𓆩 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓮 𓆪

“What?” he asked, already smiling just because you were.

You turned the screen toward him. “Somebody online asked their boyfriend: ‘Boobs, ass, or thighs?’ and apparently it started a war in the comments.”

Colin immediately looked wary, as if he could tell he sealed his fate by asking the question. “Okay…”

You grinned slowly, leaning on his shoulder and looking up at him like a sly cat. “So… Colin Zabel.”

“Oh no.”

“Boobs, ass, or thighs?”

He stared at you like you’d just placed him under interrogation, nervous chuckle let out with his dimples as he looked down to shake his head. For a moment, he genuinely tried to dodge it. “I feel like there’s no right answer here.”

“There isn’t,” you said cheerfully. “It’s a matter of opinion.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, already blushing. “Can I plead the fifth?”

“Nope.”

You shifted so you could see him better, chin propped on your hand, thoroughly entertained now. Colin groaned quietly, head tipping back against the couch as his girlfriend indulged in his dilemma.

“This feels like a trap, babe,” he muttered.

“It’s not a trap,” you said. “I’m literally just asking your preference.”

You laughed and he looked at you for a second too long, fond despite himself and completely doomed. He knew you weren’t actually judging him, which almost made it harder. There was no escape hatch of irony or embarrassment to hide behind.

“Okay,” he said finally, sitting up a little straighter like he was preparing to testify in court. “Can I explain my answer first?”

Your eyes widened in delight. “Oh my god, yes.”

He pointed at you accusingly, already melting under your watchful gaze. “See? This is exactly why I’m nervous.”

“You’re adorable. Continue.”

Colin exhaled deeply, visibly gathering courage for what was objectively a harmless conversation but somehow felt monumental anyway. “I feel like… okay… uhm… personality matters, definitely.”

This makes you burst out laughing, lightly hitting his shoulder. “Colin!”

“No, I’m serious!” he insisted, flushed already. “I’m saying context matters. It’s not like I’m walking around categorizing women based on their body-”

“Detective,” you interrupted gently, holding his chin, “...answer the question.”

He looked at the ceiling briefly, then back at you with the expression of a man accepting his fate.

“…Boobs. Uhm, yours, specifically.”

The word came out quiet and respectful, somehow… like he was trying not to offend the concept of breasts, even taking the time to correct himself and defend that yours were the only pair he ever would revere. You stared at him for half a second before laughing so hard you nearly slid off the couch. This makes Colin immediately defensive.

“Why are you laughing?!”

“Because you said it like you were embarrassed of it!”

“I kind of feel like I am!”

Still laughing, you grabbed his arm and leaned against him again. He was red all the way up to his ears now, but smiling too, unable to help it when you looked this entertained.

“So… you’re a boobs guy.” you teased.

He groaned softly into his hand. “Please never say it like that again.”

“I will.”

Colin shook his head, but after a moment his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer almost unconsciously. His voice dropped quieter then, sincerity slipping back in despite the embarrassment.

“I just think they’re…” He paused, immediately regretting continuing when you catch his gaze drift down to your chest.

You looked up at him expectantly. “They’re what?”

He glanced at you, then away again with a shy smile. “Nice.” That only made you laugh harder.

But a few minutes later, when the teasing had died down and the room had settled soft and warm around you again, Colin leaned down to kiss you with lingering affection, and you noticed the faint, stubborn flush still coloring his cheeks the entire time.

“You know,” you said after the laughter finally settled, “that answer actually raises more questions.”

Colin immediately narrowed his eyes, not wanting to add to his embarrassment. “No.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

He was already smiling despite himself, slouched deeper into the couch while you turned toward him fully now, knees tucked under you. The wine had left him warm and loose enough to stay instead of retreating, even though he could already tell where this was going.

“You can’t just say ‘boobs’ in the shyest voice imaginable and then leave it there.”

“I think I can.”

“Nope.” You poked his side lightly. “Explain yourself.”

Colin covered part of his face with one hand, groaning softly. “Why are you interrogating me like this?”

“Because you’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You were smiling too brightly for him to have any real defense against it. He looked at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether he could survive refusing, then he sighed the sigh of a man accepting inevitable defeat.

“Okay, but you’re making this weird.”

“I haven’t even started making it weird.”

“That sentence alone made it weird.”

You laughed again, and Colin felt his chest tighten with affection so sudden it nearly distracted him from his own embarrassment. God, he liked you. Too much, probably.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They’re just… comforting.”

You blinked, surprised into softness. “Comforting?”

“Yeah.” His voice got quieter, more thoughtful now that he was actually trying to articulate it. “Not in a creepy way, more emotionally.”

“I didn’t say creepy.”

“I know, but I needed to establish that for my own dignity.”

You grinned. “Go on, Detective.”

Colin huffed out a laugh and looked down at his hands before continuing. “I think it’s because they feel…” He paused again, searching. “Warm and safe, maybe.” He looked up at you cautiously, gauging your reaction. “Like if someone lets you be close to them like that, it’s because they trust you to be close to their heart.”

Your teasing expression softened almost immediately at the answer, just wanting to kiss his stupid again the more you listened to your man talk.

“And,” he added quickly, flustered by your sudden sincerity, “I mean, obviously they’re attractive too. I’m not pretending this is entirely philosophical.”

“Obviously.”

“But I don’t know.” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s not even really about looks half the time. It’s just intimate to be closer to them. It’s not my fault that your boobs are right in front of your heart.”

