call me vee :3

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıllı Jeffrey Woods x F!Reader ıılıı.lllııılı.

"Les - Childish Gambino ⋅" ★

𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻

W/C: 10.5k // Summary: Jeff’s never liked, let alone loved anything in his life, and you are no exception. He thinks you’re delusional, annoying, and dumb all in one. Matter of fact, he can barely stand being in the same room as you. So why in the world does he keep coming back?

Tags: Enemies to lovers, (It’s one sided. He is very stupid.) Angst/comfort, canon level violence and vague descriptions of gore, Jeff’s mommy issues mentioned once (1), and angry confession scenes.

A/N: PAPA IS BACK WITH MORE MOVIE!! This one is fat as hell icl. Vaguely emotionally intelligent Jeff is my guilty pleasure because he’s so blind and so dumb and then he literally just gives up. Bro stares out the window once and realizes he wants to be held and crashes out. Art and all that by me ^3^

➽──────────────❥

Jeff hated you.

Despised everything about you, actually; there was not a single thing you did that did not get on his nerves.

He remembers it as if it were yesterday.

The old gas station was run-down to hell and back, with paint chipping and walls stained with god knows what. Fluorescent lights humming loudly in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins from a fresh kill. The only reason he even stopped by was because the man he’d slaughtered carried cash, wallet falling out in the scuffle, the ID reading ‘Martin’ something. It wasn’t anything special, an assignment mundane and decently boring compared to others he’d completed, but free cash was free cash, and he wanted a snack.

Grimey boots clicking against the tile as he browsed, the lower half of his face tucked haphazardly into a black scarf. Hood up and hands tucked into his pocket, he looked shady. That’s why when a voice broke the silence, he ignored it, assuming (rightfully so in his defence) it wasn’t meant for him. Too cheery, too normal. Said too familiarly, like he was a friend, so his mouth stayed shut. Until the silhouette of a head popped into his periphery.

“I like your scarf! Where’d you get it?”

The slow turn of his head was fit for a sitcom. You, in your bundled-up homey clothes, fluffy winter boots and ear warmers to match. It looked out of place, like you were copied and pasted into a random background. Slightly leaning over to catch his attention, eyes bright with curiosity. See, the real answer was that he’d stolen it a while ago from another unsuspecting victim, casually tossing it on after the fact, but he thought that was a bit too on the nose for a first conversation.

“Found it.”

A short response, heavy with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His gaze was sharp; from the way he stood to how he looked down at you, it should’ve been obvious that he was not the one to engage in small talk with.

You continued anyway.

Naive. You bantered with him, telling jokes as if he were the friendliest guy around. And he humoured you, in a good mood from the success, laughed at your bad puns and playful jabs. The air light when he bid you goodbye, you never knew how lucky you were that day. Just because he hadn’t put you on a missing persons list doesn’t mean it didn’t cross his mind. He framed you red, like he did everyone else. A snapshot filed into a messy array of folders. Maroon clouded his vision every time you spoke.

Jeff categorized things in a very particular way, world view bleak and muddled with violence and gore, for as long as he could remember, or care to remember. It was black, white, or red. Orders and routine, bystanders and blurred faces, then victims and dirtied hands. You were just another passerby, someone he’d let go on a whim, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. You fit.

Until you didn’t.

➽──────────────❥

He ran into you again.

Midnight walk to clear his head, the job had gone bad. No one escaped, but fuck if they didn’t test it. He liked the chase, the thrill of it; this was something else. The guy was a runner, stabbed four times, once in the stomach, twice in the leg and a slash across the chest. Yet he still somehow managed to wiggle away, sprinting through the trees with Jeff on his tail. It took two whole hours before the blood loss kicked in. Still squirming away like a fucking cockroach by the time he was found, it was irritating. Soaked from head to toe in guts, his energy for the day drained, and all he wanted to do was bash the man’s head in.

Unfortunately for him, people do not, in fact, have an endless supply of life force, and the victim died the second he pulled his knife out. An unsatisfying kill after all that work, he was livid. And hungry. The mansion had never been Michelin star when it came to food, but usually they had something. Once again, un-fucking-fortunately for him, no one had gone on a supply run in ages, and the proxies were left to fend for themselves.

The day could not have possibly been worse, so when he saw you, he almost jumped for joy. Alone in the middle of the night, the streets are quiet, desolate to any nosy civilians who would call the police. Unassuming under the dimmed light of the bus stop, it was perfect.

He was going to give you a ten-second start, get you real scared, then, when he’d inevitably catch up, you’d scream like you meant it. Mouth twitching up with malice, stepping toward you. Reaching down into his jeans, the grip on his switchblade tightened. The frosted glass from the shelter reflected his looming form. He was eyeing you down like prey, teeth ready to snap. Slowly appearing from the darkness, the grim reaper itself at your doorstep. His barely contained excitement was making him antsy—

“Oh, hey, it’s you.”

Okay, so that was definitely not the reaction he was expecting or wanted. Still in those dumbass little earmuffs, blinking at him with a fucking tray of hot cocoa in your hands. He looked like the embodiment of death, a monster that had crawled its way out of someone’s nightmare. Black hair shadowing his eyes, face gaunt and pale, two jagged scars running from ear to ear. Dark splatters stained his sweater as he towered over you. And you were smiling at him. Actually smiling at him. Soft on your lips, while you turned to him.

It had to have been a solid thirty seconds of silence before he spoke, “I’m sorry?” Said with palpable offence. Squinting as he looked at you, maybe you were stupid? “Ah- I don’t know, this town’s so small I feel like I know everybody-“ sniffling, you rubbed your nose, “I never see you though, well- I mean aside from that one time. Are you new?” Your cluttered rambles made his jaw drop. Mouth agape and brows furrowed, was he- was he new here?

He had walked up to you, a strange man you did not know, in the middle of the fucking night. People picked up their pace even if he wasn’t planning to kill them, and you were acting like this was the most mundane thing that had happened today.

I mean, he had blood flicked across his sleeve for Christ’s sake, he literally could not look anymore like a threat if he tried.

And you had the dumbest expression on your face, like you were genuinely happy to see him. Giggling to yourself like an idiot, shifting weight from foot to foot.

“No- No I’m not fuckin’ new.”

“Oh, my bad. Well, what are you doing out so late?”

