I fucking hate that some witches that represent our community are so pea brained. Wdym you don't believe in shifting? Like genuinely as a witch, it's frustrating bc we literally do the same shit. Shifters use manifesting, affirmations, methods, intent, etc. We use methods for astral projection, manifestation, affirmation, and again- INTENT.
Why can't we come together in agreement?
I say this all respectfully as a witch myself but genuinely some witches in the community tick me off. And I'm sorry if I said anything offensive, I was just sharing my opinion.
synopsis: you never meant to snoop — but finding your boyfriend’s ex’s overnight bag in his duffel sends your brain spiraling.
a/n: he’s just so yummy like i need thattt
you weren’t the type to snoop. at least, that’s what you told yourself — except right now, your hands were buried in oliver aiku’s duffel bag while he was in the shower, and your stomach was doing cartwheels. you didn’t mean to look. really, you didn’t. it started with wanting to grab his hoodie — the one that always smelled like his cologne and shampoo and a hint of his after-training sweat. harmless, right?
but then your fingers brushed against something that didn’t belong.
a small, sleek overnight bag. not his. definitely not yours.
you froze, your hand hovering over it like touching it might make it disappear. it was one of those designer types — feminine, soft leather, perfume lingering faintly on it. your throat went dry. you recognized that scent.
his ex used to wear it.
the sound of running water from the bathroom suddenly felt louder, like it was mocking you.
your brain tried to stay calm, to rationalize — maybe it’s old. maybe he didn’t notice it was there. maybe it’s not even hers.
but then you opened the zipper. and inside were things no man would ever accidentally keep. a toothbrush. travel-sized skincare. lip gloss. a silk scrunchie.
your blood ran cold.
you stood there, staring, bag in hand, and all you could think was: oh, he’s gonna explain this one real good.
the shower turned off.
you heard him hum — that lazy, deep hum he always made when he was in a good mood. the sound of a towel whipping through the air. your pulse quickened.
he walked out a minute later, damp hair pushed back, towel slung low around his waist, looking every bit like a man who should be illegal to exist. he stopped when he saw you standing by his duffel, arms crossed, bag dangling from your hand.
“…hey, babe,” he said cautiously, eyes flicking from you to the bag. “you look—uh—pretty intense right now.”
you didn’t say anything. just lifted the bag slightly.
his jaw tightened for a split second before he forced a small grin. “ah. that.”
“yeah,” you said, voice even but icy. “that. care to explain why your ex’s overnight bag is in your gym bag?”
“okay, first of all,” he started, running a hand through his wet hair, “i didn’t know it was still in there.”
“oh, that’s convenient.”
“i’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, hands up slightly in defense. “it must’ve been from ages ago. i haven’t used that compartment in forever.”
he gives a helpless little shrug, towel slipping just slightly lower (which, under any other circumstances, would be distracting — but not now).
“you expect me to believe that?” you shot back. “you carry this bag everywhere.”
he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.“you think i’d risk what i have with you for some old baggage?”
you opened your mouth, then closed it, because—damn, he had a point. but you were too irritated to admit it, he steps closer to you.
you take a small step back. “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“the thing where you get close and pretend you’re charming your way out of this.”
“pretend?” he smirks, clearly unbothered. “you wound me.”
you glared at him, and he sighed, walking over to take the bag from your hand. “look—”
“don’t touch it.”
“baby.”
“don’t ‘baby’ me.”
he blinked, then leaned against the counter with that annoyingly calm demeanor he always had, towel still dangerously low. “you’re mad because you think i’m keeping her stuff around. but if you actually thought i cared about her, you wouldn’t be standing here arguing — you’d have walked out.”
you clenched your jaw. “don’t psychoanalyze me, oliver.”
“i’m not. i just know you,” he said simply, his voice softer now. “you’re territorial. i like that about you.”
“don’t even start,” you warned, though your cheeks warmed slightly.
he smiled — slow, infuriating, lazy. “what? you don’t like when i’m honest?”
“you’re infuriating.”
“and you’re cute when you’re jealous.”
you grabbed a pillow off the couch and threw it at him. he dodged easily, laughing.
“you’re not taking this seriously!”
“because it’s nothing,” he said, finally crossing the room to stand in front of you. he smelled like his shampoo — mint and something clean — and it made it hard to stay angry. “that bag’s old. i didn’t even remember it was there. swear on my career.”
you squinted. “that’s not comforting, oliver.”
“okay, then—” he placed a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing your jawline lightly, “i swear on you.”
you rolled your eyes, but your heartbeat betrayed you, fluttering fast.
“you think you can just say stuff like that and i’ll forget?”
“not forget,” he murmured. “forgive. big difference.”
“you’re lucky i’m not throwing that bag at your head.”
“you could,” he says, lips curling. “but then you’d have to admit you care enough to be jealous.”
you sigh dramatically. “you’re so full of yourself.”
“and you still picked me.”
“poor judgment on my part.”
you hated how smooth he was. hated how easily his voice slid through your defenses. hated that he was right about you — you were territorial, and it drove you crazy that he always stayed so calm when you weren’t.
“you’re an ass,” you muttered.
“maybe,” he said with a shrug. “but i’m your ass.”
“you’re very lucky you’re hot,” you grumbled, stepping past him.
“you’ve told me that before,” he teased, turning his head to watch you. “never gets old.”
“ugh,” you said, tossing the bag at him. “throw it out. i don’t wanna see it.”
“already planned to,” he said, catching it with one hand. “unless you want me to set it on fire? very dramatic, very symbolic.”
“just toss it, aiku.”
“fine, fine.” he walked to the trash bin and dropped it in, making a show of dusting his hands off. “gone. see? nothing to worry about.”
you stood there, arms crossed, still trying to look mad.
he walked back over, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “you know i only pack bags for one person now, right?”
you looked up at him. “who?”
he smirked. “you.”
you groaned. “you’re unbearable.”
he chuckled lowly, slipping his arms around your waist. “yeah, yeah”
you tried to push him away, but he only held you tighter, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“you’re still mad?”
“maybe.”
“want me to make it up to you?”
“no.”
“liar.”
you sighed, turning your head slightly to meet his smug grin. “you really don’t take anything seriously, do you?”
he smiled — softer now, genuine. “i take you seriously.”
that shut you up for a second.
he kissed your temple lightly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “stop worrying. i don’t do repeats.”
“you better not,” you said, but your voice had lost its edge.
he laughed quietly, the sound low and familiar, pulling you closer.
and even though you still wanted to be mad — really, you did — it was hard to hold onto it when oliver aiku, the smoothest man alive, was smiling down at you like you were the only one in the room.
you knew he’d never let that bag show up again.
mostly because he’d never want to deal with you like this twice.
