeling too sensitive, too aware. Every nerve ending seemed attuned to the main house across the garden, to the eight alphas who had somehow become the center of your universe.

The sharp knock on your door made you jump, your heart immediately racing. It was nearly ten PM—late for casual visits, but you'd learned that normal rules didn't seem to apply to your relationship with the members anymore.

"Come in," you called, expecting perhaps Hongjoong with another stolen moment, or maybe Seonghwa checking on your wellbeing with his characteristic concern.

Instead, Wooyoung burst through the door with the barely contained energy of someone who'd reached his breaking point. His hair was disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it, his eyes bright with something between desperation and determination.

"I can't do this anymore," he announced without preamble, his voice rough with emotion. "I can't pretend that what's happening between us is normal. I can't keep playing these games where we touch and flirt and dance around what we all know is true."

You stood slowly from the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you took in his appearance. There was something wild about him tonight, something unleashed that sent both thrill and alarm through your system.

"Wooyoung," you began carefully, "what are you—"

"I'm talking about this," he interrupted, gesturing between you with frustrated energy. "About the way you look at me, at all of us. About the way your pulse races when I touch you. About the way you practically melted into Hongjoong in that pool."

Heat flooded your cheeks at his words, at the accuracy of his observations. "I don't know what you—"

"Don't," he said firmly, taking a step closer. "Don't pretend you don't feel it. Don't lie to me, to yourself, about what's happening here." His voice dropped to that register that always made your omega sit up and take notice. "I see how you watch us, Tulip. I see how you respond to our touch. And I know you want this as much as we do."

Your breath caught in your throat as he moved closer, the space between you shrinking with each step. "Wooyoung, we can't—this is complicated—"

"Why?" he demanded, stopping just inches away from you. "Because you work for us? Because there are eight of us? Because it doesn't fit into neat little boxes that society approves of?"

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the golden flecks starting to appear in his eyes as his alpha nature responded to the charged atmosphere between you. Your own omega was practically vibrating with need, with the desire to close the distance between you, consequences be damned.

"Because I'm not who you think I am," you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it.

Wooyoung's expression softened slightly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Then tell me who you are. Tell me what you're hiding. Tell me why you think it matters more than this."

His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and you couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped at the contact. The sound seemed to break whatever restraint he'd been clinging to.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was everything you'd been craving and more—desperate, passionate, claiming. His hands tangled in your hair as he pulled you closer, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that matched your own. You melted into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kissed him back with equal fervor.

This wasn't the playful, teasing Wooyoung you'd grown accustomed to. This was pure alpha, pure need, pure desire finally unleashed.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were fully golden, the alpha glow unmistakable in the dim lighting of your bedroom.

"There," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction and desire. "No more pretending. No more games. Now tell me you don't feel it too."

Looking into his transformed eyes, feeling the way your body hummed with rightness at his touch, you realized that your carefully constructed walls had finally crumbled completely. There was no going back from this moment, no returning to the professional distance you'd tried so hard to maintain.

"I feel it," you whispered, the admission both terrifying and liberating. "I feel all of it. With all of you."

Wooyoung's smile was triumphant and tender as he laid you down. His breathing hard above you, radiating energy and satisfaction, but the hunger in his gaze said he was far from done.

He pulled back just enough to drag his shirt off, tossing it somewhere into the darkness, before returning to you—his bare chest warm against your skin. His hands settled at your hips and he tugged at the waistband of your shorts; there was no pretense of patience, just a raw urgency as he peeled them away, taking your underwear with them.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, eyes devouring every newly revealed inch, heat and reverence warring there. “Wish I could breathe you in—wish I could drown in your scent—” He cut himself off, frustration flaring, but his hands were sure as he spread your legs, kneeling between them. “Guess I’ll just have to taste you instead.”

Then his mouth was on you. The first slow drag of his tongue from your entrance up to your clit was deliberate—so, so deliberate—and your hips tried to jerk from the bed in answer. Wooyoung growled, low in his throat, holding you down as his tongue circled, flicked, lapped, learning your responses by sound and the tremors in your thighs.

The world narrowed to sensation: the heat of his tongue, the tease of his lips, his hair against your inner thighs, rough and ticklish. He was messy about it—no smooth choreography, just hunger and intent, making up for everything he couldn’t sense with pure appetite. You whimpered his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for anything to ground you.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, humming at your cry, then licked deeper—his tongue broad and hot, relentless—until there was only the build and build of pleasure, white-hot and unbearable. You were loud now, uncaring, every cry a thank you and a plea.

He only stopped when your thighs trembled against his cheeks, when you pleaded, broken-voiced, “Wooyoung, please—please, I need—I need—”

He growled “Let go. Now Tulip.”

You shattered with a cry, your whole body shaking.

When you finally catch your breath, body limp and aglow from Wooyoung’s unrestrained attention, you prop yourself on your elbows to look down at him. His hair is wild, lips slick and red, eyes smoky with pride and adoration—a little bit wrecked and loving it. The sight ignites something bold inside you.

Without breaking eye contact, you reach for him, fingers curling into his hair to bring him up, capturing his lips in a hungry, grateful kiss. You taste yourself on him and he moans into your mouth as if he’s never wanted anything more. You pull him close, rolling so you’re on top, knees bracketing his hips.

He laughs softly, surprised and delighted, letting his head sink back into the pillows. “Oh?” His hands settle on your thighs, stroking them encouragingly. “You wanna take over, Tulip?”

You smile, feeling a thrill at the way his voice—husky and playful—wraps around you. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I want you like this.”

He bites his lower lip, a flush creeping up his throat as he looks at you spread over him. “Whatever you want, I’m yours tonight,” he whispers. “Show me what my Tulip wants.”

Your heart thuds, but the words make you bold. You drag your palms slowly down his torso, watching him gasp and arch into you, sensitive and eager for more.

You shift, settling between his legs, and slide your hands down until you’re hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants. Wooyoung lifts his hips with a helpless little sound. “Take ‘em off,” he pleads, needy but so gentle. “I want to feel you—your hands, your mouth, whatever you want to give. Please, baby.”

You oblige, slowly, teasing him with little grazes of your nails as you drag the fabric away. His cock is heavy and flushed, impossibly hard, and your mouth waters at the sight. The urge to please him, to unravel him as thoroughly as he did you, takes over.

You wrap your hand around him, just enough to make him hiss, then look up through your lashes. “Tell me what you like, Wooyoung.”

He groans, his head tipping back, eyes dark gold with want. “Touch me—just like that. A little tighter, ah—yeah, that’s good—I love the way your hands feel on me.” He cards his fingers through your hair, not pushing, just anchoring.

You stroke him, noting every twitch, every whispered curse. He’s unguarded with you, rolling his hips into your hand, whispering encouragements: “You—fuck, you’re so pretty like this. You look so good between my legs, Tulip. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You lean down, brushing the head of his cock with your lips, then your tongue, just a soft swirl. He shivers, his hand tightening in your hair. “God, yes—just like that, baby…take your time. Don’t rush. I just want to feel you.”

You tease him, kitten-licks at first, loving the way he gasps—so responsive, so vocal for you. You trace the vein along the underside, stroke him with your tongue, taking him in slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him on your lips.

Wooyoung’s voice becomes your guide, a constant thread of affirmation. “That’s it, yeah…ah, you’re driving me fucking crazy. You look incredible—don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

You work your mouth and hand together, building a rhythm, watching his face for every clue—he’s a mess for you, eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading at his brow, chest heaving with every ragged breath. You hum around him, and he bucks his hips, barely holding back.

Suddenly, urgency overtakes him. “Wait—wait—slow down, I don’t wanna come yet, not so fast—” He pulls your hair gently, guiding you off him, then dragging you up for a breathless kiss. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he pants, nuzzling into your neck, “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect. I wanna last, I wanna remember every second with you.”

You giggle against his throat, giddy with power and affection, and grind your hips gently against his thigh. Wooyoung moans, hands sliding down to squeeze your waist, his cock pressed between you, slippery and aching. You reach down, stroking him again. 

You sink back down, taking him in hand and mouth once more, working him with careful, practiced flicks, all the while basking in his praise. “Yeah—fuck, yeah, you’re so good, Tulip…your mouth—your hands—can’t believe you’re doing this for me, letting me have you like this.”

When he starts to grow restless, hips flexing, you stroke him a little harder, licking the sensitive spot just beneath the tip. His breath stutters, his hand a tangle in your hair.

“Close—so close—baby, you gonna let me?” His words are a shudder, trembling with vulnerability and hope. “Gonna let me come for you? Want you to see, want you to know it’s you—only you—”

You hum your ‘yes’ and don’t let up, watching him unravel, pushed to the edge by just your mouth, your hand, and the knowledge that he’s yours to wreck, to comfort, to love. He groans your name—a long, strangled sound—and spills in your mouth and over your fingers, hips jerking upward.

He’s shaking in the aftermath, loose and glowing and utterly undone. You swallow, then crawl up to kiss his flushed cheek, his jaw, his lips. Wooyoung gathers you into his arms, pulling you close as if he never wants to let go.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers, brushing stray hair from your forehead, thumb stroking your cheek. “Thank you. I could do this forever with you. I want to.”

He kisses you soft and deep, then lets his hand drift, stroking your back, grounding you both. In the quiet that follows, his voice makes you feel cherished, safe, and wanted—exactly as you are.

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[anticipatedexhale]

Can I have this dance?<3

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, vander, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, ekko

☆ ◞ summary: sometimes music and you partner is all you need to forget about reality

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. Just tooth rotting fluff and also not proofread as usual.

Mel Medarda.

The grand estate you shared with Mel was eerily quiet. It was rare for her to find a moment away from the politics of Piltover, but tonight, the moonlight filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the room. She sat on the couch, a wine glass in her hand, lost in thought.

You approached her quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, her golden eyes meeting yours, and for the first time that day, the tension in her expression softened.

“Everything okay?” you asked gently.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, setting her glass down. “Sometimes I wonder if all the sacrifices are worth it.”

Without a word, you reached for the music player and turned the dial, filling the room with a soft, mellow tune. Mel raised an eyebrow as you held out your hand to her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, though the corners of her lips twitched in amusement.

“Distracting you,” you replied, your voice warm. “Dance with me.”

She hesitated for a moment, her calculating mind likely weighing the practicality of such a frivolous act. But when she slid her hand into yours, the tension melted away.

You pulled her to her feet, guiding her into the open space of the living room. The music wrapped around you both as you placed one hand on her waist and held her hand with the other. She followed your lead, her movements elegant and fluid.

“You know I’m not used to letting someone else take charge,” she teased, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

“Then trust me,” you said softly, twirling her gently.

Her laughter, rare and unguarded, filled the room. For those precious moments, the weight of her responsibilities faded, and she allowed herself to simply be.

---------------------------------------------------

Jayce Talis.

The lab was silent except for the faint hum of Hextech cores. Jayce sat at his desk, his head buried in his hands, the weight of the Council’s expectations pressing down on him. He’d spent the entire day navigating political minefields, attempting to convince Piltover’s elites that his inventions weren’t just weapons of war.

You entered quietly, carrying two mugs of tea. He didn’t even look up as you set one down in front of him.

“You’re going to burn out if you keep pushing like this,” you said softly, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“I can’t stop,” Jayce muttered. “If I do, it all falls apart. The Hexgates, the city’s future… everything.”

You placed a hand on his, squeezing gently. “You’re not in this alone, you know.”

He finally looked up, his tired eyes meeting yours. “I know. I just… sometimes it feels like I have to carry it all.”

You nodded, standing up and walking over to the phonograph in the corner of the room. “Then let me carry you for a little while.”

A soft, melodic tune began to play, filling the lab with warmth. Jayce blinked, a small smile tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion.

“Dancing? Now?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?” you replied, holding out your hand. “You need a break, and I need an excuse to be close to you.”

He chuckled, setting his work aside and taking your hand. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

As you pulled him into the open space of the lab, his movements were hesitant at first, the stress of the day still clinging to him. But as you swayed together, his body began to relax, the tension melting away.

“This is nice,” he admitted, his voice low.

“Told you,” you teased, resting your head against his chest.

Jayce’s arms tightened around you, and for a moment, the world outside the lab ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, the music, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

---------------------------------------------------

Viktor.

The soft glow of the workshop lamp illuminated Viktor’s figure, hunched over his desk. His cane leaned against the table, and his leg brace clicked faintly as he shifted in his seat. He was lost in his work, tinkering with a delicate piece of machinery, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You approached quietly, your footsteps soft against the floor. “Viktor,” you called gently.

He didn’t look up. “Just a moment,” he murmured, his voice tight with focus.

You placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention. “You’ve been at this for hours,” you said softly. “It’s time for a break.”

He sighed, setting down his tools and leaning back in his chair. “I cannot afford to stop now. There is still so much to do.”

“And none of it will matter if you run yourself into the ground,” you replied, your tone kind but firm. “Come on. Just five minutes with me.”

His golden eyes met yours, uncertainty flickering across his face. “And what do you have in mind?”

Instead of answering, you walked over to the small gramophone in the corner and selected a record. A gentle, soothing melody began to play, filling the room with warmth. You turned back to him, holding out your hand.

“Dance with me,” you said, your voice soft but inviting.

Viktor’s brow furrowed. “You know I cannot—”

“I know,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “I’m not asking for perfection. Just stand with me. Sway with me. That’s all.”

He hesitated, glancing at his cane. “I do not want to hold you back.”

“You could never hold me back,” you replied, taking his hand in yours. “Let me hold you instead.”

After a moment, Viktor rose slowly, leaning on you for support. You guided him to the open space in the room, your arm steady around his waist. His movements were hesitant, his weight carefully balanced, but you matched his pace, swaying gently to the music.

“This is… unconventional,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“So are you,” you teased, resting your forehead against his.

He chuckled softly, his hand tightening around yours. As the music played on, the tension in his posture eased, and he let himself lean into you, trusting you to guide him.

For those few moments, the world outside the workshop ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, the gentle rhythm of the music, and the quiet intimacy of being together.

When the song ended, Viktor sighed, a soft, contented sound. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with emotion.

“For what?” you asked, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“For reminding me that even with my limitations… I can still feel whole,” he replied, his gaze warm.

You smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “You’ve always been whole to me, Viktor.”

---------------------------------------------------

Caitlyn.

The clock struck midnight as Caitlyn finally stepped through the door, her uniform slightly scuffed and her boots leaving faint marks on the floor. You had been waiting for her, the sound of your footsteps drawing her tired gaze upward.

“Another night of chaos?” you asked softly, approaching her.

She sighed, rubbing her neck. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. Just… a bit more than I expected.”

You nodded, taking her coat and setting it aside. “Then you need something to remind you of the good in the world.”

She tilted her head, curious. “And what would that be?”

You didn’t answer, instead walking over to the small speaker on the counter. The soft strum of a classical waltz filled the air, and you turned back to her, holding out a hand.

“Care to join me?”

Caitlyn chuckled, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you replied, your smile widening.

With a small shake of her head, she took your hand, letting you pull her into the center of the room. Her posture was elegant, her steps precise, but there was a playfulness in her eyes that made your heart flutter.

“You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But only because you deserve it.”

Her expression softened, and she let you lead, her body swaying effortlessly with yours. The music wrapped around you both, creating a bubble of peace in the otherwise hectic world.

---------------------------------------------------

VI.