With the most deadpan stare he could muster, he sighed, “Walking.” You nodded, glancing over to the empty road. The snowfall was light, winter not fully settling in yet, smoke puffing out with each breath. Humming before meeting his gaze, you stopped dead in your tracks. Was this it? Were you realizing the danger you were in? The sight of him finally setting off alarms in your head, fear making you freeze- “It’s snowing, aren’t you cold?” Goddamnit, you were fucking stupid.

Concern painting your features, you had to have been dropped or something, because this was getting ridiculous. Apparently, his lack of a jacket was far more off-putting than the fact that he approached you with clear malicious intent. In all his years of being a seasoned killer, this was by far the most confusing and frustrating encounter he’s had. Never in his life had he been at a loss for words, but this was truly cutting it close, “No, I’m not cold.” tone flat with disbelief, cocking your head to the side, you gave him a once over.

“You look cold.”

“I’m not cold.”

Why the fuck were you arguing with him? Why the fuck was he going along with it? Bloodlust long gone and replaced with vague irritation and bafflement. You were aggravating. How did you even make it this far living this way? His subconscious hate train was interrupted, you were holding out a cup. Hot chocolate, snug in your mitt, as you pointed it towards him.

The steam wafting up in slow curls, “It was supposed to be for my friend, I think you’d like it more though.” Eyes switching between the drink and your face, you had to be the weirdest person he’d ever met. So willing to sacrifice something warm meant for someone who actually gave a shit about if you got home safe or not, in exchange for this. Some guy who started pestering you on the sidewalk. His hand unlatches from the handle, sliding out of his pocket and taking the cup. He had meant it when he said he wasn’t cold, but the heat of it contrasted more than he’d thought.

Sipping it slowly, ‘not half bad,’ the brew was sweet. A little nostalgic even, the taste was made to comfort he supposed. He doesn’t say thank you, yet you look satisfied. Coy grin with a snicker to boot, like you’d won. Placed gold in a race he didn’t know had started.

The haze of… whatever it was, broken once you’d opened your mouth. Because of course you did, “You know, you look a little like the Joker.” Lips curling up in a snarl, he scoffed. The fucking joker? You might as well have spit in his face, forty days and forty nights of straight bullshit to be compared to a comic book super villain? He must have looked appalled, backtracking and stumbling over your words to try to explain. “No- like not in a bad way! Like ‘cause the scars and-“ Slapping a hand over your mouth, the hole you dug for yourself getting deeper by the minute. “Wait, oh my god- was that offensive? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You genuinely looked like you were going to cry, and he could not hold it in any longer.

A snort, then a stifled snigger before he burst out laughing. Cackling and borderline folding in on himself. You swallowed, horrified, hand hovering awkwardly in an attempt to… console? him? Fuck, you were funny, he’d give you that. Straightening up, he leaned into your space. “Yeah? Then how’d you mean it?” The pout sat heavy, your bottom lip wobbling, “I- like, not in a bad way. I was just saying.” Words dying in your throat, cheeks flushed from the harsh chill and embarrassment. He breathed through his nose, a smirk pulling up. This was kind of fun. “Saying… what?” The question stretched out, teasing. You looked so sad,

it was hilarious.

Your gaze was glued to the cement, the tray of drinks depressingly limp and tilted down. “I don’t know.” Mumbled and pathetic, you reminded him of a wet cat. Surprising him when your head abruptly shoots up, “I am sorry, though. I just- I just say things sometimes, I really didn’t mean it in like, a weird way.” Said so earnestly that it almost threw him off. You were odd, and you cared too much, he huffed. Backing away, he took another swig, “It’s fine, s’not like you hurt my fuckin’ feelings or some shit.” He didn’t know why he comforted you; he didn’t think about it, didn’t care enough either, it just came out.

The hiss of an engine stark against the wind, bright headlights of the bus coming into view. Your awaited ride had arrived, a quick wave, and you were stepping onto the platform. You smiled at him when you caught his eye through the window. The once steaming cup in his hand had gone cold, as if you had taken the warmth with you.

Man, you were annoying.

Your picture had begun to tilt, slipping out and falling to the floor. Monochromatic with splatters of crimson.

➽──────────────❥

The third time he’d encountered you was the beginning of the end.

He wasn’t exactly religious, but if god was real, Jeff was his favourite clown.

His life was a sick joke; it had to be. Because as he lay there, broken and bruised, blood gushing from an open wound, a grating and familiar voice graced his ears. You. The red gleam of the stop lights silhouettes your figure from behind, baring that same forsaken expression. Brows furrowed, the corners of your lips taut with concern. Give him a fucking break, like Jesus can’t a guy bleed out in peace?

Fingers numb and his arms limp, the dumpster he leaned against didn’t help much. The metal was freezing, bitter frost seeping through his sweat-damp clothes; it was laughable. A badly timed fight, halfway drunk and one well-aimed gash later, he was here. In an alleyway with nothing to his name, he was counting the bricks on the wall adjacent to him. Eyes unfocused, vision blurring in between blinks. Everything hurt.

His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as it lolled to the side. He wanted to curse you out, tell you to ‘fuck off,’ but the only sound that came out was a gurgly, weak mumble. You crouched down next to him, posture tense, you were talking, at least he assumed you were. Mouth opening and closing before you cradled his face, checking for a pulse, hearing muffled by thick cotton.

He could barely make out what you were saying. Something along the lines of “What happened?” and “We need to— … help stop the bleeding.” Yada yada. Fading in and out of consciousness, he doesn’t remember the rest. Didn’t remember you helping him up, the way his feet dragged up the stairs of your apartment. The way you eased him down onto your couch with a touch so gentle it made him ill, how your hands shook in desperation and fear when you stitched him together. Makeshift med kit emptied on his behalf.

He woke up confused as shit and on edge. A cozy living room greeted him instead of the dingy alley, sun flickering through the curtains. His body was tucked under a heavy blanket, the sharp pain now dulled to an ache. Mind racing a mile a minute until his sight lands on you, draped over the edge of the cushion. You were sitting on the floor, slumped by his feet, your plush carpet still stained with his blood. Softly snoring away, unaware of the literal serial killer you had invited into your home.

Okay, maybe you weren’t stupid, you were just insane. Who the fuck, brings a ragged stranger into their house, patches them up and then doesn’t call the cops? Sitting up, he grunted, the noise startling you awake. He stared at you, and you stared back, “Did you fucking sleep here?” The question blurted out, voice raspy from lack of use, “Um, yeah? You lost a lot of blood, I was worried.” You said it like it was obvious, and he looked at you like you were crazy. “Are you hungry?” Collecting the scattered bandages and wraps on the floor as you stood, you looked back at him, expectant. He didn’t like you, hardly tolerated you, let alone trust you, but this was an opportunity.

