#;where does the nightmare begin? in your dreams or the moment you finally wake up? | isms🌹

[maledictus-maleficus]

Tag dump!

[pucksandpower]

Do-Over

Logan Sargeant x Andretti!Reader

Summary: Logan drowns his sorrows after being dropped by Williams and passes out in 2024 … he wakes up slightly hungover and very much in 2022 (aka the time travel fix-it fic)

Logan’s hands are shaking.

He’s staring at the email on his phone, reading it over for the third time, hoping the words will somehow rearrange themselves into something different. But they don’t. The screen doesn’t lie, and neither does the cold, detached tone of James Vowles.

Logan, I’m sorry to inform you that Williams Racing has decided to terminate your contract effective immediately. Your performance this season has not met the team’s expectations, and the decision has been made to move forward without you for the remaining races. We believe this is in the best interest of the team as a whole. You’ll find the details of the termination and the necessary steps moving forward in the attached document.

His eyes blur, and he forces himself to blink, trying to hold it together. He knows what this means — his F1 career, the thing he’s worked for his entire life, is over. And it’s not ending with a bang, but with a fucking email.

A knock on the door snaps him back to the present. He looks up, swallowing hard as James walks in without waiting for permission, just like he always does.

“Logan,” James begins, his voice calm, almost clinical. “We need to talk.”

“I got the email,” Logan mutters, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Is this really how it’s going to end?”

James’s face is unreadable. “We’ve discussed this at length. The crashes, the lack of progress … it’s just not working out. The engineers and mechanics are frustrated. We’ve been more than patient.”

Logan feels a wave of anger rising in his chest, but he pushes it down. He knows it won’t help. “So that’s it? Nine races left, and you’re just … dropping me?”

“It’s not an easy decision,” James replies, crossing his arms. “But we have to think about the team. We can’t afford any more setbacks.”

“Setbacks,” Logan echoes, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “That’s all I am to you? A setback?”

James hesitates, his expression softening for just a moment. “Logan, you’re talented, but this sport is ruthless. You know that.”

“Don’t,” Logan snaps, his voice sharp. “Don’t try to soften the blow now. You could’ve at least told me in person, before sending the damn email.”

James sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know it seems cold, but this is the reality of Formula 1. You’ll land on your feet. You’ve got potential.”

“Potential,” Logan mutters under his breath. “That’s not going to get me back in a car, is it?”

There’s a tense silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of them. Logan feels like the walls are closing in, the air in the room growing thicker with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” James says finally, and for the first time, he sounds genuine. “I really am.”

“Yeah,” Logan replies, his voice hollow. “Me too.”

James lingers for a moment, as if searching for something else to say, but there’s nothing that can fix this. Nothing that can make it right. Finally, he nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Logan stands there, staring at the door, his mind racing. This can’t be happening. It feels like some kind of nightmare, one he can’t wake up from. But the harsh reality is setting in. It’s over. All those years, all that effort, and it’s over just like that.

He sinks down onto the couch, his head in his hands. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get a full breath. He needs to get out of here, but he has no idea where to go. Where do you go when your dreams have just been crushed?

His gaze falls on the bottle of whiskey sitting on the small kitchen counter. He bought it a few years ago, intending to open it after a win that never came. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Logan pushes himself up and walks over to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and a glass. He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and puts the glass back. What’s the point of pretending there’s any dignity left in this?

He twists the cap off the bottle and takes a long drink, the burn of the alcohol offering a brief distraction from the pain gnawing at his insides. He leans against the counter, staring out the window at the darkening sky. How the hell did it come to this?

He’s replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every race where he could’ve done better. It’s a torturous cycle, one that he can’t escape. He takes another drink, then another, hoping to drown out the thoughts, to numb the ache in his chest.

But it doesn’t work. The alcohol just makes it worse, amplifying the guilt and the regret. He feels like a failure. No, he is a failure. The team didn’t even have the decency to let him finish the season. That’s how little they think of him.

The room starts to blur around the edges as the whiskey takes effect, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He’s spiraling, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. This is the only way he knows how to cope, the only way to forget, even if it’s just for a little while.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes — he’s lost track of time. The bottle is nearly empty now, and he’s slumped on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. What’s the point?

The apartment is silent except for the occasional sound of cars passing by outside. It’s eerie, this quiet, and it makes the emptiness inside him feel even more profound.

Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen is cracked from a previous fall — one of many — but it still works. There are messages from friends, from his family, but he doesn’t open them. He knows what they’ll say. They’ll be supportive, encouraging, but it won’t change anything. They can’t fix this.

Instead, he opens his camera roll and scrolls through the photos. Pictures of him in the car, of the team, of moments that once meant everything to him. Now they’re just reminders of what he’s lost.

He stops on a photo of himself, taken just after he signed with Williams. He looks so damn happy, so full of hope. He barely recognizes that person now.

“What a joke,” he mutters to himself, his voice slurred. “What a fucking joke.”

He takes one last drink from the bottle, then tosses it aside, not caring as it rolls across the floor. He feels the darkness closing in, pulling him under, and for once, he doesn’t fight it. He lets it take him, lets it drown out the pain, the regret, the fear.

And as he finally drifts into unconsciousness, the last thought that crosses his mind is that maybe — just maybe — he deserves this.

***

Logan wakes with a start, his head pounding, the taste of stale whiskey thick on his tongue. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the assault of the light streaming through the windows. His whole body feels like it’s been put through a blender — sore, achy, heavy. But it’s not just the hangover, it’s the weight of everything, of what happened yesterday.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself as he sits up, his hands pressing into the bed beneath him. Except, the texture’s wrong. It’s not the rough fabric of his apartment’s couch or even the smooth, cool sheets he’s used to.

Logan’s eyes snap open, and he looks around, confusion crashing over him like a cold wave. He’s not in his apartment. The walls are different — cleaner, the color a familiar light blue he hasn’t seen in years. The bed is narrow, uncomfortable, with plain white sheets. There’s a desk pushed against the far wall, a locker in the corner with his name printed on it in block letters.

This isn’t his apartment. This is … his driver’s room. The one he used when he was driving for Carlin in Formula 2.

“What the hell …” Logan mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of it. He must still be drunk. Or maybe he’s dreaming. But no — he can feel the dull ache in his temples, the dryness in his throat, the uncomfortable press of the mattress beneath him. This is too real to be a dream.

But it doesn’t make any sense. The last thing he remembers is passing out in his apartment after finishing nearly a whole bottle of whiskey. He was a mess. He is a mess. But here he is, waking up in a place he hasn’t seen since 2022, a place that shouldn’t exist in his present reality.

Panic starts to set in. He fumbles for his phone, which is miraculously still in his pocket. The screen lights up, showing the date and time.

September 10th, 2022.

His heart stops. That’s impossible. It’s been two years. Two years since this date. His mind races, trying to piece together what the hell is happening, but nothing fits. He’s not in 2024 anymore. Somehow, he’s back in 2022.

It’s the only explanation, but it’s insane. None of this is possible. It’s not even like those vague dreams where everything’s familiar but distant. This is his life two years ago, down to the worn fabric of the team jacket hanging on the back of the door.

Before he can spiral any further, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Logan barely has time to react before it swings open, and Gary Catt, his manager, strides in with his usual briskness, already talking before the door is fully open.

“Logan, I just got off the phone with Jost Capito,” Gary says, his voice all business, not noticing Logan’s stunned expression. “Williams wants you. They want to lock you in for next season. It’s the best possible scenario. This is it, Logan — this is what we’ve been working toward.”

Logan feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. This conversation — he remembers it. It happened. Gary, standing in this very room, telling him the exact same thing, with the exact same excitement in his voice. The memory is vivid because it changed everything. It was the start of his F1 career. And also … the start of everything that led to that email.

“Logan?” Gary’s voice cuts through the fog in Logan’s mind, pulling him back to the present. “Are you even listening? This is huge, mate. You’re going to be in F1.”

Logan’s throat is dry, his mind racing with possibilities, with consequences. He remembers how he felt the first time he heard these words — pure elation, followed by a rush of nerves. But now, with the knowledge of what’s to come, all he feels is dread.

This is his chance to change things. To make sure it doesn’t end the way it did yesterday. He’s been given a do-over, a second chance, and he can’t afford to mess it up.

Logan takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “Gary,” he says, his voice rough from sleep and the alcohol, “I don’t think I should take the offer.”

Gary stops mid-stride, turning to face Logan with a look of utter disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t think I should take the offer,” Logan repeats, more firmly this time, even though his heart is pounding in his chest. “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” Gary looks at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “Logan, this is Williams. It’s F1. There is no such thing as ‘too soon’ when an opportunity like this comes around. What are you talking about?”

Logan stands up, pacing the small room, trying to gather his thoughts. How does he explain this without sounding completely insane? He can’t tell Gary what he knows — what he’s seen, what’s happened. But he also can’t go down the same path again. Not when he knows where it leads.

“I just … I don’t think I’m ready,” Logan says, finally turning to face Gary. “If I rush into F1 now, it could end badly. I need more time. More experience.”

Gary’s expression shifts from disbelief to concern. “Logan, listen to yourself. You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. You’re as ready as anyone can be. If you pass this up, there’s no guarantee another chance like it will come along. You know that.”

Logan shakes his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but … I have a feeling that if I take this now, it’ll be a mistake. A big one. I’ll end up in a situation where I’m not able to deliver, where the pressure is too much. And that’s not good for anyone — me, the team, my career.”

Gary is silent for a long moment, studying Logan with an intensity that makes him squirm. “Where’s this coming from? You were over the moon about this before. What changed?”

Logan hesitates, searching for the right words. “I just … I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. About what I want my career to look like. And I don’t want to be one of those drivers who gets rushed into F1 and then crashes out because they weren’t ready. I want to do it right. I want to be fully prepared.”

“You don’t get to be fully prepared in this sport,” Gary says, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “This is Formula 1. It’s sink or swim, and you know that. You’re not going to get a better opportunity than this, Logan.”

Logan feels a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He knows Gary is right, in a way. This is F1. It’s not supposed to be easy. But he also knows that if he takes this offer, if he goes down the same road, it’ll end in disaster.

“I get that,” Logan says, his voice firm. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to take the seat. Not this time.”

Gary stares at him, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. “Logan, this could be career suicide. You understand that, right?”

Logan nods, swallowing hard. “I do. But I’d rather take that risk than go into something I know I’m not ready for and crash out in a blaze of failure. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

Gary runs a hand over his face, clearly struggling to comprehend what’s happening. “This isn’t like you. You’re not one to back down from a challenge. Why are you doing this?”

Because I know how it ends, Logan thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Because I want to do this right. I want to have a long career in F1, not a short one that ends in disappointment. And to do that, I need to be smart about the choices I make now.”

Gary lets out a slow breath, clearly conflicted. “This is … I don’t even know what to say, Logan. You’re turning down a seat in F1. That’s not something you do lightly.”

“I’m not doing it lightly,” Logan assures him, though his heart is racing. “I’ve thought about this a lot, and it’s the right decision for me.”

There’s a long silence as Gary processes this. Logan can almost see the gears turning in his head, the calculations, the weighing of options. He knows how hard this must be for Gary to accept — hell, it’s hard for Logan to accept, and he’s the one making the decision. But he has to stick to his guns. He has to believe that this is the right choice.

Finally, Gary lets out a resigned sigh. “Alright, Logan. If this is really what you want, I’ll back you. But you need to understand the risks. This could close doors for you. Big ones.”

Logan nods, his stomach twisting with anxiety. “I know. But I also know that if I take this now, it could end up closing even more doors in the long run.”

Gary studies him for a long moment, then gives a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll let Jost know. But don’t expect him to be happy about it.”

Logan feels a mixture of relief and dread. “I won’t. But thanks, Gary. I know this isn’t easy.”

Gary gives him a tight smile, still clearly grappling with the decision. “No, it’s not. But you’re the one driving the car, Logan. Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Logan nods, watching as Gary turns and leaves the room, the door closing softly behind him. He stands there for a moment, taking in the silence, the surrealness of what just happened. He’s just turned down a seat in F1. The one thing he thought he wanted more than anything. But as the anxiety ebbs, a new feeling takes its place — determination.

This time, things are going to be different. He’s going to do it right, even if it means making the hard choices. Logan takes a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over him. This is his second chance, and he’s not going to waste it.

***

The 2023 F2 season ends in a flurry of champagne, confetti, and flashing cameras. Logan stands on the top step of the podium, the P1 trophy clutched in his hands, a grin splitting his face. He’s done it. He’s proved to everyone — most of all to himself — that he was ready. This time, he didn’t rush, didn’t let the pressure consume him. And it’s paid off. He’s the Formula 2 Drivers’ Champion.

But as the celebration winds down and reality sets in, Logan faces a new challenge. Despite his victory, the F1 grid is full, and F2 champions can’t return to the series. He could take a reserve role, bide his time, wait for a seat to open up. But that’s not what he wants. He’s not willing to spend another year on the sidelines, waiting for an opportunity that may never come.

So when the offer from IndyCar comes, Logan doesn’t hesitate. He’s heard the stories — about the speed, the fierce competition, the thrill of racing on ovals. It’s not Formula 1, but it’s still racing at the highest level. And right now, that’s what he needs.

The decision surprises everyone. The media buzzes with speculation, but Logan remains focused. He knows what he’s doing. This is a new path, one that he’s chosen for himself, not because it was expected of him. He’s determined to make it work.

A few weeks later, Logan finds himself in the heart of Indianapolis, standing outside the office of Mario Andretti. The legendary name still carries a weight of history and reverence, even in this new world of racing. It feels surreal, like stepping into a different era of motorsport.

Inside the office, Mario is all business. The contract is laid out on the table between them, a simple piece of paper that represents Logan’s future. Mario goes over the details with the kind of thoroughness that only comes from years of experience, but Logan can barely focus. His mind is racing, thoughts darting between the past season, the unknown future, and the thrill of what he’s about to embark on.

“Everything looks good?” Mario asks, breaking Logan from his thoughts.

Logan blinks, then nods, forcing himself to concentrate. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

Mario slides the pen across the table. “Then let’s make it official.”

Logan takes the pen, feeling the weight of the moment as he signs his name at the bottom of the contract. It’s done. He’s an IndyCar driver now.

Mario nods in approval, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Welcome to the team, Logan. We’re excited to have you.”

“Thank you,” Logan says, meaning it. This is a new beginning, and he’s ready for it.

They shake hands, and Mario stands, motioning towards the door. “I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got to head out. My granddaughter’s picking me up for lunch.”

Logan heads out of the office, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of emotions. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the person rounding the corner until it’s too late. They collide, and Logan’s first instinct is to reach out, steadying the person as they stumble backward.

“Whoa, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, his hands gripping her arms as he helps her regain her balance.

“It’s okay,” you reply, laughing softly as you look up at him. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you, the apology dying on his lips. You’re beautiful — stunning, even — with eyes that seem to sparkle with life and a smile that’s warm and inviting. For a moment, all he can do is stare, struck by how perfect you seem, like someone who’s stepped straight out of a dream.

“You alright?” You ask, tilting your head slightly as you study him.

Logan snaps out of it, quickly releasing his hold on you and stepping back. “Yeah, sorry again. I didn’t see you there.”

The door to Mario’s office opens, and the man himself steps out, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene. “Everything okay out here?”

You turn to your grandfather, smiling brightly. “Just a little bump, Grandpa. Nothing to worry about.”

Mario’s expression softens as he looks at you, the sternness replaced by affection. “Good. I don’t want anyone getting hurt before lunch.”

You laugh, the sound light and carefree, and Logan finds himself smiling along, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

“Logan,” Mario says, turning to him, “I’d like you to meet my granddaughter.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat. This is Mario’s granddaughter? Of course, she is. It makes sense now, the confidence in your stance, the way you carry yourself. You’re part of a racing dynasty, just like Mario.

“Logan Sargeant,” Mario continues, introducing him to you. “He’s going to be racing with us next season.”

You offer him your hand, your smile never faltering. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Logan takes your hand, feeling a jolt of electricity as your fingers brush against his. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

You glance at Mario, then back at Logan. “We’re heading out for lunch. You should join us.”

Logan’s mind goes blank for a second, and all he can do is blink at you, trying to process what you just said. “Lunch? With you and … Mr. Andretti?”

You laugh again, and Logan thinks it might be the best sound he has ever heard. “Yeah, with us. Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No, no,” Logan stammers, trying to regain some composure. “I’d love to join you.”

Mario claps Logan on the shoulder, his laughter booming through the hallway. “Looks like you’ve made an impression already, kid. Come on, let’s get out of here before the press catches wind of this.”

Logan nods, still somewhat dazed as he follows you and Mario out of the building. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts — about the contract he just signed, the new chapter he’s stepping into, and now, about you. He can’t quite believe his luck. Not only is he starting a new adventure in IndyCar, but he’s also just met someone who, in the span of a few minutes, has completely captivated him.

As they walk to Mario’s car, Logan steals glances at you, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. You seem so at ease, chatting with your grandfather, your laughter punctuating the conversation. There’s a lightness about you, a warmth that’s infectious, and Logan finds himself drawn to it, to you.

“Logan,” you say, turning to him as you reach the car. “So, what made you decide to join IndyCar? It’s not every day an F2 champion makes that leap.”

Logan pauses, caught off guard by the directness of your question. “Well, uh,” he begins, trying to find the right words, “I guess I just wanted something different. F1 wasn’t an option, and I didn’t want to sit around waiting for a seat to open up. IndyCar seemed like the right challenge. Something new, but still competitive.”

You nod, clearly intrigued. “That makes sense. It’s a bold move, but I think it’ll pay off.”

“Bold,” Logan repeats, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” you assure him, your eyes sparkling. “I admire people who take risks. Especially when they’re as calculated as yours seems to be.”

Mario clears his throat, a knowing grin on his face as he watches the two of you. “Alright, kids, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.”

You and Logan exchange a smile before sliding into the back seat of the car. The conversation flows easily, despite Logan’s initial nerves. You ask him about his time in F2, what it was like racing on the different tracks, how he handled the pressure. Logan finds himself opening up more than he expected, the words coming easily under your encouraging gaze.

Mario chimes in every now and then, adding his own insights, but it’s clear he’s content to let the two of you do most of the talking. He watches with an amused glint in his eye, as if he’s already figured out something that Logan is just beginning to realize.

By the time you reach the restaurant, Logan feels like he’s known you for much longer than the short time you’ve actually spent together. There’s an ease between you that he’s rarely felt with anyone else, a connection that seems to have sparked almost instantly.

Inside the restaurant, Mario insists on taking the head of the table, leaving you and Logan to sit across from each other. As you settle in, you continue to ask Logan questions, but now they’re more personal — what does he do outside of racing? What’s his favorite movie? Does he have any hidden talents?

Logan answers as best he can, though he’s still reeling a bit from how quickly this day has turned into something he never expected. He’s just signed with IndyCar, but more than that, he’s sitting across from someone who makes his heart race faster than any car ever could.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Logan,” Mario says suddenly, breaking into the conversation. “I’ve seen a lot of young drivers come and go, but you … you’ve got something special. Just keep your focus, and you’ll go far.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andretti,” Logan says, his voice sincere. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Call me Mario,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “We’re family now, after all.”

Logan smiles, feeling a warmth spread through him at the word “family.” It’s strange, how quickly things have shifted, how he’s gone from a solitary driver trying to make his way in the world to someone who might actually belong here, in this new place, with these new people.

As the lunch continues, Logan finds himself growing more comfortable, the initial awkwardness fading away. You keep the conversation lively, sharing stories about your grandfather, about your own life, and Logan can’t help but be drawn to your passion, your intelligence, your warmth. It’s clear that you’re not just Mario Andretti’s granddaughter — you’re your own person, with your own dreams and ambitions.

Eventually, the meal winds down, and Mario excuses himself to take a phone call, leaving you and Logan alone at the table. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but charged, filled with the unspoken things neither of you have quite put into words yet.

“So,” you say, leaning forward slightly, a teasing smile on your lips, “what do you think of Indy so far?”

Logan grins, feeling a boldness he didn’t expect. “Well, it just got a whole lot more interesting.”

You laugh, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m glad to hear it. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, his voice softening as he looks at you, really looks at you. “I think I am too.”

You hold his gaze, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing second. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this moment that feels almost like fate.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Mario returns, his phone call finished. He glances between the two of you, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look that makes Logan’s ears burn. “Ready to head out?”

You nod, standing up and giving Logan one last, lingering smile. “It was nice meeting you, Logan. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

Logan stands as well, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Definitely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you and Mario head out of the restaurant, Logan lingers for a moment, watching you go. He can’t quite believe what just happened, but one thing is certain — his life just got a lot more complicated, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

As he walks out into the bright sunlight, Logan can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He’s taken a leap into the unknown, and it feels like the start of something incredible.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, vibrating through the very core of the Speedway as Logan crosses the finish line first. It’s the 107th running of the Indianapolis 500, and he’s just won it. The realization hits him like a tidal wave, almost knocking the breath out of him. He’s an Indy 500 champion. In his rookie season, no less.

The engine growls as he coasts to a stop, and for a moment, all he can do is sit there, hands trembling on the steering wheel. His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he lets out a breathless laugh, disbelief and elation mingling into something indescribable.

“Logan Sargeant wins the Indy 500!” The announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers, barely audible over the cheers of the crowd. He hears it, but it still feels surreal, like something out of a dream.

The pit crew rushes over, the celebration already in full swing as they haul him out of the car. He’s immediately surrounded by a sea of people — team members, media, officials — everyone wanting a piece of this historic moment. But through it all, there’s one thing on his mind. One person.

You.

He’s searching the crowd, trying to spot you among the chaos. His vision is blurred with sweat and tears, but then he sees you — pushing your way through the throng of people, a look of pure joy on your face. You’re clapping, laughing, your eyes shining with pride, and all Logan can think is how he needs to get to you.

But first, there’s tradition to uphold.

One of the crew hands him the iconic bottle of milk, the symbol of victory. Logan takes it, still in a daze, and tilts it back, taking a long swig. The cold liquid is refreshing, cutting through the heat of the moment, and he can’t help but laugh as he lowers the bottle, milk dripping down his chin.

Without hesitation, he lifts the bottle above his head and pours the rest over himself. The milk runs down his face, soaking into his race suit, and the crowd goes wild, the noise level somehow reaching new heights. He feels on top of the world — unstoppable, invincible.

And then he spots you again, closer now, just on the edge of the crowd. Logan doesn’t think, doesn’t pause to consider anything else. He just moves, pushing through the throng of people until he’s standing right in front of you.

You’re smiling up at him, eyes bright with something that makes his heart race faster than it did on the final lap. Before he can stop himself, Logan reaches out, pulls you in, and kisses you.