The room was buzzing with the afterglow of triumph. Vi had just returned from what felt like an impossible mission—freeing a group of Zaunites from a shady Piltover deal. It wasn’t just a win; it was a statement. She had pulled it off without casualties, a feat she rarely allowed herself to dream of.

As she stepped into your shared space, you were already waiting, grinning like you’d just seen the sun rise for the first time.

“Didn’t expect me back so soon, huh?” Vi teased, dropping her gauntlets by the door. Her smirk was proud, but you could tell she was still riding the adrenaline.

“Not gonna lie, I was preparing for a two-day brooding session without you,” you joked, walking up to her.

Vi rolled her eyes, but her smile softened as you placed your hands on her shoulders. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with me instead.”

“Guess so,” you said, leaning in to kiss her cheek before heading toward the corner of the room. You flicked on the record player, and a jazzy, upbeat tune spilled into the air.

Vi raised an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re celebrating, huh?”

“You bet we are,” you replied, holding out your hand. “You just saved a ton of people, Vi. That’s worth a dance or two.”

She hesitated, her confidence faltering just slightly. “Dunno if I’m any good at this kind of thing…”

“Good thing I am,” you said with a wink.

Reluctantly, she took your hand, and you pulled her into the open space of the room. Her movements were a little clumsy at first, but as you swayed together, she relaxed, letting herself enjoy the moment.

“You’re not half bad,” you teased, spinning her gently.

“Don’t get used to it,” she shot back, though her grin betrayed her enjoyment.

---------------------------------------------------

Jinx.

The hideout was a mess, as usual—scraps of metal, spray cans, and half-finished gadgets littered the floor. Jinx was perched on her workbench, muttering to herself as she scribbled something incomprehensible onto the wall. She’d been like this for hours, her mind a storm of ideas, plans, and the lingering echoes of a rough day.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching her. Her hair was wild, her movements twitchy, but you could tell she was holding something back—something darker.

“Jinx,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the silence.

Her head snapped toward you, her eyes narrowing for a moment before softening when she recognized you. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her tone half-relieved, half-guarded.

“You’ve been cooped up in here all day,” you said, stepping into the room. “You need a break.”

“I don’t need anything,” she shot back, her voice sharp, though it lacked its usual bite.

You walked over to the corner where an old, beat-up radio sat. With a click, soft music crackled to life—an upbeat, swaying tune that seemed completely out of place in her chaotic workshop.

“What are you doing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“Dancing,” you replied simply, holding out your hand.

Jinx stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “Dancing? Seriously? In here?”

“Why not?” you asked with a grin. “You’ve been running circles in your head all day. Let me spin you around instead.”

She blinked, caught off guard by your response. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, but there was a flicker of amusement in her voice.

“Maybe,” you said, stepping closer. “But you’re smiling now, aren’t you?”

Jinx scoffed but didn’t push you away when you gently took her hand. “Fine. But if I trip over something and fall, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” you said, guiding her into the small open space in the room.

She was awkward at first, her movements jerky and uncertain. But as the music filled the room and you began to sway together, she started to relax. A hesitant giggle escaped her lips, and it quickly turned into full-blown laughter when you spun her around, nearly knocking over a stack of spare parts.

“This is so dumb,” she said between laughs, though she didn’t pull away.

“And yet, you’re still here,” you teased, pulling her close.

Jinx grinned, her blue eyes sparkling in a way that made your heart ache. For a moment, she was just a girl lost in a carefree moment, free from the weight of her past and the chaos of her mind.

---------------------------------------------------

Ekko.

The Firelights’ hideout buzzed with energy—members coming and going, their voices blending with the faint hum of machinery. Ekko had been busy all day, bouncing between fixing gadgets, strategizing patrols, and keeping everyone safe. You hadn’t seen him stop once, even to catch his breath.

When the group finally dispersed for the night, you found him outside, perched on the edge of a broken rooftop overlooking the dimly lit streets of Zaun. His hood was pulled back, revealing the tired lines on his face, but his eyes were still sharp, scanning the city below.

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” you called gently, stepping out into the cool night air.

Ekko turned, his lips curving into a small smile when he saw you. “Can’t afford to,” he replied, though the weariness in his voice betrayed him.

“You’ve done enough for one day,” you said, walking up beside him. “The city will still be here tomorrow. You need to take a moment for yourself.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “And what would I even do with a moment to myself?”

You grinned, holding out your hand. “You’d dance with me.”

Ekko blinked, caught off guard. “Dance? Out here? On this rooftop?”

“Why not?” you asked, your tone light. “It’s quiet, the stars are out, and you need a reason to stop thinking for a bit.”

He hesitated, glancing down at your hand. “You’re serious?”

“Always,” you replied, taking a step closer. “Come on, Ekko. Humor me.”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh, standing and taking your hand. “Alright, but if I fall, you’re taking the blame.”

“You won’t fall,” you said, pulling him into the open space of the rooftop.

With no music to guide you, the two of you swayed to the rhythm of the city—the distant hum of machinery, the faint whispers of wind through the alleyways. Ekko was stiff at first, his movements uncertain, but you didn’t let go, guiding him gently.

“You’re supposed to be leading,” you teased after a moment.

“Pretty sure you’re better at this than I am,” he shot back, a smirk playing on his lips.

You laughed, spinning him anyway, the sound of your joy breaking through the heavy air of Zaun. Slowly, his body relaxed, and he began to move with more confidence, his steps matching yours.

“This is kinda nice,” he admitted after a while, his voice softer.

“Told you,” you replied, resting your forehead against his.

For a while, neither of you spoke, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Ekko’s hands were steady on your waist, his gaze fixed on yours as if you were the only thing grounding him.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured, his tone filled with quiet gratitude.

“Dancing?” you asked with a teasing smile.

“Making things feel… less heavy,” he replied, his expression soft. “Like maybe it’s okay to stop fighting for a little while.”

You leaned up, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “It’s always okay. You don’t have to carry everything alone, Ekko.”

---------------------------------------------------

Vander.

The bar was closed for the night, the chairs stacked on tables and the lights dimmed. Vander leaned against the counter, his large frame casting a shadow over the worn wood. He was nursing a glass of whiskey, his expression distant.

You approached him, placing a hand on his arm. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” you said gently.

He sighed, setting the glass down. “Just thinking. About the kids, about Zaun… about everything.”

You nodded, understanding the weight he carried. Without a word, you walked over to the old radio on the shelf and turned the dial. A soft, nostalgic tune began to play, filling the room with warmth.

Vander raised an eyebrow. “What’re you up to?”

“Dance with me,” you said simply, holding out your hand.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” you replied, your smile unwavering.

With a small shake of his head, he stood and took your hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around yours. You guided him into the center of the room, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his size.

“You’re not half bad at this,” you teased, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Used to dance all the time,” he admitted. “Back when things were… simpler.”

As the music played on, the two of you swayed together, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten. Vander’s arms were strong and steady around you, grounding you in a way that no one else could.

[xo100]

A night on the beach - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary: At a beach party, you feel out of place until Lando Norris, who’s unexpectedly there, helps you navigate the chaos. Despite your shyness, his charm puts you at ease, and the two of you connect over quiet joys like sunsets. By the end of the night, standing together by the shore, you realize stepping out of your comfort zone was worth it.

*:･ﾟ Word count: 1629

masterlist / community / request

౨ৎ

The beach was alive with music, laughter, and the crashing of waves under the soft glow of string lights. The party buzzed with life, but you couldn’t help feeling like a misplaced puzzle piece in this loud, chaotic world. You clutched your small green purse, adjusting the delicate straps of your pastel dress, a masterpiece of soft fabric and embroidered flowers that caught the moonlight beautifully. It was Lucy who convinced you to come, practically dragging you here despite your protests. She called it “breaking out of your shell,” but you were pretty sure your shell was perfectly fine.

You hadn’t even wanted to leave the car earlier, yet here you were, standing awkwardly near the bar. The crowd pressed in around you as people ordered cocktails and chatted animatedly. You weren’t drinking—never did—and trying to get the bartender’s attention felt like navigating a minefield of tipsy strangers. You craned your neck, softly mumbling “excuse me” every now and then, but your words were swallowed by the music.

Lando Norris wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this part of town. Tonight, his name had been written on the guest list of an exclusive gala, complete with black ties, red carpets, and cameras flashing at every turn. He had the perfect black suit tailored for it, ready to make a sharp, polished appearance. But life had other plans. A series of delays and last-minute cancellations had left him unexpectedly free for the evening. On a whim, he decided to wander—just drive until something caught his attention. That’s when he saw it: the soft glow of lights on the beach, the sound of faint music carried on the wind. A party. No pressure, no obligations. Just... people.

It was impulsive, but he stopped anyway. Walking toward the bar, he loosened the collar of his suit, blending into the crowd effortlessly despite his fame. He wasn’t there to be noticed, just to enjoy the anonymity for a little while. But then, he noticed you.

You stood out, not in an ostentatious way, but in the way that draws eyes without trying. There was something inherently endearing about the way you fidgeted, your hands brushing the hem of your dress nervously as you struggled to get the bartender’s attention. You looked so out of place in the sea of wild laughter and carefree dancing, a quiet sort of beauty like a flower blooming amidst chaos.

Lando found himself stepping closer, weaving through the crowd toward you without a second thought.

“Need some help?” His voice cut through the music, warm and playful. You turned, startled, and there he was—a man who looked far too charming for his own good, even with his shirt slightly undone and his tousled curls catching the breeze. His grin was lopsided but kind, his eyes sparkling like he was in on some secret joke.

You blinked at him, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was. “I... uh... I’m just trying to get a soda,” you admitted shyly, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Non-alcoholic.”

His grin widened. “The sober one at a beach party. Brave.”

You opened your mouth to respond but faltered. Small talk wasn’t your forte, and this was... a lot. He didn’t seem to mind the awkward pause, though. Instead, he leaned slightly against the bar, signaling the bartender with a practiced ease. A moment later, a soda was slid across the counter toward you.

“There,” he said, as if he’d just performed a heroic act. “Saved you the hassle.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, clutching the cold glass as if it were a lifeline.

He tilted his head, studying you with a curious smile. “Not much of a party person, huh?”

“Not really,” you admitted, glancing down at your drink. “My friend dragged me here.”

“Let me guess,” he said, leaning in slightly. “She said something about needing to live a little?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “Exactly that.”

Lando’s smile softened at the sound of your laugh. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not much of a party person either.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, skeptical. “Really? You seem... comfortable.”

He shrugged. “I’m good at pretending. Perks of the job.” There was a playful glint in his eye, but something about the way he said it felt genuine. “But you... you’re honest about it. I like that.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. Compliments weren’t something you were used to, especially not from strangers who looked like they belonged in glossy magazines. You took a sip of your soda, hoping it would hide the blush creeping up your neck.

Lando didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. If anything, he seemed content just standing there, the chaos of the party fading into the background as he focused on you. “So, if you’re not a party person, what’s your thing?”

“My thing?” you echoed, buying yourself a moment to think. “Um... I don’t know. I like quiet things. Books, movies... sunsets, I guess.”

He smiled. “Sunsets are a solid choice.”

“What about you?” you asked, surprising yourself with the question.

“Me?” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if the question caught him off guard. “I guess I like... racing.”

“Racing?” Your eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. “Like cars?”

“Something like that,” he said with a grin, clearly amused by your lack of recognition. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll show you sometime. If you’re interested.”

The offer hung in the air between you, and for the first time that night, you felt a spark of something new—something exciting. Maybe Lucy dragging you to this party wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You hesitated, glancing down at your drink as you processed his words. He wanted to see you again? You weren’t used to this kind of attention, and you didn’t want to overthink it—but it was hard not to. Lando, on the other hand, seemed entirely at ease, waiting patiently for your response, his smile soft and encouraging.

“I think... I’d like that,” you finally said, your voice barely above the sound of the waves crashing behind you.

His grin widened, and he straightened up slightly, looking undeniably pleased. “Good. It’s a deal then.”

The air between you shifted, lighter somehow. You didn’t feel quite as out of place anymore, even as the party continued to hum around you. He leaned back against the bar, his body turned slightly toward you, as if you were the only person worth talking to tonight.

“So,” he started again, his voice teasing, “what’s a quiet, sunset-loving introvert doing in a dress like that? Not that I’m complaining—definitely not—but it doesn’t exactly scream ‘low profile.’”

You laughed softly, your cheeks heating up. “Lucy again. She said it would be a crime not to wear it.” You glanced down at the soft green fabric, the embroidered flowers trailing along the straps. “I guess I thought it might help me fit in.”

He tilted his head, his eyes scanning the dress for a brief moment before meeting yours again. “You don’t need a dress to fit in,” he said gently. “But for what it’s worth, it suits you. The color, the flowers—it’s... soft. Like you.”

The way he said it wasn’t like a typical pick-up line. It wasn’t overdone or cocky. It felt real. And that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thanks,” you murmured, looking away, unsure how to handle his gaze. You took another sip of your soda, hoping it would cool the flush on your face.

He let the moment linger for just a second longer before breaking the tension. “So, what do we do now?” he asked, his voice light and playful. “Want me to rescue you from this party, or are we braving it together?”

You looked at him, surprised by the question. He was giving you an out—a way to leave the noise and chaos without judgment. Part of you wanted to say yes, to let him lead you away to somewhere quieter, safer. But another part of you—the part that had spent so much of your life hiding away—wanted to try something different.

“I think...” You paused, glancing at the crowd. Lucy was nowhere in sight, probably lost in the music or talking to someone. “I think I can stay. If you’re here, that is.”

His smile turned softer, his eyes warm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t. For the rest of the night, Lando stayed by your side. He didn’t push you to dance or drink or do anything outside of your comfort zone. Instead, he talked with you—about sunsets, about racing, about the little things that made him laugh. He made you feel like you belonged, not just at the party but in that moment, with him.

When the party finally started to wind down, the music fading and the crowd thinning, he walked you toward the shoreline. The water shimmered under the moonlight, and the two of you stood there, your dress catching the breeze as the waves lapped at your feet.

“See?” he said quietly, his voice just above a whisper. “Sunsets aren’t the only thing worth staying for.”

You turned to him, the sound of the ocean filling the silence between you. His gaze was steady, his expression open. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel shy or awkward. You smiled back, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer air.

Maybe parties weren’t your thing. But tonight? Tonight felt different. Tonight felt like the beginning of something you didn’t even know you were waiting for.

౨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, love’s! Hope you all enjoyed it! If there is something wrong or need to be edited, let me know!

*:･ﾟtags; @spookbusters-jr

[rebelspykatie]

Steve’s never had anyone show any genuine interest in the things he likes. Robin rolls her eyes when he brings up sports or silly movies that don’t have a bigger plot or character work. Even though she played soccer, she doesn’t care about it in the same way that Steve cares about basketball or football. 

The kids make fun of everything from his taste in music to his choice in snacks for movie nights. Mike calls him a little housewife for baking one time and he never shows up with cookies again. They’re never intentionally mean spirited, or at least he doesn’t think so. He knows he can give as good as he gets when it comes to catty, sarcastic comments, but he tries to steer clear of personal attacks on someone’s identity these days. He learned that lesson with Jonathan. 

But even before the party came along, it was like that. His parents never stuck around long enough to find out what he was up to, never attending a game or meet, and certainly in the dark about what he might be up to outside of school. Tommy only ever cared about himself and Carol, only following Steve around for clout, popularity by association. If he asked him right now, he’d bet a lot of money that Tommy doesn’t even remember his favorite food or the movie he used to watch when he was sick. There was a point where he thought he could share things with him. Until he realized mid ramble about sports cars that Tommy wasn’t even listening to him. He was staring at Carol and nodding along with a vacant expression. 