You stared at him for a second, visibly trying not to melt. “Oh my god,” you murmured. “That’s the most Colin answer you could’ve possibly given.”

His face flushed deeper. “Is that bad?”

“No,” you said immediately, moving closer until your leg draped over his. “It’s really sweet.”

He groaned quietly, dropping his head back against the couch. “I should’ve lied. I should’ve said thighs and moved on with my life.”

“But then I wouldn’t have learned you associate boobs with emotional vulnerability.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It kind of is.”

Colin laughed despite himself, shoulders shaking slightly as he looked over at you again. You were watching him with such obvious affection now that it made him bashful in a completely different way.

“You know what the worst part is?” he admitted.

“What?”

“I really thought I was going to sound suave somehow.”

You burst out laughing, leaning forward to kiss him before he could hide behind the embarrassment again. Colin kissed you back immediately, smiling into it, one hand settling warmly at your waist. When you pulled away, still grinning, you brushed your thumb against his cheek. 

“For the record?”

“Mm?” his eyes were half-lidded when he gazed at you.

“I think your answer was perfect.”

-The subtle kind of Submissve type, but he still will do anything you want in a heartbeat.

-Around his boys? No problem, it'd be an opportunity to teach his younger frat brothers how to treat a baddie like you

-100% has a praise Kink, tell Kyle how good he is at all times, because he Is.

-definitely calls you an authoritative pet name, maam/sir, momma/mommy… things along those lines

- He might even get brave and let a Momma slip while youre out. He cant help it~

- Requires Kises all the time if you had a shot for every time he asks for you to Kiss him in a day you'd die of alcohol poisoning

-When was youre alone he is the biggest baby he’s got a lot. going on for him and you let him finally be able to just relax.

-When he told you about his homelife and his history with his deviant mother, you offered that he can stay with you in your Janky appartment

- Totally dropped an I Love you First time you two Slept together, he wasnt aware Someone could Make him cum that hard

- He cooks you breakfast the next moming, and when he doesn’t make as much or a mess in the kitchen as you do you elect him as the Chef of the house

When Kyle was pronounced dead in the bus crash, your life basically ended too. Kyle had become such an important part or your life; and now…he was gone…

- or so you thought, because mere weeks after your boyfriends gruesome death... You get a Knock on your door - or maybe more-so a series of thumps at your door

-When you cautiously check the peephole you nearly fall to your knees because !!! Hello!!! your dead boyfriend is at your front door!!

- You immediatly notice the difference in Kyle. His once boisterous personality has been dulled down to A Zombie like State

-You had already been heart broken about how your boyfriend had left you on this earth, But now youre more concerned about who left him like this

-when he finally trusted you to help bathe him, you had leave the room when you noticed his frat brothers tattoos now on his body

• living with your zombie boyfriends really wasnt too hard, you loved him. You'd do anuthing for him.

🩵🩵🩵

Tag list (If you want to be added just comment!)

@chmpgneprblem

@qoopeeya

@sleepysongbirdsings

@magicalcowboyarbiter

@tadpoleteef

🩵🩵🩵

"i’m almost done,” Tate sighed, fixing his black trench coat. You’d known Tate for a little while, meaning you knew that today was the day. The ‘Noble War’, where Tate would send people to a ‘better place’. You thought Tate would be normal. But how wrong you were.

You'd been watching him since the day he moved in with his family. The house had been vacant before he had come. Well, since your murder. You'd give him small signs as to where your body was, as to where that rotting, vile, perhaps even lingering smell was coming from. But you’d always watch Constance spray the house up and down with air fresheners, seemingly avoiding your rotting body that was scattered beneath floorboards.

“Tate—,“ You sigh in a slightly exasperated manner, watching him shove books, VHS tapes and cassettes out of the way, scouring his bookshelf for his hidden stash of cocaine.

Tate took some from the small jar, tapping it onto the wood of his desk, which was currently covered in books and gun cleaning supplies. He sat down, cutting it anxiously with a razor blade. His hands shook, making sure the practically microscopic, white crystals were crushed up well enough to snort.

“You’re really gonna do this..?” You mumble pleadingly, looking down at the back of his head with a blank, tired stare as you stood behind him.

You placed your cold hands on his shoulders, fingertips digging into his coat as his head was angled down close to his desk. You watch as Tate pressed a finger tip to one nostril, inhaling the cocaine sharply into his lungs. Tate let out a strangled cough, leaning back in his chair.

You ran your fingers gently through his greasy, dirty blonde hair. He showered every day, you knew, you watched him. So how was his hair constantly like this? It never made sense. You shook your head softly, pulling yourself out of your own head, which was mostly empty anyways.

Your eyes follow Tate as he slowly looked over towards his bed. He stood up, storming over to his bed. Your hands quickly fell from his shoulders, back to your sides as Tate loaded his guns into a duffel bag. He started out his doorway before turning back.

“I love you..” He said softly, his voice slightly above a whisper. Tate’s hands cupped your cheeks gently, placing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips chapped and splitting.

It had been about 8 hours since Tate left for school. Currently his room was packed with SWAT officers, blocking off his door. Tate was dressed in all black, stood up straight, his index finger in the shape of a gun to his temple. He pretended to pull the trigger with a soft mimic of a gunshot.

Your eyes flick over his face, tears of terror in your eyes as you stood in the dark corner of his room. His face was covered in what looked to be extremely painful scratches, his eyes glazed with choked back tears. He wanted to look strong. You walk over to him, knowing he was the only one that could see you.