It’s the kind of kiss that’s been building for months — the culmination of all the moments, all the glances, all the unspoken words between you. You taste like the victory he’s just claimed, like the adrenaline that’s still pumping through his veins, like everything he’s been chasing since he first set foot in this world.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, milk dripping from Logan’s face and onto yours. You laugh, and the sound is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re lucky I’m not lactose intolerant,” you tease, licking the milk from his lips with a grin that’s both playful and suggestive. “But honestly? It’d be worth it even if I was.”

Logan laughs, a deep, full-bodied sound that comes from a place of pure, unfiltered happiness. He feels like he’s floating, like nothing in the world could possibly bring him down from this high. Not now, not ever.

“Best win of my life,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, still holding you close, as if afraid that letting go might make this moment disappear.

You tilt your head, still smiling up at him with those eyes that have captivated him from the start. “I’d hope so,” you say softly. “You just won the Indy 500.”

He shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. “No, I mean this.” He gestures between the two of you, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning.

For a second, you just stare at him, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. And then you’re laughing, throwing your arms around his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

This one is softer, sweeter — less about the heat of the moment and more about the connection between you, the way everything just seems to fit when you’re together. Logan loses himself in it, in you, in this moment that feels like the culmination of everything he’s ever wanted.

When you finally break apart, the noise of the crowd floods back in, the celebration continuing around you. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only person in the world.

“Come on,” you say, tugging him towards the podium. “You’ve got a trophy to collect.”

Logan follows, still holding onto your hand, not willing to let you go just yet. The team is waiting, cheering him on, and as they hoist him up onto their shoulders, Logan realizes that this — this moment, this feeling — is what he’s been racing for all along.

Standing on the podium, the trophy in his hands, Logan looks out at the sea of faces, at the fans cheering his name, at the team celebrating their victory. But his eyes find you in the crowd, and that’s where they stay.

You’re smiling up at him, and Logan knows, deep down, that this is just the beginning. The beginning of something incredible, something he never saw coming but can’t imagine living without.

As the anthem plays and the confetti rains down, Logan lifts the trophy high, his heart full to bursting. He’s done it — he’s won the Indy 500. But more than that, he’s found something, someone, who makes all of it mean so much more.

And as he looks down at you, standing there with that bright, beautiful smile, Logan knows that he’s not just a champion. He’s the luckiest guy in the world.

***

The soft hum of the office fills the silence as Logan sits across from Mario, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The past year has been a whirlwind — plenty of IndyCar wins, that unforgettable victory at the Indy 500, and the life he’s built with you by his side. It’s been everything he didn’t know he needed, but now, as he sits in Mario’s office, there’s an air of something significant, something life-altering in the way Mario looks at him.

Mario clears his throat, leaning forward on his desk, hands clasped. “Logan,” he begins, voice steady, serious. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking — planning, actually — and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat, the weight of Mario’s words sinking in. He nods, leaning forward slightly, feeling the anticipation coil tight in his chest. “What is it?” He asks, voice steady despite the flurry of nerves.

Mario takes a deep breath, then looks Logan squarely in the eye. “We’re buying Haas F1 Team. The deal’s already in motion, and we’ll be restructuring everything from the ground up to make our entrance into Formula 1 in 2026.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Logan’s breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he’s not sure if he’s heard Mario correctly. “Formula 1?” He echoes, almost disbelieving. His mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as it gets,” Mario replies, his expression unwavering. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, Logan. And now, with everything coming together, it’s finally happening. But here’s the thing-” he pauses, his gaze locking onto Logan’s with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt, “I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead this team as our driver than you.”

The words hit Logan like a freight train. He stares at Mario, unable to speak, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Formula 1 has always been the dream, the pinnacle of everything he’s worked for. The chance he thought he’d lost — twice, if he counts the strange twist of fate that had brought him here in the first place.

“Logan, I know this is a lot to take in,” Mario continues, his tone softer now, understanding. “But I believe in you. You’ve proven yourself time and time again, in F2, in IndyCar — hell, you won the Indy 500 in your first season. And I know you still have that fire for F1. This is your shot, kid. And I want you to take it.”

Logan feels the lump in his throat as Mario’s words sink in. The room seems to close in around him, the gravity of the moment pressing down like a physical weight. He’s had a lot of success in IndyCar, more than he ever imagined, and it brought him you — his reason to smile, his anchor in the storm. But Formula 1? That’s the dream he’s never fully let go of, even when he tried to convince himself otherwise.

He swallows hard, forcing the words out past the emotion threatening to choke him. “I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits, his voice thick. “I mean, this is … I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance like this.”

Mario smiles, the kind of smile that’s equal parts pride and encouragement. “I know it’s a lot, Logan. And it’s not an easy decision, especially considering everything you’ve built here in IndyCar. But I have no doubt in my mind that you’re the right person for this. You’ve got what it takes to succeed in F1, and I’m not just talking about talent. You’ve got heart, determination, and the ability to learn from your mistakes. That’s what makes a champion.”

Logan’s mind races, the possibilities spinning out in front of him. He thinks about everything he’s worked for, everything he’s achieved. And then he thinks about you — how you’ve been there with him through it all, supporting him, believing in him even when he doubted himself.

He takes a deep breath, his decision already forming in his mind, solidifying with each passing second. “Okay,” he says, meeting Mario’s gaze head-on. “I’ll do it. I want this, Mario. I want to prove to myself that I can do it right this time.”

Mario’s grin widens, and he stands up, offering Logan his hand. “Welcome to Andretti F1 Team. We’re going to do great things together.”

Logan shakes his hand, the reality of it all starting to settle in. He’s going to be a Formula 1 driver again. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, everything he’s ever wanted all over again. As he stands there, absorbing the magnitude of what’s just happened, he feels a strange mix of emotions — elation, fear, anticipation, and something else that he can’t quite name.

Mario walks him to the door, still talking about the next steps, the plans they have for the team, but Logan’s mind is half-focused on something else, someone else. As the door swings open, the conversation comes to a halt. The sight that greets them both brings a grin to Mario’s face and a burst of laughter from Logan.

You’re standing there, your ear pressed to the door, looking guilty as hell when you realize you’ve been caught. You straighten up quickly, trying to play it off, but the blush spreading across your cheeks gives you away.

“Eavesdropping, huh?” Logan teases, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. There’s a lightness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago, the news already settling into a place of excitement rather than apprehension.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile, but failing miserably. “I, um … I might have been curious,” you admit, your eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mario chuckles, shaking his head. “Looks like we’ve got a new team spy, Logan. Better watch out.”

Logan can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He steps out of the office, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “You know, you didn’t have to spy,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I would’ve told you everything.”

You look up at him, your smile fading slightly as something more serious takes its place in your eyes. “I just … I wanted to know if it was good news,” you say quietly. “I know how much F1 means to you.”

Logan feels his heart clench at your words, at the sincerity in your voice. You’ve always understood him, always known what drives him, what keeps him going. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “It’s great news,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m getting a second shot at F1, and I’m not going to mess it up this time.”

Your smile returns, bright and full of the same determination he feels. “I know you won’t,” you say confidently. “You’re going to do amazing things, Logie. And I’ll be right there with you.”

Logan’s chest tightens with emotion, the intensity of the moment overwhelming him. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You laugh softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Good thing you won’t have to find out,” you reply, your tone teasing but laced with affection.

Logan’s heart swells, and before he can stop himself, he lifts you off your feet, spinning you around in a circle. You yelp in surprise, then burst into laughter, the sound filling the hallway.

He sets you down gently, your laughter fading into a soft smile as you look up at him. There’s a moment of quiet, the world around you fading away as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. Logan leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and passionate, a promise of what’s to come.

When you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, Logan feels a sense of calm settle over him. Everything is falling into place, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

With you by his side, he knows he can face whatever comes next.

“Ready to take on the world?” You ask, your voice light but your eyes serious.

Logan grins, squeezing your hand. “As long as I’ve got you, I’m ready for anything.”

And with that, he leads you down the hallway, the future stretching out before him, bright and full of promise.

***

The sun is barely up, casting long shadows across the Albert Park Circuit, but the air is already alive with anticipation. It’s the first day of preseason testing for the 2026 Formula 1 season, and the paddock is buzzing with the usual mix of excitement and nerves.

Teams are unpacking crates, engineers are huddled over laptops, and the unmistakable scent of burning rubber is already in the air. But for Logan, walking through the paddock with you on his arm, it feels like stepping into a dream — one he’s worked too damn hard to make a reality.

He adjusts the collar of his Andretti jacket, the weight of the moment not lost on him. This is it. His second chance — though, thanks to the bizarre twist of fate, no one else knows it’s his second. Everyone around him sees a rookie, an American hopeful making his debut with Andretti’s new F1 team. But Logan knows better. He’s here with experience that no one can fathom, and he’s determined not to waste it.

As you walk beside him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, he can’t help but steal a glance at you. There’s a brightness in your eyes, a mix of pride and excitement that mirrors his own. “You okay?” He asks, squeezing your hand gently.

You look up at him and smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart do a little flip. “I’m more than okay,” you reply. “I’m with you, and we’re about to watch you live your dream. What could be better than that?”

Logan grins, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. You’ve been his rock through everything — the highs, the lows, the strange, unexplainable journey that brought him back here. He’s never been more certain that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

As you make your way through the paddock, heads turn. It’s not just because Logan is here with the legendary Andretti team, but because of the woman at his side. He catches a few curious glances, some surprised, others appreciative, and he can’t blame them. You’re a sight to behold, and he’s proud to be walking in with you.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Logan spots a familiar face. Oscar Piastri, decked out in McLaren colors, is standing near the entrance to the pit lane, chatting with a few team members. It’s been years since they last spoke properly — back when they were both climbing the ranks in the junior series, fighting tooth and nail for every inch of track.

They were close once, but life pulled them in different directions — Oscar to McLaren, Logan to IndyCar. And now, here they are, both in Formula 1, albeit on different paths.

Logan feels a wave of nostalgia, and before he can overthink it, he’s steering you in Oscar’s direction. As you approach, Oscar looks up, and for a split second, there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it melts into a wide, genuine smile.

“Logan Sargeant,” Oscar says, his Australian accent as thick as ever. He steps forward, hand outstretched, and Logan takes it, shaking firmly. “I’ll be damned. You actually made it.”

Logan chuckles, the sound more relaxed than he feels. “Yeah, I guess I did. It’s been a long road, but here I am.”

Oscar’s smile widens, his grip on Logan’s hand lingering for just a moment longer. “It’s good to see you, mate. I was wondering when you’d show up in F1. Figured you were having too much fun in IndyCar to come back.”

“There was a lot to love about IndyCar,” Logan admits, glancing at you with a fond smile. “But F1 was always the dream, you know? Couldn’t pass up a chance like this.”

Oscar nods, understanding clear in his expression. “I get it. And with Andretti, no less. That’s a hell of a team to start with. You’re going to shake things up around here, I can tell.”

Logan shrugs, trying to play it cool even as his heart pounds with the reality of it all. “That’s the plan. But enough about me. How’s life at McLaren? You guys ready to give us a run for our money?”

Oscar laughs, the sound light and easy. “Always. McLaren’s been working their asses off, and I’m feeling good about this season. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because we’re old friends.”

Logan grins, feeling the competitive spark that’s always driven him reignite. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve gone wheel-to-wheel. I’m looking forward to it.”

Oscar’s gaze shifts to you, his curiosity evident. “And who’s this?” He asks, his tone polite but genuinely interested.

Logan’s grin softens as he looks at you. “This is my better half,” he says, his voice filled with affection. “She’s the one who keeps me sane.”

You smile at Oscar, offering your hand. “It’s great to finally meet you, Oscar. Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

Oscar shakes your hand, his smile warm and welcoming. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” you tease, throwing Logan a playful glance.

Logan laughs, feeling a lightness in his chest he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s good to be here, good to be surrounded by the familiar banter and camaraderie that he’s missed. He knows the road ahead is going to be tough — F1 is nothing if not ruthless — but with you by his side and old friends welcoming him back, he feels more ready than ever to face whatever comes his way.

Oscar steps back, his gaze shifting between the two of you. “Well, I’d better let you guys get settled in. But hey, we should catch up properly later. Maybe grab a drink after testing?”

Logan nods, appreciating the offer. “Definitely. It’s been too long.”

As Oscar walks away, Logan watches him for a moment, the memories of their shared past mingling with the excitement of the present. It’s surreal, being here again, but this time with the weight of everything he’s learned, everything he’s fought for.

You tug gently on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” You ask, your voice soft and curious.

Logan smiles down at you, squeezing your hand. “Just how different things are now,” he admits. “But in a good way. I’ve got a second shot at this, and I’m not going to waste it.”

You nod, your eyes shining with the same determination he feels. “And I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.”

Logan feels a swell of emotion, gratitude, and love that he can’t quite put into words. Instead, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two of you continue walking, the sounds of the paddock fading into the background as you focus on each other. The day ahead is full of unknowns — testing, strategy meetings, the inevitable pressure of proving himself — but with you by his side, Logan feels ready for anything.

As you make your way to the Andretti garage, the team members greet Logan with nods and smiles, and he can see the mix of curiosity and expectation in their eyes. They’re all in this together, building something new, something that has the potential to be great. And Logan is determined to be the driver they need, the one who can lead them to success.

You squeeze his hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re going to do amazing, Logan. I can feel it.”

He smiles, the confidence in your voice bolstering his own. “Thanks. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

“Always,” you reply, your gaze unwavering.

As the day progresses, Logan finds himself falling into the rhythm of the paddock. The familiar sounds of engines roaring to life, the chatter of engineers discussing data, the focused intensity that permeates every corner — it’s like he never left. But this time, there’s a new layer to it all, a sense of belonging that he didn’t fully grasp the first time around.

He exchanges nods and brief conversations with other drivers as they pass by, some offering congratulations, others sizing him up as the new competition. It’s all part of the game, the unspoken dance of respect and rivalry that defines the sport. But through it all, Logan keeps you close, your presence grounding him in the midst of the chaos.

As the day draws to a close, Logan finds himself back in the garage, the car stripped down and the team poring over the data from the day’s sessions. He’s tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes from both physical exertion and mental focus, but it’s the good kind of tired — the kind that tells him he’s exactly where he needs to be.

You’re standing nearby, chatting with one of the engineers, your laughter mingling with the sounds of the garage. Logan watches you for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. You’ve always had a way of fitting in, of making everyone around you feel at ease, and he’s grateful for that — for you.

As if sensing his gaze, you look over at him and smile, that familiar warmth in your eyes. You make your way over to him, and when you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms, holding you close. The noise of the garage fades into the background, leaving just the two of you in this moment.

“You did great today,” you say.

Logan holds you a little tighter, resting his chin on the top of your head. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of pride and affection. “You’re the one out there driving, Logan. But I’m glad I can be here for you.”

He smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “It means everything to me that you are,” he whispers.

For a moment, the chaos of the garage and the world outside fades, leaving just the two of you standing together, ready to face whatever comes next. Logan knows the road ahead won’t be easy, but with you by his side, he’s more than ready to take on the challenge.

***

The media room is buzzing with the usual pre-race energy, a mix of nerves and excitement crackling in the air as the drivers settle in behind the table. Logan’s seated between Oscar and Charles, the bright lights overhead casting sharp shadows across their faces. The backdrop behind them, plastered with sponsor logos and the official F1 emblem, feels almost like a stage, the press in front of them the audience waiting for their performance.

Logan shifts in his seat, glancing down at the bottled water in front of him. The press conference has been the usual mix of questions so far — how the cars are handling, expectations for the season, the general camaraderie between the drivers. But there’s an undercurrent, a sense that something more pointed is coming.

A journalist from the back finally stands, her voice clear and direct as she catches Logan’s attention. “Logan,” she begins, holding her recorder up, “there’s been some observation that every time you see James Vowles, your expression seems to … change. Almost like you’re not too thrilled to be around him. Any comment on that?”

There’s a moment of silence in the room, a collective breath held. Logan feels the gaze of every person on him, including the drivers beside him. He lets out a quiet laugh, trying to play it cool, but he can’t help the way his mind flashes back to the last time he’d faced Vowles, the man’s condescending tone, the cold dismissal that had sent him spiraling.

Oscar shifts beside him, giving him a sideways glance, probably wondering where this is going. Logan catches the edge of his own reflection in the shiny surface of the table and forces his expression into something neutral, even though the old bitterness is clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach.

“Bad vibes,” Logan says finally, his voice carrying just enough humor to keep it light, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “That’s what my girlfriend would say. He just … gives off bad vibes.”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the room, the tension breaking slightly. But the journalist isn’t done yet. “Bad vibes? Care to elaborate on that?”

Logan shrugs, trying to brush it off with a casualness he doesn’t quite feel. “You know, it’s one of those things. Sometimes you just don’t click with someone, right? It’s nothing serious.”

Charles, on his other side, leans into his mic, flashing a grin. “You’re not going to make us all paranoid about our vibes now, are you?”

The room laughs again, and Logan takes the opportunity to sip his water, hoping the moment will pass. But he can feel the weight of the past pressing against him, the memories of how it all went down before he’d found himself in this second chance. He knows better than anyone that this sport is a game of perceptions, of how you carry yourself, and he can’t afford to let the past taint his future.

Another journalist jumps in, steering the conversation toward safer waters — questions about the new car, how he’s adjusting to the Andretti team. Logan answers on autopilot, the usual lines about feeling confident, about how the team has been amazing. But in the back of his mind, he’s still thinking about that flash of disgust he couldn’t hide, the way his skin prickled when he saw Vowles earlier that day.

When the press conference finally wraps up, and the drivers are ushered out of the room, Oscar hangs back, falling into step beside Logan as they head toward the paddock. “So,” Oscar starts, keeping his voice low, “bad vibes, huh?”

Logan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You know how it is,” he says, trying to keep it light, though he knows Oscar can see right through him.

Oscar just nods, not pushing any further, and Logan’s grateful for that. They walk in silence for a moment, the din of the paddock growing louder as they approach, engineers and team members bustling around them.

“Honestly, mate,” Oscar says after a beat, “if anyone’s going to bring some good vibes into F1, it’s you. I’m glad you’re here.”

Logan glances over, and there’s sincerity in Oscar’s expression that makes Logan’s chest tighten, the weight of everything he’s carried with him lightening just a bit. “Thanks, Oscar. That means a lot.”

They reach the Andretti motorhome, where you’re waiting for Logan, your eyes lighting up the moment you spot him. He feels a warmth spread through him at the sight, a reminder of what really matters.

You push off the wall you’d been leaning against, falling into step beside him. “So, how’d it go in there?”

Logan smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as they walk. “Let’s just say my reputation for honesty might have gotten a bit more solidified.”

You tilt your head up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That bad, huh?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not bad, just … honest.”

You glance at Oscar, who’s still walking beside you, and give him a knowing look. “He always has to make things interesting, doesn’t he?”

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “Never a dull moment with this one.”

As you make your way back into the motorhome, Logan feels the tension of the day starting to ebb away. The familiar scent of coffee and fuel, the low hum of conversations around him, and the comforting presence of you by his side — it all feels right. Despite everything, he knows this is where he belongs.

Once inside, the motorhome offers a brief respite from the chaotic energy outside. The team is prepping for final checks, and Logan knows he should be focusing on the task ahead, but there’s something nagging at him, a need to explain himself, to make sure you understand.

You catch the way his brows furrow slightly, the way his grip on your shoulder tightens for a moment before he lets go. “What’s up?”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair, looking for the right words. “I just … I don’t want to come off like I’m carrying a grudge or anything. That comment about Vowles — it probably sounded harsher than I meant it.”

You step closer, your hand finding his, grounding him. “Logan, it’s okay. Everyone has people they don’t vibe with. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

He nods, the tightness in his chest loosening as he looks into your eyes, seeing the unwavering support there. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s a gift. Plus, you make it easy.”

Oscar clears his throat, and both of you look over to see him trying not to grin. “I’m going to leave you two to it. Just don’t forget we have a race to focus on.”

Logan laughs, shaking his head as Oscar heads out. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be right out.”

When Oscar’s gone, Logan turns back to you, his expression softening. “Thanks for being here. Really.”

You lean up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Always.”

As you both make your way out to the garage, the sounds of the team preparing for the weekend reach your ears, and Logan feels that familiar rush of adrenaline, the anticipation of what’s to come. The memory of the press conference, of Vowles, fades into the background. What matters now is the race ahead, the chance to prove himself once again, and the knowledge that whatever happens, you’re right there with him.

He glances over at you as they approach the car, and you catch him staring, raising an eyebrow in question. “What?”

Logan just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a smile playing on your lips. “You better believe it, Sargeant. Now, go out there and show them what you’ve got.”

He nods, feeling more centered than he has all day. With a final squeeze of your hand, he steps into the garage, ready to take on whatever comes next, knowing that no matter what happens on the track, he’s already won in the ways that truly matter.

***

The roar of the engines reverberates through the paddock, a constant hum that thrums in Logan’s chest as he steps into the Andretti garage. It’s yet another race weekend, and the energy is electric, a mix of anticipation and nerves hanging in the air.

The team is buzzing around him, mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers buried in data, but Logan’s focus is on the familiar figure leaning casually against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the hustle with an almost serene smile.

Logan stops in his tracks, eyebrows raising in surprise. It’s not that Mario isn’t around — he’s a constant presence in the team, always keeping an eye on things — but he usually doesn’t show up this early in the weekend, and certainly not with that look on his face.

It’s a smile Logan recognizes all too well, a mix of pride and mischief that means only one thing: Mario knows something that everyone else doesn’t, and it’s going to shake things up.

Logan weaves his way through the garage, sidestepping the organized chaos until he’s standing in front of Mario. “You look like you’re up to something,” Logan says, crossing his arms to mirror the older man’s posture. “What’s going on?”

Mario’s smile widens just a fraction, his eyes glinting with a secret. “Now, what makes you think I’m up to anything, kid?”

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Because I know that look. You’ve got news.”

Mario doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pushes off the wall and motions for Logan to follow him to a quieter corner of the garage, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the team. Logan follows, his curiosity piqued. Whatever Mario’s about to tell him, it’s big.

When they’re sufficiently out of earshot, Mario leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You remember how I told you a while back that we were working on something big for the team?”

Logan nods, his interest fully captured. “Yeah. What’s up?”

Mario’s smile turns almost wicked. “Well, it seems that James Vowles and Williams think they’re going to secure Adrian Newey for next season.”

Logan’s eyes widen slightly. Newey is a legend in the sport, the kind of designer who can turn a good team into a championship-winning one. If Williams were to get him, it would be a game-changer. “Wait, you said they think they’re going to get him?”