So he stopped sharing. Stopped caring if people knew anything about him because they never asked. People always made assumptions about him anyway. The girls he slept with only wanted one thing. The kids were happy to let him chauffeur them around with no questions asked. Robin was the only one he let in, the only one that cared about digging deeper. But, and she never said in so many words, he could tell that she thought his interests were mundane, and clearly not something that sparked any enthusiasm from her. She couldn’t even keep up with the girls he slept with, giving him the same bored stare as Tommy. 

Even now, after a few years, Steve’s reminded that they never would have become friends if not for trauma and the secret inner workings of the Russian’s within Hawkins. He’s lucky to have her, but he doesn’t think she ever would’ve chosen this, chosen him. And that’s fine. He’s used to not being chosen. His parents didn’t choose him when they started leaving him alone at age 12. Tommy and Carol chose each other and the reign of a new king when Steve fell from his throne. Nancy chose Jonathan. 

He doesn’t think he has a lot to offer. 

Well, at least until Eddie comes along. He’s taken by surprise when Eddie asks after the song that’s playing in his car. He’d assumed Eddie only liked metal music, and yeah he pokes fun at the genre of music Steve seems to stick to, begging him to give metal a shot, but he doesn’t say a word about how lame it is. When they’re having a movie night, Eddie notices that Steve gravitates towards coke and brings him one without Steve asking.

After Eddie sees his bedroom, Steve gets a pack of hot wheels for Christmas. Eddie jokes that he should give one to each of the kids as their new ride, since they seem to be ungrateful little twerps. Steve places them right under his posters on his dresser and Eddie grins at them every time he comes over. They lay in bed and pretend to drive them on the ceiling like they’re kids again. It shakes something loose in Steve’s chest. 

Eddie hates sports, but he invites Steve over on Mondays, when Wayne is perched in his chair for football. He quietly works on his campaigns while Steve and Wayne watch the games. Eddie somehow worms his way into Steve’s heart, digging deeper and deeper with each new thing, like he wants to know more. Steve’s history is a minefield, but Eddie expertly navigates through it, leaving who they were behind, building something new together. Steve’s already halfway in love with him before he even realizes that Eddie is something that he likes. 

He expects to freak out a bit more, but who is going to stop him? Who is going to care if he wants to be with this boy? He’s spent so long ignoring parts of himself for others that he wants to cherish this fragile thing, to cradle it in his hands, make sure no one can ruin it for him. When he kisses Eddie, it feels like coming home, like he’s finally found that place he’s been searching for his whole life. It’s a kind of devotion that Steve’s not used to, born of love and not obsession or jealousy or anger. 

He’s not sure he deserves it, but he’ll do everything in his power to keep it.

[anchovies-4-dinner]

’I can’t stop cheating on my loving boyfriends’ simulator

Tag so dry I had to make a game to cope (ಥ_ಥ)

You're a Ticket Agent for the Astral Express. Despite the lively co-workers/customers, your life was very mundane, until one day two regulars confess their love to you.

You jump on the chance to live your own drama and accept them both. However, upon discovering their true natures, the genre shifts to one of survival as this secret could mean life or death.

What the fuck did you get yourself into?

Images containing blood and glitches below, implications of suicide

Do you know how much trouble gifs give me? Half the day was my app failing to export 💀

Backstories

Argenti’s family was poor and on the verge of being evicted, so you could understand their surprise when a stranger offered them a deal:

Join their religion in exchange for a life of comfort.

After much deliberation and little to lose they agreed. It was quickly discovered that the group was a cult who believed Argenti to be a reincarnation of Idrilla due to his beauty. For the remainder of his childhood, the child was spoiled but devoid of physical contact.

It wasn't until the first sacrifice that his parents realised what danger they were in.

The family tried to escape but were caught. Before Argenti's eyes, his parents were torn apart by the enraged cultists - accidently soaking him with 'impurity'. What followed... he couldn't remember. But since then, Idrilla has been visiting him in his sleep.

On his 15th birthday, the cult was busted by police due to members embezzling money from work. The majority were sent to prison, leaving Argenti to be adopted by a martial artist.

He completed intensive therapy and no longer thinks himself a deity; rather, unbeknownst to others, he had been searching for Idrilla.

And now, he's finally found his God - even if you insist otherwise.

Sunday thought his family was happy. Even when his Mother would enter catatonic slumps, he thought it was due to her 'illness'.

It wasn't until Robin's birth that he realised the truth; His Mother had an outburst and almost choked him to death, screaming how 'they ruined her life'. Since then, he's tried his best to please her to no avail.

His Father reassured him that she wasn't herself, yet from all the years of her smiling, Sunday could tell this was her true face. The Mother no longer pretended, even when Robin cried from neglect and her husband drowned her in luxury.

There were times he questioned if his Father, for all his good intentions, was doing anything right. When he brought this up, the man merely stated that this was love - and when you are truly taken, you should never let go.

It was a Sunday when his Mother returned to 'normal'. The family dared to believe everything was fine, and eventually, she was granted more freedom.

Freedom that took his Mother away.

Sunday still recalls what his Father told him that day as her coffin lowered into the ground. He remembers it every time you walk away from him.

No, he won't be anything like his Father. He'll be better.

Tips

Argenti: Play along with the Idrilla facade and you'll be fine. Unlike Sunday, he believes what he is doing is right, so don't waste your breath trying to reason with him. It's pretty hard to get onto his bad side unless you shatter his delusions - in which case, to him, everything is on the table.

Sunday: Interacting with him is like navigating a minefield in the dark. You never know what he's truly thinking until it's too late, however, if you lay low and pretend to be agreeable you may buy enough time to escape. Don't let it run on for too long, and keep your documents hidden.

Do not break up with them. That is quite literally the worst thing you could do. And God forbid they find out about each other.

Endings

These are just examples. More may be added later on

Mr Worldwide [Good]: Successfully change your identity and leave the country without telling anyone

I Love Democracy [Bad]: Aggravate both Sunday and Argenti so bad they become friends, join forces, and 'share' you (see Extras)

I Like Trains [Neutral]: Provoke Sunday and let him chase you on the train tracks. Get his leg stuck and watch the Astral Express run him over (This does not save you from Argenti)

Eat the Rich [Good]: Give Sunday an overdose and kill him without incriminating yourself. Meet Robin at the funeral and successfully evade her suspicion (do not get her interested in you). Get Argenti admitted to an asylum indefinitely. Profit

Godzilla or King Kong? [Good]: Instigate Sunday and Argenti's conflict without incriminating yourself and get them to kill each other

Hasta la Vista, Baby [Bad]: Tell Argenti about Sunday. Let him burn Sunday's house down with Gopher inside. Drain Sunday's money. Confess your involvement to Sunday about his demise over text. Condemn Argenti over text and push him to the brink. Wait for either of them to kill you (randomised) (see Extras)

Extras

The second is a placeholder CG

When is this game coming out? NEVER

[bumblebeeswrite]

how about

“I’m too tired to fight anymore” with Eddie 🥹🥹

Static & Silence | Eddie Munson

summary: you’re left behind in Hawkins while Eddie lives his dream.

Word count: 2,956

CW: smut, angst, burn out, emotional exhaustion, relationship strain, fame, physical distance, hurt/comfort, loneliness, anxiety, breakdown

this has been done a hundred times before but enjoy anyway, also hated the bottom half of this but spent hours on it so enjoy 🎉😭

Hawkins felt suffocatingly quiet tonight. Not the eerie quiet of past dangers, but the hollow silence left by absence. Your shared apartment- the one you'd finally been able to afford after Corroded Coffin's advance came through, the one that was supposed to be your haven- felt cavernously empty without Eddie. His spare guitars leaned silent in the corner, his collection of horror movie posters seemed to mock you from the walls, even his perpetually messy pile of D&D manuals felt like a monument to life pausing while he was gone.

Eight months. Eight months since the band had exploded, and eight months of him living out of a tour bus and cheap hotels, chasing the dream across state lines while you stayed here, tethered to the life you'd built together, now feeling frayed at the edges.

You glanced at the clock on the microwave. 11:17 pm. Which meant it was.. what? 9:17 in Denver? Maybe 8:17 if they were further west already. Keeping track of the time zones had become a dizzying chore. He was supposed to call after their soundcheck, before the show tonight. That had been three hours ago.

Your stomach twisted with a familiar knot of anxiety and resentment you hated feeling. You were proud of him, fiercely proud. Seeing videos from fans posted online of him commanding stages, unleashing that wild, magnetic energy that you adored- it filled you with so much joy. But the joy was increasingly replaced with the sharp ache of loneliness and the frustrating static of disconnection.

Phone calls were rushed, often interrupted by roadies shouting or his manager needing something. Conversations felt like navigating a minefield of exhaustion on his end and carefully suppressed neediness on yours. You tried to be understanding, you really did. This was everything he ever wanted. But god, you missed him. You missed the easy intimacy, the shared jokes, the feeling of his hand instinctively finding yours in the dark. You missed Eddie, not the increasingly distant rockstar whose voice sometimes sounded like a stranger's over the crackling long distance line.

The phone finally rang, startling you out of your melancholy moment. You snatched it up before the second ring finished. "Eddie?"

"Hey," his voice came through, rougher than usually, muffled slightly by a low thrum of background noise; muffled music, indistinct chatter. He sounded far away, not just geographically.

"Hey," you replied, trying to keep your tone light, pushing down the 'three hours late' comment bubbling forward on your tongue. "How was the soundcheck?"

"Loud," he said, a familiar tired refrain. "Fine. Whatever. Guitars sounded okay."

There was a pause. Usually, he'd launch into some crazy story, some complaint about the venue's acoustics or a joke about Gareth's latest mishap. Tonight, just.. static. Figurative and almost literal.

"You okay?" you ventured, the question feeling fragile. "You sound.. wiped."

A heavy sigh crackled through the line. "Yeah. Just. Long day. Long week. Long fucking month." He didn't elaborate.

"Did you eat anything?" You asked, falling back on caretaker questions because you didn't know what else to say.

"Uh, yeah. Think so. Some pizza backstage. Cold." Another pause. Then, "How's, uh.. how's Hawkins?"

The question felt obligatory. "Quiet," you said, the word tasting bitter. "Same old. Steve swung by yesterday, asked if you'd beamed back from outer space yet." You tried for a lighthearted tone, hoping for a chuckle, some spark of the old Eddie.

Instead, he grunted. "Right."

Frustration finally won over, hot and sharp. "Eddie, what's going on? You sound like you're on another planet. You were supposed to call hours ago. Are you even listening to me?"

"Jesus, what do you want?" He snapped, the sudden anger in his voice making you recoil a few inches from the phone. "I'm calling now, aren't I? I'm fucking trying. There was some shit with the lighting rig and Jeff needed to go over the setlist changes again, and I had to do some bullshit local radio interview that ran late. Sorry if my entire goddamn life doesn't revolve around Hawkins time anymore!"

"This isn't about time zones!" You retorted, tears stinging your eyes unexpectedly. Damn, you had tried not to cry. "It's about us! It feels like we're drifting apart, Teddie! Like I'm just some.. optional part of your life you check in with when it pleases you to remember I exist!"

"Optional?" His voice rose, laced with disbelief and hurt. "Are you kidding me? Everything I'm doing here, busting my balls day in and day out, dealing with all this insane pressure- you think that's optional? This is for us, fuck! I told you that! So maybe you could try being a little fucking supportive instead of making me feel worse than I already do!"

"Supportive? I am supportive!" You cried, the tears finally springing free and dripping down your cheeks. "I'm here, holding down our life while you're gone! I cheer you on from thousands of miles away! I listen to you vent about the band and the stress! But what about me, Teddie? What about how lonely it is here without you? What about the fact that I feel like I'm talking to a ghost half the time?"

There was a heavy silence on the line, broken only by the background noise on his end and your own choked breaths. You could picture him perfectly, running a hand violently through his hair, pacing whatever cramped backstage room he was in, jaw tight, eyes flashing with anger and exhaustion.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly flat. Devoid of anger, devoid of energy.. just empty.

"I can't do this."

Your blood ran cold. "Do what? What are you saying?"

"This," He clarified, his voice barely a whisper. "This.. fighting. Constantly feeling like I'm failing. Failing the band, failing you. Trying to bridge this fucking distance all the time. Trying to make things okay when they're clearly not." He took a ragged breath, and the next words shattered the remaining piece of your composure.

"I'm too tired to fight anymore."

It wasn't a threat to end things. It was a confession of depletion. A white flag waved not in surrender of the relationship, but in surrender to the crushing weight of trying to maintain it across miles while drowning in the demands of his new reality. He sounded broken. Utterly and terrifying.

The anger drained out of you instantly, replaced by a wave of cold dread and empathy. This wasn't your rockstar boyfriend being neglectful; this was the man you loved buckling under an impossible strain, feeling isolated despite being surrounded by noise and people, and convinced he was failing the one person who mattered most.

"Eddie.." you whispered, your own voice trembling. "Oh, honey.. no. Don't say that."

A choked sound came through the phone, something painfully close to a sob. "It's true." I'm so tired. I miss you so fucking much it physically hurts. But then I call and I'm exhausted or distracted, or I say the wrong thing, and we end up fighting. And I.. I just can't keep doing it. I feel like I'm screwing everything up."

"You're not screwing anything up." You insisted, sinking onto the floor, leaning against the cabinets, clutching onto the phone like a lifeline, like you could somehow summon him out of it by holding it tight enough.

"You're just.. overwhelmed. You're burning out, Eds. This pace is insane."

"Then what's the point?" He asked, the question raw with despair. "What's the point of chasing this dream if it costs me.. this? Us?"

"Hey," you said softly but firmly, forcing what little strength you had left into your voice. "Don't talk like that. We're stronger than this. You're stronger than this. We just.. we need to figure it out. Together." You paused, taking a deep breath, the frantic energy of worry settling into your chest.

"Okay- look, what if-.. I can take some time off work. Maybe try and fly out next week-. Where are you playing next?"

"What?" He sounded stunned. "No! You can't just-"

"Yes, I can." You interrupted gently. "Let me come see you. Just for a few days. We need to see each other. Properly. Not like this."

There was a long pause on the line, filled only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. "You'd really do that?" He asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

"In a heartbeat." you promised. "Just tell me where to go."

He told you- Salt Lake City, six days from now. The relief in his voice was obvious, a tiny flicker of light in the oppressive darkness that was now his life. You talked for a little longer, the conversation softer now, navigating the logistics, the earlier anger replaced by a fragile tenderness. He had to go- the call for stage time was approaching. But the goodbye wasn't strained this time, it held a promise.

Six days later, you were standing nervously outside a non-descript hotel near the Salt Lake City airport, your small duffel bag at your feet. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Seeing him walk out of the automatic doors, looking even more tired in the harsh daylight than he sounded over the phone, made your breath catch.

He stopped dead when he saw you, his eyes widening slightly, as if he couldn't believe you were real and not a figment of his imagination. He hadn't changed much- ripped jeans, band shirt under his own denim vest, messy hair tied back loosely behind his ears. But the exhaustion was carved into his features, deep lines around his eyes and mouth.

Eddie didn't say anything. He just started moving, covering the distance between you in a few long strides, and then you were wrapped in his arms, crushing you against him with a force that spoke everything that words never could. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling that familiar sent of peppermint gum and cigarette smoke. He tangled one hand in your hair, holding your head against him, while the other arm banded around your waist like steel, holding you as though he was afraid you would float away.