“Oh, you’ll be alright…You’ll be okay…” You purr, your hands on the sides of his face. Tate’s dark irises flicked down to you for a solid second before looking back up to the men that were about to kill him.

When he finally reached for his gun, shots were fired. His body jerked with each bullet that passed through his flesh, instantly falling to the ground when the shooting was complete.

He laid on the wood floor, your apparition perched next to him. You shifted behind him, tears flowing freely down your face as you pulled his upper body against your legs. You wanted to hold him while he went. To comfort him like no one comforted you when your life was taken. You stroked his hair, your fingers making small circles on his scalp.

“Why’d you do it?!” An officer barked at him from above. Tate looked up, the life draining from his eyes as he started sputtering some incoherent, soft nonsense. He tilted his head weakly to look up at you before that little, minuscule light in his eyes finally faded…Good thing he died on the property,

You spooned Tate’s body, your hand enclosed in his, which was held to his chest. He was scared, you could tell. He probably didn’t even know he was dead. Sometimes that’s how it worked with the dead.

“You feel better?” You ask in a soft-spoken manner. Tate nods, feeling you cuddle closer against him.

“I missed you, though…I hate that you leave when the lights come on,” Tate whispers, his grip on your hand tightening tenfold. “and if I had it my way, the fuckin’ sun would be gone..”

When you held it against your lips and took the first drag, it felt like the first breath you take after being underwater for too long. A rush of adrenaline along with relief, if only for a moment. The nicotine coursed through your veins, wrapping around your brain like the softest of dreams and you ached to reach for it again and again like a child for a hand that was never there. You knew it was killing you slowly, each inhale wrapping around your lungs as if shadow marred its very own presence and each exhale a reminder of the damage you were doing. 

The warnings were there, on every pack. 

It wasn't the act alone that hooked you so hard. The feeling of what the cigarette provided was the real deal. You lit up to quiet the voices in your mind, to numb the ache of loneliness, to dull the reminders of your repeating days. The bitterness of the tobacco, the way it scorched your throat and left a lingering taste on your tongue, was a small price to pay for the way it soothed your soul, however briefly. 

And it was brief — each cigarette only lasted a few minutes. But those minutes were precious. They were yours, and in a life where so much felt out of control, that small sense of ownership was everything. You were the one who decided when to light up, when to take that first drag, when to exhale and watch the smoke curl into the air, disappearing like the worries you wished would do the same.

The night was cool, the air heavy with the damp scent of earth and the faint aroma of wood smoke coming from your neighbor's chimney. It was one of those nights when you felt like your shoulders were loaded with such a burden that there was no way out. At least the night sky didn't disappoint with its beauty — millions, billions of stars were flickering upon the darkness, shining brighter with each passing minute. You sat on the porch steps of your new house, your knees drawn up to your chest and a cigarette dangling loosely between your fingers. 

You felt the coolness of the unlit cigarette against your fingertips, the promise it held lingering in the back of your mind. It was as if time had paused, the night holding its breath alongside you. You toyed with the idea, rolling the cigarette gently between your fingers, feeling the slight bumps of the packed tobacco inside. There was a certain comfort in just holding it — a familiarity, a sense of control over something so small. 

The porch light cast a soft, golden glow around your form, but beyond that, the yard was swallowed by shadows.  

Should you light it? The thought lingered, heavy and persistent, as you stared at the fragile cylinder in your hand. Your parents disapproved of their children smoking and the thoughts of disappointing them felt too heavy for you.  You brought the unlit cigarette to your lips, mind spinning with thoughts you couldn't quite grasp. Everything felt too much — too heavy, too overwhelming. You were suffocating under the weight of it all, and this cigarette, this tiny thing, felt like the only tether to the world you could control. The cool paper pressed against your teeth, offering a strange comfort. 

For a moment, you just held it there, as if the act of lighting it would be too final, too irreversible. The familiar scent of tobacco teased your senses, but something held you back. The night's stillness, the way the shadows seemed to reach out toward you, and the deep sense of unease that had settled in your chest all seemed to whisper, not yet. 

Then, the creak of the porch door behind you shattered the fragile silence. Your heart skipped a beat, fear spiking through you as you imagined your parents standing there, their disapproving eyes catching you in this vulnerable moment. Panic washed over you, the cigarette trembling slightly between your fingers as you fumbled with it, trying to keep the drug out of sight. You couldn't bear the thought of facing them, of explaining what you couldn't even fully understand yourself. 

But when you finally found the courage to turn around, it wasn't your parents. Relief flooded your system immediately as you saw Tate standing there, his figure half-illuminated by the porch light, half-swallowed by the darkness behind him. He always had a way of appearing just when you needed him, like a ghost materializing out of thin air.  Without a word, Tate slid down beside you, the movement smooth and quiet. The space between the two of you shrank until your shoulders brushed and his knee knocked into yours softly in greeting. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that made you yearn for the person's presence because you liked how they made you feel.

And Tate made you feel good in a way that was hard to put into words. It wasn't just his presence, though that alone was enough to soothe the twisted edges of your thoughts. It was the way he understood you without the need for explanations, the way he could step into your personal space and fill it with a quiet strength that seemed to steady everything around you. Tate made you feel good because with him, you felt whole, like all the broken parts of you could finally be mended. 