Jeff was a tactical guy; if you were dumb enough to offer, then he’d have to be even dumber not to take it. He could read you like a book, someone who cared too much, probably believed in some stupid shit like ‘seeing the best in everyone.’

You were an easy target. He’d use you until he got bored or you got nosy. Maybe you’d come to your senses down the line, but for now, he’d drain you of everything you had. Chew you up and spit you out, “Sure, what d’ya got?” His sudden cheery mood should’ve made you suspicious; the grin on his lips resembled a wolf who had stumbled upon an injured deer—hunger and sharp teeth, thinly veiled by a sheep’s mask.

The look that flashed across your face made him pause, so brief you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. It wasn’t malicious, dangerous, or premeditated. Just different, knowing. Gone as fast as it came, you hummed, “I have eggs, toast, and I think I have bacon?” Tittering to yourself as you stepped towards the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow.

The morning was decently eventful, the man you’d first talked to in that gas station reappearing. Bouncing mundane questions off one another and eating in comfortable silence, it was strangely domestic. He looked as out of place in your quaint cookery as you did in that petrol stop. Dark and brooding, with bloodied knuckles and faint scars lining almost every inch of his skin. Finishing your food and borderline licking the plate clean, you even packed him a snack to go.

How stupid could you get? He walked out of your apartment with a pep in his step. You were the perfect outlet. He could come and go as he pleased; he doubted that you’d even blink if he disappeared for weeks just to show up asking for dinner and to use your emenities. Your naivety filled his freeloader soul with joy; you hadn’t even really asked why he got stabbed in the first place. Nodded along when he told you it was a bar fight, didn’t press or freeze up either. However, just because it should have been easy doesn’t mean it will be easy.

Jeff’s pride would be the death of him.

➽──────────────❥

The months were flying by, and he was co-existing. Barely.

More like the shadow rather than a roommate. He’d slip into your home in the dead of night, be gone by sunrise and so on. Sometimes the only trace he’d stopped by was an unwashed mug in your sink, a welcome mat left with the heavy imprints of boots too big to be yours. He moved like someone who didn’t exist. You were almost always asleep when he climbed in through your fire escape, bundled up under your covers without a care in the world. You had started doing this thing, though. The first instance occurred two weeks ago.

You’d left him a note. The colourful square was taped right on top of a Tupperware box.

“I tried a new recipe today !! It’s a little spicy, I think it’s pretty good :)”

Huh, interesting. Well, he didn’t care that much; he ate it as he’d eat anything else in your pantry. I mean, it was nice, home-cooked food, far and few in between. And if it was home-cooked, it certainly wasn’t good, edible at most and toxic waste at worst. So yeah, it was nice, he fucking supposed. But you still freaked him out— you and your weird little habits, especially tonight.

The digital clock reads 1:00 AM. Your bedroom door was closed, signalling that you were dead to the world. His socked feet padded across the floor, opening the fridge and coming face to face with another multicoloured sticky note. It states that you had yet again tried a new recipe, wow, how exhilarating.

Scoffing under his breath, he grabs the container and pops it into the microwave, the smell making his mouth water. He’d been gone for a couple of days, stalking another subject stickman didn’t trust; therefore, he was tired. Which meant he was hungry. Starved, even, the only time he ate full meals or had access to them was when he was at yours.

Beep Beep Beep-

Quickly opening the toaster-oven door, it was truly a sight to behold. Some kind of stew, hearty with a side of rice. The dish came out steaming, and he handled it like it was made of gold. Shovelling a spoonful into his mouth, he hummed around the bite. It was good, tasted like it was made with love or whatever the fuck people say. If he had to pick one of your meals to eat for the rest of his life, it’d be this one. Not that he’d tell you that.

Foot tapping to an unheard tune, basking in the warmth of your kitchen, he liked it here more than he was willing to admit. It was quieter, softer; people didn’t expect anything of him here. Didn’t flinch when they walked past him in the halls, challenge him to prove a point, shout in his face just to see him bite back. It was just you. In your dweeby little pyjamas, shirt three sizes too big for you, and puns that didn’t even make sense half the time. You were a stupid civilian, but you weren’t intolerable.

He wasn’t dense; he knew you were kind, caring, even if it’d kill you. It wasn’t on you that you, of all people, had run into him. And perhaps if he were a better man, he’d leave, disappear one day and never look back. But he wasn’t, so he stays, intruding on your peaceful life. He didn’t deserve any of it, your efforts, your food, your fondness. It was never meant to be his; he knew that. In the end, it didn’t matter to him either way; this was nothing, you were nothing.

He was just using you. Down to how you acted, you looked at him that way because he curated you to. Your endearment, the joy that seemed to radiate off of you like a second skin whenever he’d tease back. Your eyes lighting up like he was the funniest person in the world. None of it was real. It was all meaningless, futile. He’d still play pretend, though, even if just for a little while. Enjoy it while it lasts.

“Do you like it? I broiled the beef before I stewed it so-“

“JesusFUCK—“

He might as well have jumped ten feet in the air. Jolting so violently, his spoon clatters against the glass plate, tailbone hitting the counter behind him. Self-deprecating inner monologue interrupted, you worked a 9-5, there was zero fucking reason for you to be that quiet. “What the fuck is your problem?” Said with such venom that you’re taken aback. His gaze accusatory, you had never been more confused in your life. “Why are you even- like. Here?” You raised an eyebrow, lips pursed in thought, “I live... here?” Question marks filling your head, is he high?

“No- fuck- like why the hell are you up?”

“I needed to pee.”

Glancing down like your bladder had offended him, face scrunched up in irritation. You scratched your head. He was so weird sometimes. Coughing into your fist once, “Well, is it good?” He stared at you blankly in return.

“The food, like did you like it?—“

“I heard you the fuckin’ first time.”

He sneered at you as if this wasn’t your home and he wasn’t eating your food. The realization hits him mid-insult, and he ducks his head to the side. Stance slightly riddled with guilt. He clears his throat, eyes averted. “It was good.” Nodding, you clasp your hands in front of you, “Okay, there’s cut fruit in the fridge if you want. I’m going back to bed.” You turn on your heel, two steps from exiting the room, before you call over your shoulder. “Jeff?” With the way his head whipped up, he looked more oversized and awkward dog than man.

“Goodnight.” Your head tilted to the side, peering at him with a tenderness that made his throat tight. He hated that about you. “Night.” The word tense, grunted out stifly.