“Exactly.” Mario’s grin is practically gleeful now. “What they don’t know is that Adrian’s already in talks with us. In fact, we’re just about ready to sign the deal.”

Logan lets out a low whistle, the magnitude of the news sinking in. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. By this time next week, Adrian Newey will be working for Andretti.”

Logan can’t help the wide smile that spreads across his face. This is huge, a move that will send shockwaves through the paddock. With Newey on board, Andretti’s chances of becoming a front-runner in F1 just skyrocketed. “I can’t believe it,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s going to change everything.”

Mario nods, satisfaction evident in his expression. “It’s a big deal, no doubt about it. But we’ve still got work to do. We can’t get complacent, not with what’s at stake. But this … this is a big step in the right direction.”

Logan’s mind is already racing ahead, thinking about what this means for the team, for his own career. The idea of driving a car designed by Newey is almost surreal. “When are you going to announce it?”

“Not until everything’s signed and sealed,” Mario replies. “But once it’s done, we’ll make sure the whole world knows. And Williams … well, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”

Logan laughs, the sound coming out more exhilarated than he intended. The idea of one-upping Vowles, especially after everything that’s happened between them, is deeply satisfying. “I can’t wait to see the look on Vowles’ face when he finds out.”

Mario pats Logan on the shoulder, the gesture filled with a camaraderie that Logan has come to cherish. “Neither can I, kid. Neither can I.”

As they walk back towards the main part of the garage, Logan’s mind is still reeling from the news. He’s been focused on the present, on making sure he performs at his best every time he’s out on the track, but this … this opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. With Newey on board, there’s no telling what they can achieve.

When you spot him from across the garage, the look on his face must give away that something’s up because you immediately make your way over, your expression curious. “What’s going on?” You ask as soon as you’re close enough.

Logan glances around, making sure no one is within earshot, and then leans in, his voice low. “Mario just dropped a bombshell. Andretti’s about to sign Adrian Newey.”

Your eyes widen in shock, and Logan watches as a grin spreads across your face, mirroring his own excitement. “No way. That’s … huge!”

“I know,” Logan says, still barely able to believe it himself. “This changes everything.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm, your voice filled with pride. “You’re going to be driving a car designed by Newey. Do you realize how amazing that is?”

Logan nods, the reality of it finally sinking in. “Yeah, I do. It’s … I can’t even put it into words.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t have to. I can see it on your face.”

For a moment, Logan just stands there, soaking it all in. The garage is still bustling around them, the team oblivious to the monumental news that’s just been dropped in their laps. But Logan knows that soon enough, everything is going to change. This is the kind of move that can define a career, that can take a team from being contenders to being champions.

But more than that, it’s a chance for redemption. A chance to prove to everyone — including himself — that he belongs here, that he’s capable of more than anyone ever gave him credit for. The past is behind him now, and with you by his side, and Newey in the garage, the future looks brighter than ever.

Logan glances over at you, seeing the pride and excitement in your eyes, and feels a surge of gratitude. For the second chance he’s been given, for the team that believes in him, and for you, the person who’s been there through it all.

“We’re going to do something amazing, you know that?” Logan says, his voice filled with conviction.

You nod, your smile soft but full of certainty. “I know. And I can’t wait to see it.”

Neither can Logan.

***

Logan’s heart is still pounding from the rush of the race as he stands on the podium, feeling the weight of the Miami sun on his shoulders. The crowd roars below him, a sea of red, white, and blue as far as the eye can see, their energy pulsing through his veins. He can hardly believe it. A podium at his home race, in front of a crowd that feels like family, is something he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.

He turns, looking out over the crowd, his eyes scanning for you. You’re there, as you always are, standing with the Andretti team, your smile brighter than the sun. The mechanics are cheering, patting each other on the back, but Logan only has eyes for you. It’s like everything else falls away — the noise, the cameras, the pressure of the season — all of it fades into the background. All that matters is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s your entire world.

He takes a deep breath, the realization of what he’s about to do washing over him. His hands shake, just slightly, as he reaches up and touches the chain around his neck, feeling the weight of the ring that’s been hidden there for weeks, waiting for this moment.

Without another thought, he drops to one knee, right there on the podium. The world seems to stop as he looks up at you, the crowd going silent in his mind. He hears the sharp intake of breath from the Andretti crew, sees the shock on your face as you register what’s happening.

“Hey,” he says, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “I … I don’t know if I can put into words what you mean to me. You’ve been with me through everything — the wins, the losses, the crazy twists and turns. And I can’t imagine going through any of it without you by my side.” He pauses, the weight of the moment sinking in. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is … will you marry me?”

Your eyes widen, and for a second, you’re frozen in place, staring at him in disbelief. Then, as if breaking free from a spell, you laugh, a sound that’s pure joy, and nod vigorously. The next thing Logan knows, you’re being lifted onto the podium by the mechanics, tears of happiness streaming down your face as you launch yourself into his arms.

“Yes,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion. “Yes, of course, I will!”

The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise deafening as Logan slides the ring onto your finger. He pulls you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tastes like victory, love, and everything good in the world. The mechanics are going wild, chanting your names, and someone — Logan thinks it might be Mario — pops open a bottle of champagne, spraying it over everyone.

It’s chaotic, it’s perfect, and it’s a moment that Logan knows he’ll remember for the rest of his life. As he holds you close, feeling the warmth of your body against his, he realizes that this — right here, with you in his arms, and his home crowd cheering around him — is the true victory. The rest is just a bonus.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. “You know,” he says, his voice low so only you can hear, “I always knew I was lucky. But this … this is something else entirely.”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and lean in to kiss him again. “We’re both lucky, Logan,” you whisper against his lips. “And this is just the beginning.”

***

The paddock is buzzing with activity, the hum of engines and the chatter of mechanics creating a familiar symphony that Logan finds oddly comforting. It’s the start of another race weekend, but this one feels different. There’s an undercurrent of excitement in the air, a mix of nerves and anticipation that has nothing to do with the cars or the track.

Logan slips away from the Andretti garage, his eyes scanning the bustling paddock as he makes his way toward the Williams garage. He’s done his best to stay clear of them ever since re-entering Formula 1, but today is different. Today, he has a reason to be there — a reason that brings a small, almost mischievous smile to his lips.

The Williams garage is a flurry of motion, mechanics and engineers huddled over laptops, surrounded by toolboxes and tires. The sight brings a wave of nostalgia crashing over Logan, but he quickly pushes it aside. He isn’t here for a trip down memory lane.

Spotting Alex Albon near the back, Logan weaves through the chaos, his steps light and easy despite the tension he can feel crawling up his spine. Alex is engrossed in a conversation with his race engineer, but when Logan steps up, he looks up in surprise.

“Logan!” Alex greets, his face splitting into a wide grin. “What are you doing here? Slumming it with the backmarkers?”

“Something like that,” Logan replies, his tone light as he pulls a small, cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. He hands it to Alex, who takes it with a curious tilt of his head. “Figured I should deliver this in person.”

Alex flips the envelope over, his eyes widening slightly as he reads the names printed in elegant script on the front — his and Lily’s. He breaks into a grin, already understanding what it is before he even opens it.

“No way,” Alex says, pulling out the invitation and quickly scanning the details. “You’re really doing it, huh? Getting hitched?”

Logan chuckles, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at the thought. “Yeah, we are. And we’d love for you and Lily to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Alex replies, his grin softening into something more sincere. “Congrats, man. You two are great together.”

Logan nods, grateful for the genuine well-wishes. He’s about to say something else when a flicker of movement catches his eye. Glancing up, he sees James Vowles standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Logan and Alex.

For a brief moment, the past rushes back — the frustration, the disappointment, the sense of being discarded like a broken part. Logan feels a familiar pang of bitterness, but he quickly tamps it down. He isn’t that person anymore. He’s moved on, and he’s got better things — better people — in his life now.

Still, he can’t help himself.

He meets James’ gaze head-on, his smile shifting into something a bit more pointed, more deliberate. “Oh, James?” He says, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the noise of the garage. “Seems like your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail. Real shame.”

James’ eyes narrow slightly, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t respond. The tension between them is almost tangible, thickening the air around them. Logan holds his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugs exaggeratingly before turning his attention back to Alex.

“Anyway, hope to see you there,” Logan says, clapping Alex on the shoulder before stepping back. “Tell Lily we’re looking forward to it.”

“Will do,” Alex replies, still smiling but with a touch of unease as he glances between Logan and James.

Logan doesn’t linger. He turns on his heel and strides back through the garage, the small, satisfied grin still tugging at his lips. He can feel James’ eyes boring into his back, but he doesn’t care. Let him stew, Logan thinks. He’s got more important things on his mind.

As he exits the garage and steps back into the sun-drenched paddock, Logan takes a deep breath, feeling lighter, freer. The thought of the wedding, of you waiting for him back in the Andretti garage, fills him with a sense of contentment that he never thought he’d find in the world of Formula 1.

He spots you before you see him, standing with Mario and a few other Andretti team members, animatedly talking about something. Your laughter rings out over the noise of the paddock, and Logan feels his heart swell with affection.

It’s funny how things work out, he thinks. How life has a way of surprising you, of turning things around when you least expect it. He’s come a long way from that lost, angry kid who thought he’d never get a second chance. And now, here he is, standing on the cusp of a future that’s brighter than anything he could have imagined.

He picks up his pace, eager to get back to you, to tell you about the exchange with Alex and the little jab he couldn’t resist throwing at James. But as he draws closer, you turn and catch sight of him, your face lighting up in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Hey, you,” you call out, stepping away from the group to meet him halfway. “Did you get it done?”

Logan nods, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I did. Alex and Lily are in.”

“And Vowles?” You ask, a knowing glint in your eyes.

Logan chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist as he leans in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s just say … he didn’t make the cut.”

You laugh, the sound pure and full of joy, and it’s the best thing Logan’s heard all day. “Good. You don’t need that kind of negativity at our wedding.”

“No, I don’t,” Logan agrees, feeling a rush of relief that you’re by his side, making even the most awkward encounters bearable. “And anyway, we’ve got more than enough people who actually care about us.”

You nod, your expression softening as you look up at him. “Yeah, we do. And I can’t wait to celebrate with them — with you.”

Logan feels a warmth spread through him, the same warmth he’s felt ever since the day he realized just how much you meant to him. It’s a feeling that never gets old, no matter how many podiums or victories he racks up. Because at the end of the day, it’s moments like this — simple, shared moments with you — that matter the most.

As the two of you head back toward the Andretti garage, Logan can’t help but think about how far he’s come. From the chaos of that first season in Formula 1, the heartbreak of being dropped, to the wild success of his time in IndyCar, and now, back in the sport he loves, with you by his side.

He knows there will be more challenges ahead — there always are in this world. But for now, he’s content to focus on the here and now, on the love he’s found and the life he’s building with you.

And as you walk together through the paddock, the sun casting long shadows on the ground, Logan can’t help but feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Not because of the cars, or the fame, or even the victories, but because of you — because you’re the one thing in his life that makes all the twists and turns worth it.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a wall of sound that crashes against Logan as he stands on top of the podium. His hands grip the trophy tightly, the cold metal grounding him as the reality of it all sinks in. He’s done it. Logan Sargeant, the kid from Florida who almost lost everything, is now the World Drivers’ Champion.

The first American to do so since Mario Andretti himself.

He’s fought hard for this moment, clawed his way back from the brink of obscurity, and now here he is, at the pinnacle of motorsport. The champagne sprays around him, but all Logan can focus on is the sight of you, beaming up at him from the edge of the podium. You’re standing beside Mario, who’s wearing a grin as wide as Logan’s ever seen. You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, hands clasped together, eyes sparkling with a mix of pride and joy.

He barely registers the other drivers beside him, the interviews, or the flashes of cameras. Everything narrows to you and the overwhelming sense of accomplishment swelling in his chest. You’ve been there through it all, from the moment he took that leap of faith into IndyCar, to the sleepless nights before his first season back in Formula 1. Every high and every low has led to this, and you’ve never wavered.

Logan can’t help the way his gaze shifts slightly to the left, where James Vowles stands at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a tightness to his expression, a bitterness that Logan recognizes all too well.

But as much as he’d love to revel in that small victory, he finds that he doesn’t care. Not really. The vindication is sweet, sure, but it pales in comparison to the sight of you and the emotions radiating from you like the warmest of suns.

You notice him looking at you, and you blow him a kiss, laughing when he pretends to catch it, holding it to his chest. There’s no place he’d rather be than right here, right now, with you by his side.

The ceremony starts to wrap up, and as the photographers move in closer for shots, Logan can see Mario nudging you forward. You’re waving your hands at your grandfather, as if to say no, you’re fine where you are, but Mario’s having none of it. The mechanics and team members part to let you through, and Logan watches with an ever-growing smile as you finally make your way up onto the podium.

When you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms without hesitation, lifting you off your feet as the crowd goes wild. He spins you around, feeling the way you cling to him, your laughter ringing out in his ear.

“You did it,” you say when he finally sets you down, your voice thick with emotion.

“No,” Logan corrects, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We did it.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no hiding the way your eyes glisten. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it,” Logan teases, leaning in to press his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I really do.”

The moment is interrupted by Mario clearing his throat, and Logan turns to see him holding a bottle of champagne, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Now, are we celebrating or what?”

Logan laughs, grabbing the bottle and popping the cork, spraying the contents over you and Mario, who both shout in surprise. The rest of the team quickly follows suit, and soon, the podium is a chaotic mess of laughter, champagne, and pure, unfiltered joy.

As the celebrations continue around him, Logan takes a step back, watching the scene unfold. His heart swells with a sense of contentment he’s never felt before. He’s always been driven, always had his eyes set on the next goal, the next race, the next win. But standing here, with you by his side, he realizes that he’s found something even more important than all of that.

He’s found a home.

A family.

And he’s never letting go.

The night carries on in a blur of congratulatory hugs, media obligations, and team celebrations. But as the crowd starts to thin and the energy begins to mellow, Logan finds himself sitting on the edge of the podium, his legs dangling off the side. The cool night air brushes against his skin, the sounds of the city in the distance providing a soft backdrop to the dwindling celebrations.

You find him there, sitting in silence, and without a word, you join him. You lean into his side, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

“It’s still sinking in,” Logan admits after a while. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this feeling.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes filled with warmth. “You’ve earned it, Logan. Every single bit of it. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He nods, resting his chin on top of your head. “It just feels … surreal. Like I’m living in a dream.”

“Well, if this is a dream,” you say, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, “then it’s one I never want to wake up from.”

Logan chuckles softly, his heart swelling with affection. “You and me both.”

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence, watching as the final remnants of the celebration begin to fade. The stadium lights dim, and the night sky takes over, a blanket of stars twinkling above you. It’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, and Logan can’t help but feel grateful for this quiet moment with you.

“I used to think winning was everything,” Logan says after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “That nothing else mattered as long as I crossed the finish line first.”

“And now?” You ask, your tone gentle, inviting him to continue.

“Now I know that it’s not just about the win,” Logan replies, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s about the journey. The people who stand by you, who lift you up when you’re down, who make the victories sweeter and the losses bearable. It’s about finding something worth fighting for, and never letting go of it.”

You smile, your fingers intertwining with his. “Sounds like you’ve learned a lot.”

Logan nods, turning his head to look at you. “I have. And it’s all because of you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Not at all,” Logan says, his voice firm. “You’ve been my rock, my anchor. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

You look at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “Logan …”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t respond with words; instead, you lean in, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a kiss filled with promises, with unspoken words, and with a love that has grown stronger with every challenge, every victory, every moment shared.

When you finally pull away, Logan rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his heart full. “I love you,” he whispers, the words carrying the weight of all he feels.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice just as soft, just as full of emotion.

The world fades away as the two of you sit there, wrapped up in each other. Logan knows that there will be more challenges ahead, more races to win, more obstacles to overcome. But as long as he has you by his side, he knows that he can face anything.

Because, in the end, it’s not just about the racing. It’s about the people who make it all worthwhile.

And for Logan Sargeant, that person is you.

As the night deepens and the city quiets, Logan realizes that this is just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a new journey, with you right beside him. And whatever the future holds, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And with you, he’s already won.

[k0yaz]

https://www.tumblr.com/k0yaz/758473618729615360/arlecchino-x-married-man-reader-please-oh-wait

Pause- this gave me a vision

Good Luck, Babe! by C.R lyric angst fic Arlecchino x Reader 😼

With happy ending tho 🔫

Like Reader married some mf from the male species when her and Arl were younger (18-20) because she was in denial abt her feelings for Arl and married him as a ‘f u, I totally love men’ but even after a few years Arlecchino can still tell she’s MISERABLE

Wait- double the angst and make Reader someone who’s known for being smart, powerful and just super cool in general but her husband is constantly trying to make her be seen as just his wife and never acknowledges any of the amazing things she does ☹️

I told you so.

Pairings: arlecchino x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, modern au, angst, comphet, more than usual swearing, girls kissing bro why is this even a warning it’s obvi, sexism, misogyny, bad husband ewwww, arle’s real name used at the very beginning, mentions of ugly ass guy inappropriately touching without consent ew, arguing, mild violence, fluff at end, not proofread.

A/N: needed to desperately write this my girlkisser ass is in code red rn cause of my parents 💀‼️ ALSO I DONT LIKE HOW THIS CAME OUT IT SUCKS 🕯️

“I don’t! I could never be into girls, Peruere!”

Back flush to the roughened couch, your aching body stretched backwards into a domed arch as your arms flailed out for leverage. Those words you had so foolishly uttered all those years ago echoed over and over in your brain like a broken record, clouding your mind like a plaguing guilt weighing down every waking moment of your life that followed. You let out a defeated sigh, the exhale dragging out longer than it should have to the point where you felt as if your own breath had tickled your lower lip. The small rush of air…it reminded you of when you felt Arlecchino’s breath gently caress the side of your face as her lips hovered over your cheek, her looming frame inching closer and closer to you as you reciprocated.

Everything. Everything reminded you of her.

The crimson lipstick resting atop the bedside table, the intoxicating scent of the perfume she always used to wear—being inhaled so deeply by you to the point where it tickled the tightened crevices of your throat. You’d spray a little on your pillows often as well, the dizzying smell with a hint of fresh roses accompanying the comfort it burned into you, and helping you fall asleep often. After all, sleeping turned into more of a hobby whenever you found yourself sharing a bed with the said “man of your dreams.”

His weight bundled onto the side of the bed situated beside you only sent a pit of sickness bubbling up within you, teeth gritting as you would lay on your side. The silky pillows enveloped your head as your nightgown loosely covered your body, hand slipped below the side of your head as you faced away from your husband. Sleeping with that man was nothing short of a clawing nightmare. Every damn night, you’d uncomfortably writhe within the blankets draped over your shoulders as you silently prayed for him to fall asleep as soon as possible, the wait getting so awful over all these years that you’d always count the digital clock situated atop the bedside table next to your head.

10:01…10:02..10:03..10:04. Finally.

The earliest he’d slept was 10:04. Giving you enough time to get lost in your maelstrom of guilt and ambiguous thoughts piled up within you.

The dotted red glow of the broken numbers displayed on the clock beside you illuminated the corner of your face dimly, eyelids low as you mindlessly gazed at the smooth wood of the table your head almost shifted onto after nearly falling off the pillow. Archons. You fucking miss her. You miss Arlecchino so much it hurts. You wish that you didn’t marry this awful, entitled man child just to prove a point that only consisted of you placing another mask of suffering upon yourself to conceal your truth. A mask that was cracked and easy to see through anyway. His irritating snores continued to buzz along the vicinity of the room, sounding more like a rumbling growl shaking the bed to be frank.

You hated him, to put it simply. You only married him to prove that you couldn’t fall in love with a girl. He was the one that was at the other end of the table with his chin resting on his hand as he gazed at you in a covetous manner, cocky grin pasted onto his vile face. The was the first suitor you thought would accommodate to your delusion.

“(Name) will you marry me?”

Each syllable hung in the air for an extended in a way that made you want to choke, blood rushing to every part of your body to seep into your sunken heart. With a stiff nod, your shaky hand slowly inched forward palm down, veins protruding along the tightened flesh as you fought the urge to hold it back and prevent him from grasping it. Swallowing back a sob, your bottom lip quivered between your teeth as his rugged hand dragged along your skin, tainting it with his unkempt, rough touch. Heads of goosebumps blistered along your hand as the freezing metal circled your ring finger tightly, suffocating your finger between the tight ring like a corset. He didn’t even bother to affirm your size. But you knew full well that she would’ve made sure that ring slipped seamlessly in perfect fit.

The gyrating ceiling fan above you whirled in rapid motions as the cool breeze emitted from it brushed along your skin, all the way up to fluffing your hair. Your eyes remained lifessly tracing the swift afterimages of the fan as you lounged on the couch, not minding your husband’s exasperated complaints piling up one after another with each venomous word he spoke.

“(Name). I told you to make me dinner when I got home from work, so where the hell is it? I’m fucking starving over here you good for nothing whore!”

Your brows furrowed together at his degrading words, face scrunching up with prominent wrinkles of irritation adorning your features. Upper body carefully elevating off the arm of the couch, you brought your palm to your forehead, before pinching the bridge of your nose with a sharp inhale. Silence swallowed the room from your lack of response to his insolent remarks and insults, only cut through by his heavy breathing vibrating against his throat. Clearing your throat finally, you were able to articulate your words in the small window of time you had before he could cut your off once more. Even the mere scratch of clearing your throat felt relieving once he ceased to speak, feeling as if there was a pass way of freedom which released you from the cage of his grasp.

“I’m exhausted. Cook your own dinner, I physically and emotionally can’t do this right now.” You replied coldly, collapsing back down onto the couch into your returned comfort as the fluffy cushions pressed flush against your spine. His face only contorted into anger, slightly reddened like an unstable child rather than a grown man. “You’re my wife. You’re supposed to cook for me! That’s your job not mine!” He bit back, hands folded over his chest and gaze staring daggers into your relaxed form.

Tilting your head over to his upright figure, you simply cocked an eyebrow, staring back at him with heavy lidded eyes as if he was just a mutt ordering you around.

“I’m not only your wife, you know. I’m my own person. I don’t have to cater to everything you want.”

“You know that you’re inferior to me. Ever since we got married that’s how it should’ve been! But no you had to go do your own little thing!”

“Then how should it be? Come on enlighten me.”

Your annoyance began elevating to a boiling point with each little thing he spat at you, every remark of inferiority made you fall further and further into a hole of sorrow and anger as he spoke each revolting “truth” about his twisted views. You couldn’t help but grasp the fabric of the cushion below you forcefully, wrinkling the fabric in every direction with your husband’s endless remarks spilling from his undignified lips.