"You came," he murmured into your hair, voice cracking slightly.

"Told you I would." you mumbled back against his shirt.

He held you there for a long moment, just breathing each other in, taking time to finally understand there were no longer thousands of miles between you. When he finally pulled back, his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his brown eyes roaming your face with a tenderness you'd almost forgotten entirely.

"God, I missed you." he whispered, swallowing down a small cry.

"I missed you too." You replied, leaning into his touch, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of his hand.

He didn't let go, just steered you into the hotel, through the bland lobby, and into the elevator, his arm secured around you the entire time.

The silence wasn't awkward; it was heavy with emotion, with the sheer relief of physical presence after months of strained phone called and lonely nights.

Inside his equally bland hotel room, clothes spilling out of a suitcase, guitar case leaning against the wall, room service tray from breakfast still on the desk- the closed the door and turned to you. Now there was an intensity to his gaze. But this time it wasn't frustration or tiredness. It was need. Undisguised need.

He stepped closer, framing your face with his hands again. "This," he said, his voice low and rough. "You, here. This is what I needed. What we needed."

And then he kissed you. It wasn't hesitant like your first reunion kiss might have been under other circumstances. It was deep and hungry, almost desperate- a kiss that poured out all the loneliness, the frustration, the fear, and the overwhelming relief of finally being together again. You responded with equal hunger, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer, trying to erase every mile that had ever separated you.

His mouth slanted over yours, tongues tangling in a dance you had craved for months; both comfortable and electric. His hands slid down your back, one mapping the curve of your spine while the other dipped lower, pulling your hips flush against his.

Clothes started coming off, shed with an urgency born not just of lust, but of a need to eliminate every barrier between you. Buttons were fumbled with quiet laughter, zippers lowered hastily, fabrics pooling around your feet on the generic hotel carpet. The cold air hit your skin, but the heat radiating from Eddie, the fire in his eyes as he looked at you, it was enough to have you flushed.

He backed you towards the bed, his gaze locked with yours, never breaking eye contact. He lowered you onto the mattress- thankfully less lumpy than you had expected, and followed you down, his body covering yours, a warm and solid weight that felt like coming home.

"Eddie," you breathed, reaching up to undo the hair tie that kept his hair behind his head. It fell down over your fingers, and you tangled them in it to pull his face back down to yours.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense. His hand moved between your legs, fingers finding your heat through the thin barrier of your underwear. You gasped as he began to rub gentle circles over your clit through the material, the friction sending shockwaves through you after so long without him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips.

He broke the kiss, trailing we and open mouthed kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer. "Need you, pretty girl," he rasped against your skin. "Need this. Need us."

He was quick to pull off the underwear separating you. His finger immediately finding your slick folds, slipping inside you easily. You whined against his shoulder, the sudden intimacy almost overwhelming after so much time apart. He moved his fingers with a knowing touch, rediscovering your body, relearning what made you gasp and writhe.

Eddie watched your face, his own expression soft with need and tenderness. Seeing your pleasure seemed to ground him, pulling him slowly from the vortex that had been consuming him. He was entirely present in the moment. With you.

"Please, Eds." you gasped out, reaching for the waistband of his jeans, needing to feel him inside you.

He helped you shuck off his jeans and briefs before quickly settling between your legs again. He paused, looking down on you with so much emotion it made your breath catch. Then, with the care and love you'd been so desperately craving, he pushed inside.

Your head fell back against the pillows as you clutched at his shoulders. When he filled you completely, he stayed still for a moment, buried deep; letting you both savor the feeling of reunion, of rightness. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "I love you." He whispered, making your eyes open slowly to gaze up at him.

"I love you. Always." You promised. He began to move, a slow deep rhythm that felt like worship. One of Eddie's strong hands caught the back of your knee, pushing it back and over his shoulder, his rings cold on your skin.

Each thrust was deliberate, possessive, reclaiming. It wasn't just sex; it was communication, a physical conversation making up for all the static and silence. He poured his longing, his fear, his love into every movement.

You met his rhythm, moving with him, hands exploring the familiar territory of his back, his shoulders, his hair. You kissed him, deeply, fiercely, trying to pour everything back to him, just as he was doing for you. The world outside the hotel room door- the band, the tour, the demands, everything ceased to exist. There was only this bed, this moment, his body moving with yours, the shared breaths, the low groans, and soft cries mingling in the quiet room.

The pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, driving your body closer to the head of the bed. There was no hint of exhaustion within him now.

His head dropped onto your chest and between the grunts he kissed your anywhere he could reach.

"Eddie!" you cried out as the climax slammed into you, stealing your breath, making your body arch and convulse around him. Your release triggered his own; with a hoarse cry of your name, he surged into you one last time, finding his own shattering release deep inside you.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison. He didn't pull away, just collapsed beside you, gathering you into his arms, holding you tightly against his side. He buried his face in your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.

The silence that followed was peaceful, intimate. The fight wasn't over, not really. The distance, the pressures – they were still real challenges you’d have to face. But here, now, wrapped in his arms, the static felt cleared. You had found your way back to each other through the noise.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you for coming," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and emotion. "Needed this. Needed you."

"Me too," you whispered, closing your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. It was the most comforting sound in the world. You didn't know how you'd navigate the coming months, but you knew you'd face it together. The fight wasn't over, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like he was fighting it alone. And right now, that was everything.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤNOT THE ONE FOR YOU * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　in a seemingly perfect relationship, Y/N and Matt face a silent storm when Y/N, after appearing in a video on Matt's personal channel, is the target of cruel comments that leave her feeling inadequate. Unable to share her insecurities, Y/N distance herself from Matt, wallowing in self-criticism and painful comparisons, until he snaps.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　crying, insecurities, comparison, yelling, fighting.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Y/N felt the weight of the world on her shoulders as she tried to navigate the dark mazes of her mind. Since she appeared in the last video on Matt's personal channel, everything had changed. The acidic words of the "fans' comments burned in her memory, leaving deep marks.

It was a vlog-type video, where the couple was spending the day walking through parks, going to museums and strolling through the mall, but comments like "She's not good enough for him", "Matt deserves someone better" and "The other YouTubers' girlfriends are better than this" filled the comments box and echoed in her mind constantly.

What was once a stable and loving relationship now turned into a minefield of insecurities.

Y/N began to see herself through the distorted lens of the comments. She endlessly compared herself to other women on social media – the influencers with flawless skin, sculpted bodies, and perfect smiles. Each comparison only served to erode her self-esteem even more. She wondered what Matt saw in her and if, perhaps, those people were right.

This whirlwind of insecurities made her distance herself from Matt. She avoided dates, responded to his texts in a short and evasive way, and when they were together, her mind was always distant, immersed in thoughts of inadequacy. Matt, in turn, noticed the change but didn't understand the depth of what was happening.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The morning after the video came out, Y/N and Matt sat down at the kitchen table for breakfast. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the kitchen, along with the random sounds of Nick and Chris echoing through the house, but the silence between the couple was deafening. Matt was engrossed in his phone, responding to emails and interacting with his followers.

Y/N, on the other hand, could barely look at him. The words of the comments were eating her up inside.

"Good morning, baby." Matt murmured when noticing her presence long minutes after she had entered the room without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Good morning." Y/N responded, trying to hide the anguish in her voice, her teeth gripping her bottom lip in a death grip, restraining herself from saying anything else.

She stirred the stainless steel spoon inside the white bowl full of cereal, without appetite. Her mind returned to the nasty comments, each word a knife in her heart. She felt inadequate and inferior.

Her eyes occasionally glanced at Matt, who looked so happy and self-assured, and wondered how he could love her when so many people thought she wasn't good enough. When he had thousands of better options than her.

"Do you wanna go to the mall today?" Matt asked, looking up from his phone in confusion seconds after, noticing the unusual silence. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, I am." Y/N lied quickly, nodding her head and forcing a smile. "I just didn't sleep well. Maybe I should stay home today." She shrugged, maintaining eye contact.

Matt accepted the answer without question, returning his attention to the phone a few seconds later. For Y/N, it was a momentary relief, but the pain was still latent, pulsing.

How had he not noticed the sea of ​​pain in her eyes?

Maybe he didn't care anymore.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

A few weeks later, Matt decided to take Y/N out to dinner at a restaurant they both loved. He wanted to cheer her up, realizing that she had been distant the last few days. However, Y/N could not escape the mental prison she had constructed.

As they sat, Matt excitedly talked about his new ideas for the Sturniolo Triplets channel and how excited he was to be able to vlog and stream again. Y/N tried to pay attention, nodding her head and keeping her eyes fixed on the boy's face, but her mind wandered to the words that seemed etched into the walls of her mind.

Her orbs momentarily strayed to the tables around hers, noticing other couples made up of beautiful women.

They looked beautiful, confident, and charismatic.

And she felt small and insignificant.

"Did you hear what I said?" Matt asked suddenly with a slight tone of frustration, his brow furrowed and his posture rigid.

"Sorry, I was distracted." Y/N quickly responded, feeling embarrassed, her hands clasped together above her thighs, squeezing her fingers in an act of nervousness.

"You've been so distant lately. What's going on?"

Y/N wanted to spill it all, tell him about the comments, about how inadequate she felt, but the words wouldn't come out. She was afraid Matt would confirm her insecurities.

"Nothing, I'm just tired. Work has been taking a toll on me." The girl lied, avoiding the blue eyes that stared deeply at her.

Matt sighed, clearly worried and annoyed, but accepted the apology.

Dinner continued, but the atmosphere was tense and heavy. For Y/N, every moment was a fight against tears and despair.

He would get tired of her.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

A small launch event for one of the Space Camp lines. It was a momentous occasion, and the triplets were excited to take a new, longer step in their Internet career.

Y/N wore her best dress with the best heels and the best makeup, trying to look confident, but inside, she was in pieces.

During the event, Matt was surrounded by people, laughing and talking, interacting with his closest friends, and explaining his role within his brother's brand.

Meanwhile, Y/N felt like a ghost, invisible. Every time someone looked at her, she felt like they were judging her, comparing herself o other women present.

At some point, while Matt was busy chatting with some important guests, Y/N heard two women commenting nearby.

"She's Matt's girlfriend? Wow, she doesn't seem like anything special."

"He could get someone so much better."

The words were like stabs. Y/N felt the ground disappear beneath her feet, and all the air escaped her lungs, her heart freezing.

She needed to get out of there.

The girl quickly walked towards the nearest bathroom and locked herself in a stall, tears streaming down her face, completely ruining the makeup she spent hours doing.

She felt like an impostor, a farce.

When she returned to the event about twenty minutes later, Matt noticed her red eyes and lack of makeup almost instantly, excusing himself from those he was talking to and walking towards her with quick steps.

"Babe, hey, what happened?" Matt asked in a low tone as he approached, worried.

"Nothing, just something got in my eye, I had to take off some makeup to get it out." She lied once again. She was getting good at it. Too good.

Matt looked suspicious but didn't insist, nodding slowly.

Upon arriving home that night, Y/N lay down on the bed next to Matt, the duvet covering half of her body. Matt quickly fell asleep, exhausted from the event, seeming to not have the strength to try to talk to his girlfriend or the will.

Y/N lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing a mile a minute.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The culmination of everything happened when Matt decided to share with Y/N ​​a new idea for the channel, something he was really excited about. He had spent weeks planning the boys trip with his brothers and Nate, along with how they would record everything, turning the precious moments into a long vlog, so sharing the finished idea with his girlfriend was a crucial moment for him.

Y/N sat next to him on the large sofa in the living room, curling up on the gray upholstery and trying to focus on the excited words coming out of Matt's mouth, not even giving herself the luxury of feeling surprised at how quickly he spoke - different from his usual self, her mind being far away.

"So what do you think?" Matt asked after finishing his line of reasoning, his eyes fixed on Y/N's face expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

"Ah yes, that sounds good." The girl nodded briefly, smiling slightly, her eyes with a distracted gaze.

Matt frowned, noticing her lack of enthusiasm.

"You didn't even hear what I said, did you?"

"Sorry, I'm just... distracted." She cleared her throat, looking down at her crossed legs.

"I can't handle it anymore." Matt muttered in a low tone, taking a deep breath as his expression closed completely, one of fury taking the place of confusion, standing up abruptly and starting to walk between the television and the sofa in an attempt to calm himself down. "You've been acting so strange, so distant. I feel like I'm talking to a wall all the time. What's happening to you? Where's the bubbly Y/N I used to know?"

Y/N remained silent, tears already beginning to well up in her eyes as she looked at him through her wet lashes, silently begging him to stop, but Matt continued, his voice rising with each word.

"I'm tired, Y/N. Tired of being ignored, tired of trying to figure out what the hell you want. I feel like I'm carrying this relationship alone! You act like you don't care. Do you even care anymore? Because, honestly, it doesn't seem like it, and with each passing day, I become more discouraged with you."

He stopped his steps, breathing heavily, his eyes now fixed on Y/N, waiting for a response. When she finally looked up, her vision was blurred by the tears that were now running freely down her face.

"Matt, I... I'm so sorry." She began, her voice shaky and weak and her throat burning from the force she was trying to stop the sobs. "I didn't mean to make you feel this way. I'm just going through a hard time now-"

"Hard time? This has been going on for weeks! I don't know what else to do to reach you." The brunette suddenly interrupted her, his frustration boiling over. "You refuse to tell me what's going on, and I'm tired of being ignored."

"You don't understand..." Y/N felt a wave of despair take over her heart, shaking her head repeatedly.

"Then make me understand! I can't go on like this, Y/N." The boy ordered with tears in his eyes, his right hand flying to his own hair, ruffling it roughly in an act of nervousness. "Maybe we're not ideal together. Maybe you're not the right person for me!" The words escaped as quickly as his mind could process.

Y/N felt her heart stop for a few seconds, her skin freezing as her throat closed before a loud, ugly sob shot through her like lightning, escaping her lips intensely. Every cruel comment, every insecurity, everything accumulated in her mind at that moment, confirming her worst fears.

"They were right," she thought, "I'm not the one for him."

All she wanted to do most at that moment was run out of that house and away from him, but with the storm outside, her not knowing how to drive and the late hour prevented her from making any hasty decisions, after all, she had nowhere to go. That was her home, or it was meant to be.

Meanwhile, Matt closed his mouth almost instantly, his eyes widening as his mind seemed to process the words he had spilled, feeling the impact of them, his heart aching as if a hand was crushing it hard as he watched the girl he loved breaking down in front of him.

"I didn't mean that, baby. I-I'm so sorry. Oh my-" His words were interrupted by his own sob before his now weak legs began tentative steps towards Y/N, afraid of her reaction.

But Y/N couldn't do anything but cry, her body shaking violently with the strong sobs that escaped her mouth, clawing at the walls of her throat, her face already swollen and wet with the intense tears that fell without stopping.

"N-no, you're right. I'm a fraud. I'll never be good enough for you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for m-making you loose time with me, I'm so sorry! M- Matty, I-I'm sorry-" That was all her mind could process: apologies. Her hands tightened into fists above her thighs, her long nails digging into her palms, drawing blood and hurting the sensitive skin.

"Baby, please, breathe, you're going to hurt yourself if you keep crying like that. Breath, hm? Please." Matt sat down next to her, his left hand pressing against his own eyes roughly, trying to shake away the tears that flooded his blue orbs, while his right hand flew to Y/N's ones, trying to slowly undo the knots of fingers she had created.