There were moments when he wished he had died in that fire.

The frame is sharp, but not indestructible. The wood is splintered and frayed, glass dissolved into powder.

➽──────────────❥

Now Playing: Don’t Wanna Fall In Love - KYLE

0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47

And then there were days when he took life in stride.

Shutter, click, boom.

You were relentless with your new camera and started terrorizing him with it the second you woke up. Last night he sat his tired, dirty ass down on your beloved pristine couch; maroon suede. Your pick. Shutting his eyes and breathing in, he could rest. That peace lasted for about five whole seconds before you almost blinded him with flash.

Saying how you had made “The greatest investment of all time!” The photo was completely unusable because you couldn’t develop it correctly, due to someone’s… misdeeds; but the sentiment remains.

“Jeff?” Waving a hand in his face to get his attention, you snort. Head on his shoulder and mid movie, all of a sudden, he’s spaced out and blankly staring at the coffee table. Blinking like he’s coming back to life, he finally meets your eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Where’d you go?”

And there it was. The reason he second-guesses every motive he’s ever had. It wasn’t even a choice. It’s like you could see into him, stare at the inner workings of his brain. Pick him apart and put him back together; he thinks you’re weirdly good at knowing him without really knowing him. It scares him sometimes. But only if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. “Was thinking about you, idiot, don’t worry about it.” Stretching up dramatically to throw his arm around you, the atmosphere was lighter than usual.

He doesn’t remember when you’d both become so touchy; it just kind of happened. Somewhere between the quick late-night stops, turning into annoying you in your kitchen before he left. That drifting into crashing on your sofa in a sweater you’d bought for him.

The intimacy trickled in like a leaky tap.

Maybe it was because he was in a good mood from a satisfying kill, tired and not caring enough to bully you (that much), or maybe you were… enjoyable to be around, your company comforting in a way that made him unguarded.

It was definitely not the last thing, absolutely not. Obviously.

He sighs. He knew it was coming. Just a matter of time before he feels your divine wrath upon his undeserving soul. “Right. Now, I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be honest, okay?” Nodding at you with a huff, he rolls his eyes, looking away.

Really innocent of him. Truly.

“Did you-“ before you could even get it out, he jumped to defend himself, you know, like the true man he was. “Listen- listen, sweetheart. I… I was attacked.” Amazing. The cover-up of a century, you honestly wished to god it was the truth. Your companion in shambles before you, silver tongue falling short in your presence. “Attacked.” The way the word rolled out of your mouth was an accusation on its own. “Yep.” He popped the P like it was absolute. “In your very own home, too, so sad.”

Brushing back his bangs, he sags deeper into the cushions. As if that would somehow hide him from your harsh gaze. “So let me get this straight,” sitting up to really dig into him,

“Someone broke into my apartment-“

“Uh huh.”

“Overpowered you-“

“Yup.”

“Only to turn on the lights in the only room with my photos, knock over the bins holding said photos-“

“Yeah.”

“And got away without a trace in the two minutes you went to the bathroom last night?”

“That’s exactly what happened. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Lord Almighty, did you like him, really, really like him, but nature balances itself out in the strangest ways, you suppose. Jeff was tall and brooding, all spikey-haired and quick one-liners. Handsome to boot, yet when he opened his mouth at times like these, it had you really questioning your decisions. “Wow, some fighter you are.” You snark, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “Ouch.” He pats his chest like he’s genuinely hurt, pouting at you. “S’not my fault- missed you too much on the job, threw me off my game.”

Oh. Inhale, exhale, you remind yourself. You wanted to be annoyed, your scarred friend and his obnoxiously dumb flirting. However, very, very unfortunately, your stern facade started to crack. He can see it too, feel it almost. The joy bubbling up your throat like lemon soda on a hot summer’s day, he liked this version of himself with you. The witty jokes, his dry, sarcastic humour that had you sighing every time. The stupid boyish grin he gave you when he knew he’d won. The same one breaking across his face right now, lopsided and goofy. It makes him look younger, like he’s a teenager who finally scored with the pretty girl in his class.

Your soft laugh rings through the house. Bouncing off the halls and lighting the way with it. Oddly enough, it reminded him of his childhood, the constant stomachache and cracked knuckles. Bleak walls and ruined floor, empty. Reminds him to be grateful. Whatever.

He was a proxy. A name marked with blood. Malice followed him by lineage, who he was as a man. But with you? He was just, “Jeff.” spoken like a hushed prayer. Distrust clouded your stare; yet curiosity laced your tone. A cautious stranger, an acquaintance. Then he was “Jeffrey,” a friend, your overconfident, almost roommate with a penchant for street brawls and baked goods. Someone to come home to, a constant in a life of fleeting moments. Chuckling, he slides his hand from your shoulder to your cheek. Tracing your collarbone and your jaw along the way, pretty. You were pretty.

“Whatever corny compliment you’re about to use isn’t going to work.”

You say, leaning into his palm. His thumb running against your bottom lip, “wasn’t gonna’ say nothing, sweets.” Your anger long forgotten, his sugary, tooth-rotting pet names wiping your mind completely. “Whatever, you’re making it up to me by the way.”

Rolling his eyes as you card your fingers through his hair. “Yeah? What do I hafta do to make you love me again, huh?” Mocking with something just a tad too genuine.

He had fallen right into your trap. Your long, incredibly convoluted plan was now in the works, and this is how he found himself covered in your stupid, mismatched stickers at nine pm on a Thursday. Scattered across his face and neck as you make him pose for the camera. You pinch his cheek as you snap a photo. The supposedly big, bad, scary killer sitting on your sofa, with a half smile and faint blush to match.

Somewhere, a red Polaroid of you starts to weep. The corners are fading just a tad.

➽──────────────❥

Now Playing: No One Noticed - The Marias

0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47

Indulgence.

That was the word. He was splitting at the seams, your hands undoing him with the precision of a tailor. Graceful as you snipped at the sutures, careful, fond.

And he let you.

The moon crescented above the clouds, light coming in with every breeze that blew past your curtains. He rarely stayed till morning, gone by the time you stepped out of bed, but today felt quieter. Something unspoken hanging in the air, you had curled up next to him on the sofa, linking your pinky with his. Never acknowledging it, just sharing warmth between hushed laughter and looks when the other wasn’t paying attention. Jeff was supposed to have left hours ago, unbothered in his ways, the plan crumbling when you’d pulled him into your bedroom.