“And once a woman is married to a man, they become his wife, and his wife only!”

Slamming a hand down onto the couch, you rose to your feet in one quick motion, glaring up at your husband’s wrinkled face of rage. Letting out a quick huff, you only took in the simmer of the broken air conditioner enveloping the silence once more as a means to tranquillize your boiling anger, breathing ragged as your heart rate skyrocketed from everything you bit back through the course of the argument.

“…I’m going to bed.”

“This early? I wanted a night with you (Na-)”

“You’re not fucking getting one.”

You winced slightly, hunching your shoulders as your skin grew hot from discomfort. Closing your eyes, you only braced yourself for the string of unending curses spewing from your husband’s mouth. Simply, you lowered your gaze as everything surrounding you was manually shut out. Mind enveloped in a pitch black void of emptiness, the only noise flicking at your cold ears being the unnerving ticks of a clock.

How much longer would you have to endure this?

The floorboards only sang out a ghastly creaking noise as you set your foot down upon each elevating slab of wood, the faint yet evident noise reminding you of the man below you having his eyes utterly fixated on your every move like a hawk eyeing its next catch. It was nothing short of disturbing and unsettling for you. Slowly, you made your way over to the entrance of your unfortunately shared bedroom, pushing open the heavy door with a fervent shove.

You couldn’t help but finally take in a deep breath as you flopped down onto the bed, body comfortably sinking into the plush of the silk mattress accommodating your exhausted self. Head still continuing to swirl with a wave of unresolved emotions, and a caged feeling confining to gnaw at you endlessly, you reached into your left pocket to whip your phone in front of your face. Rolling over onto your stomach, you thumbed aimlessly through the various contacts rowed out along your glowing screen, scrolling until you found the one you were looking for.

The contact you are calling does not exist.

Shit.

You just stared at Arlecchino’s inactive contact with deadpan, hopeless eyes, blinking twice to process it once more. You truly couldn’t reach her could you? Having lost all hope, you simply set aside your phone as it fell flat onto the wood with a knock, and you rolled yourself onto your back to combat the pure insanity of your fate enveloping you.

“I told you so.”

The already wrinkled bedsheets below you only bundled together further as you swayed onto your back and side alternately, holding the pillow up to your face with a muffled yell. Her words only continued to return to you with every moment you were awake, perhaps even in death your regret wouldn’t cease to eat away at you for locking yourself into this awful pact. Dim slivers of pale light brightened the left half of your face, glowing from the burning lamp on the table as you squinted upon the sudden flood of light blinding you.

The one thing you longed not to hear at this moment was your husband’s footsteps drawing closer and closer to the bedroom, heavily bellowing against the floorboards. Remaining on your side, your arm tightened slightly from the pressure of your torso cushioning it into the mattress, the mattress sinking deep upon your husband making his way beside you on the bed.

“(Name). Turn off that light.” He grumbled. The stinging odor of his excessive cologne only caused you to choke back a retch, gagging from the pungent smell assaulting your nostrils. You merely decided that he wasn’t worth any more trouble, and you remained too exhausted to even snap back at such a childish individual. Slowly, you reached over to clasp the handle of the switch, thumb fitted against the teardrop shaped steel of the end. For a moment you hesitated, gaze flickering behind you for a brief second—only to catch his eyes tracing your every move. In a sudden, burly voice, he cleared his throat to speak to you, tone remaining arrogant around you as if he had authority over you.

“Tomorrow we’re going to some big event with a few rich people here and there, nothing much. Dress nice tomorrow, we leave at 3 pm.”

You scoffed, squinting your eyes back at him while your body remained facing away. Of course. As always he goes and makes decisions for the both of you without even considering your words or plans.

“And you’re telling me this now?” You retorted, cocking an eyebrow while sharp breaths emanated from the man beside you, indicating his loss of patience. Not that he had any to begin with. “I can do what I want, bitch. Try not to embarrass me with your usual displays of arrogance, ‘kay, (Name)? There’s gonna be a couple rich people there.” Rolling your eyes, you only delivered a small nod in response, not wanting anymore trouble especially when you desperately needed some rest. “Yeah.”

Finally, your tugged down onto the cord of the lamp, the pale yellow light dimming and blowing out completely. Your husband was completely knocked out by the time you lowered yourself onto your side, facing away from him. Rumbling snores reverberated throughout the room, ringing in your ears repeatedly as you folded the edges of your pillow over either side of your head in an attempt to block out every noise.

It wasn’t too early in the morning, rather the darkness spread out within the frame of the window accompanied by the low glimmer of light outlining the moon suggested it was sometime in the middle of the night still. Deep quakes of breathing racked the vicinity the moment you took in your surroundings, alerting you awake altogether. Of course. It was him again. Letting out a subtle, quiet groan, you buried your face into your cupped palms, fingertips tracing along the flat of your forehead as you cloaked your face within your hands.

Was this all you were now? Nothing more than his trophy wife just like he wanted?

A light buzz from your phone lit up the device, making its glowing screen noticeable from the corner of your groggy eyes. You leaned over, inspecting the notification you had received so late at night. There was a single gray bar with the calendar icon in a box to the left of it, the lines: “Rich people dinner at 3” displayed along the margins of the bar. Great. Not only does he set notifications on your phone without asking, but he also doesn’t even formally address the dinner. You simply sighed, breath shaky as you constantly found yourself struggling to come to terms with your current reality clawing at you.

—

“(Name) come on! We’re gonna be late and the fancy pricks’ll look at us like we’re broke!”

You scrunched up your upon hearing him calling you like a barbarian, your dress halfway hitched up to make a few adjustments for a good fit. Loud bangs against the door only heightened your brewing annoyance, causing you to manually drown out his calls as another screeching white noise in the background. The silk of the dress tightly fitted your figure, framing every inch of you and hugging each blooming curve of your body. You hunched your shoulder forward, turning to your side to inspect the dress as a smile crossed your face. For once you felt quite confident in yourself rather than sulking about your husbands antics.

It didn’t take long for you to suddenly be snapped out of your daze as the and of the door swung open against the wall, revealing your husband with his arms folded in the doorway. You nearly choked on your own breath, coughing in shock as the sudden thud of wood banging against the wall had startled you, making your body jolt.

“Well, you look like a snack don’t you?” He sneered, causing you to instinctively brush your hands along your elbows as you folded your arms, physically recoiling from his forward advances. You thumbed at the fabric anxiously, sucking in a breath of fearful anticipation with each step he took. That was until his arm grasped at the dip of your waist tightly, fingers digging in as if he wasn’t going to let you go. There wasn’t much you could do besides hold your breath as you felt yourself being pulled against him, perturbation screaming at every single mental alarm, every possible sense you had before yanking away from him to fix the front of your dress.

“Please. Enough. You said we’ll be late, right?”

He only flashed you a grin, taking your hand in his, which you almost immediately yanked away from.

“Yeah. Get in the car. Remember no smartass remarks. And if anyone asks, you’re my wife. Nothing more.”

You averted your gaze at his statement, only walking over to the door of the sleek rental car before climbing into the back seat. No way you were about to get into the passenger seat next to him. Once you seated yourself into the back against the smooth leather, you proceeded to draw in the remaining droops of fabric your dress hung out of the car before shutting the door and leaning back into the head rest.

The ride felt like it was driving past various roads and buildings for hours, each time you gazed out the window to see a tree flash by quickly feeling as if it had been a century since you had first gotten into the car. However, you found yourself lazily parked—courtesy of your husband—before a opulent hall towering above you and lit up brightly despite the sun peeking behind the clouds in the afternoon. Two large doors framed the opening carved around the center, adorned with outlines of black steel, and large knockers stuck on the inner part of the door frame. A lanky man in a suit stood upright beside the parted door, arms tucked behind his back as his eyes scanned each person who made their way in and out of the building hall.

You exited the confines of the car, ducking your head to avoid hitting it along the roof before standing straight and closing the car door behind you. Your husband only shoved your shoulder in response, grasping your wrist as he dragged you along with him with haste before the doors. You didn’t even bother to protest, and flashed the guard a weak smile as your heels dragged along the rolled out carpet leading into the hall. Just get this over with. You’ll be fine.

He finally released your hand carelessly, not paying any mind to you while you shook your wrist and blew on it to subside the effects of his tight grasp. The chandelier decorated with candles rocked back and forth above your head, while various bars and tables stocked with food and drinks furnished every corner of the hall. Along with that, a large screen flashed at the very front of the hall blared loudly along with the speakers situated on both sides of the screen.

—

The entire event had been nothing but a bore. Rich man after rich man bragging about his company which he knew nothing about. The people who came up to you and your husband when you both were standing by each other attempting to converse with the two of you, and inquire more about you, were only met with your husband’s constant boasts about how you were merely his wife. Your achievements were his too, and therefore he was the one credited. This only led up to you isolating from him, and practically everyone at the party, drowning your sorrows away in glass after glass of champagne. Thankfully, your high alcohol tolerance allowed you to remain appearing sober, only needing to tighten your hand around the table for support occasionally.

Heavy lidded, you brought another glass to your lips as you tilted your head back in one jerk, gulping down the alcoholic beverage and squeezing your eyes shut. You let out a quiet hum as you set down the glass on the table behind you, dragging along the table cover as you examined the vicinity through droopy eyes. The same. Everyone was just wearing suits and that god awful smug expression. You simply rubbed your forehead, stress lines forming along your skin as your massaged it.

That was until a dashing figure caught your eye. Someone familiar.

You squinted your eyes once more, catching a single streak of black hair blended into white, a thin ponytail trailing down her nape to the back of her white suit. At this point, you were sure the drinks had definitely done something to you. You just missed her so much you were going insane and hallucinating like a typical drunkard. Yet, you couldn’t mistake that piercing gaze—near glowing red crosses embedded into her pitch black pupils within heavy eyes.

Despite still being drunk, you shouldered through the crowd, halting upon reaching the circle of people crowding the alluring woman who held a glass of wine between her sharp, black faded fingertips. Her crimson lipstick glistened as a hint of wine smeared across it, expression remaining indifferent to the heaps of people surrounding her while she leaned onto the table. You couldn’t believe your eyes. It really was her.

Arlecchino. Where have you been this whole time?

Steep breaths caught in your throat, you pushed past the crowd, stumbling occasionally and not minding their complaints. You wanted to do so much. Cry, hug her, apologize, run away from your caged marriage, talk to her, catch up—everything. She simply turned her back to the crowd before you could even reach a viable proximity near her, stepping away to a more secluded location. Your heart sank as you began to lose sight of her, gaze fixated on her white suit with the emblem in the center of her chest as you continued to keep your eyes on her in the crowd no matter what.

You paved through each bundle of people blocking your path, staggering occasionally due to your own drunkenness as you finally caught sight of Arlecchino leaned against a polished wall near a table, eyes fluttered shut as she sipped her refined glass of red wine. Breathing heavily, you staggered over to her, resting yourself at her side before slowly trailing your sights up to her face with bleary eyes and a near pleading expression.

“Arle..?”

She only cocked an eyebrow in response, staring down at you with a cold gaze lacking recognition. “Do I know you?”

Hurt burned in your throat as you fought not to cry upon hearing those words from Arlecchino’s lips, your own bottom lip being dragged between your teeth to prevent making its fervent trembling noticeable.

“Arle, it’s me, please.” You choked out, placing a hand on your chest while panting heavily as you locked eyes with hers. “It’s me, (Name)..” you mumbled under your breath in a shaky voice, tears threatening to sting the corner of your eyes at any given moment. Arlecchino suddenly set down her glass, coming face to face with you before her own eyes widened at your familiar features.

“Ah. It really is you isn’t it?”

Although her tone remained calm and collected, it wasn’t hard to tell how her voice softened for you, growing sweet like nectar dripping from her crimson lips. You nearly sobbed upon feeling her hand gently brush along your cheek, your own hand resting atop hers as you leaned into her touch, trembling. You could barely articulate what you wanted to say, each word coming in short breaths as droplets of tears pricked at your eyes subtly.

“My darling. You haven’t changed much. Still as beautiful as the day I met you…” her thumb circled the skin of your cheek, eyes roaming down to the same crimson lipstick she used decorating your own lips. “…and the day you departed from me.”

“Arle- I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you then! I can’t live like this any longer! I can’t! I knew it was you ever since I didn’t listen to what my feelings told me! Please! I love you, Peruere!” You gasped out desperately in one breath in a near sob, clinging onto Arlecchino like a lifeline as you grasped at the fabric of her coat. She only let out a soft hum, resting her chin onto your head as she took in your scent. You were wearing her perfume. Soothingly, her fingertips traced a repetitive pattern of comforting circles along your back, something she always did when you both were in your youth to calm you down.

“(Name). I’ve never once lost my feelings for you. I love you. And you only. I’m just, pleased that I get to see you again.” She sighed, burying her nose into your soft tufts of hair at the top of your head as she hugged you. She hemmed her arms around your vulnerable form holding her tightly, almost like a promise to never let you go again, to protect you from any harm that dared cross your path. Wiping your eyes, you cleared your throat as you pulled away from your moment of weakness, standing straight before Arlecchino as your palms nervously clasped together in front of you.

“Tell me, how awful is he to the point where he broke you like this..?”

“Terrible. Straight from hell if I could say. I’m stuck. I’m so fucking stuck you don’t even know.”

“I see.”

She paused, proceeding to say her next words.

“Would you reprimand me if I said once more that I told you so?”

You shook your head, contrasting the initial reaction you had when you first lashed out at her all those years ago.

“Nope. I’d affirm that you were right. I shouldn’t have complied with what society wants if it means I have to suffer.” You replied, gritting your teeth together as you looked away in shame. Arlecchino only placed a hand on your shoulder, running her arm down the curve of your shoulder as her sleek hands traveled down the flushed skin of your arm. “You would always get warm like this when I touched you.” She reminisced, letting out an exhale of contentment.

All of a sudden, the comfort of the moment was shattered by your husband’s voice, slicing through the tranquility harbored between you and her mere moments ago.

“Ah! (Name)! Who’s this? A friend?”

He eagerly shook her hand, while Arlecchino’s gaze grew resentful and repulsed of the man before her, her own hand clasped around his with every ounce of hatred she possessed. Brows furrowing, she immediately pulled her hand back, manner remaining distinctive, yet subtly aggressive.

“Ah, you may talk to me now in fact. This woman is my wife! And she’s just my wife don’t worry about it. Anything she told you is my achiev-“

“Shut your fucking mouth. Before I shut it for you—nauseating son of a bitch.” She replied harshly, eyes locked on him with nothing but murderous intent.

“Don’t speak to me that way you slut-!”

He was cut off by Arlecchino’s firm grasp on his wrist, nails digging into his flesh barely. Although—her mere strength alone was enough to nearly shatter his wrist, making him cry out for mercy and forgiveness from the woman looking down upon him. Fear clouded his eyes for the first time you had ever seen as Arlecchino looked him in the eye, his pupils shaking from anticipation and fear. “Refrain from speaking about her like that, or treating her poorly. If I find out about your disgusting antics again I’ll personally tear you apart limb by limb, understood?”

Before he could respond, she tossed him aside like a ragdoll as he gripped his arm in agony lip quivering at the searing pain ripping at the aftermath of his wrist. In the meantime, you felt Arlecchino’s lips brush against your ear, staining the shell a light blood red color as she whispered softly.

“May I?”

You smiled genuinely for the first time in years, nodding as you felt her warm breath caress the side of your face once more. God, you missed that feeling. Her arm circled the wide ends of your waist, pulling you tightly against her as she held you close under her watchful eye. It was simple. She’d never leave you again.

—

“Peruere..since when did you even get such a nice modern home like this? I’d die to live here.”

She breathed out a quiet laugh, tidying up an area quickly with her back turned to you as she stood in her nightly wear. “No need. You will be living here if you’d like, darling.” She glanced over her shoulder at your form splayed out on the mattress, comfortably hugging the pillow to your chest. It was evident that you’d never felt this safe or happy in quite some time. She put down the cup she was rearranging near an odd table in her room, seating herself on the bed as she motioned you to come closer. A light chuckle escaped her lips as you complied, shifting close into her arms comfortably as you basked in her warmth.

“What about my husband?”

“What about him?”

“Well- I am still married to him. I’m legally still stuck.”

Laying back, Arlecchino just exhaled in response, threading her slender fingers through your hair.

“I will get you out. Trust me. For now, just rest how I wanted us to. You have a lot of love you missed out on, and I’m here to help us catch up on that.”

You sighed peacefully against her at those words, curling up at her side as you nuzzled into her. For the first time, you could sleep peacefully with a weight beside you. This was all you had wanted. Safely enveloped in Arlecchino’s embrace, being able to bask in tranquility and solace with the woman you loved as you sought an escape from the cruel torment of your husband.

Perhaps it all worked out in the end.

No.

It did work out in the end, as you slumbered in your beloved’s arms.

A/N: HOLY SHIET THERES SO MUCH I WANNA SAY

first of all tysm for 1k followers I genuinely appreciate all the support and I hope my writing has improved over the course of the past year and a half or so!

Second guess who’s alive again yay but writing is a little rusty

Third I am in fact going thru a little internal struggle atm so if my works are a bit late or kinda ass bear with me please 😭‼️

Other than that ily all I love how the second half of this turned out and yeah 🕯️

I’m kinda cold ngl

[noramoons]

nothing compares to you.

pairing: song mingi x fem reader (afab)

genre: smut, fluff, non-idol!au, established relationship

rating: mature/18+ (minors DNI).

word count: 3.2k

warnings: explicit smut [fingering, slight somnophilia?, praise, unprotected sex, wet dreams], language

summary: you’re relieved when you wake up from a nightmare—especially once you realize mingi has been having a much, much different kind of dream than you.

You're falling.

You'd been climbing up this steep, rocky cliff for as long as you can remember, jagged rocks digging into your palms and dirt making its way underneath your fingernails as you ascend, paying for each brutal inch upwards with your own sweat and tears—but you're exhausted. You've gone too far, for too long. And you've slipped. You're falling.

You don't even remember how you'd gotten up to the edge of that cliff in the first place, where you'd been going or where you'd come from, but you're certainly careening off of it now, accelerating with the wind in your hair as you plummet towards the water at the bottom of the cliff face, unable to shut your eyes even as you brace yourself for the impact—

You blink, eyes adjusting to the darkness of your bedroom. A dream—it was just a dream. A nightmare, more likely, but still nothing more, even as your heartbeat continues to pound in your chest as the adrenaline wears off.

You're brought further back to reality when you feel the weight draped across your stomach—Mingi. His arm, to be more precise, slung across you but still holding you as close to his chest, to him, as possible, even as he sleeps.

You smile a little at the thought, taking even breaths to calm yourself down from the nightmare. You try to match your breathing to the soft snores of the man behind you, breathing in as deep as you can through your nose before exhaling out of your mouth, finally feeling that fear and tension begin to fade from your body.

"Mmmph," Mingi suddenly whispers, and you turn your head across the pillow to face him—but you're surprised to see his eyes still squeezed shut. He's still asleep. But you can see that his eyebrows are furrowed, even in the dark, as if he's concentrating on something as he sleeps.

The next time he speaks, you understand his words much more clearly.

"Y/N," you hear him say, a frown suddenly tugging the corners of his lips down, and you find yourself frowning at him too. Mingi might be having a bad dream just like you had been—so you start to turn further to your side in an attempt to wake him up, but he only holds you tighter against him, fingers wrapped around the fabric of the front of your shirt.

"Y/N," he says again, this time directly in your ear—and this time the tone of it sounds much more familiar. Desperate, almost.

You start to suspect that he isn't having a bad dream at all. And your suspicions are confirmed when you feel him roll his hips against you, gasping into your ear as he does so.

Oh.

His fingers dig tighter into the material of your shirt, holding you impossibly closer to him still. Your eyes widen when you hear him groan your name again, still fully and wholly asleep. "Please," you think you hear him add.

His hips rock against you once more, and there's no doubt at all in your mind as to the contents of his dream once you feel the hardness against your ass. You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep the sharp inhale that leaves your throat as quiet as possible.

The torture continues for what feels like an eternity—Mingi practically moaning into your ear, gasping out words you occasionally understand while his grip across your body keeps you from moving. You can only take so much, though, and it's not long before a real groan escapes you too at the panting you hear behind you.

The moment you'd been trapped in shatters immediately, however—the instant you make a noise, Mingi stirs.

"Y/N?" he mumbles, sounding much more like he usually does in the morning and not at all like what you'd just heard against the shell of your ear for the past several minutes. "What time is it?"

You shake your head, trying to compose yourself as you turn your entire body now to face him. "I'm not sure," you say.

Mingi frowns. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry."

You wave his words away, biting back the grin that threatens to tug at your lips. "What were you dreaming about?" you ask, as innocently as possible.

Mingi, however, doesn't hesitate. "You," he answers.

The boldness makes your cheeks flush, and you see him grin when he notices. But you press him further. "What about me?"

"We were in a house—ours, I think. Just us."

"Just us, huh?" you repeat, grinning a little at the thought. You don't mind Mingi's housemates at all—they've all been nothing but exceptionally nice to you since you've met them, and from what you can tell, they keep the apartment fairly clean. But the thought of a home with Mingi, with just the two of you, is still something out of a dream.

He nods. "It was early morning. I could see the sun in the kitchen windows—you were in there with me, making coffee for the two of us."

You're amazed that he's kept up the pretense for so long. "And?" you ask, poking him in the side as you press him for further details.

Mingi laughs softly at you, wrapping one hand around your wrist to stop your incessant jabs. "And I bent you over the counter."

Oh. Fuck, that was hot—Mingi's not always one for dirty talk, so to hear him state so casually what he'd done to you in his dream sends heat blooming between your legs.

Your reaction isn't lost on him, either—his grin widens when he sees the way yours suddenly falls. "Were you dreaming about anything?"

You let out a laugh. "I was falling off a cliff, I think. Nothing nearly as fun as yours," you add with a wink.

But Mingi frowns. "A cliff?" He pulls you closer to him, as if to reassure the both of you that you're not doing anything of the sort. "I'm sorry, love. I wish we could have switched dreams."

You make a face at that. "I don't. I'm rather glad you woke me up that way, actually."

His eyes widen. "Oh. Shit. I woke you up...like that?" Funny, how much shyer conscious-Mingi can be than his sleeping self.

But you just shrug. "If you really want to make it up to me, you can touch me," you ask, as sweetly as you can. "Dream-you may have been fucking me over a counter, but real-you just teased me for what I think was the greater half of ten minutes."