You kept your gaze ahead on the darkness of the yard, occasionally glancing at your hands, all while feeling the weight of the boy's eyes on you. He was watching you, or perhaps analyzing your actions, but the weight wasn't heavy. With him, everything seemed easy. 

He was the one to break the silence with his voice low, sounding like gravel sliding over stone. "You shouldn't smoke, you know. It's bad for you."

Huffing a soft, bitter laugh, the sound escaped your lips as a faint, misty cloud in the cool night air as your eyes flicked toward him, catching his gaze through the veil of your dark eyelashes. There was a hint of pure amusement in your expression. "It's pretty ironic coming from you," you murmured, voice laced with a touch of mockery. You looked down at the unlit cigarette, rolling it once more between your fingers.

"But it's not like it matters, right?" you continued, your tone shifting to something softer, almost wistful. "It's just . . . something to do."

You shrugged, the gesture small and almost unnoticable, as if trying to dismiss the meaning of what you had just said. But the words you wanted to say lingered in the air between you. It wasn't just about the cigarette — it was about the need to fill the void, to occupy the empty spaces that stretched out endlessly in your life. It was about finding something, anything, to hold onto when everything else felt so fragile.

Tate's brown irises flickered with something you couldn't quite place — a glimmer of understanding, maybe. It was as if he saw through your casual words, past the nonchalance you tried to project, and into the deeper, more vulnerable parts of you that you kept hidden from the entire world. 

He understood you as if you were two sides of the same coin.

The boy didn't say anything at first, just watched you with that steady, unreadable gaze that seemed to pull at the edges of your carefully constructed facade. Then, with a slow movement, Tate reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound breaking the quietness surrounding you. He withdrew a lighter, its polished metal surface catching the porch light for a split second, casting a brief flash of brightness that contrasted sharply with the darkness around you. The lighter was simple, a worn silver Zippo with a few scratches along its surface — evidence of years of use, of countless times it had been flicked open to ignite a flame. 

Tate's movements were smooth and practiced as he flicked the lighter open, the familiar click of the metal lid snapping back echoing softly in the still night air. The sound was almost comforting in its predictability, a stark difference to the unpredictability of your thoughts and emotions. A small flame grew to life, its warm, golden light flickering gently as it cast a soft glow on Tate's face, illuminating the chiseled lines of his jawline and nose, and the softer curve of his lips. His skin, usually pale, seemed to take on a warm hue in the firelight, adding a touch of color to the otherwise cool tones that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And his hair, a tousled mess of blond curls that framed his face, caught the light as well, the strands turning golden where the flame touched them, adding a softness to his otherwise sharp features. The way his hair fell, slightly over his forehead and around his ears, gave him a boyish look that contrasted with the haunted expression in his eyes, which made him seem both young and impossibly old at the same time.

You hesitated, eyes locked on the flame, mesmerized by its hypnotic dance. It was such a small thing, yet it held so much power — the power to transform, to ignite, to bring both comfort and destruction. You could feel the warmth radiating from it. Tate waited, patient and unwavering, for you to make a move. He wasn't pushing you to make a decision, wasn't trying to influence your choice. He was simply there, offering you the possibility. 

You brought the cigarette to rest between your lips, your hand steady despite the slight tremor in your stomach. Leaning in closer to the flame, you could feel the heat brushing against your cheeks, a whisper of warmth that contrasted sharply with the cool night air. The flame licked at your face, casting fleeting shadows across your features as you drew in a slow, deliberate breath, all while your eyes remained locked with the boy who seemed like he fell straight out of your dreams. 

The tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange, and for that brief moment, it felt as if the entire world had narrowed down to just that one glowing point. The burn of the tobacco was immediate, the familiar taste bitter and grounding, pulling you back from the despair. As you exhaled, a plume of smoke curled from your lips, twisting and swirling into the night air, hitting Tate's face. 

"Thanks," you murmured, with your voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

In response, Tate's lips curled into a charming grin, the kind that was disarmingly boyish and just a little crooked at the corners. The smile lit up his features just like the flame did, softening the intensity of his gaze and adding a glint of warmth to his doe eyes. It was the kind of smile that made you feel like, despite the darkness and everything else that loomed over your life, there was still something good in the world — something worth holding onto. 

The boy next to you leaned back, resting his elbows on the step behind him, his gaze lifting to the sky where the stars were hidden by a thick layer of dark clouds. "What's on your mind?" he asked the kind of question that didn't need an immediate answer.

He probably already knew what was swirling around in your head — Tate always seemed to know, like he had a sixth sense for the things you tried to keep buried. But still, he asked, giving you the space to say it out loud or let it hang there between the two of you, unspoken.

You sighed, nimble fingers absently rolling the cigarette between them. You tilted your head slightly, catching his profile against the dim light. You never really noticed before but, God, was he pretty. "You ever feel like you're just . . . stuck?" you began, voice soft, as if you were testing the waters. "Like no matter what you do, you're just going through the motions, waiting for something to change but not really believing it ever will?"

Tate's heart skipped a beat. You couldn't possibly know, and yet your question struck so close to the truth of his existence that it took him a moment to respond. He was stuck — stuck in this place, in this time, in this state of being. And you didn't know. You couldn't know. How could you?

For a second, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he only felt in your presence. He kept his gaze on the clouds, forcing himself to stay calm, to not let the surprise show in his expression. But his mind was racing, grappling with the irony of your words. You were searching for a way out of your own feeling of being stuck, while he was trapped in a far more literal sense, bound to this house with no escape. 