Distracted by your touch, the delicate balance of your space, it made him feel normal. Pretending this was routine, simply sneaking in through your window, maybe your friends and peers disapproved, saying he was a bad influence. Jeff was playing house, choosing a role to slip into, acting his part and burying the voice that told him he wished it were more.

Your ongoing conversation had slowly faded into placid mumbles with noncommittal grunts in response. He lay rigid atop your covers, arms crossed and tucked under him. Propped on his side, he felt out of place.

The safety of your room was jarring, your trinkets and decorations terribly personal, and you’d let him in. Let him see you when all your shields have dropped. Bundled under your blankets, you extend a hand. The comforter pushed down, you traced patterns against exposed skin, his sweater rolled up to the elbow. Fingers trailing until you reach his wrist, tugging his arm out, and hugging it closer. Your face pressed against him, content.

There’s this space between you, a gap in the linen, a line he refused to cross. Because it felt wrong. Intimate where he was undeserving. Your sanctuary, a heart hidden behind the plush ribs of your bedroom doors. He thought you looked good like this, reminded him of a painting in some distant memory. The brushstrokes are purposeful, illustrating you blameless and adored. You walked the border of consciousness and slumber, lids growing heavy as sleep fought to take you. He planned to wait, linger long enough for you to leave him completely, before silently detangling his limbs.

Your drowsy mumur surprises him,

“Are you gonna leave?”

Said so softly, it made his chest ache with guilt. He glanced down at you, doe-eyed and looking at him like he was a saint. It made his skin crawl; your trust violated, made him itch from his bones out. Bringing up his free hand, he brushed an eyelash from your cheek. It stuck to the pad of his thumb, and for a moment, he selfishly hoped it’d stay. For when he was somewhere far and missed you just a little. “I’m right here, ain’t I?” Huffed with fake nonchalance, he knew what you meant. Always close enough to touch but never enough to feel.

Staying meant giving in; it meant falling more than he already had. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, can’t.

“Besides, s’too stuffy in here. Gonna suffocate me to death. Warm and all that.” The baritone muffled by the pillow, gaze focused on the wall. You sighed, nuzzling deeper into his sleeve, “And what’s wrong with being warm?” You always make things so difficult, his jaw flexing, “I wasn’t-“ he closes his eyes, searching for words that wouldn’t fit either way. “I just can’t.” The excuse is hollow, pathetic.

“Why? You can tell me, I won’t be sad, I promise.”

Your request was fragile, carrying an innocence that had him breathing hard out his nose.

“Because-“

What the hell did you want him to say? That he can’t because he couldn’t stand the way you look at him, that sometimes his hands shake when he reaches for you, because he knows they’ll never be clean. Jeff was scummy, sleazy and marred. He slept on stained mattresses with no sheets, concrete when he’d fucked himself over again, doing dumb shit he had no business doing. Couldn’t stay, no matter how much he wanted to, couldn’t stay because the person you trusted didn’t even exist. Couldn’t stay because of all the times he’d maimed and slaughtered for the fuck of it. Just because.

“I can’t.”

Shrugging and defeated, his lips pressed into a thin line when you leaned up. Nose nudging his, you grasped at his hoodie, pressing yourself flush. As close as you could be with your blanket in the way. His defiance faltering, you lace your arms around his neck. You had trapped him in your magnetic little bubble, “Please?” It was cruel, cocooned in your embrace, he thinks you could convince him to do anything if you held him like this in return.

Jeff was weak, and you knew it. Freezing as if he’d just made a life-or-death decision, his body fully sinks into the bed. “Okay.” And you giggled, he wanted to keep the sound. Too tired to keep his tough guy act going, he smiled. Soft and unfiltered, the sight was rare. Groaning, he dramatically tossed his head to the side, “God, you’re fuckin’ clingy, you know that?” Though the grin stayed planted on his face, teasing.

You hummed, cuddled into his shoulder. The distance is still there, but waning. He doesn’t move under the covers; he doesn’t need to. Your closeness is enough for now.

It was the best sleep he’d ever had.

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Now Playing: WILDFLOWER - Billie Elilish

0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47

Jeff should have been used to it.

He was expecting it after all. The ruin. Yet, the dread refused to leave. He had shown up at your door, destruction in his wake, angry and snippy. Ready to eat whatever the hell was in your pantry, maybe shower, then disappear into the dark before you noticed he was there to begin with. And of course, the one time he wanted some peace and quiet, you decided to have a late-night-in. Stayed up and waited for him, wanting to spend time near him like you cared.

He had planned to go along with it just long enough to leave, keep his mask on to keep you off his back. But nothing ever really went his way, now did it? Facade slipping the second you open your mouth.

“Are you okay?”

The question kick-starts a long-time coming disaster. The calm before a storm. His answer was short, said with barely contained irritation. “‘m fine.” You pushed, worry clear as day as you took him in. The circles under his eyes were deeper than you’d ever seen, clothes scuffed and hung heavy on his frame. He looked exhausted, like something in him was dying, and he was too far gone to save it. “I know, but you just seem tired today.” Patience thinning by the second, who the fuck did you think you were? Pretending you knew him, talking as if you had any right to press.

So he laughed, grin stretching too wide across his cheeks. Empty and cold, his body jerking unnaturally, “I seem tired? And how the fuck do I seem normally, huh?” Cutting you off before you could even take a breath, “You really think you know me? Think we’re best friends because you’re too much of a fuckin’ pushover to tell me to fuck off?” The chair slamming back, towering over you and mocking. Your once serene living room now tainted, his disdain violent and loud.

“I was just worried about you, you were gone for a whole week and-“ He howled, the pitch so sharp it stung. “Oh, that’s rich. You were worried about me? I mean fuck, how stupid are you?” Pacing back and forth like a madman, he turned to face you, sneering. “I know you’re an empty-headed little fuck, but this is something else.” The hurt on your face made him scoff, tangent building in force, any retort you had fizzling out with each belittling word that left his lips. Outrage shaking through the floors, resentment in his tone suffocating you. His fist crashed against the coffee table, the wood creaking under his strength.

Pushing off from your seat, you steadied yourself. Tried to reason with him, “I was trying to help-“ And maybe he could see that, some tiny voice in his head screaming at him to stop before he did something reckless, something he’d regret.

Too bad Jeff never got the hang of listening, blinded by rage and ego, invading your space more and more until your back hits the wall. “You’re such a fucking idiot. You think you mean shit to me? You really want to know me? Wanna know why I seem so tired all the time?” Snarling inches away from your skin, you were trapped.