Mingi laughs. "Alright, alright," he says. "I'd could never leave you hanging like that. I'll get right to work." He winks before leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek, then your jaw, your chin, before he finally lands against yours, kissing you gently while one of his hands skims down to the waistband of the shorts you've slept in. He dips lower, circling your clit with his thumb before his long index finger swipes over your entrance—and he breaks the kiss, smirking once he feels how wet you already are.

"Needy, hmm?" he asks, warm breath dancing along your jawline as he works his fingers against you. "Near-death-experience dreams got you all worked up?"

You try to let out a scoff, but it turns into a choked out moan when he finally pushes a long, slender finger inside of you. "More like you moaning in my ear for ten minutes—nghh, fuck, Mingi," you sigh, his name spilling from your lips as he pushes another finger deeper in you, rubbing against your slick walls.

He doesn't say anything in response this time, but you can practically feel the cheeky grin above you as he continues his ministrations, pushing in and out of you at an increasingly teasing pace, going from a gradual build to wrenchingly slow—and you aren't sure how much more of it you can take when he curls a finger up against you, exactly where he knows how to get a reaction.

"Shit," you say, feeling that all-too familiar flame burning its way through your chest. "Mingi. I need you."

He doesn't stop, but he slows the pulse of his fingers rubbing against you. "You have me," he says, feigning confusion. You know he knows what you want. You also know that he just wants to hear you say it.

And you think you've had enough teasing for one night—so you don't hesitate to groan out, "Fuck me. Please."

It's dark in your shared bedroom, but your eyes have adjusted enough that you can practically see Mingi's eyes dilate at your words. "So polite," he says, brushing a kiss to the bottom of your chin. "How could I ever say no to that?" His lips glide over yours once again, greedily trying to consume as much of you as he can as he yanks your shorts down to your knees before tugging his own underwear off (and partially to distract you from the stretch of him pushing his length between your legs as it replaces his fingers).

You still moan out against his lips, breath heavy against his when he bottoms out, hips resting against yours. Mingi smirks. "Always sound so pretty for me."

You, however, feel a twinge of embarrassment the minute the sound leaves your mouth—but its not due to either of you. "Your housemates heard us last time, you know," you remind him, cheeks burning at the memory of the text you'd received from Wooyoung, who sleeps in the room beside Mingi's, asking you to please let him have at least one night this week where he wouldn't be awakened by the two of you.

His cheeks redden too, but he shakes his head at you, smirking all the while. "You'll just have to be quiet, then," he whispers.

That causes a smirk of your own to tug at your lips. "I'm not worried about me being loud."

And that, of course, Mingi takes as a challenge. It's half an instant after he realizes your words that he grabs hold of your waist with one hand to steady himself as he starts to roll his hips into you, easing himself at an achingly slow pace.

"Feel so good," you hear him gasp into your ear—quieter than usual, but the words alone are enough to send a shiver of lust through your veins. "So damn tight."

You're practically biting your tongue to the bottom of your mouth to keep your groans from escaping. He knows exactly what you want to feel. What you want to hear.

Damn him.

You link your arms around his neck before pulling him down into a bruising kiss, swallowing his moans and yours in a clash of tongues and teeth while Mingi continues rocking in and out of you with careful, almost teasing thrusts, and it's not long before you feel that initial spark of pleasure in your veins melt into something more—an overwhelming feeling of pleasure and warmth growing from between your legs that moves up, lust working its way through your every fiber until all you can think about is this want—this need—and how badly you want him to move faster.

So you concede. For now. "Mingi," you gasp, fingers curling in his hair and scraping against the back of his scalp. "Need you."

You don't miss the way his breath hitches as you tighten your hands in his hair. "You need me? To do what?" he asks, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance, truly, as he tilts his head to the side in confusion, all while still rolling his cock in and out of you at an achingly slow pace.

"Faster, Mingi," you cry out, planting your metaphorical white flag in the sand. "Please. You said you'd fuck me." You nearly pout as the words leave your lips.

He grins from above you—that toothy grin that makes you feel the same warmth you'd get from a fireplace on a snowy day, all safe and protected and loved. The sudden spread of affection in your chest at the sight almost makes your heart skip a beat—almost as much as the sudden kiss Mingi presses to your lips. It's not at all like the ones before; rather, the pressure of his lips against yours is nearly chaste, delicate—as if he was afraid you might break against him.

When he pulls away, you see that that loving grin has melted into something else altogether—something much more familiar to see on your back like this. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes," you plead, nearly in tears. "Please—"

But you don't have to say anything else before he finally, finally takes you at the pace the two of you both want. God—when he'd been gasping in your ear half-asleep earlier, you hadn't ever thought you'd get this far. Maybe a heated kiss with both of your hands down the other's pants—which wouldn't exactly be a new situation for either of you on a morning that you both have off from work. But it's rare for both of you to both want each other this badly right after waking up.

You can analyze the moment later, you suppose—when Mingi isn't grabbing the backs of your knees to fold your legs and push them further up your chest, thrusting into you deeper and without mercy, like he is now, pounding into you harder and making you see stars with each cry that leaves your lips.

He's won, you think—no doubt about it. And he knows it, too, if the unrelenting nature of his soft groans against your shoulder contrasted with the bruising grip he's leaving on your thighs is any indication. "So goddamn pretty," he says, groaning your name when he feels you tighten around him at his words. "Love having you like this, all for me—fuck, Y/N—"

"Shit," you gasp, feeling yourself rapidly approaching the edge. "Mingi—fuck, I'm close," you warn him, as if he couldn't already tell.

Mingi moans with you at those words. "Come with me, then," he murmurs against your skin, practically pleading. "Please—wanna feel you fall apart with me."

He skims a hand down your stomach, lightly, gingerly—as if you're something delicate, something precious to be treasured—before working a long, calloused finger against your clit, moving in small, slick circles before the knot below your stomach finally snaps and you come, hard, with a cry of Mingi's name and your fingers leaving marks on his shoulders.

He isn't far behind you, leaning down to sink his teeth into the flesh of your shoulder to silence his moans, snapping his hips against yours two, three, four more times before he stills within you, painting the insides of your walls white as both of you cry out again—calling out each other’s names in a moment of completely euphoric harmony.

It’s quiet for a moment—one singular, solitary moment as the two of you catch your breath, before Mingi’s pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your hair before slowly pulling out of you, rolling out of the bed only to return seconds later with a warm washcloth.

He lavishes affection on you as he gently cleans you up—like he always does. “Thank you,” he says, kissing the side of your knee tenderly. Longingly. “I love you.”

Your chest swells, and you quickly grab at his shoulders to bring his face back up to yours, kissing him as gently as you can. “I love you too,” you breathe against his lips.

He beams at you, and you’re suddenly reminded of how the two of you ended up in this situation, fully awake in the dead of night, in the first place. “So?" you ask, fixing your gaze on him as you try (and fail) to keep a serious expression. "How'd that compare to your dream?"

Mingi lets out a laugh almost immediately at the very notion, wrapping an arm over your side as he rolls over with you, bringing you back to his chest in an embrace before pulling away enough to lock eyes with you.

"Nothing compares to you," he says quietly, and the sudden seriousness in his tone makes you still for a moment. At least, it does—until he opens his mouth again. "You're just the real deal, you know," he adds, punctuating the end of his sentence with an over-exaggerated wink and a soft kiss to your forehead. Cheesy enough to eat.

You roll your eyes, shoving him lightly (but not moving your hand away from his chest afterwards). "That's a relief, then," you quip, and Mingi hums in agreement, pressing you closer to his chest again. It's a comfortable silence that the two of you sit in after that—fully aware of the other's breathing finally returning back to normal, feeling Mingi's heartbeat against your cheek as he keeps you close.

That's why it almost feels like a shame when you break that silence only a moment later. "You know, I...I don't think it was all unrealistic. Your dream, that is," you clarify, looking up at Mingi from your position curled up beside him.

He tilts his chin down to look at you. "What do you mean?"

You shrug. "I think I can see us like that too. What you were describing—the two of us in our own place. Maybe somewhere out in the country where it would be quiet and calm, or an apartment in the city where we could walk to everything. I don't...I don't think it would matter where it was, really, as long as you were there too."

The words spill out before you can stop them—there's something about what you feel with Mingi now that leaves you an affectionate mess. The magic of the afterglow, you suppose. Then again—he always makes you feel this way, doesn’t he? Supported, and encouraged, and loved? It’s nothing out of the ordinary around Mingi—and that makes you want to make that dream a reality even more with him.

Besides—he clearly doesn't see you as a mess, despite how you may feel. Mingi doesn't even give you a chance to feel embarrassed at your sudden words before he's swooping down and pressing a kiss against your lips, gentle and loving as he cradles your cheek in one hand. When he pulls away, you see it again—that endearing, warm grin that he wears from ear to ear that makes you feel like you've achieved an award by causing it to appear on his face. That beautiful expression, that you caused. "I'd like that too," he says. "All of it. Especially the ending of that dream," he adds, and you laugh with him. Unbelievable. You've just slept together.

"I'll make it happen," he says, suddenly. "We both will. I believe in us, you know?"

You do know. Because you believe in him too.

You fall asleep wrapped in his arms, content with your chin nestled against his shoulder and his even breathing against your skin. So content that you don't even hear the buzz of your phone on the nightstand beside you, a notification you won't even see until the morning.

J.W

> you two owe me earplugs.

a/n: hi besties🧍long time no fic! it’s been an. interesting several months for me LMAO but i think ive finally plowed through some writers block with this fic! it’s nice to work on a oneshot every once in a while instead a bigger dedicated series, so i hope you enjoyed this little steamy mingi oneshot. i do have several more works for ateez on the way—both oneshots and a longer series—so i hope y’all will look forward to those too if you enjoyed this!

i also hope everyone is having a safe and happy holiday season so far! feedback is always welcome through reblogs, comments, and messages 💛 thank you sm for reading!

taglist: @petrichor-han @kangroo-chan @ot7lonelylover @lilacdreams-00 @mainexiii @awkwardnesshabitat @lotus-dly @elizabeth11moreno @nerdysl-t @luv-quinn

©️ noramoons 2021-2022. do not translate or reupload my writing.

[kometqh]

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂..

Captain Rex x F!Reader x Fives

Pt. 2 Every night, without fail, you wake up crying, heaving as you realise the monsters of your nightmares have been long left behind on the battlefields you fought on alongside your beloved Clone Troopers, the 501st Legion. Every night, without fail, you note down all your thoughts and feelings onto paper, into your beloved Diary that your Jedi Master has given to you as a gift. What happens when the Captain and Trooper of the 501st get their hands on your prized possession? Word Count: 2845 Warnings: Very much unedited, most definitely not lore-accurate as I have just begun to watch Clone Wars. A/N: A spur-of-the-moment kind of fic, it will be a two parter story :) It does say Female reader as that is what I had in mind, however there are no pronouns or descriptions used that allude to the reader being female!

Your body shot straight up, sweat rolling down the side of your temple, shoulders heaving up and down rapidly through heavy breaths. You wearily scanned the area, the room you found yourself in, your bedroom, hidden under a blanketed darkness. You could vaguely make out the different shapes of objects in your room; the steel wardrobe, the desk seated in a faraway corner, the tall frame of the door. The small line of light that peaked through provided some comfort, some more visibly.

A shaky hand reached for the night light beside your temporary bed - a silver steel, upright lamp that provided a bright, white light. It didn't provide much comfort as hard white light flooded the room, but it was enough to convince you that the terrors in your dreams weren't physically present in your waking days. 

Heaving a slow, heavy sigh, you slid back down into the pale comfort of your sheets, hugging a pillow to your body. 

As you laid there, light still on, eyes shut, you were engulfed in the sound of deafening silence. You could almost hear the light buzzing of the mechanical structures of the ship, ringing in your ears. 

You sighed again, turning your body to face the door. The light from the outside tickled at your eyelids, forcing them to flutter open. With a groan, you shoved your nose deeper into the soft material of your pillow, beginning to count down, hoping that, the mental image of numerous General's jumping up and down like innocent sheep, would lull you back to sleep soon enough.

Mini Skywalker's, Plo Koon's and Obi Wan Kenobi's cluttered your mind, hopping over a tall fence as you silently counted, 'One.. Two.. Three' and so on. It was definitely interesting image to think of, but in the meantime, it did little to stop your body from tossing and turning, heaving and sighing, twisting in your sheets.

With another, heavy sigh, you reached into your bedside draw, pulling out a small notebook and pen. You flipped it to the most recent page, jotting down the date and time, a small curse leaving your lips as you noticed the time; 01:25. 

You were going to become a zombie at this rate.

Nethertheless, you began spilling words onto the page, the crease between your brows easing as time passed, the fast pace of your heartbeat steadying with each word that slipped past the boundaries of your mind.

By the time sleep had finally pulled you into it's clutches, your mind could tell the ship was leaving hyperspace, and approaching a new atmosphere, your diary and pen abandoned at your side, left open on the most recent page yet again.

You awoke when the ship had landed; merely five hours later. The metal hit the ground with a thud, successfully forcing your eyes open. You laid there for a long while, ears twitching as you listened to the distant sounds of clone troopers wandering the hallways, accompanied by loud chatter and laughter. 

Those moments, those peaceful moments, where your men could take a moment to relax and unravel were your favourite. You fought hard to keep every single one alive, the guilt chipping away at your sturdy resolve, discipline and beliefs in the Jedi rules. 

You had broken one of the most important rules from the very beginning; it was forbidden to form attachments. How could you abide by such a cruel rule, when you were stationed with the same men for the last three years, getting to know them, living with them, laughing and sharing meals? To you, such a rule shouldn't exist. You could tell many other Jedi also disagreed with it - Anakin Skywalker being one amongst many. Even Obi Wan Kenobi, whose rebellious personality did very little to hide his affections for a certain Mandalorian Senator..

Taking in a deep breath, you slowly opened your eyes, looking around the room. 

A warm glow peaked through the tightly shut curtains, warming your skin in a gentle embrace. Even though your eyes burned with exhaustion, you had willed yourself to get up. It was already 07:00, your men were definitely up and ready for their mission briefing. 

Though they'd have to wait a little longer, you supposed.

This was meant to be an easy, diplomatic mission centred around a Neutral planet. You and your troops, the 501st, would be ensuring the citizens' safety, and potentially discussing joining the Democratic Republic. 

After spending some time getting ready, you left your quarters, silently stalking through the hallways, a distant rumble of the canteen ringing in your ears. The closer you got, the more shouts and lively conversations you could hear. 

All of those men shared the same exact voice, but the small differences in speech patterns, accents, tone and volume, were enough for you to be able to distinguish between your squadron without even seeing any of their faces.

Tugging your robes closer to your body, you entered the canteen, heading straight for the food buffet. It was going to be a simple mission - grab some toast, some water, and escape before anyone could notice you. 

And simple it would of been, if it wasn't for a certain Captain's sharp eyes and enhanced instincts; as if an alarm went off in his head anytime you appeared within his vicinity. 

In no time, you felt his warm breath fan over the back of your neck, his chest close enough for you to feel the coolness radiating off his body armour.

"Good morning, Captain." You spoke softly, a hint of tiredness still laced within your voice as you blinked slowly, placing a piece of toast on your tray.

"G'morning General," His voice came out a rolling, warm rumble, directly by your ear as Rex leaned over you, "What are you having for breakfast?" He asked, his honey-brown eyes scanning over your food tray. 

"Nuffin special, Captain, just a plain toast and water, how 'bout you?" You asked, moving away from the queue and to an empty table. You looked to Rex, noticing the corners of his lips tugging upwards, the sight warming your closed-off heart. You desperately wanted to cradle the side of his face in your palm, to soothe over the lines that wedged themselves between his eyebrows, noticing his exhaustion still showing even after a decent night's sleep.

"I've already had my breakfast with Fives and Echo, woke up quite early actually." He spoke softly, a chuckle escaping his lips as his palm rested on the small of your back, leading you to your seat.

Confusion took over your body as you sat down, bringing the toast up to your lips, taking a bite. "So, why are you here then, Captain?" You asked through a mouthful, eyeing him up and down, confusion clear as day across your face. 

At that, his face hardened into one he wore often during meetings and battles, an uncertain heaviness clouding his eyes. His fists clenched atop his lap, his lips pulling into a thin line. He wished to discuss the mission with you; hoping to lessen the number of men needed. Though he wasn't sure how willing you'd be to give your men a small vacation, he still wanted to attempt to provide his brothers with some respite. 

What kind of Captain would he be if he didn't consider his soldiers' health?

"Actually- I wanted to discuss the mission with you, General," He paused, breaking eye contact as his gaze dropped to his lap, then scaled back up to focus on the ice-blue, steel table separating the two of you, "I was thinking-"

"Thinking too much isn't good for you Rex, you've got enough lines on your forehead already." You joked, interrupting the clearly tense Captain. As you eyed him up and down with a soft smile, his shoulders visibly relaxed, the thin line his lips had become turning into the softest of smiles, his cheeks puffing up into marshmallows over the stretch. 

"W-Well, I was wondering if you could allow my men to take this time to rest." He stated, his voice dropping to a low rumble as he eyed you from underneath a curtain of lashes. He was using his best puppy eyes, knowing very well what effect those had on you.

You blinked once, then twice, your eyes widening owlishly as you stared at Rex.

Was he.. Trying to woo you?

You sat just the smallest bit straighter, your shoulders stiffening as you begged the Maker for Rex to not pick up on the sudden stiffiness that clutched onto your body with a steel grip.

Why was he making things so much harder for you?

"R-Rex.. I'm not sure I-" You started, your stomach dropping as he released a defeated sigh.

"I know General, I know.. It's just that, after the last mission, we're all still quite exhausted." He spoke, his gaze unwavering as he leaned closer to you, his scent invading your nostrils. He smelled of the Canteen's breakfast, a faint scent of aftershave lingering over him. Had he shaved already? You never got to see more than a hint of stubble on his jaw and chin, before it was gone with the wind; like it never even existed.

That's why you were grateful for Fives; that man's goatee could never disappoint. You were sure a beard of some sorts would suit Rex so well - it wasn't too difficult to imagine with his brother around, serving as an example. 

What would it feel like to feel the short hairs underneath your fingers? To feel the smooth skin of his cheek under your palm? The soft plushness of his lips against yours-

"General?" He interrupted your fleeting thoughts, a glint of hope shining in his eyes as you shook your head lightly. 

It was the defeated, gentle sigh that gave you away. 

If it were anyone else, Rex would never dare to ask such a question. But with you- with you, his men felt most comfortable, most safe. They respected you, and could feel you returning that respect every time you'd prioritise their lives over yours, telling them to retreat, to find cover as you had a handle on every situation, on every battle. You never abandoned them.

"Fine.. But I'll need at least one of you to accompany me." You paused, quirking a brow at the Captain, conveying your seriousness in just one look. "And I'll need the men to be on guard, okay? We can't risk being caught off guard if anything were to happen." You finally finished, your toast long forgotten, cooling down in the chilled canteen, as Rex graced you with the gentlest of smiles, his gaze softening the longer he listened to you.

He knew he could count on you, and he would prove to you that this wasn't a mistake. That it wouldn't be. 

Clearing his throat, Rex stood up from his seat, rounding the table to you. 

"Thank you General, I can assure you that the squadron will be ready for any and every circumstance, and I will personally escort you to the meetings. You have my word." He spoke, reaching his hand out for yours. Confusedly, you extended your hand into his grasp, a hint of pink dusting your cheeks as he pressed a swift kiss to your knuckles.

"R-Re- Uhm, Captain," You stuttered and paused, clearing your throat as you prayed for the blush to go away, "There is no need to thank me." You insisted, slowly getting up from your seat. His gaze followed you, tracing over your body with an unknown emotion hiding behind his thick lashes.

"Thank you General, now if you'll excuse me, I'll go inform the others that haven't heard." He stated, bidding you a goodbye, cheers following soon after as Rex lifted a hand, signing a thumbs up to some of his men behind you. Your gaze followed his form as you watched him exit the canteen, his head turning to look back at you one last time before the doors slid shut behind him. 

"What the hell was that.." You whispered, continuing your breakfast as your thoughts ran at tens of miles an hour, a blush permanently settled on your cheeks.

-

"Captain, are you sure this is a good idea?" Fives asked as he adjusted his helmet, following Rex as they made their way to your quarters.

"Yes yes, I'm sure. She should be in here anyway." Rex stated, waving his brother's concerns off as they rounded the corner, your bedroom doors coming into sight. "Besides, she said we should meet her at her quarters before we depart." He insisted, coming to a stop by your doors.

Raising his fisted hand, Rex knocked on your doors three times before backing away, waiting for a response. 

As a moment turned into a minute, and a minute turned into three, Rex knocked again, this time calling out your title. "General? Are you in there?" He asked, his voice raised in uncertainty. When he received no reply once again, he shook his head.

"I don't think she's in there." He turned to Fives, feet ready to start moving again as his brain racked over any other locations on the ship that you frequented. Fives looked at Rex, quirking a curious brow at him, though his helmet covered any and all expressions he shot in his brother's way.

"Maybe we should go in? Who knows, maybe the General got herself stuck in the refresher." He quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips as Fives made his way over to your door. Pressing a button, the doors swiftly opened before him. 

Walking over to the doors of your refresher, Rex followed after Fives, taking his helmet off, unable to, unwilling to, stop his eyes from wondering all over your room, taking note of the lack of personalised decorations in your bedroom. There was a desk, numerous multi-coloured folders stacked neatly on top of it, a small lamp next to them.

He looked over your wardrobe, his fingers itching to pull it open, to see what other articles of clothing you owned apart from your Jedi robes.

As Fives knocked at the refresher doors, his helmet at his side, Rex inched closer to your bed, noticing a small notebook hidden just beside your pillow, still open on the most recent page. His fingers reached over for it, eyes scanning over the yellow-coloured pages, gloved hands gliding over the leathery spine of the small book. 

"Oooh, what's that?"

Before Rex could react, the book was snatched from his grasp, his head snapping upwards to see Fives flipping through the pages, turning and closing the book, only to gasp. That had Rex's ears almost twitching, a curious brow quirked up. 

"What? What is it Fives?" Rex asked, standing next to his brother. 

The silence that followed made him uneasy, and leaning his head closer, he looked to the book, his lips gaping open.

"Do you see what I see?" Fives inquired, a smirk tugging at his lips as he turned his head to Rex. All that Rex could do was nod in stunned silence.

"Y/n's Personal Diary.." Fives whispered aloud, eyes scanning over the firsts page.

A lump built up in Rex's throat, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides as Fives read over the words you had messily written in your diary, his heart thumping as he recounted each memory, a soft smile tugging at both brothers' lips as they could feel every emotion you had spilled out onto the pages.

Though they quickly scrambled to hide the small book behind their backs, interrupted by the sound of your bedroom doors sliding open.