"The comments on your channel... about me. Saying that I'm not good enough for you, that you deserve someone better." Y/N began to say again between sobs, pulling in choppy air between one word and another. "I can't stop thinking about it, comparing myself to other women, and the worst of it all? They are all right! I couldn't bear the thought of being close to you and making you look ugly with me, o-or dislocated... so I distanced myself." Y/N's hands that were surrounded by his right one clenched tighter against each other, her skin taking on a reddish tone due to the strength she exerted in her grip, feeling her wrist and arms shaking with nervousness and anxiety.

"I don't-" Matt shook his head, sniffling and blinking repeatedly in an attempt to stop the tears. "I had no idea. I'm sorry for not having noticed, for not having noticed the signs in your way of acting and trying to understand, I'm sorry for acting on impulse and blaming you, love. I'm sorry for having said those horrible things, I'm so sorry, lovey. Why didn't you tell me?" His blue eyes, which looked at her with attention and closeness, carried immense pain for seeing her in such a state and knowing that it was his own fault.

"I just… I didn't know how to tell you. I was afraid that you would agree with them, that you would realize that I really wasn't the right woman for you, and that you would leave me." Y/N choked back a sob, sniffling repeatedly, trying her best to stop her crying, looking up at him as she felt his hand squeeze hers tightly, trying to stop her from keep hurting herself.

Matt's expression softened as his eyes met hers, a mixture of understanding and pain written across his face before he closed them for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Y/N, you're not weak for feeling all this. Everyone has insecurities, but hiding them from me... you're pushing me away, which caused me to think other things were going on, on my own fault. It was a miscommunication on both sides, but I want to help you, and I can't if you don't trust me, babe."

"I'm so sorry, Matt. I'm so sorry for hurting you, for letting my insecurities get to us. I just... I feel so lost." The girl murmured, her voice lowering in volume considerably, her shoulders slumping even more. "Maybe I'm really not the one for you, you know? Maybe they're all right, and you just have to see it, too."

Matt's heart clenched at her words, and he gently lifted her chin so their eyes could meet again, his orbes traveling repeatedly around her face.

"No, Y/N, don't say that." He whispered fiercely. "You are the one for me. You're everything to me. These comments, they don't know us. They don't know how much you mean to me, how much you complete me."

"But how can you be sure? How can you be sure that I'm not dragging you down?" Y/N's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her breath still hitching from the sobs and her bottom lip trembling.

Matt sighed deeply, his thumb gently stroking her cheek.

"Because I know what we have. I know the love we share, and I see the amazing person you are, even if you don't see it yourself right now. You're not dragging me down. You're my partner, and we face everything together, good or bad. And I'm sorry for making it seem different or the opposite of what it really is by acting like that, I wish I could take it all back." He shook his head, feeling his hear burning with shame.

Her gaze softened slightly, a glimmer of hope sparking within her.

"But the comments... they get to me, Matt. It's like their words are a constant echo in my mind." She sniffled, immense pain surging through her shoulders and back as the adrenaline and tension subsided.

"I get it. I really do." He nodded understandingly. "But we can't let other people dictate our happiness. We have to believe in ourselves and each other. We're stronger than this, Y/N. And I'm here for you, always." His thumb caressed her jawline, lightly wiping the wet trails where the several tears fell.

"I don't want to lose you, Matt. I want to be strong for both of us." A small, tentative smile formed on her lips, the first real smile he'd seen in weeks.

"You don't have to be strong alone." He reminded her, his hand finding hers again, holding it firmly. "We'll be strong together. But you need to talk to me. Let me in, okay?"

"Okay. I'll try. I promise." She nodded, her grip on his hand tightening.

"That's all I ask. Just promise me you'll never feel like you're alone in this. We're a team, sweetheart. And I love you so much." Matt leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"I love you too, Matt." She whispered, a new determination settling in her heart. "And I'll do better. I'll let you in."

"That's all I need. We’ll get through this together." He smiled, a genuine, relieved smile before using his hand holding hers to slowly pull her closer, wrapping his arms around her torso and pulling her upper body to rest against his own, laying her head against his hoodie-covered chest before resting his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply, the fresh smell of shampoo filling his nostrils, making him realize how much he missed it.

They stayed there, holding each other, feeling the weight of emotions that had been suppressed for so long. Y/N knew that the road to regaining trust and security in the relationship would be long and difficult for her, but in that moment, wrapped in Matt's arms, she felt a spark of hope.

© vanteguccir

[p0orbaby]

In the Wake of a Hurricane

summary: your hormones are driving you both increasingly insane

warnings: pregnancy stuff, suggestive ish, leah being a saint

a/n: request

word count: 1.6k

-

Leah has started to develop this twitch in her right eye. It comes and goes, like her patience. It’s not a permanent fixture, yet, but you suspect if she survives the next few weeks without needing a psychiatric evaluation, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.

You're sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket that could double as a small tent. Leah’s across the room, keeping her distance. She’s reading, or pretending to read, one of those pregnancy books that’s the size of a dictionary but probably less useful. It’s full of terms like Braxton Hicks and perineal massage, which you’re pretty sure are just euphemisms for you’re going to suffer, and there’s no escape.

You’ve been staring at her for the last ten minutes, silently stewing. She hasn’t noticed yet, which only makes you more annoyed.

“Leah,” you finally snap, like it’s her fault you’ve suddenly decided she’s the most irritating person on the planet.

She looks up, all innocent blue eyes and confused frown. “Yeah?”

“Why are you all the way over there?” you demand, even though five minutes ago, you’d told her to stop hovering because she was “being clingy.”

She hesitates, like she’s weighing her options. You can practically see the gears turning in her head, trying to figure out which answer will result in the least amount of yelling.

“You said you needed space,” she says carefully, like she’s explaining to a particularly volatile bomb why it shouldn’t go off.

“That was ages ago,” you huff, even though it was more like twenty minutes. “Now I want to be held”

She blinks, clearly surprised by the sudden shift. But she’s up and moving toward you before you can throw a fit about how slow she’s being. When she finally sits down next to you, you immediately nestle into her side, nuzzling your head into the crook of her neck. You sigh dramatically, like you’ve just found the meaning of life in her collarbone.

Leah relaxes, thinking she’s successfully navigated another hormonal minefield. Poor thing. She’s so blissfully unaware of what’s coming next.

Her arm wraps around you, and you’re content for all of thirty seconds before something in you flips, like a switch being flicked by a very cruel god. Suddenly, the feel of her skin against yours is unbearable. It’s like you’re being hugged by a furnace. You’re about three seconds away from ripping off all your clothes and throwing them out the window, which is probably not the most rational response, but hey, pregnancy.

“Ugh, get off,” you groan, pushing her away like she’s made of cactus.

Leah pulls back immediately, her eyes wide with confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“Too hot,” you mutter, flapping your hand at her like a cat that’s just had a bath. “Go away”

She hesitates, her hands hovering in the air like she doesn’t know what to do with them. You’d feel bad if you weren’t so irritated by the fact that she exists in the same room as you.

Leah stands up, clearly unsure of what the hell just happened. You’re in a huff, staring daggers at the TV because it’s easier than admitting that you’re not actually mad at her—you’re mad at your body, which seems to have its own agenda these days.

“I’ll, uh, go check on the washing,” Leah mutters, retreating to the relative safety of the utility room. You watch her go with a blend of annoyance and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.

When she’s gone, you sit there for a moment, glaring at the blanket like it’s personally offended you. Then, like a switch flipping back the other way, you realise you miss her.

A lot.

You want her back. Right now.

“Leah!” you call, your voice bouncing off the walls.

She pokes her head back into the room, looking like a cautious meerkat. “Yeah?”

“Come back,” you say, trying to sound casual, like you didn’t just shove her away like she was a sweaty footballer who’d lost a match.

She walks back in, taking tentative steps like she’s entering the lion’s den. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you snap, though you’re really not. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

Leah looks at you, then at the sofa, probably trying to figure out the safest place to sit. You feel a pang of guilt because, honestly, you’re being a bit of a nightmare. But it’s not your fault. It’s the hormones. Or maybe it’s the baby. Yeah, let’s blame the baby.

She sits down next to you, but this time she doesn’t immediately try to touch you. Smart move.

You stare at her, trying to decide what you want. It’s a simple question, but lately, it feels like every answer is wrapped in layers of confusing emotions and unpredictable desires. Do you want to be touched, or do you want to punch something? Or maybe both?

“Can you, um... maybe... rub my back?” you ask, trying to sound as innocent as possible, which isn’t easy considering you’ve just done a complete 180 in the span of three minutes.

Leah stares at you for a second, clearly wondering if this is a trap. But then she nods and starts rubbing your back, gently, like she’s afraid of setting you off again. You sigh, melting into the touch, the irritation quickly replaced by something much warmer.

“That’s nice,” you murmur, your mood lifting almost instantly. Leah’s hands are magic, soothing the tension in your muscles. You close your eyes, practically purring under her touch. It’s heaven.

But, of course, your body has other plans. As soon as you start to relax, your brain—helped by the wonderful cocktail of pregnancy hormones—decides to take a sharp left turn into horny territory. Because why not?

Suddenly, Leah’s hands on your back feel less like a comforting gesture and more like a teaser for the latest blockbuster. Your skin tingles, your mind goes from zero to sixty, and now you’re wondering why she’s still rubbing your back when there are other, much more interesting places she could be touching.

You shift, turning to face her, eyes heavy-lidded and lips curving into a mischievous smile. Leah’s still rubbing your back, completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve mentally jumped from cuddly to carnal.

“Hey,” you say, your voice dropping into a lower register. Leah freezes, her hand stilling as she catches the change in your tone.

“What’s up?” she asks, clearly unsure whether she should be worried or excited.

“You’re really good at that,” you purr, leaning closer, letting your hand trail up her thigh. Leah swallows hard, her eyes flickering with confusion and interest.

“I, uh, thanks?” she says, her voice cracking just a little.

You smirk, enjoying the way she’s trying to keep up with the sudden shift in your mood. “You know what else would feel really good?”

Leah stares at you like a deer caught in the headlights of your hormones. “What?”

“Kissing me,” you say simply, giving her your best come-hither look. It’s not your finest work, but considering the circumstances, you think it’s pretty damn effective.

Leah blinks, clearly trying to process the fact that you’ve gone from not wanting to be touched to wanting to be thoroughly touched in about sixty seconds flat. But bless her, she’s a fast learner.

She leans in, pressing her lips to yours, and for a moment, everything is perfect. You’re lost in the kiss, your frustration melting away as your hormones do their job, flooding your system with endorphins.

But then, because the universe has a wicked sense of humor, something feels... wrong. The heat that was so welcome a second ago suddenly feels overwhelming. The tingling sensation turns irritating, and now you’re acutely aware of the fact that your skin is too tight, your clothes are too constricting, and you’re not sure if you want to keep kissing Leah or throw her out of the window.

You pull back, your mood crashing faster than a toddler on a sugar high. Leah looks at you, concern etched into her features, her lips still tingling from the kiss.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, like she’s bracing for impact.

You huff, frustrated with yourself more than anything. “I don’t know. I just—” You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Everything feels weird!”

Leah looks at you, trying to figure out the best course of action. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No!” you snap, then immediately soften. “Maybe? I don’t know”

She stares at you for a moment, then does something that surprises you: she laughs. Not a mocking laugh, but a warm, affectionate chuckle that’s so disarming it actually makes you smile, despite everything.

“What’s so funny?” you grumble, even though you’re starting to feel the corners of your mouth twitch upward.

“You,” she says, shaking her head, her smile only growing. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

You want to argue, but instead, you just sigh. “I know. I’m a mess”

“Yeah, but you’re my mess,” Leah says, pulling you back into a hug. This time, it feels just right, like maybe, just maybe, the storm of hormones has passed for now.

You lean into her, letting the comfort of her embrace wash over you. “Thanks for putting up with me”

“Always,” she replies, kissing the top of your head. “Even if you do change your mind every five minutes”

“Every three,” you correct, snuggling deeper into her side.

Leah laughs again, the sound vibrating through you and chasing away the last remnants of your irritation. You know you’ll probably be back to snapping at her in another hour, but for now, you’re content.

[terraswallows]

You know, I’ve been thinking… what if I started writing a little daily something? Like a “Dear Diary” kind of thing—except sapphic, dramatic, and laced with just enough playful self-deprecation to keep it spicy. Would that satisfy your insatiable hunger for my content? Because let’s be real, y’all eat up my ramblings like starved gremlins, and honestly? I kind of live for it.

Imagine it: Diary of an Awkward Trans Girl. A daily chronicle of my joys, my struggles, my questionable life choices—like wearing cute earrings even though I still fumble putting them on, or the absolute gender euphoria of catching my reflection and thinking damn, she’s pretty.

Some days it might be soft and tender—like the way my heart flutters when a girl calls me pretty. Other days, pure chaos—like trying to navigate the minefield of voice training when my vocal cords seem determined to betray me. And maybe, just maybe, a sprinkle of yearning—because let’s be honest, what’s a sapphic diary without a little please let me hold hands with a pretty girl before I combust energy?

So… what do you think? Should I do it? Should I let you peek into the mess that is my awkward, gay, trans little world?

[pomefioredove]

Hiya! Do you think you could write something romantic and fluffy with Vil? I love him!

hi anon of course! I am so unwell about this man

summary: being friends with vil schoenheit has its perks type of post: fic characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, FLUFFY, mentions of food, friends to lovers huhuhu, maybe a tiny bit suggestive but also not really? lap-sitting and kissing

Someone should write a guide on how to be friends with Vil Schoenheit.

It did not come as naturally to you as you would have hoped. There were times when he felt like a star in your presence, not the actor kind, but the heavenly body.

Bright, and burning, and millions of miles away. Even as he sat directly across from you.

"You're not eating," he remarks. The comment is not degrading, though it is tinged with curiosity. "Is it bad?"

You haven't even sampled the meal yet- something fancy and expensive that you likely couldn't pronounce. He'd ordered it for you.

"It's okay," you lie.

He either buys your excuse, or ignores it. Either way, he reaches across the gossamer table cloth and switches your plates without asking.

Vil Schoenheit Friendship Survival Manual, rule number one: always assume his judgment is correct, until proven otherwise.

You look down at the plate- some kind of vegetable dish. He urges you on with a nod, lilac eyes fixed firmly on your pleasantly surprised reaction when you take a bite.

Rule number two: his judgment is always correct.

"Better?" he asks, not bothering to finish your food. He'll likely get something else later. "You really shouldn't skip meals. If you were feeling unwell, you should have said so. I would've ordered something lighter for you."

"Sorry. Didn't think of it," you say, taking another bite of his meal, if only to appease him.

You're hesitant to mention that the heavy feeling in your chest wasn't from illness, and so you say nothing more.

"No need to apologize. Here,"

Vil delicately reaches across the table and dabs at the corner of your mouth with his napkin. You hate how light-headed such a simple action makes you feel.

"Better. And don't worry about smudging anything, I have a few new products I'd like to try out on you later,"

Rule number three: always accept his gifts.

"Thanks," you murmur.

You were starting to feel as if you really were ill, the way your entire body warmed in his presence. Vil brought out a feverish sort of stupidity in you that made outings like this a minefield to navigate.

How painfully cliché, you thought. Hopelessly in love with someone far out of your league, with infinite options, none of which you could even hope to catch up to...

It made these evenings together pure torture.

You felt guilty for wishing he wasn't such an amazing friend. Must he insist on showering you in gifts and holding your hand every time you cross the street?