Adrenaline began to flood your body, hands clutching against your chest. “It’s because I have to waste my time gutting stupid cunts like you. Dragging bodies into ditches, it’s annoying, you know-“ Breaths speeding up, you swallowed. “Jeff-“ His berate never losing heat, voice raising as he continues. “Day and fucking night, cleaning blood outta’ your clothes really starts to bring you down after a while.”

You were on the brink of hyperventilating, vision blurring with tears. “Jeff-” whimpered out, grasping at anything resembling someone you thought was a friend. “Takes work, pisses me the fuck off when they start begging. Shit, it’s even kinda’ funny sometimes-“ The gruesome details spilling, barking at you. Pinned in place as he broke you down, teeth bared, you couldn’t handle it anymore. “JEFF.” Your outburst startled you both, and then you said something that hit like a bucket of cold water. Choked out and quiet in a way that felt violating.

“You’re scaring me.”

The sound was so hopeless it stunned him. As if he had stolen all the fight you had left, so afraid you’d just given up. Stepping back, the fury dissipated, sight no longer clouded with scarlet. You looked terrified. Pathetically curling in on yourself, trembling as you stared at him wide-eyed and panicked. Silent, his crazed grin wiped clean, he reached up to touch your shoulder. To ease you, to show you he didn’t mean it. You flinched like he had burned you. Lerching back from his hand, a pitiful noise at the back of your throat.

It made him feel disgusting. Made him feel like a monster. He hated you, hated the way you feared him, hated the way your tear-filled eyes had him nauseous. Despised the way your surrender infused his lungs with cement.

A beat, and the door slammed shut behind him. Leaving without a word, you stood there amongst the rubble. Dust settling heavy over the memory of who he used to be.

The rain pelting down on him felt colder tonight than it ever had.

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Now Playing: The Great Gig In The Sky - Pink Floyd

0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47

Bad to the bone, sick as a dog.

Jeff wasn’t raised with gentle hands and tender words. Closeness with soothing whispers to mend the scrapes on his knees. He was forged, welded into shape by iron cruelty, the steel blistering as it seared his skin. They told him he was born crooked, that wrath was sewn into his DNA, hostility festering before he could even understand what it meant to grieve. And maybe they were right, but it was never his choice, never his want, to do nothing but take. To turn callous and resentful, the violence was parasitic. Weaving its way into his blood like an infection, clawing up his throat and spilling between his teeth.

He was diseased, staining everything he touched, trading barbarity like cards in exchange for feigned valour.

Perhaps that’s why your warmth shook him. He had been freezing his entire life, his youth spent screaming, hysterical, and desperate for anything but bruising distance. A boy manufactured with a glass heart, walls built high and lined with barbed wire, locked tight to keep it from shattering.

Then you came along.

You and your awful luck and sunshine eyes. Giving to a fault, painting stars on your window for overcast nights, because you believed. Believed that even if your moon was shadowed and hidden, if you clasped your hands together and wished with all your might, that when dawn would break, the sun would glow golden. Painting the horizon in rose and amber. You were the embodiment of everything he wasn’t. Bright and kind, genuine in a way that made his stomach twist. Chipping at him, water on stone, slowly and aching. It was erosion in its most honest form. You were ruining him.

So he ran. To forget, to try and erase your touch. Yet, it refused, and you stayed despite his efforts. Not in body but in mind, chasing him every step of the way. You were haunting him, buried in his marrow like possession. Each corner he turned, he swore, for a second, you were there. The flash of your shirt in the tree line, the weight of your eyes on him, his muscles bracing for impact, feeling for your hand on his back. Like you used to. When you wanted to get his attention, when you leaned on him just because. He was constantly expecting a hold that would never arrive. No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape it, and it was driving him mad.

Growing reckless, brutality increasing with each assignment. To the point that others started to notice, even more wary of him than before. Every time they avoided his gaze, flinched at his voice, booming and angry, he’d see you. See his mother. She deserved it- you deserved it. They all did. So why.

Why did it make him feel sick? Bile rising, the taste bitter on his tongue, your face replayed on loop. How you shrank in fear, how he had taken your trust, fragile and whispered, and crushed it in his palm. His pride is putrid and devastating, rotting him from the inside out. Jeff knew he’d mutilated what you had beyond repair, the delicate balance reduced to ash, but he was selfish. Wounded mutt crawling home after biting the hand that feeds, dogged loyalty by definition. Because he needed it more than he needed the knife, the rush.

Your sorrow acted as a noose snug around his neck. The more he pulled, the more the rough twine dug into his skin, shredding his flesh. Left him black and blue; this was your fault. You had lured him in, melody hypnotic while you tied him down. Sank your hands past his ribs and tore out his decaying heart, ate it whole as you kissed him goodnight. He was hooked on it; you flooded his veins like heroin.

He was dying, suffocating from the withdrawals. It felt like he was losing his fucking mind. Your scent, your voice, the way it felt when you simply looked at him. Drug-induced haze was the closest comparison, and he was relapsing bad. You’d spoiled him, and now he couldn’t even breathe without you, couldn’t sleep or eat without your ghost over his shoulder. Saccharine, you plagued him sweet and steady. He wanted to rid himself of it. However, your affection had vines; they latched onto his spine, winding up and puncturing his lungs. The fruits of your labour, nurtured by his blood and obsession. He’d fought it, waged war against it, but,

Every rose has thorns, and every heart has a limit.

And Jeff was tired. He was so fucking tired. He’d spent so long pushing upstream when all he wanted to do was drown. Let you consume him, bones and all.

Your picture bleeds watercolour, the hues mixing vermillion and sky blue.

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12:15 AM

His knuckles rapped against the wood. This was a bad idea. Still, he shifted in front of your locked door; he’d hyped himself up in the mirror and everything. This was a change in routine; he would always climb through your fire escape, or window, or pick the lock and let himself in. Now it’d feel wrong to, your dynamic had shifted. He didn’t know if you’d even talk to him, want to see him. If you’d gasp in horror and call the cops like you should have long ago, yet he risks it anyway. Because he craved you, looked for the curves of your grin in the smoke. Missed you in his dreams, so he rocked back and forth on his heels and waited.

Shuffling and a latch clicking were heard from the other side. His palms were clammy in his pockets. This was it, the final stretch.

You opened the door slowly, peaking through the crack. Moving cautiously, you were tense. Not that he could blame you. You were exactly how he remembered, soft and cozy. The warm light streamed into the hallway, giving you a halo, cast by your hair and wispy. He was blanking. Despite spending hours talking to himself, planning it out, maybe even throwing up a little. Now that he was standing here, he had nothing. Absolutely jack shit. Brain cotton stuffed and useless, he stared, neither of you daring to break the silence. Until finally, you sigh.