A scream left your lips as your gaze landed on the two armoured men, heart racing wildly at the unexpected scare. Their gazes didn't linger on you for too long, a faint pink ghosting over their cheeks as they looked anywhere but you.

"H-Hi General, we tried knocking but-" Rex begun, unsure of how to explain why he and his brother were snooping around your quarters.

"We were worried that you got stuck in the refresher when we heard no answer, so we wanted to make sure you were safe and ready for our trip." Fives finished Rex's sentence, casting his brother and Captain a side glance, his lips stretched into an awkward, innocent grin on his face. 

"R-Right.. Sorry, General, it won't happen again."

"That's quite alright, I'm actually flattered you men were worried about me," You spoke softly, hand covering your mouth as you giggled at their explanation, your heart warming at the thought that the two cared so much for your well-being. Though you wouldn't let yourself show just how much that thought made you blush. "Now come on, we've got meetings to go to." You exclaimed, waving the two men over as you made your way out into the hall.

Giving each other a knowing glance, Rex and Fives followed, quietly telling one another to hide the diary. Rex nudged Fives with his elbow, now too far gone to quietly and innocently return the book to its original place.

"Just shove it into your bag.." Rex hissed out through thin lips, rushing after you as he cast his brother one last glance, making sure the diary was stored safely in one of their backpacks. 

[silentcrowsilentravens]

Apologies to whoever requested this. I deleted your ask by accident and don't remember your @ :'|

Nica Pierce, Tiffany Valentine, and Charles Lee Ray comforting their s/o after a nightmare/being comforted after a nightmare.

(Gender ambiguous).

Warnings: Implied murder

Masterlist here!

Nica Pierce

You try to keep quiet. You don't want to wake Nica.

You try to calm yourself down. You feel like you're overreacting.

You try to scrub the dream from your brain. You have little success.

Nica begins to stir beside you. "Hey... you alright?" she murmurs, her brows pressing together in concern.

You're quiet for a moment and in the end, simply shake your head no.

"Bad dream?" Nica gives your forearm a comforting squeeze.

"Yeah... Really bad."

Her other arm slowly reaches for you, giving you enough time to pull away if you want space. If you don't, you'll find yourself in her hold, your face nestled in the crook of her neck.

She rubs your back soothingly. "...Do you want to talk about it?"

"No..."

A kiss is pressed against your head. Nica simply continues to hold you.

She often doesn't remember her own dreams after she wakes up. And if she does, it's usually one of the shitty ones.

Her eyes are wet. It takes her a moment to process where she is and what's going on, that you're beside her.

Nica spends a solid minute silently debating whether she wants to wake you up and bother you.

Finally, she calls your name.

She very bluntly tells you what she just dreamt about the moment you're awake. That's all the talking she does before she's grabbing for you.

You wipe the tears from her face.

She rests her chin on your shoulder and takes in your scent.

Please run your fingers through her curls.

Please hold her really, really tightly.

Tiffany Valentine

It's the dead of night when you jolt upright in bed, breathing hard.

In her half-awake state, the first two thoughts that immediately enter Tiffany's head are "What's got you so upset?" and "Who's throat does she need to slit?"

It's only once her nail file is at the ready and the light is on that she realizes what's going on.

Tiffany returns the same energy she gets from others. If you'd comfort her, she's gonna comfort you.

"Oh, sweetface..." She frowns.

God, seeing you upset is making her upset too! This won't do.

Tiffany peppers your face in kisses.

Then, she practically squeezes the life out of you. She will not be letting go anytime soon. You are officially melded together.

When Tiff wakes up in tears, she immediately shakes you awake, frantically calling your name.

"Huh... What's wrong...?" You sit up and try to rub the sleep out of your eyes, giving her your full attention.

Tiffany deeply appreciates an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on.

Rather incoherently, she describes the dream to you while waving her hands around animatedly.

You try your best to offer soothing words.

You're still mid-sentence when Tiff launches herself at you. She cries onto your top, her tears having slowed down now.

She just wants to be held.

And listen to your voice some more.

Maybe you could make her a nice snack too?

Charles "Chucky" Lee Ray

You'll need to reach over and physically shake this man awake since he sleeps like a rock.

"Chucky?" you question softly. "Chucky, can you wake up?" You shake him by his shoulder a bit.

"Huh...?" he utters groggily. His eyes are still closed.

"...I had a nightmare..."

Perhaps it isn't much of a surprise, but comforting others is not exactly one of his strong suits.

"None of that shit was real," he tells you. "Don't get so worked up."

In Chucky's eyes, you're dating the Lakeshore Strangler, so you've got no reason to be getting scared. Especially because of things that didn't actually happen. Go back to sleep. You're fine.

He rolls back over. A few minutes pass. You continue to sniffle.

With a sigh, Chucky turns to face you. He pulls you closer, cradling your head against his chest. "Stop your cryin'," he mutters gruffly. "I've gotcha."

Chucky himself hardly ever has nightmares. His dreams are usually rather mundane... Well, mundane for him, anyway. The sort of stuff he might find himself thinking actually happened after he wakes.

"Hey, what the hell happened to that asshole I left to drain out in the bathroom?"

"...You... didn't leave a body in the bathroom?"

"Oh."

That being said, you're a bit confused when you're woken up in the middle of the night by Chucky jolting awake beside you.

He slowly lets out a shuddery breath.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"Nothin'. I'm fine." It's a lie and you know it.

You cuddle up against Chucky in an attempt to comfort him. His immediate response is to try and get out of your grasp. "I said I'm fine!"

After a moment, though, he gives up, grumbling like he still doesn't want your touch (he does).

The tension slowly leaves his shoulders as you pet his hair.

He wraps his arms around you, gripping the fabric of your top until he dozes off again.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hear me out.

It's angst.

I think I used 2/3 characters but it's mainly a brief mention of CatNap and a brief Poppy mention + scene. Just dogday and reader afterwards.

---

Poppy runs to Dogday , maybe after the part where CatNap takes the gas mask , because we haven't contacted her in a while.

He finds us from where we passed out in game , but we haven't woken up yet, due to the heavy dosage of the sleeping gas.

When he does find us , we're also partially injured due to the effects of the gas by proxy- Aka. we probably scratched ourselves during the nightmare.

He takes us to Poppy's glass room , which they can probably use as a hideout when they need to rest.

He watches over us as he feels guilty --- having not been there to protect us as we stressed that we'd be okay , so he could go do a different job in the task list to make things faster.

We wake up maybe a day later or you can leave that up to the reader's imagination.

Rapture

Note || AHHH- this is such a neat idea 💕

WC || 945

Sypnosis || feeling injured and for lack of a better word — comatose, it left DogDay in feelings he didn’t want to experience ever again.

She didn’t know what to do, this was inconceivable. Many questions ran through the depths of her fabricated mind, but all she could do is alert DogDay to find you. 

You hadn’t responded for a long period of time, she was beginning to get worried. Sure, you sometimes didn’t respond at times, dealing with certain situations that had left you with a bitter taste on the tongue. Poppy was distressed more than ever, worry was a common feeling when you are in a place like the Playtime Co. Factory. But this was something different, a pitted feeling in her gut that this was something different.

She couldn't slow down however, she needed to tell DogDay. Poppy clambered through the familiar vents, trying to find the large dog. Finally, she came to a stop and had found the very toy she was looking for. 

“Psst-” Poppy climbed through the vent completely, exposing herself to DogDay’s view. “DogDay!” 

DogDay yelped, growling as he whipped his head around. His false temperament faded away quickly enough as he realized that it was only Poppy, the small toy. “Poppy?” His strewn voice echoed, laced with clear exhaustion. He certainly didn’t expect her to make an appearance so soon after the last time they all met up with each other. 

Poppy’s face had presented fear and worry, which was something that had instilled a shadow of fear over his heart. Her red brows furrowed as she thought for a moment, a way to articulate her words without making it even worse than it needs to be. “I know something’s wrong, what is it?”

“Uhm, you know who?” Poppy began, her tiny hands crossing over each other as she stood with a presentable stance. “I haven’t gotten word for some time now, and it’s worrying.”

Those very words struck a fear in his heart that DogDay didn’t like, he didn’t like those words at at all. You were in trouble, and he was gonna find you. He needed to find you at all costs, DogDay didn’t waste time, leaving Poppy where she stood. Poppy had understood his time of hurry, not resenting the sunny dog at all. DogDay walked in fast and large strides, having gotten better use of his legs now that they are attached again.

“Angel..” A small whimper escaped him, not wanting to know what kind of state he might find you in. “Please be okay.”

Not at all, were his wishes true. The state you are in had left DogDay dumbfounded, he straggled over to you, strength slightly sapped after he had struggled the door that had opened to you. The room was full of Poppy Gas, no doubt trapping you in a nightmare – not a dream. You were injured, he had no doubt it was because of CatNap you were desperately trying so hard to escape it. 

DogDay cradled you in the warmth of his arms, trying to not move you too much due to the extent of your very clear injuries. CatNap had stolen your gas mask, which had in return caused you to fall asleep to the effects of the sleeping gas.

 He was surprised you hadn’t awoke yet, later on he had assumed it was due to the heavy dosage of the Poppy Gas. This was a sight he had so desperately wished to escape, but for your sake he had continued onward to the glass room with you in his arms. 

Once he had finally arrived, DogDay opened the door and walked into the room and set you down with a gentle tenacity he didn’t know he had in him. For a moment, he dared let his attention stray from your being as he had walked back to the door and closed it. His head thunked against the wall forlorn laying atop the door, as he was quite tall. A noise, between a groan and a whimper had escaped him, “I should’ve been with you..”. You on the other hand were still asleep, you had been through enough as it is. Even though he remembers your insistence that you would be fine and right by yourself. 

“DogDay, it’s gonna be fine,” You grin at him. “Besides, it’s not gonna take that long..” Your hand wanders over to his arm, patting it as you want to reassure him. He frowned for a moment at your stubbornness. 

“Okay?”

DogDay should’ve been so much more clearer, more defiant at most. So that your grim situation never happened in the first place, he could’ve been there to protect you against CatNap. You saved him, and he could’ve saved you. That much he should’ve been allowed to do, but for now, he had to watch over you. In order to make sure you were okay and could continue onward and stop the Prototype once and for all. 

Minutes passed, perhaps even hours. But he hadn’t paid proper attention to the passage of time, only you were on his mind constantly. DogDay could feel a churning fear of guilt and sadness in his chest, building up so far that even he was surprised at how big his emotions could go. 

The one thought that continuously ran through his mind is that he should’ve been there for you, so that you weren’t injured, that you weren’t in such a deep sleep because of it all. DogDay had allowed himself, only slightly, to tentatively rub reassuring touches upon your head as if he were caressing your cheek. 

He did that to ground himself, and maybe to see if that were to elicit a reaction out of you. 

It was only within the fifth hour that you had finally woken up.

“DogDay?...”

[vibinsane]

please, just stay a little longer. rafayel x reader (she/her) drabble

she would have reoccurring dreams of a sea god that saved her when she was meant to be a sacrificed to him. in the dream, she was fully aware of what was happening, as if she had lived in this time before. but as soon as she would wake up, she could not recall a thing, yet she was left with a feel of emptiness, like something was missing or she had lost something very important to her.

note: this is clearly self indulgent, and i just could not get this out of my head while it popped up as i kept listening to that unknown bgm in chapter 9, so it kept yelling at me until i wrote it. pieces of chapter 1 and little bit of pieces of chapter 9 in forbidden sea. not beta read, here is your warning. i am also very rusty, but i hope those that read this will enjoy it!

warning: angst, hurt with slight comfort i suppose? but hey, it's sfw.

it was the day of his ceremony, every lemurian gathered to witness the sea god and his beloved walk into the temple. fishes of all kinds swam about and round rafayel and his beloved follower.

upon the two entering the temple, everything became silent, save for the gentle sound of the water as she looked around before her eyes landed on her hand in rafayel’s. the way he held her hand as if it were the most delicate thing in all of the sea and land made her heart skip beats. 

she closed her eyes, raised her other hand and rested it on her chest. she took a deep breath and spoke to herself.

i am willing to give him my heart.

i am willing to give him my sincerest form of worship.

i am willing to have his very being etched, engraved onto my soul as i praise and pray to him for the rest of my life.

she felt rafayel’s hand in hers, something hot began to intertwine and embed itself into her palm, it became a line and part of her soul.

then, panic rose as she opened her eyes. 

“this is my promise to you.” rafayel spoke in the softest tone much like how soft his eyes looked into hers. “for ‘tis lemuria’s vow, a bond everlasting.”

“rafayel, wait—” she smiled nervously, her heart beating too fast for her own good. “why does it sound like…you’re saying farewell to me. please, i—” 

rafayel stepped forward, lifted his arm and wrapped it around her waist, drawing her in closely like the gentle current of the sea, small blue fish began circling around them and one red one in particular seemingly settled on rafayel’s shoulder as a blue one settled on hers.

how foolish, even in the sea does her tears begin to build up. even as she was underwater with the god of the sea, she could not stop the tears from falling from her eyes.

“do not worry, i will not be gone for long.” 

"you said that last time and the time after that, stop lying to me..."

still panicked, she immediately threw herself onto him, despite his protests from last time when they snuck out to see the sunset both under the sea and above. she did not care for what rafayel would do. 

“hold me. push me away. i don't care, just—please, stay a little longer.” she begged with the weakest voice despite how much strength it took for her to tamp down this undeniable fear of being abandoned, almost etching itself right where the thread that sealed their bond remained. "can't we just stay like this for a moment more?"

rafayel stills, eyes wide and at first he did not move nor did he say anything. then, his eyes relaxed and there was a smile that etched upon his lips as he finally lifted his arms to wrap themselves around her, placing a gentle but fleeting kiss onto the top of her head. 

“once a lemurian is bonded with a human, they cannot go against their wishes.” he reminded her of what the bond entailed, despite being the young god of the sea.

“then, stay. please, rafayel—don’t leave me.” she did not care how desperate she sounded because he thought of rafayel no longer being with her terrified her and her worst nightmare soon manifested itself as she heard rafayel’s chuckle.

“i will find you no matter where you are, we will meet again. but for now, it is time for you to wake up.” 

“don’t lie to me! you always say this, every time, in this very moment and then i’m left waking up to an empty bed and something empty inside me that i can’t understand until i fall back asleep and pray to whatever deity will hear me to meet with you again. why… why can’t you stay any longer?!” 

“shh. do you not trust me?” 

she fell quiet, burying her face against his shoulder as the tears continued falling. “i do, but—” 

“there is no but. you either trust me or you do not.” rafayel sighed quietly and cupped her face, his eyes spoke louder than the words he could offer her, yet he did not know if she felt his emotions. after all, he was not that good when it came to expressing something so intense he felt which was all because of her. 

she only clung onto him tighter, refusing to wake up just to forget everything that had happened in her dream that felt so real. who is that man? where was she? why can she not recall his name?

rafayel gazed at her, knowing she was deep in thought and lifted his hand to brush away the tears, shaking his head gently. “what a shame, human tears do not turn into pretty pearls when they cry, yet i find yours the most precious in the entire sea.”

he leaned close to her ear, his fingers gently carding through her soft locks. “trust me and let me go, you will not have to wait any longer.” 

she shook her head, hugging him even more tightly. “i don’t want to! i’m tired of never remembering you in my waking life. it’s not fair!” 

“you have stayed here for far too long, do you not wish to see me in the waking life?” 

“how long, rafayel? how long until i can meet you again, what if i cannot remember you?”

“it will sadden me, i will admit, however…that does not mean that i would give up on you. after all, i will chase you to the ends of the earth.”

rafayel’s words began to fade as her vision darkens and the whalefall city is turned into ruins just as the ancient civilization of lemuria was soon forgotten.

she shot up in her bed, breathing heavily and blinked before a gasp escaped her. her hand lifted as she brushed some tears away then rubbed at her eyes. normally, she would remain confused for a short moment before pulling herself together and return to her every day life.

this time, while she cannot remember anything, she placed her hand on her chest before she drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms, letting herself mourn.

what am i mourning for? 

why does everything feel so empty? 

why does it feel as i i’m crying about something lost? 

what did i lose? 

…who did i lose?

eventually, she was able to collect herself and prepare for the hunter ceremony. today was the day she would become an official deepspace hunter. once the day was coming to an end, tara waved goodbye before she was being dragged by a random young boy to help him with something.

with the fish net, she looked into the pool and furrowed her brows before she could attempt to swipe one into the net, someone interrupted her concentration. 

“...but this one, bright as a flame, is a real flammula from lemurian legends.”

“flammula? i’m not very familiar with those myths or folklore.”

something in her chest tugged the moment he turned and walked away. something yelled inside her to go after him, but why? she was confused and something inside her felt disappointed as the figure gradually became smaller until he could not be seen any longer.  

[eldritchelfwriter]

What might have happened for Shadowheart & Florwyn after Reaching For You?

Massive spoiler zone for Reaching For You, the Dark Justiciar redemption one shot over on AO3, so don't read if you haven't read that!

Originally I was just going to type up some thoughts about things that might have happened next but instead I've ended up stream of consciousness writing the whole plot of a sequel story that I strenuously advise that I will never write. Don't consider this 'canon', it's just thoughts that flowed out, have your own head canons for sure.

Apologies that there are a couple of REDACTED's where there's something that hasn't been revealed in Shadowheart Begins yet that I don't want to spoil, but I think it would be relevant here.

There are 3,000 words coming so grab a cup of tea.

* * *

Florwyn and Shadowheart have finally reunited, but they have a long way to go, to find their new way as a couple and as individuals.

Florwyn is mindful of not wanting to push too hard and fast after everything Shadowheart’s been through, and they are both a little awkward with each other at first. Shadowheart has her own room in the castle and space to rest. She sleeps a lot, in the first couple of weeks after her ordeal in the Harper safehouse.

Shadowheart is privately a little afraid to be alone, but doesn’t tell Florwyn. Fortunately, Cirrus the dog, of his own accord has taken to sleeping at the end of Shadowheart’s bed, rather than Florwyn’s.

She has a lot of nightmares about Shar, and every day she wakes up wondering if being here, with Florwyn, is real, or if she’s dreaming. Then, a soft knock on the door each day at the same time reminds her it’s all real, and she sees Florwyn bringing her tea in bed with that patient and loving look in her eyes … every day, tea and a chaste kiss while Shadowheart recovers and starts to make the first steps toward being a person without Shar. They are very polite with one another, still trying to find their way. And for Shadowheart, receiving any kind of kindness at all feels overwhelming. Frequently she is secretly in tears when Florwyn leaves, just to be cared for.

One day, Florwyn pulls open the curtains in Shadowheart’s room and the light that pours in doesn’t scare Shadowheart any more. She greets Shadowheart, gives her her morning tea and leans in for her kiss, but this time, Shadowheart asks her to wait a moment. Placing the cup of tea on the bedside table, with nervous hands, Shadowheart pulls Florwyn in for a kiss that is anything but chaste and leaves them both dazed.

“I love you,” Shadowheart whispers. It’s the first time she’s said it since that moment in the Harper safehouse.

And Florwyn can see, there’s new life, and new spark in Shadowheart’s eyes.

“I love you, too,” Florwyn whispers back, heartened.

It’s a new day in every way, and this time, Shadowheart and Florwyn spend the whole day together, as Florwyn shows her properly around both the castle, and some of the grounds, Cirrus gambolling along at their sides.

That night, they resume their old habit, of reading together with a drink, but this time it is in front of a fire in the lounge – a room that is covered in books from wall to wall, save for the fireplace. Their eyes wander over the top of their books at each other frequently.

As much as Florwyn is mindful of Shadowheart’s recovery and the big personal journey she has ahead of her, Shadowheart is also mindful of how much she hurt Florwyn all those years ago. Florwyn’s heart is still tender both from that hurt, and the loss of her wife. She doesn’t want to push too far and crush the fragile thing they have between them, any more than Florwyn does. Just holding each other and a few kisses feels like a great deal as it is, given how affection-starved Shadowheart (and Florwyn) have been for a long time.

Night time reading and drinks continues for a while, the space between them growing ever more electric, and then Florwyn leaning herself comfortably against Shadowheart turns into a fierce desire in Shadowheart to kiss her that she cannot and does not ignore. The stories they had been reading soon topple to the floor as they kiss and slowly, almost gingerly allow their hands to roam and relearn the feel of each other. And then they are holding each other for so long, that they fall asleep on the sofa and wake up in each other’s arms to Cirrus licking both of their faces, wondering where his breakfast is.

The next night, it’s even more electric and neither can read at all. They once again end up making out but suddenly stopping when things are about to get frisky. And Florwyn asks, “can I ask, why you stopped?” and basically, Shadowheart is like “I was stopping for you because seemed like you wanted to take things slow,” and Florwyn is like “oh I was being extra respectful of you” and they both realise they absolutely want to fuck each others pants off and there is no reason not to, so they do just that right there and then in front of the fire, and all is wonderful in the world as they both realise just how much they still love each other, after the intensity of the time with the Harpers and then the sudden change to being just alone together.

They move into the same room together and wake up beside each other every day now, because there’s no need to hold back from the fact that they’re both utterly besotted with each other.

There are good days and bad days for Shadowheart. Sometimes she is so filled with grief and regret she cannot get out of bed. On others, she finds Florwyn on the castle rooftop experimenting with sorcery, or takes Cirrus on rambles through the countryside, or tries her hand at baking and other little domestic thing, trying to take care of Florwyn and be as thoughtful of her as much as Florwyn has been of Shadowheart.

Florwyn can see that this life here is a little lonely for Shadowheart, but they have to be pretty careful about going out given Shadowheart has a lot of enemies and did essentially just abandon the Sharran church which has now indeed been decreed illegal. Florwyn sends out letters to Karlach and Astarion who each visit separately. (Karlach incidentally, did not have her heart fixed as per Shadowheart Begins, because Shadowheart never met Yrre. She went to Avernus with Wyll and they eventually found a cure there).

Things are a little frosty at first with Karlach, Shadowheart still feeling hurt by her sense of rejection in the aftermath of her decision at the Gauntlet. But Karlach is nothing if not forgiving and loving and also just incredibly proud of her for finally choosing the light, and it’s hard to stay mad at Karlach, so things melt between them fairly quickly. It feels even easier with Astarion, because he is a person who made a fair few questionable choices in life, so she feels like she isn’t being judged by him, for all that she is facing up to the enormity of the consequences and loss her decisions have brought about.

Eventually though, it becomes clear that Shadowheart needs a life of her own, not just being inserted into Florwyn’s. She feels useless without her power, and her religion, and is still trying to build up her sense of self. She needs something of her own, to fill the gap where her old life use to be.