But being in his bedroom is another, dirtier realm of guilt. Vil saw you as a friend. Platonic. Someone he confided in, who he took under his wing. You were allowed to see parts of him no one else had, and yet, you can hardly pay attention to what he's saying because you can't stop thinking about the way his lips look when he speaks.

"Did you understand any of that?" he asks, bending down to your level as you sit on his bed. On his bed. And you had the mind to be thinking about doing romantic things...

Rule number four: speak when spoken to.

"No, sorry, I've just had a lot on my mind lately,"

Vil clicks his tongue and holds a hand to your forehead, feeling for temperature. "And you're sure you're not ill?"

"I'm fine! Just distracted,"

He chuckles, walking across the room to peruse his vanity. "Hm... and what sort of thoughts have got you scatterbrained today?"

You can feel your skin burning again. He could tell, couldn't he? All these weeks of coming undone every time he so much as looks your way couldn't have gone over his head... could they?

Or perhaps he was just used to people staring at him, stumbling over their words every time he spoke. Perhaps you were just another foolish fan who'd gotten to know him before falling in love.

You couldn't help but wish that there was someone or something that would just tell you what to do.

Rule number five: do not fall in love with him.

Vil sits beside you, a small, wooden box in hand.

"I'm supposed to promote these next weekend, but I'm not sure about them, yet," he says, opening the lid to reveal a plethora of lipsticks that likely cost more than your existence. "I'll need your opinion, of course."

"Right," you murmur.

"And I'd like to try them on you, as well,"

"Of course,"

"And you're alright with that?"

You nod. Ever the gentleman, always asking for permission. He's been quite generous with his products lately, giving them away to you like candy. You're almost certain he has a full list of your allergens somewhere.

Vil returns to the vanity, delicately prepping, and then applying the first shade. It's a marvelous, metallic pink, with dark red undertones that make it a regal color. It suits him, and you say as much.

"Oh, you think so? I suppose it does compliment my eyes, although I'd definitely need to pair it with something darker, else it become too overpowering..."

He clicks his tongue, and then turns to look over his shoulder at you.

"Your turn. Come sit,"

There isn't another chair at the vanity, and you take that as your cue to awkwardly stand in front of him until he tells you what to do. He chuckles, amused by some thought of his that he doesn't share aloud.

"What are you standing there for? Sit,"

You awkwardly look around the space, eyes searching for a mysteriously hidden stool, something that should have been obvious...

He smiles. "Oh, don't be shy. We've known each other long enough by now, haven't we?"

You can't think of the right thing to ask, although your thoughts are quickly cut off by the sight of him gently patting his lap.

Sevens. If there were any time to wake up, this was it.

Rule number five: do not fall in love with him.

He's not joking, of course. Vil hardly jokes. And so, you awkwardly straddle his lap, facing towards him, and allow him to get a good look at your visage.

He holds your chin firmly, studying your features as if he hasn't already seen them a thousand times before.

"Stay still,"

He's going to give you a heart attack, and there's a little quirk in his smile that tells you he knows it, too.

You wonder what your tag at the morgue will say. Death by Vil Schoenheit?

He starts with your skin, commenting on how soft it's gotten since he met you, then your eyes...

...Once he's satisfied, as he always is with his work, he turns your head so you can admire the makeup look in the mirror behind you.

"Stunning," he comments. "But you're missing something."

You look back, eyes wide. Surely, he hadn't forgotten something...? That's simply not in his nature.

He smiles at your confusion. "Remember? You promised to test these for me?"

Right. The lipstick. You nod. "Yes, but, I thought you'd already..."

"Oh, I do like the color. I'm just worried about this brand," Vil says. He looks away for a moment, almost as if to summon his courage... what a strange expression on him.

"What's wrong with the brand?"

He turns back with a small smirk. "They have a nasty reputation for smudging easily. I wouldn't want to make a fool of myself next weekend, hm?"

His cups your chin again, bringing you closer.

Rule number five: do not fall in love with him!

He tilts his head to the side. "You don't mind, do you?"

You couldn't have shaken your head any faster, even with his grip on your chin.

"Good. Now, stay still. I think this will be a good color on you, anyway,"

He pulls you in with ease, letting his lips rest on yours for a second or two, before pulling back. Short but sweet, enough to make you feel like your entire body has gone numb.

He inspects your face, humming to himself...

"Good so far," he says, bringing you closer again. "But that was too safe. I won't hold back next time. Are you ready?"

You nod. Barely anything had happened, and you're already breathless. "Ready,"

Another smile crosses his perfect face, though he doesn't give you any time to admire it before he's kissing you again, one hand still cupping your face, the other holding the back of your neck and pressing you closer.

Definitely not a very platonic kiss.

It takes him longer to pull away this time, though when he does, it gives you a perfect view of his still-pristine makeup.

"Hmm... still nothing. I'm quite impressed with this line," he says, reaching behind you and returning with the wooden box. "How do you feel?"

Dizzy. Light-headed. Warm.

"Good," you say.

Rule number five: do not fall in love with him.

Or do.

"Not too much, I hope?"

A delightful realization was beginning to come over you, one that made all you had thought about him null and void:

No one else could possibly give you a guide on Vil Schoenheit, because he writes the rules himself.

"No. That was perfect,"

"Excellent," he smiles, and flips the box open again. "Because we still have six more colors to test."

[r3starttt]

FULL MOON

PAIRING: werewolf! reader x abby

SUMMARY: The space grown between you and abby has ignited a primal desire that you can no longer suppress!

CW: abby is a sweetheart in here. mutual fingering. mentions of blood. angsty.

TAGLIST | KINKTOBER: @s4pphic-myth @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @softlikesilk-chiffon @roos4lm4 @elliezlils11utt @1-800-fantasy @roos4lm4 @abbys-muscles | ABBY TAGLIST: @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @aouiaa @twopeoplee @wastdstime | as always @clairoscharm, I feel like this sucks.

It wasn’t the first time you managed to survive after a full moon. The last one had come and gone just a few days ago, on the seventeenth. That night still weighed heavy on your mind, but not for the usual reasons. You had left her house for a run, a routine she had suggested months ago to help channel the chaos building up inside you before each transformation. The week had been suffocating—every day a whirlwind of stress—and by the time you had an argument with her, it felt like you were just looking for reasons to escape. You weren’t angry with her, not really, but you didn’t go back that night.

It wasn’t unusual for people to drift away from you during the days leading up to a full moon. Your moods shifted unpredictably, your nerves constantly on edge. The heightened senses made everything sharper, louder, and more unbearable. You became irritable, snappish, the kind of person no one wanted to be around. As much as you tried to remain yourself, there was always that lurking aggression, the impulsiveness you couldn’t quite control. You longed for touch, for someone to ground you with tenderness, but the moment anyone tried, you recoiled, fumbling with excuses about being stressed or "not in the mood." And though you understood your own desperate need for affection, you also understood why others left. Who could blame them? Why would anyone stay when the weeks before a full moon were a minefield, with no freedom to navigate around you without stepping on something volatile? They left because they had no argument to stay, and the thought gnawed at you—were they only here out of obligation or guilt? Maybe they had someone else.

But Abby stayed. She always stayed.

It was Abby who had suggested the running in the first place. She had a way of soothing you without saying much, knowing when to push and when to step back. Running through the woods near your house, or hers, had become a ritual of sorts. The freedom of the outdoors gave you space to let loose that building euphoria, to release the energy that clung to your skin like static. Afterward, you would return to her, your body still buzzing but finally calm enough to accept her touch. Her hands would cradle your flushed, sweaty face, and she’d kiss you softly, grounding you in the safety of her arms. Abby was endlessly gentle, ridiculously understanding, always knowing just how to make you feel like yourself again.

But this past week had been different. The pressure of life itself was suffocating, making your senses more overwhelming than usual. Everything grated at you. Your fangs ached at odd moments, sharp and painful. The smells of the city assaulted your nose, pungent and nauseating, and the sounds were unbearable—every honk, shout, and murmur seemed to scratch at your ears. Seeing Abby helped, sometimes just hearing her voice on the phone at the end of a long day, your body wrapped around a pillow as you tried to wind down. She’d call, and you’d talk until you were too exhausted to stay awake, drifting off somewhere in the middle of your conversation.

But this time, there had been no call. No message, no apology text to smooth over the edges of your argument. The silence was maddening. It gnawed at your thoughts, and the frustration seeped into every part of you. Your nails had grown sharper, and the small scratches you’d given yourself from restless, nightmare-filled sleep weren’t healing. It was a sign you were pushing yourself too hard, teetering dangerously close to the edge. The lack of release, the inability to transform when your body needed it, was making everything worse. The tension had built up over the week, and when the full moon finally came on the seventeenth, the transformation was brutal.

You hadn’t just been burdened by the fight with Abby, though that certainly weighed on you. It was the whole week, the overwhelming need for release, and your fear of losing control. The transformation had been agonizingly slow. Every bone in your body shattered and reformed with excruciating precision. Your muscles stretched and contorted, fur sprouting in patches that itched and burned. It felt like your body was ripping itself apart, piece by piece, and you were powerless to stop it. It reminded you too much of the first time it happened, when the pain was unbearable, and you didn’t know if you’d ever come out the other side whole.

The weight of that night still clung to you, days later, like a bruise that hadn't fully healed. You were restless, nerves frayed, waiting for a sign that things would calm down. But Abby’s silence only stretched longer, a quiet thread pulling tighter with each passing day. It became unbearable, so you found yourself heading to her place without really planning to, hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were the only thing keeping you tethered.

It was late, the moon no longer as brilliant as it had been just a few nights ago. Its dull glow matched the tension gnawing at you—though now it wasn’t just the residual unease from that night. Now, it was Abby herself, and the growing attachment you felt for her. It wasn’t your body craving touch anymore, it was something deeper, something you weren’t sure how to handle. The city streets were eerily quiet, or maybe they’d always been that way, and it was just your mind playing tricks, making everything feel more intense, more suffocating.

The trees started to swallow the road as you drove, their branches encroaching like shadows creeping across the sky. You loosened your white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel just long enough to fumble for your phone. The dim glow of the screen illuminated your face, but it failed to unlock with your face in the darkness, so you cursed under your breath and manually typed the password. Abby’s contact had slipped from the top of your recent calls, and something about that stung. You pressed the call anyway, the green glow of the call screen casting a ghostly light inside the car as you tossed the phone aside and kept driving.

The ringing seemed to go on forever, the vibration rattling in sync with your nerves, until—finally—it stopped. You tried again, and again, until her voice cut through the silence. “Hi, I’m on a run.” Her breathless voice was strained, like she couldn’t quite catch it between her words. You smiled, the relief immediate, like a weight lifting just from hearing her. At least she wasn’t ignoring you entirely. Maybe she wasn’t as angry as you feared.

“Wait,” you blurted before she could hang up, your voice urgent, almost desperate. You could hear her heavy breathing, the rhythmic pounding of her feet against the pavement, the wind rushing past the phone. “I’ll pick you up, yeah?”

There was a pause—just long enough for doubt to creep in—before she finally replied. “Yeah, see you.”

She hung up before you could say more, before you could say the words you’d been holding back for too long. You clenched your jaw, trying to push down the rising tide of thoughts swirling in your head. Why couldn’t you just tell her you loved her? Why did everything feel so tangled?

Abby was running to clear her head, trying to make sense of you, of everything. You’d been so open, so sweet just weeks ago, but now it was like you couldn’t even look her in the eyes. She knew it couldn’t just be stress—there had to be something else you weren’t telling her. The question hung over her: if she pushed you to open up, would it help, or would it only make things worse? Would it drive a wedge deeper, or could it be a turning point?

She wrestled with it as her feet pounded the pavement, her breath coming in sharp bursts. You were stubborn, endearingly so, but right now, she wished more than anything for you to just let go, to trust her, to open up even a little. She didn’t know how to approach you after the fight, didn’t know if you were as lost in your own thoughts as she was. And the terrifying part was the not knowing—if she was wrong about you, about everything between you two, then what?

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel again, heart heavy with the fear that, no matter what you did, nothing would be the same after tonight.

Somewhere amid the chaos of your thoughts, you parked near the large forest park sign. The dim light of the parking lot washed over you as you turned off the engine and slumped back in your seat, glancing at your phone, hoping it might somehow make the minutes pass more quickly or summon her arrival. A familiar discomfort gnawed at your jaw, an anxious tingling in your gums that felt like a warning. You clenched your teeth, trying to make the sensation fade, but only succeeded in biting your inner lips. “Fuck,” you mumbled under your breath.

Restlessness took hold, and you began to bounce your leg, your feet tapping rhythmically against the car floor as your breath quickened and became uneven. You leaned your head back, closing your eyes and counting your breaths until they settled into a steadier rhythm. Just as you felt yourself calming down, a sharp knock on the window broke the spell. It was Abby.

Her face glistened with sweat, baby hairs plastered to her forehead, and her braid tousled from running. She wore your hoodie, the one you had bought to match hers, and your heart twisted at the sight. At least you weren’t breaking up tonight, right? You reached for the lock, fingers trembling slightly as you unlocked the door. It took her a moment to pull her headphones off and open the door before settling into the passenger seat. You turned the engine back on, the familiar hum a small comfort.

“Hey…” you whispered, not quite meeting her gaze.

“Why’re you here?” she asked, her tone flat but not unkind. She was entitled to feel that way, especially after everything. Abby had been endlessly patient with you, while you felt like a storm of confusion and chaos. It stung, even if it shouldn’t have.

“I wanted to talk about… what happened last week. I—”

She interrupted you, shaking her head. “I’m not mad.”

A wave of relief washed over you, bringing with it a warmth only she could provide. “I’m not mad either.” Your voices overlapped, and she nodded, an understanding look in her eyes. "I know."

But then silence enveloped you, thick and heavy. You didn’t know what to say or do, and she looked so beautiful, so kissable, and—“What happened? You were insufferable this time,” her eyebrows drawing together in a gentle prompting for you to open up.

Her hands found yours, and suddenly the air felt thick, as if it was suffocating you. She laughed lightly between her words, her sweetness almost overwhelming you. So why did you feel so attacked? “There’s… I don’t- You know It happens every once in a while, and I can’t control it. Yes, I was insufferable—" all the words you could say turned into a mess, "you’re too sweet to me, and it’s just not fair.” The words spilled out in a jumble, sounding more like a frightened ramble than a coherent explanation.

“Hey, look at me.” Her hand cradled your face, gently guiding your gaze to hers. You did as she asked, but the warmth of her touch sent a rush of heat through you.

“It’s never happened like this. I’m just worried there’s something else you’re not telling me. Maybe I could help.”

You couldn’t reply.

“I love you. And you know that, whatever it is— even if your stubborn ass won’t tell me, I’ll be here for you.” She leaned in, pressing her salty lips against yours in a fleeting kiss, brief but enough to ignite something deep inside you.

“You don’t owe me an explanation, but I’d like to know if there’s a way I can help. Yeah?”

Was that it? Really? Would she truly just… stay?

Her lips captivated you, igniting a wild, selfish hunger within. It was a primal urge that pulled you into a messy kiss—one that Abby adored because it let her hear how much you cherished her. Soft whines slipped through your lips and mingled with hers as you pulled her closer, your hands grasping her body with a desperation that bordered on pain. It felt good, a way for the frantic beating of your heart to distract you from everything else. The edge of the center console dug into your ribs as your noses brushed between the chaotic kisses, fingers gripping whatever they could find.