“What do you want?”

You didn’t sound scared, progress. His mouth was drier than the Sahara, he’d never been more nervous in his life, and that was saying something. Decades of slaughter, taking out his whole family and all it took was one judgmental squint from you, and he was sweating. “Wanted to see you,” it was mumbled, meek in a way you hadn’t seen before. He felt too exposed, prayed the ground would open up and eat him. You lingered there for a beat, the cogs turning in your head, then you stepped back. You had hesitance, but not fear, and that was enough.

You shut the door behind him, making your way to the couch with him in your shadow. Settling against the cushions, he dropped down in front of you. Legs crossed stiffly on the floor. “So,” he started, eyes avoiding yours.

“You threatened to kill me-“

“Okay, now hold on- I did not threaten you, I just-“

The look you gave him was piercing. Reminded him to keep himself in check, he wasn’t going to get back into your good graces by arguing. And he fucked up, he could admit that, he knew he was lucky you even opened the door to begin with. Accountability and all that fucking jazz. God, why did this have to be so difficult? Why did he have to be so weird and emotionally constipated about literally fucking everything? Damn, maybe he should just leave, yell some more and really dig his grave. Go home, give up and die-

“Jeff.”

Your voice snapped him out of his spiral. “Yeah?” Blinking up at you, Jeff picked at the sleeves of his hoodie. He cleared his throat, and you dragged a hand down your face like you were about to lecture a toddler. “Say what you came here to say.” Tone final, your gaze hardened. Right. That. Okay, you were mad, he could work with this. “I didn’t… mean it.” The words felt like bricks, teeth gritted like it physically pained him to say. “Didn’t mean what? The part where you admitted to murder? Or was it when you spat in my face and told me I meant nothing to you?” You continued, exasperation building with each sentence. “You don’t get to do this, explode and scream at me, then show up later like you care-“ Your declaration was combative, and he barked back, “I do care, I wouldn’t fuckin’ be here if I didn’t.”

Face hot, you were conflicted, pulled apart by confusion and anger, both framed by longing. “Then fuckin’ act like it.” Volume raising, you were angry at him, yet you missed him, incredibly so. He would show up one day and charm you. Tuck your hair behind your ear, help you cook with affection that’d make you swoon. Then turn around and sneer at you when you laugh too loudly the next.

He had been gone for months, scared you to tears and left. Not once turning around. You thought he’d disappeared for good, and as much as he pissed you off, it hurt. Standing up, you paced round the rug, “I thought I’d never see you again, and I hated you for it. I hated you for it.” The emotions you’d tried so hard to bury were pooling in your eyes. Your speech cracked, despair raw in a way he didn’t know how to handle. “I mourned you. Did you know that? I grieved you, because even if you were terrible, I still wanted you here.” The expression he wore was blank, his body language rigid. He was stunned; he’d expected you to be angry. To slam the door in his face, tell him you loathed him, but not like this.

“You’d choose to stay, then you’d act like I was such a chore to be around. Now you’re confessing to man slaughter and telling me you care?” Scoffing, you throw your arm up, gesturing to him. “What else is there, huh? Are you just going to get worse until I end up in a ditch somewhere?” Cutting him off the second he budges, you were exhausted. “Is that why you came back? To finish the job because I know too much? Finally, gut me like the stupid cunt you obviously think I am.“

You were hiccuping by this point, overwhelmed and in tears, and it was his fault. “I didn’t mean any of that shit.“ He pushed himself off the floor; he was not doing this again. “You hate me and you think I’m too stupid to see it-“ you muttered, palms pressed to your eyes. Empty laugh as you sniffled. He was sick of it; if you wanted the truth, he’d give it to you.

“Yeah, I do hate you-“ Rolling your eyes, a sob tumbling out of your mouth. He closes the distance. In your space, this time it was different. His voice shook with wretched hope instead of fury. “I hate that you laugh at everything. I hate that you’re dumb enough to keep talking to me.“ Fingers wrapping around your wrist, grounding you. “I hate that you fall asleep on me like I’m safe, look at me like I’m good. It pisses me off when you waste your time cooking me shit. Alright? I hate that you see through me.” He prys your hands from your face, cupping your cheek.

“I hate when you care for me. When you work yourself up over fuckin’ nothing-“ Humourless chuckle against your skin. “You have no sense of fucking danger, you care too much about shit that doesn’t matter. I hate that you never think before you act, that you’re clumsy and get into bad situations— because you thought it was a good idea to offer some weird motherfucker hot chocolate-“ Leaning in, tangent taking his breath. He rested his forehead on yours,

“And I hate that you make me wish I was someone else.”

Cadence unsteady, the confession strained, it had you reeling. Adrenaline high, vulnerable as he held onto you. The intimacy of it, things he had sworn to never say, all landing at your feet.

A love letter.

He glanced down at your lips, straying there for a millisecond, but you caught it. Eyes flickering back up and locking. Your mouth brushed over his; you could feel the waver in his hands. Desperation like no other, only centimetres away.

“Tell me to stop.”

You kissed him. Surging forward, he met you in the middle. You tasted like spring and relief. His arms pulling you to him, breaths mixing. Hand cradling your nape, tugging at your hair, molding his lips to yours like he had something to prove. Jeff needed his fill to feel sane; he wanted to drown in you. Stumbling until you hit the wall, bracing his forearm beside your head, the parallel was not lost on him. Your touch was adorned with sugar, holding his face, thumbs tracing circles.

He sank into your grasp with reverence, bodies flush, for someone so brash, he kissed you softly, slowly. Almost careful, as if he’d break you by accident. You hummed, pecking him a couple more times before pulling back, chests heaving. He chased your mouth, needy and hot. Pausing when your hand pushed on his shoulder, brow raised, he looked down at you, perplexed. “Not yet.” A hushed boundary, teasing grin still in place.

You leaned up, exaggerated ‘mwah’ as you made contact with his cheek. Right along his glasglow smile. “Gotta take me to dinner first, and I’m still mad at you.” You were always the worst liar, he thinks. Your bliss is giving you away.

Alas, his habit of ruining things was not lost on him either. You still liked him, though, so it didn’t really matter. “Damn.” He grunted, and you could feel it. He was about to say another stupid joke and completely shatter the atmosphere. He was allergic to genuine affection, could only withstand it in bits and pieces.

“Jeffery, I swear-“

“Is that a knife in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?”