"Yeah," the boy finally said, his voice softer, almost hesitant, as if weighing the truth he couldn't fully share. "More often than I'd like to admit."

You didn't seem to notice the tension in his voice, the subtle shift in his demeanor. You just nodded, your own thoughts wrapped up in your struggles. "It's like the world's moving on without me, and I'm just . . . here. Stuck in the same place, doing the same things, feeling the same way."

Tate's heart ached with the weight of what he couldn't tell you, the truth that he was stuck in ways you couldn't imagine. But he kept his voice steady, warm. "You're not alone in that," he said, choosing his words carefully. "We're all trying to find our way, even when it feels impossible." He glanced at you, the weight of your words still hanging in the air, and before he could think twice, he reached out and took your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and reassuring, and he began to slowly rub his thumb over your knuckles in small, soothing circles. The roughness of his thumb contrasted with the softness of your skin.

His steady voice broke the silence with softness. "You know," he began, his tone imbued with sincerity, "I'd never let anybody or anything hurt you. Not while I'm here."

Your gaze remained fixed on your joined hands for a moment, absorbing the seriousness and sincerity of Tate's words. The promise in his voice, the gentle assurance of his touch, created a sense of warmth that made the rest of the world seem a little less scary.

Feeling a surge of gratitude and comfort, you shifted closer to him, leaning your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt felt warm against your cheek, and the subtle scent of him — something earthy and faintly comforting — surrounded you with a feeling of home. Tate was your safe place in this filthy and helpless world. 

His body tensed slightly at the unexpected touch, but he quickly relaxed, his arm instinctively moving to drape over your shoulders in a protective gesture. He could feel the gentle weight of your head resting there, and it brought a sense of closeness he hadn't fully realized he needed. The feeling of having you this close was unreal. 

Tate turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against the top of your head. "You okay?"

You gave him a nod while your warm breath washed against his neck. "Yeah. I just needed this." 

The clicking noises of the keyboard echoed through the silent room. It was almost 2 in the morning and everybody in the house was obviously sleeping. Everybody but you.

This damn essay was keeping you awake to an ungodly hour. But unfortunately the teacher who assigned it was a total asshole and your grades were already on the brink of precipitation, you couldn’t risk turning up tomorrow with no essay, it would just mean self sabotage. As a master procrastinator, you just had to get started writing in the evening before the deadline. I work better under pressure, that’s what you told yourself. Bullshit. Or at least, you definitely worked faster, but it was probably not a good idea to re-read the essay once you were done. What’s done is done anyway right?

Now was definitely not the time to think about everything that could go wrong. You just wanted to go to bed and hopefully get a few hours of sleep, so you would look only half dead and not totally ghastly the next day.

The only background noise you had to accompany your tired typing were the sheets of your bed shifting ever so often. Tate was already sound asleep, too bored to wait for you, even if he actually tried.

Then suddenly groans. You weren’t too worried, Tate wasn’t a light sleeper anyway, you envied him in that moment.

“Why are you still up?” he was behind you in a second.

“Jeez you scared me. You were sleeping only a second ago,” you whined. “Just give me a few more minutes and I’m done.”

“Hurry up and come to bed, c’mon,” he hugged you from behind the chair.

“Yeah, Tate, I’m coming, you head back first.”

You kept typing away, but he didn’t budge. Did he fall asleep just like that, laying on your shoulder?

You turned your head slightly to check on him: he was awake, reading whatever was on the screen attentively.

“Looks like you’re done, right? That’s a good enough ending I’d say,” he commented, after a few moments of reading.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, what matters is that you turn this in tomorrow right? Also, you’re a somewhat decent writer I suppose, it’ll be fine,” Tate’s hands sat firmly on your shoulders, a signal to get up and go lay down. Mentally sighing, and accepting that you were too tired to even attempt continuing writing, you accepted.

You got up and hugged Tate. No warmth, but his tight embrace made you feel safe nonetheless. Lying your head on his chest was oddly quiet, with no heartbeat to entertain your ears with, but the silence could be comforting after getting used to it. It felt like a soundproof refuge, but it came at the price of sweaters that always smelled of cigarettes, bland soap and faintly of gunpowder, no matter how many cycles you ran in the washing machine. You closed your eyes and let the night drag you into its sultry hug.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

"i’m almost done,” Tate sighed, fixing his black trench coat. You’d known Tate for a little while, meaning you knew that today was the day. The ‘Noble War’, where Tate would send people to a ‘better place’. You thought Tate would be normal. But how wrong you were.

You'd been watching him since the day he moved in with his family. The house had been vacant before he had come. Well, since your murder. You'd give him small signs as to where your body was, as to where that rotting, vile, perhaps even lingering smell was coming from. But you’d always watch Constance spray the house up and down with air fresheners, seemingly avoiding your rotting body that was scattered beneath floorboards.

“Tate—,“ You sigh in a slightly exasperated manner, watching him shove books, VHS tapes and cassettes out of the way, scouring his bookshelf for his hidden stash of cocaine.

Tate took some from the small jar, tapping it onto the wood of his desk, which was currently covered in books and gun cleaning supplies. He sat down, cutting it anxiously with a razor blade. His hands shook, making sure the practically microscopic, white crystals were crushed up well enough to snort.

“You’re really gonna do this..?” You mumble pleadingly, looking down at the back of his head with a blank, tired stare as you stood behind him.