Jaheira comes to stay and while her and Florwyn are catching up, Shadowheart goes on a walk on the rocky shore by the castle, just thinking about stuff. And there she finds an osprey with a broken wing. It breaks her heart that she cannot heal any more. And something in her needs to see that osprey fly again. She gathers it up, paying no mind to its slashing claws leaving deep cuts in her arms as the frightened bird is taken to the castle, to Jaheira.

Florwyn is immediately freaked out to see how badly Shadowheart’s arms are bleeding, but Shadowheart is only interested in whether Jaheira can heal the bird – not her. She isn’t even bothered by the pain, what is pain to an ex-Sharran, anyway? Jaheira seems to understand what is going through Shadowheart’s mind better than Florwyn. She heals the bird first, and Shadowheart’s arms second.

The bird picks himself up, and Shadowheart watches him fly off, until she can’t make him out any more, feeling teary. She had needed to see that broken things could be healed. She is a broken thing that needs healing herself. And she wants to be able heal again, somehow. That was the only thing that had felt good, under Shar. Perhaps in healing others, she can start to heal all of her own wounds. People have burned her time and time again … but animals don’t judge. Perhaps she could start there. Only … she isn’t a cleric any more, and she’s not in any shape to commit to any gods right now.

Jaheira doesn’t seem surprised, when Shadowheart asks her if she can teach her druidcraft. And when she learns to talk to animals it’s as though a whole new world opens to her. The osprey becomes her friend, as well as other creatures that roam near the castle. Every time Jaheira visits, there is more to learn, and she spends the time in between working hard to master what Jaheira has taught her, with Florwyn’s proud encouragement.

As she works, she begins to come to terms more and more with the darkness she was not only involved in, but actually helped propagate. She wonders what became of the cloister, and who is in charge now. She has a feeling will be XYZ, her former ruthless deputy. And as she works through the things she ordered and was part of as the head of the Baldur’s Gate church, eventually, everything comes back to where it all really started – the decision that changed everything, killing the Nightsong, Selune’s daughter. No apologies she makes can ever take back everything she’s done, everything she’s part of, but she needs to start somewhere.

On a moonlit night, by herself, she tearfully apologises to Selune. And she feels a sense of a mother’s grieving heart understanding the grief she herself feels for her own, fucked up life and everything she’s done. And she feels forgiveness. “Why? How could you? After what I did? What I’ve done?” She asks, weeping. Selune shows her the true memory of what happened the night she was taken which kind of breaks her, but now she knows the truth, and Selune tells her that it is remarkable that she has been able to turn to the light after all that was taken from her, all the brainwashing she was subjected to. Selune, too, is sorry for what happened to her as a child and what she was subjected to since. Selune tells her to find her own path and as a result of the meeting, she is a circle of the moon druid multiclassed with life domain cleric.

There comes a time though, when the sporadic lessons with Jaheira aren’t enough, when Shadowheart needs more. She needs to find what she is capable of, and who she is, and to do that, she will need to go out into the world and leave Florwyn behind for a while, not just slot into Florwyn’s life. It will be a risk to be out in the world, when there will be Sharrans with a grudge, but staying safe and isolated isn’t going to help her grow.

Their farewell lovemaking is desperate, their parting heartwrenching, and Shadowheart leaves the castle and joins Jaheira and the Harpers, so that she can learn “on the job” with Jaheira. It feels good to do some good in the world – she wants to do some good in the world, after all the darkness she once spread. It feels like she’s starting to pay off a debt by putting some good into the world.

But she can’t be known as Shadowheart, out in the world where there are angry Sharrans. Jaheira asks her to pick a new name and she shrugs and says the first name that comes to mind.

“Call me Jenevelle.”

She doesn’t even know where she’s heard the name before, but it has a familiar ring to it.

Gradually she rises through the ranks of the Harpers, gaining respect. She doesn’t see Jaheira as often as time goes by, but when they do there is a fair bit of banter and jokes that she had better not piss off her “mother-in-law.”

For a few years Shadowheart and Florwyn’s relationship is long distance, seeing each other for odd weekends or weeks here and there where their reunions are desperate and intense and buoyant until the inevitable crushing moment of departure. They send each other regular, heartfelt letters, each savouring the arrival of a new letter, and treasuring the letters and rereading them often.

Meanwhile, Shadowheart realises the strange patterns she is seeing in the work the Harpers are undertaking follows a plan that had been devised by her deputy in the cloister that she had shelved. She knows who took over at the cloister after her now.

While she and the Harpers are working to take down the (now illegal) Sharran organisation, Florwyn is reflecting on what she wants in life too. She had been living a life of almost complete solitude for so long, something that Zeera couldn’t handle (hence frequent travels to visit friends), and it obviously isn’t suitable for Shadowheart either. She realises she has become what she has always despised – she’s become a bit like a wizard in an ivory tower but a castle instead. REDACTED.

The castle and its everchanging weather is brilliant for a storm sorcerer, surrounded as she is by an ever-chorus of wind that never leaves her feeling alone, but it’s gloomy and lonely for anyone else. Perfect if she wants to be alone all of her life. But she doesn’t want that, she loves Shadowheart too much. They’ll need to come up with a new dream for life together, if this is going to work.

The letters continue, and Shadowheart is becoming more confident. She can’t change her past, but the future is in her hands, and she’s shaping it herself now.

Shadowheart and the Harpers manage to fight and disband the Sharran organisation, and Shadowheart can only pity her old deputy. She can’t believe she used to be part of all that.

Then one day, Shadowheart receives a letter from Florwyn telling her that Cirrus has died. And something in Shadowheart knows that she is done here now, and it is time to move forward with something new. She and Jaheira, whom she is quite close to by now, talk long into the night.

Florwyn runs out to greet her when she returns home, flinging their arms around each other as Florwyn weeps, Shadowheart feeling rather weepy too, but not just because of the dog. Because Florwyn’s arms are where she belongs now. She feels worthy of Florwyn, and like she can be an equal partner to her now.

Florwn exclaims over Shadowheart’s new hair cut and style, which felt like an important step for Shadowheart in defining the new her, and for a few days they are caught up in the excitement of being together again, of kissing, and holding and making love and all the wonderful little things about each other. It feels like their love has only deepened through their time apart.

Florwyn is of course expecting Shadowheart to leave again soon. But she can see how much more confident, and happy Shadowheart is. She likes these changes in her, she can see that this time she has had has been good for. But it also makes her heart hurt to think that perhaps she is too unexciting for Shadowheart, because she feels deep in her heart that this visit is the end of something, though she doesn’t know what yet.

Then Shadowheart gets up the courage to tell Florwyn that Jaheira has given her a job offer, something different to what she was doing before. Something she would enjoy, and would enable her to keep doing good. But it would mean moving closer to the city … would … is there any chance … would Florwyn come with her?

Florwyn’s tears make Shadowheart think the worst until Florwyn flings her arms around her and says of course my love, anywhere you are is my home. And Florwyn explains she had been thinking much the same sort of thing, and that she’d like to dream anew with Shadowheart, something for both of them. And so they leave the castle behind.

To the small farming community nearby, they know they can go to ‘Jenevelle the healer’ any time – whether for themselves or their livestock. But to Harper trainees, the little wildlife rehabilitation centre she and Florwyn run is a secret training centre for twelve weeks of the year. Here they learn about subterfuge, and spying and all the things that Shadowheart learned as a Sharran that were intended for dark deeds but which she teaches both for good, and so that the Harper trainees can understand the enemies they are up against. Here, also, Shadowheart trains animals as messengers for the Harpers.

Here also the arcanists among the Harpers learn to spot arcane traps and the like from Florwyn. REDACTED.

They go into the city sometimes, to purchase more books of course, but also to visit Alfira’s school. Alfira doesn’t say anything, but she has suspicions about who Florwyn’s druid/healer partner ‘Jenevelle’ might really be.

One day when there are no Harper trainees, and Shadowheart is outside planting vegetables, while her dogs and other animals play around her, a voice calls out in greeting.

It’s a surprise visit from Jaheira, who has become as much a mother to Shadowheart, as she has to Florwyn. For the first time Jaheira doesn’t just seem old, she seems frail. But she is pleased to see Shadowheart. She is ushered excitedly in by both Florwyn and Shadowheart, and eventually, after the initial catch ups, Jaheira gives them her news. She is retiring from the Harpers – for good this time.

She is proud, so proud of them both. Her stay with them is short, but somehow, it feels like she is saying goodbye without saying goodbye, as she hints that there is only one last great adventure for her now, and it’s nearly time.

They are both try not to weep and cling to her when she leaves, but she puts up with them. But she seems excited for a new adventure again, something completely different. It is clear from the way she talks that she is looking forward to being reunited with Khalid.

Things would have gone very different for both of them, if not for Jaheira. Two orphans who were lucky enough to have someone take them under their wing and give them a guiding hand and a bit of love. Is that something they would want to do for others one day, too? Something to think about …

Holly, their silly Irish setter bunts her head into them, wanting a pat, breaking the moment. And then Shadowheart takes Florwyn’s hand, and says, “come on, love. Let’s go inside.”

They are both home. Because home will always be with each other. But perhaps, there could be room for more, in the home of love they’ve built.

Once again it is the end of something. But perhaps, it could be a start to something else, too.

* * * * * *

For the record I felt very teary when it came to saying that Florwyn and Shadowheart were having time apart, and I straight up started crying at the Jaheira bit at the end.

If you have guessed the parts that are redacted, I'd appreciate if you could keep them to yourself and out of the comments for the moment so that it will hopefully be a surprise for readers of Shadowheart Begins when the reveal comes. :) (I have no intention of revealing or confirming in advance what it is).

[rareluvs]

Could you write a super duper fluffy Katniss x reader fic? <3

in dreams

summary: while rebuilding twelve, katniss goes hunting, a routine that she has been slowly starting again, more so to help heal her mind. there, she meets you, and she feels something growing in her chest. as your relationship blooms, katniss looks back.

cw: fluff, sfw, gn! reader, florist! reader, katniss needing a long rest, three year relationship (one year as friends), flowers are a love language i fear, mentions of prim it's bittersweet, this was written while half awake, inspired by in dreams by sierra farrell, oneshot, gawd i hope this is fluffy enough, buttercup bittersweetly mentioned, can i get an amen for katniss being sleepy?

katniss wakes up before you do, like always, even after two years of being together. today, her mind is hazy for a few moments with the warmth that your body brings as you're cuddled together in the bed.

that is, before she remembers that today is prim's birthday, and the three year mark since she met you. while you sleep peacefully, cheeks flushed and hair covering your face in small strips, katniss allows herself to gently tuck the strands threatening to be swallowed by your parted mouth behind your ear. she can't help but smile, a soft, tired, one. how you slept was something that katniss loved, and sometimes when she has her nightmares, and you are so deep in dreams, just looking over and touching your cheeks repeatedly until you blink sleepily, or until her heart rate calms, brings her a sense of comfort she never thought possible again.

with you, you never push for her to talk about her trauma unless she starts the conversation, and she loves that about you. you are the balm that soothes her, much like the kinds her mother used to use on her patients.

katniss shifts a little to bring her lips to your forehead, and turning on her side, taking a hand and stroking up and down your arm. you always tease her for not wanting to admit she enjoys affection and admittedly, she does, but you're one of the only people that she will truly let spoil her rotten with it.

as her mind drifts, she remembers when the two of you first crossed paths.

it was in the beginning of trying to gather people to help rebuild twelve, what could be salvaged, and katniss remembers how lost she felt as she looked at a buck, arrow pointed, but shaking. it had been prim's birthday and all katniss could see where her eyes when she looked into any animal nowadays.

your voice had rang out softly, "i want to apologize to you." katniss had lowered her bow in shock, turning around. had she been so lost in her mind that she hadn't noticed your footsteps? more than likely.

katniss remembers your soft eyes, and she's sure she must have looked worn and trying not to be rude and snap at you for interrupting her thoughts. "apologize for what?" she says finally, and you take a step closer, as if approaching a wild animal. katniss couldn't fault you, really, because that is what she felt like.

"for wanting to introduce myself. i know you must be tired of meeting new people and then having to either let them go or lose them. and i want to apologize for that, and i know you have a right to be distrustful. but.."

katnis was struck dumb. she felt raw in that moment, and it wasn't a feeling she liked, but your presence drew her in. the way the morning light filtered through the trees and you looked half human, half angel, made her chest stir with something. more than surprise and anger at you being so straightforward, katniss felt seen.

"but?" she asked slowly, cautiously, eyes scanning your face.

you smile softly. "i want to be your friend, katniss."

katniss knew that she was in love with you, when she went to your family's shop after a few months of dating, a year of knowing each other, and you had come over to her, stroking her hand sweetly and guiding her somewhere, with a little glint in your eye.

"i've been waiting for these all year, katniss, and now that they're here, i wanted to show you." you had practically beamed. your voice when you're happy and containing a little giggle at the ends, she thinks, is sweeter than any song she would ever sing.

"what is it?" katniss feels her lips twitching upwards, something she found herself doing more often now that she spends her days hunting and coming home to have you spend the nights when you can, wrapped in your gentle arms. arms that katniss places kisses upon as she drifts off. arms that make her feel better on the days she is trapped in her mind. she can already feel her face turning soft pink as you show her to a flower arrangement.

primroses and buttercups.

buttercup, the fleabag, had kicked the bucket a few months after prim's death. you hear from katniss about it and while she says he was a pain to her, in the quiet of the night, when the two of you are wrapped up underneath blankets, katniss remembers telling you about him.

"i was so mad at prim for bringing him home i tried to drown him," she admits sleepily, as you hold her hand tenderly as you kiss her closed eyelids. "not only did i have another mouth to feed, but prim was so good with animals while i was forced to kill them so we could eat. i had wanted a pet before prim was old enough, and i guess i was a bit jealous." she has whispered, feeling lighter after letting the words slip out.

you hadn't judged her, you had just nodded, and kissed all over her face until she drifted back to sleep, whispering soothing words into her ears.

when katniss had heard you say that you loved her, passing by her in the hallway of her house, she had grabbed your hand and pulled you back to her, eyes sesrching yours and hugging you so tenderly you melted. "i love you too." she had whispered quietly into your hair, and you made a whispered vow to help katniss to realize you wouldn't disappear if she tells you about her feelings. not if you had any say. you would go kicking and screaming, you had told her, smiling brightly, all teeth and pink cheeks. to say she felt her heart race would be an understatement.

currently though, katniss is staring at you with her gray eyes, and she wonders if prim sent you. because to her, you are an angel, something so good could have only been given to her by prim's loving hands. your hands lovingly touch her black braid, the one you had done in the soft and early morning after soothing katniss' fear from nightmares by kissing her brow over and over, holding her to the point where she was getting hot and you had laughed when she started squirming.

"i was thinking, we could plant them, or scatter some of the petals by the lake and maybe in the woods? the wind could make the petals travel farther, and i think prim would like having her memory spread in places you'll always go back to see," you start, rambling and katniss cannot take her eyes off of the flowers. "then i was going to help you with dinner tonight, and afterwards, we can just lay together, and talk. or just cuddle in silence. how does that sound?"

katniss wants to cry, honestly.

she steps closer, and bring her lips to yours sweetly, never getting tired of the warmth that spreads through her body when you kiss back just as eagerly.

"it sounds amazing. thank you." katniss whispers, cupping your face and laying her forhead against yours. you, in turn, smile lovingly, and close your eyes. "maybe in the future, we can get a cat?" you joke playfully.

katniss opens her eyes and scowls so fast when you look at her, you burst out into laughter. "i'm messing with you, sweetheart." you giggle, kissing her softly, pecking her bottom lip over and over until the scowl is gone (she was never truly angry. she never could be, with you).

later on that night, the two of you stand by the lake, watching the last of the petals carry into the breeze, soft and warm. katniss takes your hand slowly, a tired but small smile on her features. "prim would have loved this, i wish you could have met her." she says softly, melancholic but craving your touch.

"who knows? maybe she sent me to make sure you would be okay." you reply, laying your head on her shoulder, and katniss can't help but admire your features. how could you read her mind?

"you know, i'm starting to really believe that." katniss whispers, and she places a kisses to the top of your head, soft warmth in her cheeks. "i love you." she hears herself whisper, the lake quietly rippling.

a sweet giggle. a melody, she thinks.

"i love you too, katniss."

a single primrose and buttercup petal dance in the wind, in front of her eyes, and katniss finds herself smiling.

cheeky little duck and fleabag, she thinks, and as if on cue, the two petals are softly carried away, intwertwined forever and she realizes she is at peace with that in this moment, and kisses your head again, closing her eyes to sit with the person she is healing for, getting better for.

katniss laughs quietly, as if she shares a secret with the flowers, and mutters a silent thanks to the wind.

[bigdumbbambieyes]

happiest of birthdays to my bub, my best friend and twin flame, @hephaestn 🤍

“I had a dream,” Billy murmurs into Steve’s sleep-warm skin, his cheek pressed to a firm shoulder as they cuddle in the early morning.

His boyfriend is still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he replies in an equally soft voice, “Yeah?”

Because Billy doesn’t dream much anymore, not after what happened in the summer of 1985 — and if he does, it’s usually a nightmare of gore and monsters that has Steve shaking him awake.

“Yeah,” Billy whispers, wrapping an arm around Steve’s waist to gently and easily move his pretty boy onto his side to pull him closer, so Steve’s back is to his chest, “You were in it.”

“I was?” Steve smiles as he glances over his shoulder, their eyes meeting easily.

A nod is all Billy gives him, and a kiss to his shoulder, because he loves the way Steve looks when he wakes up. Soft.

“What was it about?” Steve murmurs, facing forward again while sliding his hand under the blanket to trail his fingertips along Billy’s forearm, smoothing his palm across the back of Billy’s hand, where it rests over his heart.

Billy goes quiet, for a moment, as he thinks of his dream. He tries to remember the details as he really begins to wake up, tries to grasp at the dream before it can slip away.

“I was a kid again,” he begins quietly, his mouth pressed to Steve’s shoulder, “At my old house, in California. My mom always used to plant rows of sunflowers in the backyard and they always grew so tall—taller than the fence,” A soft smile graces his face as he recalls it, “And in my dream, it was a warm day. The sun was shining and I was staring up at the sunflowers when I felt you stand next to me. You were a kid, too, and you pushed my shoulder and yelled ‘tag!’ then ran off laughing.”

Steve huffs a tiny laugh at that, clearly imagining it now, too.

Billy’s smile grows into a grin, comforted to know that Steve isn’t thinking about how weird he is for dreaming such a thing, “I ran after you and we chased each other through my mom’s garden under the sun, laughing, until I took your hand and lead you into the sunflowers, where we found the secret raspberry bush that my mum planted for me when I was a baby. I ate raspberries there every summer, until she…she…”

His throat closes up a little, because while he’s done a lot of healing with his mother’s abandonment, it still catches him off guard sometimes. Steve squeezes his hand gently, reassuring him quietly while asking, “Did we eat the raspberries?”

Billy nods, his mouth softened into that tiny smile again, “Yeah. We picked them and put them on our fingertips, ate them one at a time. And then we collapsed onto the grass in the backyard and talked, about something I can’t really remember, but I remember the way the grass left marks on your face and how our fingertips were stained pink. We laid there for a while and promised to be friends forever and then my mom called us in for lunch and then…then I woke up.”

They let the dream float in the air between and around them for a moment, soaking it in, imagining it in their minds as they cuddle.

“That’s a nice dream, baby,” Steve finally murmurs, thoughtfully thumbing over the back of Billy’s hand slowly before looking back at him again with his big, earnest eyes, “I wish I’d known you when we were kids.”

The sentiment is sweeter than the raspberries in his dream. It brings tears to his eyes as he whispers, “Me, too.”

Steve makes a soft sound at the sight of tears, eager to soothe because then he’s turning around in Billy’s arms to press him down onto their mattress, their lips meeting in a kiss as gentle as the sunlight.

Billy clings to him, because even if he didn’t have Steve when he was younger, at least he has him now.

[zeroaccord]

ANALYZING A SONG (Sakuran) AND HOW IT WORKS REALLY WELL FOR SHERATAN, ANSHI, AND MIRA

Sheratan is not owned by me but is made by @voruna-warframe. regardless, she's still important to anshi's and mira's story by being her partner and the main reason why the events happen in the story.

Lore info for sheratan:

"For what I have for her, she's stuck in a time loop (I made this based on what I thought what Duviri's spirals were when they announced how Duviri works) and she's aware of all the deaths and whatever else she's been through, I was thinking it could be linked to something about Eternalism. Since her exposure to the void, she has more animalistic features. She has beast-esque hands/forearms due to using her void powers the scars spread kinda like how it does on the Zariman, and the void also spread from whatever injuries she got from the void jump. The horns and pointed ears are also from the void, but I haven't really come up with a reason why yet asides from "lol void shenanigans""

With this in mind, I want to add a little context regarding her character before I talk about the song.

Sheratan's timeloops begin and end with death, so upon her dying it all resets. Sheratan uses this to advantage to find a good timeline where she's happy, the people she loves is happy, and she doesn't have to worry about fighting. The only issue is with this, is how years and years of yearning took that naive hope of happiness and turned it into a desperate obsession just to be with her partners. (think homura from Madoka Magica) She's quick to turn to self-destructive habits the moment a timeline fails for a while before hopping again.

With that being said....

THE SONG

HEAVY TW for mentions of death, obsession, manipulation, substance abuse, and coping with loss. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Info under the cut!

"I clutch my past with a patient gaze To protect mythical stories of lies"

Sheratan keeping to herself to prevent people from knowing what happened to her; she does not want people forming parasocial connections with her as some mythical hero.

"So distressing, Your voice has become so alien" "I want to mute it so badly"

Sheratan being unable to deal with having to slow burn the relationship with her anshi and Mira. They can't remember the last timeline they were in, So she can't act on what she's thinking, unlike past timelines that are further down the line.

"Listening closely for that fleeting sound" "A ghastly nightmare to curse my enemies"

could be Sheratan remembering mira's voice while fighting (aka, her singing or "fleeting sound") or it could be grieving mira, thinking about her voice and her grief is so strong it's 'a ghastly nightmare to curse her enemies'

"Those deceitful words will be devoted somewhere else"

A failed timeline where anshi/mira has left, meaning their words of love would be 'devoted somewhere else'

"No wonder there is no trace, For it has never existed"

Timeline hopping makes things restart to when Sheratan first wakes up from Lua. When she saves anshi and mira, she has to restart her relationship with them. Their time together 'has never existed'

"The night is audience to my tale" "And I long for tranquility in my dreams"

Failed or fresh timeline, Sheratan resorting to self-destructive ways to cope with her losses, causing her to stay out more at night and gamble @ the index or drink. She's dreaming of a timeline where she can finally be free from her curse and be with her family. Ideally, She does not want to fight anyone anymore.