You wanted to laugh, he could tell. Cheeks puffing out, you turned away from him. What an idiot. Didn’t you know? He was yours now, and that meant you obviously had to find him funny.

➽──────────────❥

Now Playing: Pink + White - Frank Ocean

0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47

Early spring.

The sheets cool under you. Fidgeting with the edge of the white cover, you sigh, wondering what he’s doing up so early. Finally stepping out of bed, the cold wood tiles shock you awake as you make your way down the sunlit hall. One thing about your beloved is that he was somehow a skilled killer, yet absolutely clueless in the kitchen. Hair ruffled with sleep and eyes half lidded, you see him. At last, it’s like you miss him in your dreams with the way you yearn; imagine being so enamoured with someone that you call for them even in rest.

It’s silly, but he has tricked you into loving him, you suppose, taken your amore with a running start. “Morning, sweets,” the low rumble of his voice cutting off your train of thought.

Standing there, leaning against the counter, eyes light with humour, his lips stretching up into that lazy grin you’ve come to love. What an asshole. You remember when he first called you that, ‘sweets’. A slip of the tongue; so nervous back then, your heart fluttering in your chest, hanging onto every word. “Morning.” It was supposed to come out with bite, a sarcastic snide, sassy with an eye roll to match. Instead, it’s softer, a tad too real.

Rounding the kitchen island, He wrapped his arms around you, the warmth of it sends you almost reeling, you hate how easy you are for him. How he cradles your head when he holds you, how careful he is, like it’s the first time. Paired with a kiss to your hairline, oh yeah, you’re a goner. A kiss far too sweet for someone like him, rough with jagged edges, but a man in love all the same. The smell of burning ruins the storybook moment,

“Jeff.”

“Yes?…”

A drawl to his words, you weren’t joking when you said he was completely lost when cooking. “Did you burn breakfast?”

He sighs, stepping back and running a hand over his face. “I was trying to do something fuckin’ nice for you and-” Grunting with frustration, he moves aside, showing you the absolute disaster of charred pancakes from past attempts. You’re trying so hard not to laugh in his face, my god, you are trying. However, with the way his large figure was crammed into your small kitchen, burning pancakes all morning amused you to no end.

Giggling as you grab the spatula from his hand, “Okay, let’s try again, buster.” The expression on his face was priceless. “Buster? Who the fuck am I? Your dad’s fishing buddy?” He huffs, furrowed brows and disbelief clear as day.

Always one for the dramatics, you snort.

“Ok then, my love. Will you please, oh please, help me not burn our house down?” Adored him, you did, but god knows he would fight the devil himself before admitting he was soft on you. His favourite moments where you called him those stupid nicknames, all the cheesy ones he claims to despise. Whether you’re aware or not, he takes it to heart, carries those memories of his name on your lips, uttered like an oath for him and him alone. Whispered under tangled sheets and cloudless nights that had him jittery and calm all at the same time.

Groaning loudly and grumpily, he agrees. Shaking his head like he’s reluctant, you know better, though; fluent in Jeff after all these years. You know he’s excited, his tell is obvious. The way he presses his scarred lips together to suppress the smile he wants so bad to share, to the way he looks away from you. Like somehow that’d make it any less apparent, hide the adore he held for you.

Nevertheless, you don’t call him out. You’ll let it slide, this time. Then, right then, you realize your fool of a boyfriend had used salt instead of sugar for the batter. “Jeffery. It says salt on the label.” Whipping his head towards you, “I swear to fuck it said Sugar.” Pointing at the defenceless bag accusingly, like it were the salt’s fault for shapeshifting the second you woke up. “Piece of shit- karma loves to bite me in the ass the second I try to impress someone, huh-“ mumbling under his breath, he grabs it with such vigour you’d think it’d transform into another proxy in front of you and challenge your man to battle.

“Oh my- ok, ok it’s the pantry’s fault for deceiving you with dark forest magic and making you hallucinate sugar.” Snickering behind your hand. “Yeah, it did actually. Motherfuckers gonna’ fight me at this point, pure evil I’m tellin’ you, babe.”

He’s pouting, like you’ll pity him; stubborn as always. Pride’s going to end him one day, by your hands or otherwise. “Totally,” You mutter, damn. You’d tease him more, but you’re weak; turns out those stupid puppy eyes do work; the black t-shirt hugs his biceps just right as he crosses his arms. Looking ridiculously kissable, what’s a woman to do?

Pulling him down, you peck him square on the lips, and of course, the cocky son of a bitch dares to smirk at you after as if he’s in the right. Completely convinced you that he was, in fact, the victim here, it’s out of his hands, and shadow work was the one who ruined breakfast. He towers over you, broad and intimidating. Well, he would be if he weren’t staring at you like you’ve charmed him smooth. All honeyed eyes and goofy grins, has he always been this tall? It’s almost annoying how you have to go on your tippy toes just to reach him. You decide it was annoying. So you grab his face, pressing your foreheads together.

“You’re irritating, you know that?” He chuckles, breathing fanning over your lips. Jeff’s unbrushed hair shadowed his face,

“Yeah? Why’s that?” The nerve on him. His hands are resting on your waist, thumb rubbing back and forth on your shirt. You can’t even respond, don’t get the chance to; he kisses you, slow and heavy. It warms you, melts you, like simmered caramel, effectively silencing whatever sarcastic remark you had ready. He was still as rude as the day you’d met him.

You’ll forgive him nonetheless, because he kisses you like he’s starved. breathes you in like it’s the last he’ll ever have, like you’re something cherished. You’re made of sculpted glass, filled with daisies and daffodils, his grasp far too reckless to touch.

So, you suppose you’ll let it go for now, anyway. Even if he’s infuriating, harsh and resolute, gets under your skin. You’ll forgive him. It’s the least you can do; he can brag all he wants. Parade how you’re wrapped around his finger, because at the end of the day, he knows you’ve got him hook, line, and sinker.

The portrait of you was picked up. Tucked neatly into a pocket. Colours bright and painted every shade the heavens had to offer.

➽──────────────❥

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You swear your life is as mundane as it can get- but what happens when a caffeine enthusiast worms his way in?

AKA: Texts between you and the mystery man who keeps leaving you unwarranted coffee ✮⋆˙

Ft. B. Thomas !! ✶⋆.˚

➽──────────────❥

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!! NAT DOODLES !! ^3^

Horse show

whenever I'm alone with you—you make me feel like I am home again whenever I'm alone with you—you make me feel like I am whole again