You placed your cold hands on his shoulders, fingertips digging into his coat as his head was angled down close to his desk. You watch as Tate pressed a finger tip to one nostril, inhaling the cocaine sharply into his lungs. Tate let out a strangled cough, leaning back in his chair.

You ran your fingers gently through his greasy, dirty blonde hair. He showered every day, you knew, you watched him. So how was his hair constantly like this? It never made sense. You shook your head softly, pulling yourself out of your own head, which was mostly empty anyways.

Your eyes follow Tate as he slowly looked over towards his bed. He stood up, storming over to his bed. Your hands quickly fell from his shoulders, back to your sides as Tate loaded his guns into a duffel bag. He started out his doorway before turning back.

“I love you..” He said softly, his voice slightly above a whisper. Tate’s hands cupped your cheeks gently, placing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips chapped and splitting.

It had been about 8 hours since Tate left for school. Currently his room was packed with SWAT officers, blocking off his door. Tate was dressed in all black, stood up straight, his index finger in the shape of a gun to his temple. He pretended to pull the trigger with a soft mimic of a gunshot.

Your eyes flick over his face, tears of terror in your eyes as you stood in the dark corner of his room. His face was covered in what looked to be extremely painful scratches, his eyes glazed with choked back tears. He wanted to look strong. You walk over to him, knowing he was the only one that could see you.

“Oh, you’ll be alright…You’ll be okay…” You purr, your hands on the sides of his face. Tate’s dark irises flicked down to you for a solid second before looking back up to the men that were about to kill him.

When he finally reached for his gun, shots were fired. His body jerked with each bullet that passed through his flesh, instantly falling to the ground when the shooting was complete.

He laid on the wood floor, your apparition perched next to him. You shifted behind him, tears flowing freely down your face as you pulled his upper body against your legs. You wanted to hold him while he went. To comfort him like no one comforted you when your life was taken. You stroked his hair, your fingers making small circles on his scalp.

“Why’d you do it?!” An officer barked at him from above. Tate looked up, the life draining from his eyes as he started sputtering some incoherent, soft nonsense. He tilted his head weakly to look up at you before that little, minuscule light in his eyes finally faded…Good thing he died on the property,

You spooned Tate’s body, your hand enclosed in his, which was held to his chest. He was scared, you could tell. He probably didn’t even know he was dead. Sometimes that’s how it worked with the dead.

“You feel better?” You ask in a soft-spoken manner. Tate nods, feeling you cuddle closer against him.

“I missed you, though…I hate that you leave when the lights come on,” Tate whispers, his grip on your hand tightening tenfold. “and if I had it my way, the fuckin’ sun would be gone..”

The clicking noises of the keyboard echoed through the silent room. It was almost 2 in the morning and everybody in the house was obviously sleeping. Everybody but you.

This damn essay was keeping you awake to an ungodly hour. But unfortunately the teacher who assigned it was a total asshole and your grades were already on the brink of precipitation, you couldn’t risk turning up tomorrow with no essay, it would just mean self sabotage. As a master procrastinator, you just had to get started writing in the evening before the deadline. I work better under pressure, that’s what you told yourself. Bullshit. Or at least, you definitely worked faster, but it was probably not a good idea to re-read the essay once you were done. What’s done is done anyway right?

Now was definitely not the time to think about everything that could go wrong. You just wanted to go to bed and hopefully get a few hours of sleep, so you would look only half dead and not totally ghastly the next day.

The only background noise you had to accompany your tired typing were the sheets of your bed shifting ever so often. Tate was already sound asleep, too bored to wait for you, even if he actually tried.

Then suddenly groans. You weren’t too worried, Tate wasn’t a light sleeper anyway, you envied him in that moment.

“Why are you still up?” he was behind you in a second.

“Jeez you scared me. You were sleeping only a second ago,” you whined. “Just give me a few more minutes and I’m done.”

“Hurry up and come to bed, c’mon,” he hugged you from behind the chair.

“Yeah, Tate, I’m coming, you head back first.”

You kept typing away, but he didn’t budge. Did he fall asleep just like that, laying on your shoulder?

You turned your head slightly to check on him: he was awake, reading whatever was on the screen attentively.

“Looks like you’re done, right? That’s a good enough ending I’d say,” he commented, after a few moments of reading.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, what matters is that you turn this in tomorrow right? Also, you’re a somewhat decent writer I suppose, it’ll be fine,” Tate’s hands sat firmly on your shoulders, a signal to get up and go lay down. Mentally sighing, and accepting that you were too tired to even attempt continuing writing, you accepted.

You got up and hugged Tate. No warmth, but his tight embrace made you feel safe nonetheless. Lying your head on his chest was oddly quiet, with no heartbeat to entertain your ears with, but the silence could be comforting after getting used to it. It felt like a soundproof refuge, but it came at the price of sweaters that always smelled of cigarettes, bland soap and faintly of gunpowder, no matter how many cycles you ran in the washing machine. You closed your eyes and let the night drag you into its sultry hug.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

When you held it against your lips and took the first drag, it felt like the first breath you take after being underwater for too long. A rush of adrenaline along with relief, if only for a moment. The nicotine coursed through your veins, wrapping around your brain like the softest of dreams and you ached to reach for it again and again like a child for a hand that was never there. You knew it was killing you slowly, each inhale wrapping around your lungs as if shadow marred its very own presence and each exhale a reminder of the damage you were doing. 

The warnings were there, on every pack. 