Abby’s teeth grazed your lips, teasing before they sank in gently. But this time, there was an unsettling itch, a burning sensation that you couldn’t quite identify. “Abby—Babe… abs—” Your fingers pressed against her chest, the pressure almost painful. Instantly, her body leaned back, worry etched on her face. “What’s—”

You interrupted her, flinging the door open in a surge of urgency. “I’ll be right back. I’m sorry.” The door slammed shut behind you, leaving you alone without your phone, your keys—nothing but your racing heart, pounding as if it might burst from your chest.

Abby stared in silence, your figure receding into the darkness, swallowed by the quiet of the forest. Her breath hitched, her glistening lips bitten by her teeth to hold back tears. A whirlwind of thoughts swirled in her mind, all focused on you. After what felt like an eternity, she finally stepped out of the car.

You ran as far as your legs could carry you, the itch intensifying, a fierce burn crawling across your back. You cried out at the sensation, feeling your spine crack and stretch painfully. The muscles in your calves contracted, threatening to cramp. That same burning sensation enveloped your entire body, a mixture of stiffness and tension coursing through you. It felt as if you were morphing into something unrecognizable.

Your teeth shifted, becoming sharper and thicker, while fur began to sprout over your skin. Your once soft and fluffy hair transformed into a wild, chaotic mane. Pain shot through your face as it contorted into a more animalistic form, your whines and whimpers twisting into hisses and growls. And then, a loud bark erupted from your throat, a sound that seemed entirely foreign to you.

Your clothes lay shredded on the floor, a horrifying testament to your true self. You felt a mix of fear and disgust wash over you, unable to comprehend how this had happened. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest, and your senses were on high alert. You could feel her presence, sense her, and even catch the scent of her—a primal hunger rising within you. Despite that, you managed to run further away. You didn’t want to hurt her, nor did you want to be hurt by her.

But her voice lingered in your mind as if she were right next to you. The sweat mingled with the pine-scented soap she used, the lingering alcohol of her perfume still clinging to her skin. You remembered how tender and soft she felt, how you had bitten her before. Your nails had sunk into her skin, a delicious temptation that stirred a craving within you—one that would be too painful to ignore. The urgency only intensified as her name escaped her lips in desperation.

She was searching for you, her ragged breathing driving you wild. The sound of her voice made your hunger grow. Abby was the easiest, most delectable prey you could imagine. Yet, this wasn’t you—not really. You would never fantasize about her blood or her skin.

Time passed as you put distance between yourselves, the darkness deepening around you. Her voice gradually faded, and the primal hunger within you grew restless, seeking someone to satiate it. Your mouth, nails, and teeth had all been preoccupied with a small creature. You looked down at it, flinching as it screamed in pain. Its eyes were dull, devoid of life, the red staining its tiny body stark against its grayish-white skin.

Your feet dragged you onward, and you eventually caught a glimpse of her a few meters away. Horror filled her face as she stared at the remnants of your clothes scattered across the floor. There was no blood, no visible harm that she could see. But if you were hurt, shouldn’t she have heard? The dry leaves crunched beneath her feet, mixing with the sounds of the breeze and distant traffic. The light from her phone illuminated the path ahead, as if she were hoping to spot you or find someone who could help. But all that responded was a low growl, making her heart stop.

You practically ran toward her, not caring or thinking about the gruesome scene before Abby. She had nowhere to escape, no weapons to defend herself with, even if she wanted to. Fear lit up her pretty eyes, bracing for pain, expecting to feel teeth sinking into her skin or a searing pain somewhere in her body. But it wasn’t like that. Instead, she saw the shine of weirdly human eyes. A long, furry figure lurked in the shadows, whining and groaning in pain, red dripping from its mouth.

The growls grew louder, a morbid echo that matched the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat. Her once-white shoes were now caked in dirt, and beads of cold sweat began to form on her brow. You felt the raggedness within you begin to fade, the scene around you blurring as pain overwhelmed your senses. Yet, amid the chaos, you could hear the steady thump of her heart; despite its irregularity, it brought you a sense of security.

The chill of the earth pressed against your body as you lay among the dirt and grass, your hair cascading across your face, swaying in the breeze. You locked eyes with her, and you thought that if anyone were meant to end you, it should have been her. But Abby didn’t flinch; she only took a few cautious steps closer. Her hands raised her phone toward you, illuminating the darkness for a moment before she quickly turned the light off, causing you to glance away from the sudden brightness.

“Baby… what happened?” she murmured, her voice gentle, devoid of the disgust you had braced yourself for. Confusion enveloped you, making it hard to comprehend anything. All you could see were your nails, caked with dirt beneath them, and the raw scratches you had received when you fled. Your body fought against relaxation, reminiscent of the ache that follows a cramp.

Tears slipped from your eyes only when you met her gaze. Though she wouldn’t say it, the disgust was clear on her face. “Hey… hey,” Abby cooed, cupping your face in her hands as she examined you, concern etched across her features as she noticed every scratch. You looked at her, not with fear but with adoration. Even if she were to hurt you, it would be alright because it was her—it was Abby inflicting the pain.

“Go…” you whispered, glancing down between your bodies, even as she held you tightly. “What? No—no, I don’t—” she stammered, clearly at a loss for words for once in her stubborn, intelligent life. “Come here…” Her hand cradled the back of your head, holding you firmly, warm and comforting. “I’m a monster, Abby… please.” You nestled against her neck, inhaling the pine scent you had longed for.

“Is this what happened?” she asked, and you nodded, unwilling to offer any excuses—it wasn’t a choice you had made. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” You lifted your head slightly to look at her. “You bit me, and I felt something… I just didn’t want to hurt you,” you murmured.

“Babe… look at me,” she whispered. “You haven’t hurt me before… why would it be different now?” Her lips pressed against your forehead, her touch filled with understanding. “You looked at me like—”

Your voices intertwined, but hers prevailed. “I saw your clothes.” She gestured toward the torn fabric scattered on the ground, then turned back to you. Your gaze lingered on the remnants, filled with worry. “I was worried you got hurt… that’s all.”

Silence hung heavily between you, her grip steady and reassuring as your body trembled with uncertainty. “I love you… how cool is it to have a super strong, hairy girlfriend?” she joked, a playful attempt to lighten the moment. You chuckled softly at her words, then pressed a tender kiss to her lips. “I love you too, and I’m sorry,” you replied, leaning in to lay a gentle trail of kisses against her mouth until your body finally succumbed to its exhaustion.

Abby held you close, her hands enveloping your cold skin with a mix of adoration and tenderness. Her warmth was exactly what you craved, grounding you in the midst of your turmoil.

You slid your fingers beneath her sweatpants, just playing with the edge of her boxers. The back of her thighs hit the grass beneath, her hands cupping your ass to guide you over her lap, and you follow. The tips of your fingers leave her pants to caress the soft of her stomach, over her abs. Her smile turns gentle under your touch, breaking the kiss to look at her pretty girl. Your eyes were tainted in yellow, pupils dilated and a blinding shine in them. Thin fur still adorning your skin, purple-like lips, plump and glistening. And your fangs, white tips showing very slightly.

"Let me have you..." the look on your eyes hinted a lost one, wandering over her face until they took control, guiding you to her neck to taint her skin into purple and red. Your tongue sucked and nibbled, just the smallest pressure and your fangs would dig deliciously into her pretty skin. Abby, your Abby, was whimpering.

"So good..." Your words were a murmur, as soothing as your touch. The hoodie on her body clung to your hands with a feral touch, gripping at it to get more of her displayed for you to enjoy and feast. Abby’s hands moved over her own body, taking the hoodie off her body. Her back pressed against the stiff of a massive tree behind her- it looked so from her position. Head tilted to the side, her braid hanging on the same side. Her eyes looked at the dark of the sky, the little starts adorning it with a shine as pretty as the moon. "Fuck- baby..." Her mouth opened in the blink of an eye at the sudden circles over her clit. The pad of her fingers clung to your lower back, cupping your ass with each hand and digging her fingers enough to leave a bruise.

Your lips went back to hers, abandoning her neck for a few minutes. "You're so wet." You murmured in between, devouring her whole as you much needed. "Yeah?" she mocked you back, sliding her fingers in between your pussy, scissoring them from behind. A laugh brushed your lips, contagious. Her smile looked so pretty, eventually getting interrupted to gasp at how good your fingers felt on her clit.

"I really needed you... real, real bad." Your fingers curl inside her pussy with ease, sliding in and out in a slow peace. "Oh- Fuck." The tone is quiet, similar to a gasp for air. It's unsteady and ridiculously delicious to your ears. "Thanks baby.... I love you so much." Your lips kiss the skin of her throat, sensing her quiet guilp. Her fingers interrupt, curling inside you while her other hand cups at your tits, playing with each nipple in a harsh almost painful way.

Abby can feel you smiling on her neck. The vibration of your moans guide her eyes to the back of her head, closing them to just enjoy. You clench around her so good, and your voice? "Fuck baby..."

The palm of her hands slides down on your body, taking in every inch of skin you've got displayed for her to enjoy. Once on your hip bone you get the catch, riding her fingers.

Her moans grow louder, yours become growls and groans. You can hear her wet pussy squeezing your fingers, the feeling "So fucking good baby, so good." Her head nods, digging her fingers into your skin.

The tender freckled skin adorning her now half exposed shoulders slowly grows red. Your nails break into her skin, and for a few seconds your fangs itch to do the same. The sight of her slightly blood covered neck and lips only serves for your stomach to knot. Her fingers feel so good inside you, curling and thrusting with ease at how wet you are.

"Gonna cum for me, Abby? yeah?" The frown on your face turns into a pity curve. She's out of breath, so determined to make you cum at the same time, to have that pretty sight of your teeth showing through your open mouth. To then kiss those plump delicious kiss into a sloppy kiss and end up covered in drool. "Yeah....yeah"

And just like that you please her one final time. Back curved and obscene wet sounds filling the now warmth air between both of your bodies. Your nails fight to not hurt her, ripping the white of her tank top very slightly. "Fuck... baby, please-" she's rambling, pulling you close to her just to hold you.

"Love you, so much." Your lips press over her half scratched skin, a quiet apology and thankfulness for her gentleness towards you. Mostly for fucking you so good and kissing your blood covered lips, for letting you have her.

[witchyintention]

How to Be a Witch or Pagan Without Falling for Conspiracy Theories and New Age Cult Stuff

Witchcraft and paganism offer beautiful, empowering ways to connect with the world, the divine, and yourself. But let’s be real: the spiritual community can sometimes feel like navigating a metaphysical minefield. From “lizard people control the world” conspiracies to the pervasive influence of New Age cults, finding your way as a witch or pagan can feel daunting. So, how can you embrace this path while keeping your wits about you? Let’s dive into it—no tinfoil hats required.

1. Know Thyself and Do Thy Research

One of the most powerful tools for any witch or pagan is knowledge. Before diving headfirst into spiritual practices or belief systems, ask yourself:

What am I looking for in my path?

What resonates with me spiritually and ethically?

How can I learn more from credible sources?

Avoid treating every book, blog, or TikTok video as gospel truth. Instead, prioritize research from reputable authors and scholars. Look for historical, cultural, and anthropological contexts behind practices and beliefs. For example, if you’re exploring Norse paganism, read the Poetic Edda, but also check out scholarly works like Hilda Ellis Davidson’s writings.

💡 Pro Tip: If something sounds too fantastical or claims to have “secret knowledge,” approach it critically. “Ancient Lemurians built the pyramids” is not archaeology—it’s a conspiracy theory.

2. Critical Thinking: Your New Familiar

While spirituality embraces the unseen and mysterious, it doesn’t mean suspending all logic. Here’s how to keep critical thinking in your witchy toolkit:

Fact-Check Everything: Whether it’s a viral claim about moon water curing all ailments or a new trend like “quantum jumping,” take a moment to verify its origins.

Ask Questions: Who benefits from spreading this belief? Are there ulterior motives, such as selling courses, books, or products?

Beware the “Cult of Personality”: Be wary of influencers or leaders who discourage dissent or demand unquestioning loyalty. Spirituality thrives on diversity of thought.

3. Beware of Spiritual Bypassing

Some New Age ideas encourage bypassing real-world issues in favor of “high vibes only.” While positivity is great, ignoring trauma, systemic problems, or mental health struggles in the name of spirituality is toxic. True witchcraft and paganism embrace balance, acknowledging both the light and the shadow.

✋ Red Flag: Anyone who tells you to “just manifest” your way out of hardship or suggests that you’re attracting negativity because of bad energy. Life is more complex than that.

4. Stay Grounded in History, Not Appropriation

A common pitfall in modern paganism and witchcraft is cultural appropriation masquerading as spirituality. Using sacred practices or symbols from cultures you’re not part of without understanding their context can be harmful.

If you’re drawn to a practice, research its origins and ensure you’re honoring it respectfully.

Consider focusing on traditions tied to your own ancestry or exploring paths open to everyone, like modern witchcraft.

🌿 Example: Smudging is a specific Indigenous practice. Instead of co-opting it, explore alternative smoke-cleansing methods with herbs like rosemary or lavender.

5. Cult Warning Signs: Spot Them Early

Not all cults look like Hollywood’s hooded figures chanting in candlelit basements. In spirituality, cult-like behavior often hides under the guise of community.

Red Flags Include:

An authoritarian leader or group demanding absolute loyalty.

Isolation from family, friends, or outside perspectives.

Fear-based control tactics, like threatening spiritual punishment for leaving.

Heavy financial exploitation (e.g., expensive courses or “required” donations).

💡 Remember: True spiritual communities empower you to think for yourself, not rely on a single leader or system.

6. Separate Science from Spirituality

You can be a witch or pagan and still respect science. Magic doesn’t have to contradict reality—it works alongside it. For example:

Herbs like chamomile and valerian have scientifically proven calming properties, but that doesn’t mean they’re a cure-all.

Astrology can provide insight into your personality, but it’s not a substitute for therapy or medical advice.

🌙 Balance: Use spirituality as a tool for meaning and connection, not as a replacement for critical thinking or evidence-based practices.

7. Build Your Own Practice

You don’t need to follow every trend or adopt someone else’s path. Witchcraft and paganism are deeply personal journeys. Create a practice that aligns with your values and beliefs, free from the noise of conspiracy theories or cult-like pressures.

Ideas for Starting Out:

Learn about local folklore or the natural cycles in your area.

Experiment with simple rituals, like lighting a candle with intention or journaling under the moon.

Create an altar with objects that resonate with you—crystals, photos, or even trinkets that make you smile.

🌟 Most Importantly: Trust your intuition. If something doesn’t feel right, it’s okay to say “no, thanks.”

8. Community: Seek Connection, Not Control

Connecting with other witches and pagans can be enriching—but choose your circles wisely. Look for communities that:

Encourage discussion and critical thought.

Respect individual paths and practices.

Avoid fear-mongering or elitism.

👀 Where to Look: Online forums, book clubs, or open public rituals are great starting points. Just remember to maintain healthy boundaries.

9. Grounding Techniques to Avoid Falling for the “Woo Woo”

When exploring spirituality, it’s easy to get carried away. Grounding yourself regularly can help you stay centered:

Meditate or practice mindful breathing.

Spend time in nature, whether it’s a park or your backyard.

Write down your beliefs and revisit them regularly. Are they still serving you?

10. Be Open-Minded, Not Gullible

It’s okay to explore the mystical and unknown, but there’s a difference between curiosity and naivety. Stay open to new ideas, but don’t abandon discernment. Your path should feel empowering, not overwhelming or manipulative.