It wasn't the act alone that hooked you so hard. The feeling of what the cigarette provided was the real deal. You lit up to quiet the voices in your mind, to numb the ache of loneliness, to dull the reminders of your repeating days. The bitterness of the tobacco, the way it scorched your throat and left a lingering taste on your tongue, was a small price to pay for the way it soothed your soul, however briefly. 

And it was brief — each cigarette only lasted a few minutes. But those minutes were precious. They were yours, and in a life where so much felt out of control, that small sense of ownership was everything. You were the one who decided when to light up, when to take that first drag, when to exhale and watch the smoke curl into the air, disappearing like the worries you wished would do the same.

The night was cool, the air heavy with the damp scent of earth and the faint aroma of wood smoke coming from your neighbor's chimney. It was one of those nights when you felt like your shoulders were loaded with such a burden that there was no way out. At least the night sky didn't disappoint with its beauty — millions, billions of stars were flickering upon the darkness, shining brighter with each passing minute. You sat on the porch steps of your new house, your knees drawn up to your chest and a cigarette dangling loosely between your fingers. 

You felt the coolness of the unlit cigarette against your fingertips, the promise it held lingering in the back of your mind. It was as if time had paused, the night holding its breath alongside you. You toyed with the idea, rolling the cigarette gently between your fingers, feeling the slight bumps of the packed tobacco inside. There was a certain comfort in just holding it — a familiarity, a sense of control over something so small. 

The porch light cast a soft, golden glow around your form, but beyond that, the yard was swallowed by shadows.  

Should you light it? The thought lingered, heavy and persistent, as you stared at the fragile cylinder in your hand. Your parents disapproved of their children smoking and the thoughts of disappointing them felt too heavy for you.  You brought the unlit cigarette to your lips, mind spinning with thoughts you couldn't quite grasp. Everything felt too much — too heavy, too overwhelming. You were suffocating under the weight of it all, and this cigarette, this tiny thing, felt like the only tether to the world you could control. The cool paper pressed against your teeth, offering a strange comfort. 

For a moment, you just held it there, as if the act of lighting it would be too final, too irreversible. The familiar scent of tobacco teased your senses, but something held you back. The night's stillness, the way the shadows seemed to reach out toward you, and the deep sense of unease that had settled in your chest all seemed to whisper, not yet. 

Then, the creak of the porch door behind you shattered the fragile silence. Your heart skipped a beat, fear spiking through you as you imagined your parents standing there, their disapproving eyes catching you in this vulnerable moment. Panic washed over you, the cigarette trembling slightly between your fingers as you fumbled with it, trying to keep the drug out of sight. You couldn't bear the thought of facing them, of explaining what you couldn't even fully understand yourself. 

But when you finally found the courage to turn around, it wasn't your parents. Relief flooded your system immediately as you saw Tate standing there, his figure half-illuminated by the porch light, half-swallowed by the darkness behind him. He always had a way of appearing just when you needed him, like a ghost materializing out of thin air.  Without a word, Tate slid down beside you, the movement smooth and quiet. The space between the two of you shrank until your shoulders brushed and his knee knocked into yours softly in greeting. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that made you yearn for the person's presence because you liked how they made you feel.

And Tate made you feel good in a way that was hard to put into words. It wasn't just his presence, though that alone was enough to soothe the twisted edges of your thoughts. It was the way he understood you without the need for explanations, the way he could step into your personal space and fill it with a quiet strength that seemed to steady everything around you. Tate made you feel good because with him, you felt whole, like all the broken parts of you could finally be mended. 

You kept your gaze ahead on the darkness of the yard, occasionally glancing at your hands, all while feeling the weight of the boy's eyes on you. He was watching you, or perhaps analyzing your actions, but the weight wasn't heavy. With him, everything seemed easy. 

He was the one to break the silence with his voice low, sounding like gravel sliding over stone. "You shouldn't smoke, you know. It's bad for you."

Huffing a soft, bitter laugh, the sound escaped your lips as a faint, misty cloud in the cool night air as your eyes flicked toward him, catching his gaze through the veil of your dark eyelashes. There was a hint of pure amusement in your expression. "It's pretty ironic coming from you," you murmured, voice laced with a touch of mockery. You looked down at the unlit cigarette, rolling it once more between your fingers.

"But it's not like it matters, right?" you continued, your tone shifting to something softer, almost wistful. "It's just . . . something to do."

You shrugged, the gesture small and almost unnoticable, as if trying to dismiss the meaning of what you had just said. But the words you wanted to say lingered in the air between you. It wasn't just about the cigarette — it was about the need to fill the void, to occupy the empty spaces that stretched out endlessly in your life. It was about finding something, anything, to hold onto when everything else felt so fragile.

Tate's brown irises flickered with something you couldn't quite place — a glimmer of understanding, maybe. It was as if he saw through your casual words, past the nonchalance you tried to project, and into the deeper, more vulnerable parts of you that you kept hidden from the entire world. 

He understood you as if you were two sides of the same coin.

The boy didn't say anything at first, just watched you with that steady, unreadable gaze that seemed to pull at the edges of your carefully constructed facade. Then, with a slow movement, Tate reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound breaking the quietness surrounding you. He withdrew a lighter, its polished metal surface catching the porch light for a split second, casting a brief flash of brightness that contrasted sharply with the darkness around you. The lighter was simple, a worn silver Zippo with a few scratches along its surface — evidence of years of use, of countless times it had been flicked open to ignite a flame. 

Tate's movements were smooth and practiced as he flicked the lighter open, the familiar click of the metal lid snapping back echoing softly in the still night air. The sound was almost comforting in its predictability, a stark difference to the unpredictability of your thoughts and emotions. A small flame grew to life, its warm, golden light flickering gently as it cast a soft glow on Tate's face, illuminating the chiseled lines of his jawline and nose, and the softer curve of his lips. His skin, usually pale, seemed to take on a warm hue in the firelight, adding a touch of color to the otherwise cool tones that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And his hair, a tousled mess of blond curls that framed his face, caught the light as well, the strands turning golden where the flame touched them, adding a softness to his otherwise sharp features. The way his hair fell, slightly over his forehead and around his ears, gave him a boyish look that contrasted with the haunted expression in his eyes, which made him seem both young and impossibly old at the same time.

You hesitated, eyes locked on the flame, mesmerized by its hypnotic dance. It was such a small thing, yet it held so much power — the power to transform, to ignite, to bring both comfort and destruction. You could feel the warmth radiating from it. Tate waited, patient and unwavering, for you to make a move. He wasn't pushing you to make a decision, wasn't trying to influence your choice. He was simply there, offering you the possibility. 

You brought the cigarette to rest between your lips, your hand steady despite the slight tremor in your stomach. Leaning in closer to the flame, you could feel the heat brushing against your cheeks, a whisper of warmth that contrasted sharply with the cool night air. The flame licked at your face, casting fleeting shadows across your features as you drew in a slow, deliberate breath, all while your eyes remained locked with the boy who seemed like he fell straight out of your dreams. 

The tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange, and for that brief moment, it felt as if the entire world had narrowed down to just that one glowing point. The burn of the tobacco was immediate, the familiar taste bitter and grounding, pulling you back from the despair. As you exhaled, a plume of smoke curled from your lips, twisting and swirling into the night air, hitting Tate's face. 

"Thanks," you murmured, with your voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

In response, Tate's lips curled into a charming grin, the kind that was disarmingly boyish and just a little crooked at the corners. The smile lit up his features just like the flame did, softening the intensity of his gaze and adding a glint of warmth to his doe eyes. It was the kind of smile that made you feel like, despite the darkness and everything else that loomed over your life, there was still something good in the world — something worth holding onto. 

The boy next to you leaned back, resting his elbows on the step behind him, his gaze lifting to the sky where the stars were hidden by a thick layer of dark clouds. "What's on your mind?" he asked the kind of question that didn't need an immediate answer.

He probably already knew what was swirling around in your head — Tate always seemed to know, like he had a sixth sense for the things you tried to keep buried. But still, he asked, giving you the space to say it out loud or let it hang there between the two of you, unspoken.

You sighed, nimble fingers absently rolling the cigarette between them. You tilted your head slightly, catching his profile against the dim light. You never really noticed before but, God, was he pretty. "You ever feel like you're just . . . stuck?" you began, voice soft, as if you were testing the waters. "Like no matter what you do, you're just going through the motions, waiting for something to change but not really believing it ever will?"

Tate's heart skipped a beat. You couldn't possibly know, and yet your question struck so close to the truth of his existence that it took him a moment to respond. He was stuck — stuck in this place, in this time, in this state of being. And you didn't know. You couldn't know. How could you?

For a second, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he only felt in your presence. He kept his gaze on the clouds, forcing himself to stay calm, to not let the surprise show in his expression. But his mind was racing, grappling with the irony of your words. You were searching for a way out of your own feeling of being stuck, while he was trapped in a far more literal sense, bound to this house with no escape. 

"Yeah," the boy finally said, his voice softer, almost hesitant, as if weighing the truth he couldn't fully share. "More often than I'd like to admit."

You didn't seem to notice the tension in his voice, the subtle shift in his demeanor. You just nodded, your own thoughts wrapped up in your struggles. "It's like the world's moving on without me, and I'm just . . . here. Stuck in the same place, doing the same things, feeling the same way."

Tate's heart ached with the weight of what he couldn't tell you, the truth that he was stuck in ways you couldn't imagine. But he kept his voice steady, warm. "You're not alone in that," he said, choosing his words carefully. "We're all trying to find our way, even when it feels impossible." He glanced at you, the weight of your words still hanging in the air, and before he could think twice, he reached out and took your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and reassuring, and he began to slowly rub his thumb over your knuckles in small, soothing circles. The roughness of his thumb contrasted with the softness of your skin.

His steady voice broke the silence with softness. "You know," he began, his tone imbued with sincerity, "I'd never let anybody or anything hurt you. Not while I'm here."

Your gaze remained fixed on your joined hands for a moment, absorbing the seriousness and sincerity of Tate's words. The promise in his voice, the gentle assurance of his touch, created a sense of warmth that made the rest of the world seem a little less scary.

Feeling a surge of gratitude and comfort, you shifted closer to him, leaning your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt felt warm against your cheek, and the subtle scent of him — something earthy and faintly comforting — surrounded you with a feeling of home. Tate was your safe place in this filthy and helpless world. 

His body tensed slightly at the unexpected touch, but he quickly relaxed, his arm instinctively moving to drape over your shoulders in a protective gesture. He could feel the gentle weight of your head resting there, and it brought a sense of closeness he hadn't fully realized he needed. The feeling of having you this close was unreal. 

Tate turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against the top of your head. "You okay?"

You gave him a nod while your warm breath washed against his neck. "Yeah. I just needed this."