Final Thoughts

Witchcraft and paganism are all about connecting with nature, yourself, and the divine in ways that feel meaningful and authentic. By staying grounded, informed, and true to yourself, you can embrace this path without falling prey to conspiracy theories or cult-like traps.

Remember: You’re the captain of your own broomstick. Fly wisely.

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[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Pretend by Alex G

tws: sh injury, physical discomfort, violence

previous chapter → chapter 4 -> next chapter

word count: ~3.5k

You’re sick as a dog. Panting and slimy in your creaky bed, blanket kicked and crumpled to the footboard. The burn on your chest is swollen, angry, and oozing under the makeshift bandages Olive swathed you in days ago. Ronny has called you at least five times, each ring prising you from the fragile cocoon of restless sleep you’ve managed to weave. Your phone buzzes now, taunting you from the dresser. Just a mere few feet away. A short reach.

You stretch out your hand, your fingers twitching, aching for just one more inch of reach, hoping—praying—that your arm might suddenly grow longer. Long enough to brush the phone. Long enough to silence it. But every attempt leaves you with a limp hand dangling over the side of your bed and a hollow, wheezy sigh  escaping your lips.

Olive sent you home yesterday. She took one look at your sunken eyes, pale complexion, the way you swayed on your feet as you knotted your apron, and didn’t give you a choice. “I’ll cover your shifts,” she said, her tone tolerating no argument. “Until you’re looking more like a human being than a ghost.”

The thought comes to you slowly, sluggishly, like a heavy tide creeping in: Maybe this is an easy way out. Just stay here. Let the fever do its work. Let the infection take over, creeping through your veins like rust on old pipes. Rot away in your bed until the light above drinks you up. 

How pathetic. Dying of an infection from a self-inflicted burn. Too scared to do the job yourself, so you let the elements finish it for you. Let them break you down, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to recognize.

Suddenly, a knock rattles through the silence, edged and obstinate, pulsing in your skull like a drumbeat. Your breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as if the sound itself has stolen the air from your lungs. Frozen in place, you don’t answer. You can’t. The weight of the fever presses down on you, but it’s the icy prickle of panic that locks your body in place. Your mind spins: Did someone find you? How? Each knock feels denser than the last, and a thousand explanations churn in your head.

The phone on the dresser buzzes again—another call from Ronny—and for a moment, you wonder if it’s connected, if somehow he’s sent someone here to lug you back to a life you’ve worked so hard to enshroud. Your pulse croons in your ears, every nerve on edge, waiting for what comes next.

Then, a voice muzzled by the door: “Blue, it’s Riley.”

You almost laugh—if you could find the strength. Riley. You think about his crooked nose, the way he speaks without hurry, like the world will wait for him to finish. A construction jacket and a coffee order. That’s all you know.

Another knock. Blairing this time. “I know you’re in there. Olive told me.” 

Olive. That traitor.

Your hand sags off the side of the bed, fingers twitching toward the phone that buzzes again, its vibrations rattling the chipped wood of your nightstand. You try to form words, but they deteriorate before they leave your tongue.

And then you hear it: the soft click of the front door. The scuffle of boots on your entryway floor. He’s inside.

“Blue?” His voice moves through the house like it belongs there, moored but heedful, as though he’s navigating a minefield. You want to yell, to tell him to leave, but all you manage is a puny groan that catches in your throat.

It doesn’t take him long to find you.

“Jesus Christ.”

He’s a haze in the doorway of your room, framed by peeling paint and sagging drywall. His shadow stretches across the floor, falling just short of your bed. You squint, trying to push away the fog in your eyes, and there he is. Tall, broad, the hem of his faded green jacket brushing his thighs. The material strains slightly at the shoulders when he crosses his arms, the soft crinkle of the paper bag in one hand breaking the tense silence.         

“Olive said you ‘aven’t been answerin’ her texts. Sent me to check on you,” he grumbles, stepping further into the room. His gaze sweeps over you—hair slick to your forehead, barely clothed, glowering—before landing on the burn. Raw. Oozing. Pleading. His lips press into a thinner line.

“She said you weren’t takin’ care o’ yourself. Thought maybe she was exaggeratin’,” he mutters, setting the bag on your nightstand. The red of the burn cream box catches your eye. “Lemme see it.”

Your head shakes feebly against the pillow. “No.”

“Fine. I’ll jus’ call Olive. Get ‘er over here.”

“No, no!” You want to sound flinty, but your voice is crazing and brambly. “You can’t tell her. She’ll hate herself—hate herself for not noticing. Please, please don’t.” You’re out of breath, your hand that was limply hanging over the bed now holding onto the fabric of his jeans.

He sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “I won’ tell her. But you hav’ to show me. I don’t believe that its fine.”

“The fuck would you know? I am fine.” You screw your eyes shut, wishing that when you open them, he is gone.

“Sure,” he drawls, squatting beside the bed. His presence is overwhelming, the scent of cedar and smoke luxuriant in the close space. “Sweatin’ like it’s a thousand degrees in ‘ere. Burnin’ up.” His hand moves, wiping the damp hair from your forehead, palm sultry against your molten skin. “Not to mention I can smell it. But yeah, let’s pretend you’re just peachy.”

“Fuck you,” you carp, turning your face away.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, his dark eyes scintillating with something like amusement. “Now sit up. If you can.”

You glare at him, a mix of dissent and exhaustion guttering in your fevered eyes, but you don’t argue. Not verbally, anyway. Instead, you brace your quavering arms against the mattress and push. The muscles in your shoulders scream in protest, your elbows wobbling under the weight of your own body. It’s a pitiful attempt, and you hate how much of that struggle he sees.

Before you can slumping back, his large hands are on you—steady, firm. His arms slink under yours, lifting you with ease, as if you weigh nothing more than the blanket tangled around your legs. His chest skims yours as he sets you against the headboard, and for a moment, you feel the surprising gentleness beneath the bulk of his strength, that faint cushion of chub that makes his size even more intimidating. His heat lingers even after he steps back.

“You’re not gonna yell at me for doin’ it myself?” His voice is low, imbued with dry humor as he glances at you.

“Shut up,” you mutter blandly, bending further into the headboard. The cool wood presses against your spine, a stark contrast to the fire licking at your chest.

Simon doesn’t press further. He reaches for the roll of bandages wrapped haphazardly around your chest, the adhesive tainted with sweat and… something worse. His thick fingers, marked with scars and nicks, work carefully to peel them away.

“Gonna sting,” he warns, glancing up at you, his dark eyes searching your face as if gauging how much you can take.

“No shit,” you sneer, though your voice lacks its bite.

The first pull makes you flinch, your head snapping forward on instinct. His free hand pinions gently against your shoulder, keeping you in place without force.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice softening in a way that almost makes you wince more than the pain. “I got you.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. The adhesive wrenches at your raw skin, ripping a low hiss from your lips. Simon pauses, glancing at you again, but you wave him on. The quicker it’s over, the better.

The bandage finally comes free, leaving your burn displayed to the cool air. A fresh wave of pain flourishes in its wake, sudden and throbbing, making you gasp. Simon grimaces, his lips pressing into a hard line as he takes in the furious, provoked wound.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his brow furrowing deeply. “That’s worse than I thought.”

Your stomach froths at his tone. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now. He tosses the stained bandages into the paper bag before pulling out the burn cream and gauze. “You need more than this shit,” he grumbles under his breath, shaking the cream tube. “You need a fuckin’ doctor.”

“I said no hospital,” you snap, though the words come out weaker than you want. “No doctors. No Olive.”

He leans back on his heels, staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue. Up close, his crooked nose casts a slight shadow on his face, and his lips part, only for him to close them again in frustration. His fingers tap against his thigh, the faint smell of cedarwood and smoke mixing with the metallic tang of your wound.

“Fine,” he says finally, the word heavy. “But you’re gonna let me clean this up proper. No arguing, no whining, no tellin’ me to fuck off. Got it?”

You nod, too jaded to fight.

“Good,” he mutters, leaning closer as he unscrews the cap of the cream. He scoops a dollop onto his finger and pauses, his eyes flickering to yours. “This is gonna hurt.”

“It already hurts,” you reply hoarsely, your voice more resigned than bold now.

His hand, warm and steady, presses against your skin, the cool cream a sharp contrast to the burning heat radiating from the infection. The pain grinds for a moment, making you wince and fist the sheets, but his touch is oddly precise, methodical. You feel every callous on his fingers as he works, but his hands never falter, never shake.

“Still breathin’?” he asks after a long moment, his voice lighter, almost playful.

“Barely,” you manage, earning a faint grin from him.

When he’s done, he wraps fresh gauze around your chest, his fingers unexpectedly gentle as they secure it in place. He steps back, surveying his work with a critical eye, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light of your bedroom.

“There,” he says, standing to his full height, his presence towering over you again. “Better than it was, but you need to keep it clean. No more half-assin’ it.” His voice relaxes slightly, though his words remain compressed. “And you’re gonna eat somethin’. I’ll grab somethin’ from the kitchen.”

“Bossy,” you gabble, letting your head fall back against the headboard.

“Someone’s gotta be,” he counters, the faintest hint of a smirk jerking at his lips as he turns and heads toward the door, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. The scent of cedarwood and smoke lingers behind him, a faint reminder of the storm of a man who’s somehow decided to fix you.

Simon returns less than ten minutes later, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he steps back into the room. In one hand, he’s holding a steaming bowl of soup; in the other, a plate with a single piece of buttered toast balanced precariously on the edge.

“Had to scrape together somethin’,” he mutters, setting the plate and bowl on your nightstand with a clatter. His dark eyes narrow as they flick over you, still slumped against the headboard. “You’ve got nothin’ in that fridge. I mean nothin’. How the hell are you not starvin’ to death?”

You don’t answer immediately, too busy concentrating on the smoke wafting off the soup. It smells faintly like chicken, or maybe just broth—nothing elaborate, but it stirs a hollow ache in your stomach you’d ignored was there in the first place.

Simon doesn’t wait for you to reply. “I found a half-empty jar of pickles, a loaf of bread that’s probably older than I am, and some butter that looks like it’s seen better days.” He crosses his arms, his bulk looming over you like a scolding parent. “You expect to live off that? What, you just sittin’ here waitin’ to waste away?”

You glare up at him weakly. “Wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, though even you don’t believe it. Your body practically wobbles with the need for sustenance.

“Bullshit,” he snaps, grabbing the plate and holding it in front of you. “Eat.”

You stare at the toast, mulishness flaring despite the gnawing in your gut. “I’m not a child.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he quips. “Only difference is, kids don’t usually try to kill themselves by neglectin’ a fuckin’ infection.”

With a sigh, you reach for the toast, your fingers trembling as you bring it to your mouth. The butter has melted unevenly, pooling in one corner, but it doesn’t matter. The first bite is bliss, the saltiness grounding you in a way that feels almost humiliating.

Satisfied, Simon turns to the soup. He dips the spoon in and holds it out to you. “Come on.”

“I can do it,” you say, but your attempt to take the bowl from him is so poor it barely counts.

“Sure you can,” he replies sarcastically, keeping a steady grip on it. “Open your mouth.”

You scowl but comply, taking the spoonful of broth he offers. It’s warm, salty, and comforting, soothing some of the ache in your chest that isn’t from the burn. He feeds you spoonful by spoonful, his patience unexpected given the size of his frame and the frankness of his demeanor.

“You’re a terrible patient,” he grumbles between bites. “Makin’ me play nurse ‘cause you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“You volunteered,” you point out weakly, though the retort lacks bane. The warmth of the food is lulling you into a foggy calm, and your eyelids start to feel heavy.

He shakes his head, scoffing softly. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

By the time the bowl is empty, you’re slinking lower into the mattress, the exhaustion from your fever pulling at you more demandingly now. Simon notices, his gaze softening slightly as he sets the empty bowl and plate aside. He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and pulls the blanket up over you.

“You’re a bloody mess,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Gotta figure out how to keep you alive long enough to fix that.”

His scent—cedarwood and smoke—lingers as he adjusts the blanket, making sure it covers you properly. You mumble something incoherent, your voice fading as sleep pulls you under.

When you finally drift off, your breathing slow and even, Simon lingers for a moment, watching. His broad shoulders sag slightly, the weight of something unspoken heavy in the air. Then, as silently as a man his size can manage, he slips out of the room with a quiet Pain in my ass. The front door clicks softly shut behind him, leaving behind only the faint traces of his scent and the warmth of his presence in the empty house.

He’s a shaken can of soda. Bottled up and eager to bubble and fizz over the edge at the first snap. His knuckles aren’t just bloody—they’re raw, split, and sparkling under the yellow warehouse lights. The wraps are long gone, shredded after the first round, leaving his bare hands to meet flesh and bone with nothing to soften the impact.  

The air down here is suffocating—thick with the stink of sweat, blood, and desperation. It clings to Simon’s skin like a reminder of where he belongs. Around him, the crowd churns, their voices a discordant purr of bets and roars, urging him forward like he’s nothing more than an animal in a pit.

He exhales slow, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his opponent looming like a freight train. The guy’s face is a mess—a swollen eye, split lip, blood streaking down his neck. Good. Simon’s done his work. But the man’s still standing, fists tight, chest heaving. Another swing could end it for either of them.

Simon feels the ache in his ribs. A rib is cracked—maybe two—but he pushes past it, lets it fuel the fire under his skin. Pain’s a language he knows better than most, and tonight he’s fluent.

But through the haze of bloodlust and adrenaline, a thought cuts through. You. The memory flickers, uninvited but sharp: you, curled up on that worn mattress, sweat gluing strands of hair to your temples, your voice small and tired when you said It doesn’t matter. I'm fine.

He hadn’t answered you then—hadn’t trusted himself to say something that wouldn’t make you retreat further into yourself. You’d looked so fragile, so wary of being seen like that. Vulnerable. Human. And yet, there was something in the way your eyes softened when he stayed, when he didn’t push too hard.

He adjusts his stance, shaking the thought loose. There’s no room for you here—not in this ring, not in this fight. But your image lingers, shadowing his movements like an echo of something he can’t quite name.

The signal comes—just a nod from Price—and Simon thrusts forward, fists flying, every ounce of pent-up rage and guilt exploding in raw, ruthless force. He lands a right hook that rocks his opponent back, the crunch of bone reverberating up his arm.

The guy swings back, wild and reckless, his fist grazing Simon’s jaw. It’s enough to make his ears ring, but he recovers fast, dodging low and countering with an uppercut that lands hard. The man stumbles, spit and blood spraying from his mouth as the crowd howls their approval.

For a moment, Simon falters—not physically, but somewhere deeper. He hears your voice again: It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. A lie so thin it was nearly transparent. How many times had he said the same thing to himself?

His opponent surges forward, and instinct takes over. Simon plants his feet, pivots, and throws everything he has into one last punch. His knuckles connect with the man’s temple, and it’s over.

The guy crumples to the ground, and the crowd erupts, a cacophony of cheers and stomping boots. Price is there almost immediately, clapping Simon on the back, his voice low and approving. “Good work,” he says, already turning away. “Now clean up and get outta here, I need you early tomorrow morning. New buildings and shit.”

Simon stands there, chest heaving, his vision swimming. The blood on his hands feels stickier than usual tonight. He doesn’t know why.

As he stumbles toward the shadows to catch his breath, your face drifts back to him again. Fragile, guarded, but alive in a way that this place never will be.

What the hell am I doing here?

The thought lingers, just long enough to sting. Then he shakes it off and sinks back into the noise.