""Today" that kindly chose to visit me," "Please don't go yet"

Sheratan is a. not literally talking about a day, but one of her partners that she was able to get back in that timeline. She's begging for them not to leave her alone. Or b. She's relishing in a timeline where it's the most ideal, She's finally with them and it's been a little bit. Maybe out of the blue, that little nagging feeling of being alone again bites at her.

"Torn away from my future"

Being forced to kill herself/her dying and resetting/etc in a good timeline

"Compromised with the harshened love"

Scared and afraid of her partners leaving her, after her attempts of making them stay only drives them away. She would likely resort to more upsetting ways to make them stay, even if it means hurting them in some way. These timelines most of the time always end in sheratan killing herself out of guilt for that timelines anshi/mira.

"I tremble in awe of immutable time"

What it says on the tin. Even if she can timeline hop via killing herself - she still is afraid of time.

"The dawn precedes the day, Without heed for my sigh"

Her general tiredness of having to loop. She just wants a timeline where her family can be safe without her having to manipulate things.

"Just like a lukewarm juice" "I resist that bland warmth"

She refuses to give up, even if it'd be the most healthy thing she could ever do for herself and for them. She refuses to even think about them without her in the image - so much as shutting down anyone - including her partners that reject to her timeline hopping.

"Before I knew, It became stagnant under the sun"

Sheratan feeling justified in timeline hopping by small things that ultimately don't mean anything. Feeling that stopping now would make her efforts for nothing, even if it's impossible to find a timeline where her family and herself can be happy.

"Vivid scenes fade into distant memories"

Happy memories she's across timelines start to fade until they're all gone.

"I can't muster a smile facing that thrilling night"

(note: a more accurate translation would be "I just can't laugh, I tremble in the night")

She's physically unable to really smile from her face having years and years of damage on it. But what makes her unable to actually smile? The sheer amount of pain in her heart at all times.

(regarding the more accurate translation - the part with "I tremble in the night" would just be about her serious, deep depression about every single thing. Every mistake in every timeline causes her to squirm in her bed.)

"Though I still drag my lethargy behind myself"

Forcing herself to continue despite her pain. She's tired and breaks down at almost everything, forcing herself under a 'I have to do this even if i can't take it anymore' mindset

"The 'today' that granted me mercy, I beg you," "Please don't abandon me"

Same point from the line ""Today" that kindly chose to visit me," "Please don't go yet""

She's talking about a person or an actual frame of time. With it being an actual person, She views their love for her as undeserving in good timelines. She's scared of them leaving her at any point of time, for any reason. She even goes as far as to get on her knees and while crying to beg them not to leave.

With the frame of time / day, She overthinks the amount of good and bad times she has. She thinks when she's having mostly good moments or bland ones as a kindness when she's able to be alone with them. Being able to be around them and love them is a 'kindness' for her pain. The thought of its kindness abandoning her scares her.

"Humming a soft and cunning tone"

Singing the song that mira sings to give herself comfort.

"With an identical look to a cold corpse"

She sucks at masking her pain's effect on her body overtime, neglecting herself to rush and get them home safe.

"I kick away that whole lot of discomfort so hard"

Again, she fails to mask her pain. She doesn't see herself as the same as her partners. Any shown sign that there is something wrong is replaced with a cold, fake reaction.

"'I'm not a handful' I laughed and I laughed mirthlessly"

With some of the same points above, she views her partners on another level. She can't believe them when they say she's not a handful. To her, She hates herself for what she does.

(These parts get kind of repeated. I'll still repeat them. Just refer to the above points)

(Repeated) "Torn away from my future" "Compromised with the hardened love" "I tremble in awe of immutable time"

"Ignoring my lament, the sight of dawn foresees another day"

This is two things

She's forcing herself to continue until she eventually dies and loops again in a doomed timeline. The sight of dawn foresees another day since even if she's killed herself before, she's still afraid of dying. There's still that voice in her head that tells her 'just stop here'

She still presses on looping. She ignores her 'lament' in her grief and forces herself to continue yearning for them even more.

[eldritch-nightmare]

hii, can i req. a lil smth? for kagekao & reader (maybe i don’t look hard enough but i feel like i rarely see contents on him ;; so). i’m not rly lookin for anything romantic but maybe in general some darker or yandere-like hcs? as in maybe reader is an acquaintance, or even a victim in the scenario. not sure if i’m making any sense here /lh

a/n: i think i understand?? maybe?? i tried!! hope you like it!! decided to go with the victim scenario because i had some thoughts about that.

kagekao with a gn!victim!reader.

warnings: it is neither romantic nor platonic, slight yandere-ish traits if you squint, reader doesn't speak japanese in this, kagekao torments the reader, swearing, stalking, mind-games, nightmares, the feeling of being watched, crying, ownership, mockery, blood, murder, impending doom, the murder is vaguely described bc idk how graphic i can be fdjksfhj.

Kagekao is, first and foremost, a demon before anything else. He finds joy in seeing other people hurt, and he loves teasing his victims until they're crying and begging to be put out of their misery.

Now you, my poor friend, have been unfortunate enough to catch his attention while he's out in the town.

Maybe it's the way you carried yourself, or maybe you bumped into him when rushing off somehow but something about you caught his attention, and he just had to mess with you.

And maybe he had no intentions of killing you at first. He does that sometimes. He finds that sparing people is equally as fun as killing them because no one will ever believe them. I mean, who would believe that there's a demon that appears to be human just... prowling the streets and murdering people for fun?

But seeing the way you reacted to his little pranks, the way you would tense up slightly and look scared and a bit confused when random objects in your home began to fall on the floor or when you would suddenly end up with cuts and bruises that you had no memory of ever getting... well, Kagekao just knew there was more. He needed to see how you'd look as you feared for your life.

But he didn't want to make it quick. No, no. He wanted to terrorize you. He wanted to break you before finally sparing you of your life. It would be a merciful act, killing you. And it would be so good.

Which is rather surprising, considering he gets bored rather easily. Nothing ever keeps his attention, but there's just something about you that he needs to break.

And so, the game began.

You were completely oblivious to the very existence of Kagekao, going about your days as you normally did. Though... there was something different.

Everywhere you go, there seems to be eyes on you. You can never figure out where the feeling is coming from, but you know that someone is watching you. You tried your best to ignore it, but sometimes you could feel the dark intent coming from the mysterious person's gaze.

He thinks it's adorable that you're trying to ignore the unease of him watching you.

But soon enough, the feeling of being watched escalates to seeing something from the corner of your eyes.

You'll be walking downtown and you'll catch a masked figure leaning against a lamppost one moment, but then you'll blink and he'll be gone. Sometimes, you experience this when you're in the safety of your home. That's the one that terrifies you the most.

Then the nightmares begin. Now, Kagekao may be a demon but he can't influence your dreams. Though he really wishes he could. No, the nightmares are a manifestation of the fear you've been feeling these past few months. Honestly, it's an added bonus for him. Makes this all the more fun when you wake up in the middle of the night with tears streaming down your face as you shoot out of bed.

And once the nightmares begin, the whispering starts. But you can't understand what the whispers are because you don't speak Japanese. The whispers are also so... jumbled together and distorted on occasions that it would be impossible to try and decipher what they're saying.

There was this one time that you woke up in the middle of the night after a particularly bad nightmare and when you opened your eyes... it was a quick flash, but you swore you saw something crawl across your ceiling. Whatever it was, it had claws.

You start losing sleep as well, making you much more susceptible to Kagekao's mind-games.

And when you cry from the overwhelming stress and fear this is causing you, Kagekao just stays hidden and coos a bit because aw, aren't you just adorable like this?

Kagekao takes his time with you. He enjoys seeing you curl up into a ball on the ground as you cry and curse at the world, begging the universe to make your life normal again. It's so satisfying to see you break down. But you're not quite ready to be killed off yet. You still have a will to live, and that's not good. Even after all the mental torture, you still want to live. The game can't be finished until you want to die. Perhaps he should start inflicting physical torture soon...

Nah. He doesn't want to rush it. Not yet.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

You sat on your spot on the concrete sidewalk, staring at the carnage in front of you as you struggled to process what was happening. This past year has been utter hell for you. The feeling of being watched, the nightmares, the whispering, the random hallucinations of this... creature-like person... all of it just weighed down on you.

But this?

This felt far worse than all the other stuff.

It was the dead of night, and you had gotten off work pretty late. You didn't want to go home, not yet, so you decided to walk around the town a bit. There had been people around when you made that decision, so you weren't too worried. Besides, this was a pretty safe part of town, so you didn't think you had to worry about your life being in danger.

You were wrong, of course. You should've known better. You've always been in danger. Nowhere is safe, not anymore. Though, it wasn't the danger you were expecting.

The danger you had found yourself in was far more real than your paranoia and nightmares.

You had been so lost in your thoughts, wandering around the town with no real destination in mind, when you had been attacked. It had happened so quickly, you weren't entirely sure why you got jumped but it was probably supposed to be a robbery of sorts.

Key phrase; supposed to be.

The moment you had been grabbed, you were suddenly being pushed to the ground and you could only watch in horror as the scene unfolded in front of you. It took you a moment to even process what was happening.

The person who attacked you was... well... they were on the ground as well, but someone was on top of them. Someone that... has claws... and looks eerily similar to the scary hallucination that's been haunting you since the beginning of the year...

He was on top of the person who attacked you, and he was just... it was a graphic sight, to put it simply. There was so much blood, and he just kept sticking his claws into the poor person even after they were already gone. There was clear anger in his actions, and you're terrified to imagine that anger directed towards you.

Self-preservation kicks in after a moment, but it doesn't kick in fast enough because soon the man-creature's attention is on you instead.

There's a moment of silence as he just stares at you. You weren't even sure if he was breathing or not, he was so still.

You flinch when he reaches a clawed hand out towards you, and you instinctively close your eyes as you expect to feel pain. Instead, you felt one of his fingers gently brush against your cheek.

He had wiped away a stray tear of yours. And also smeared blood on your face. You felt your stomach churn at that thought as you opened your eyes, staring at his masked face. There were so many questions you wanted to ask but you only managed to quietly ask one.

"Are you going to kill me?"

He tilts his head slightly at the question, and you could've sworn that you heard him quietly giggle.

"Yes, I will." He honestly answers, his tone light as if this were some casual conversation, "But not yet. You're not ready."

What the fuck does that mean?

"But don't worry, I'll keep you safe until I do kill you, okay?" He pats your head in a way that feels mocking, and you cringe at the feeling of blood sticking to your hair, "After all, you're mine to kill. And I would hate for the fun to end so soon."

And you could feel your heart drop to the pit of your stomach at his words as you imagine the pure hell you're going to go through now that he's actually interacted with you.

All you can do is keep him entertained until he gets bored. Who knows, maybe you'll be lucky enough and find away to escape him before it's too late.

[katriniac]

So I find myself simping hard for Artem Wing this morning, and decide to nurse that ache by re-reading my favorite Tears of Themis card stories.

First up is Por Una Cabeza

When I first pulled this card, all I knew was that I was getting ARTEM WEARING A FANCY MASK.

But then I read the story and was confused.

Like, really confused.

Spoilers below the cut if you haven't read this card yet.

This post has two parts. Maybe three if I decide to include the video call? So look in my reblogs for the rest of this recap!

This card's story is set BEFORE they are in an established relationship, before any love confession takes place.

So ... both Rosa and Artem are having similar nightmares at the beginning, but the reader isn't aware they are reading a dream.

Now that I am reading it through again, I can more fully appreciate the other-worldliness of the "nightmare" and understand why everyone is acting strangely with bad memories, lol.

The bright red digital clock face glaring at Tosa in the fancy hotel lobby makes MUCH more sense more that I know it's her own bedside alarm clock she's incorporating into her dreamscape.

Also? ALSO?!? TODAY, the day I'm reading this right now is December 24th! What are the odds! I totally forgot this story takes place on Christmas Eve, because they call the event the New Year's Ball. Idk why... 🤷‍♀️

Anyways, back to recapping my favorite moments:

🥹 @ Artem second-guessing himself, worrying about you, wondering if you're okay, and if it's his fault

Awwwww, Artem!

His pouting face!

That's just like him to be concerned, and to jump to the conclusion that it might be his fault. He also wants to get to the bottom of any problem you have, so he can:

Discover the root cause of "Problem X"

Understand the reason for your distress

And plan for ways to fix/avoid it in the future so you never have to encounter/worry about "Problem X" ever again

Yes, this man is a 'fixer' but he does more than put a cosmetic bandage on things. He wants to make sure you never have to experience that same hurt a second time. He wants to learn from his own mistakes and others to prevent problems in the future. He wants to control the outcome by preparing for any eventuality.

The amount of energy and effort he puts into his "Rosa Long-Game" is mind-boggling.

Okay, I could go on forever about Artem's control issues, how amazing he is, and what makes him perfect husband-material.

So let's not get lost in the weeds out here. Back to the story!

There is this sublime moment where the two nightmares meld, as if the two of them are sharing the same dream!

And they meet FINALLY, after hours of panicked searching and confusion:

So they eventually wake up, and they decide to text the other to see if they're awake, and it turns into a phone call. No biggie. Just a phone call. At 2am. Between coworkers. Talking about their dreams. 😘 Nothing peculiar about that, right?

Everyone does that with their colleagues, don't they??

😏 Sure .... sure.

Next:

We find out Artem only knows one dance.

Which isn't exactly weird... many dudes don't know any dances.

What is odd is the one dance this shy boy knows:

The tango?

One of the most sensual and passionate dances ever?

Really?

Really.

The tango.

That's your go-to dance, Artem?

Okay.

Let's keep reading:

Ohhhhhh.

*BREATHES*

We get a glimpse into their month-long practices.

30 days of being caged in Artem's arms, spending every day after work in close proximity, working up a sweat.

Oof.

And then once you're confident in the steps, the fun part of the "act" both partners must put on to sell the push and pull of emotions.

The haughtiness, the indignation, the desire, the attraction, the softening and relenting at last, all of that passion needed to put on a good show!

Yup...

...Just what two normal work co-workers do on a daily basis.

TOTALLY NORMAL. 😏

*nods*

Yup.

"Suitable tango partner"

Uh-huh.

Artem. Artem! Stop lying to yourself!!

And then there's THIS:

LMAO @ Artem wishing for a weapon to fight off anyone else who might try to take her away from him.

"Everyone will know"

*sucks in breath*

Possessive!Artem is a really really hawt Artem.

Just sayin'

🥵🤤🥴❤️‍🔥🫠😍

AND they mention his adam's apple! Okay, this might not be a turn-on for other people. But it is to me.

I can point at obvious times in my life where I've decided that a certain action/attribute is attraction or sexy. But not the adam's apple. I have no explanation for why I find it mesmerizing!

But bless the writer who decided to mention that specific anatomy in this story! Shout out to you for adding to my swoon! 🫡

End of Part 1 - Check the reblogs for Part 2

[zealctry]

You hold onto him, your fingers in his suit ( you're pretty sure your touch has left imprints in the cloth from where you keep reaching for him, maybe even in his skin ) and he gives you the same charming smile he always does, the skin around his eyes creasing with the affection he feels for you. You wanted to pull him into a kiss and his spine bends to do so but then something changes, something shifts. You blink, trying to make sense of the situation but suddenly it's not cloth you're holding onto but the beautifully carved handle of a knife. A familiar knife, an iron knife, stabbed right into his chest. Did you do that? Were you trying to pull it out? You can't remember, everything is a blur of nothing but it will be okay, right? He will chuckle and roll his eyes about it and it will be okay. It will be o---. Something smells of smoke. Your gaze snaps up and he is smiling at you, reaching out to cup your cheek and brush his thumb over your skin. But you barely register it, just as you barely register the words he chokes (I love you.) because there is black blood seeping through his lips and the hand that is cradling you begins to burn and chip away. But you cannot escape. You have to watch him die because he can die. You killed him (did you?), your little source of happiness. He kisses you, one last time, and death lingers on your lips in the form of his ashes. And as he finally burns away the knife falls to the ground with a haunting echo. He is dead. He is gone. You wake up.

(( Belphegor was in the mood to give him a nightmare <3 while he's out here chilling in some corner of Hidan's room. )) / I am being personally victimized by @helllords, send help.

his eyes snap open with a pull of will and Hidan crashlands into reality with a throat scratched raw, bled out, stuffed to the brim with ash, sandpaper-hoarse and desert-dry ( there is no sound, he remembers no sound that had his neighbours yanked out of their sleep at 3AM, plunged into a fucking horrorshow ). the sheets entangle him, trap him, cling wetly and he shoves them aside with a hand unveiling a heaving chest.

fingers, hands (his own?), come to cover his face. wet wet wet, and he doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t look at them, doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to see whatever is coating them ( red or black or— in the end, it’s all the same, golden or black, dark or green; one face blurs into another, and it doesn’t matter if it’s been five years or just mere moments ago.)

it isn’t real. it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real—

     except when it is.      ( except when it isn’t a dream but a reality that is slitting your throat. )

labored breathing, panting, incoherent sounds assault his eardrums, reverberating from far away, reaching him as through a sponge, barely registering in his mind. whose breathing? in the dark, who’s out there breathing. .. . ?  

 ( he’s breathing until he isn’t and darkness blurs the edges of his sanity, making everything spin. )

and then the animalistic impulses return, force him into automatic, mindless operation. large, cold gulps of air — he sucks them in and they tumble through his lungs like ice-water, choking him out. it isn't real. the memory-that-in-not-one ( it is not real, nothing in the dreamlands is real except the consequences upon awakening ), as cold and unscrupulous as a cobra, digs its barbs into his flesh, makes every single one of his bones shake. they rattle and dance in this sack of flesh that traps him here on earth, that chains him down. his arteries are ablaze.

( his body is shaking. he isn’t sobbing. he isn’t. —— he isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t, and he isn’t for a long while. )

[samethyst01]

Hellwalker

Entry One

Nobody really knows how the world is going to end.

We can make vague assumptions, while the wealthy elite stain the planet with their shit and piss and cigarette burns. We can only hope that our end is a peaceful one, and that all our labours amount to something when the final curtain is drawn. We can dream of a good death.

Speaking for myself, I waited for an intervention. What kind, you might ask? The divine kind. I’d always been a person of few questions, putting my faith and trust in God above everyone else. I wish I could tell you that didn’t change when it all happened, but that would be a bare-faced lie, and I hate lying. I get sick at the thought of it.

If you asked a random person on the street in the year 2046 how they thought human society was faring, you’d receive two very different kinds of answers. The first one goes something like: “We’re doing fine, man. Don’t even sweat it.”

The other one is more like this: “I wake up every day surprised that we’re not all burning to death.”

Things were going about as we all expected. Technology was rising; artificial intelligence had created a monopoly on the market, and everybody wanted something like it. Everyone wanted a TV that turned itself on and curated detailed lists of your favourite shows and movies automatically. Everyone wanted self-cooking meals and self-driving cars and a self-governing world. It was just easier that way. It made ignoring the wars and chaos easier.

No, this isn’t going where you think it’s going. The world wasn’t overtaken by a malevolent A.I. or armies of defecting, indignant machines. That would be far, far too predictable. Besides, if that were the case, we might’ve stood some semblance of a chance.

At midday on the twentieth of August, 2046, the sky went dark.

A solar eclipse is not a cause for global alarm. At least, not an scheduled one. The world’s sciences were baffled, of course, at the sudden cosmic phenomenon. People were told to stay inside their homes and remain completely calm, and told that there was nothing to worry about. Don’t look directly at the eclipse. You could be blinded when it’s finished.

But when it hadn’t stopped after almost fifteen hours, people began to panic.

When you deprive entire nations of sunlight for longer than a day, things begin to unravel. The world’s governments initiated martial law. The servers and stock markets crashed. The internet stopped working. All over the planet, people were living in a nightmare. There was no answer for what was happening. There was no cause, and no reason, and there was no way out.

It got worse when people started killing themselves.

The eternal night and the seeming collapse of society caused everyday people to begin losing their sanity. I can’t say I know the feeling in certainty, but I’ve been close to complete madness many times before. It starts with the panic. The panic rolls into terror. When the terror invades every waking moment of your life, you realise there’s only one way to escape it. There’s only one solution to the end of the world, and that’s to stop living in it.

I never saw any solid figures. With the internet permanently down, all we had was the gossip between neighbourhoods and towns. The only thing I knew for sure was that people were committing suicide in droves, all over the state. It wouldn’t have been much of a stretch to assume that this persisted across the country – and across the world. Every ‘morning’ – without sunlight, we only measured time randomly – I would leave my house to get supplies and see new bodies hanging on the telephone wires.

Almost all of them were families.

We lost contact with the powers that be very quickly. That meant that there was no higher answer for our ruined world. There was no explanation, and some of us didn’t need one. Our purpose was clear: hunt, survive, reproduce… pray.

God does not make mistakes. I know this, and I know His steadfast devotion to humanity will never crumble. But… there is no lie in what I am about to say: I lost my faith when the world ended. God is all-loving and all-sorrowful of our plight but my faith in His holy abilities was torn away from me the moment I understood what was happening to our world. I never believed I would live to see the Rapture, and I was right. This was not the end of days, as I had been told it would be. This was the end of days as it was meant to be.

Restless. Despairing. Monstrous.

My partner and I were never wealthy. We had as much as we needed to be happy, but we were far from drowning in our profits. When the world ended, we had as much as the bare essentials. Our house was warm and secure, we had plenty of canned food in storage, and access to running water. Other families weren’t so lucky. I heard my neighbour yelling in agony one night as I sat by my son’s bed, stroking his hair in an attempt to coax him into sleep.

My neighbour began to scream for his mother. He told her it was so cold, and he was so hungry. He bawled and writhed and groaned for hours, asking desperately for someone to forgive him. No, not asking… begging. The next night, his wails had been silenced. I didn’t check up on him. I preferred not to think about what he’d been forced to do.

Every day was about the same as the last; we had a regimented schedule, and those who had survived all agreed it was the right one. Every ‘morning’, we’d search for supplies and fortify our bunkers. The only thing that mattered was the continuation of our lives, even if we were alive in abject suffering. Maybe this was Hell. Maybe the Devil had won. Maybe we all deserved this.

My old friend from work had a polaroid camera. He loved taking pictures of everything he could see with it. At work parties, he’d bring the thing out and shove it in all our faces, and we happily obliged his hobby. We found it endearing. After the end, all cell phones stopped working, almost simultaneously, and so the only thing left to record our situation was typewriters, paper, pencils, the occasional pen, and old cameras.

One night as I lay awake in bed – night was constant, but we still had our old human routines – I heard somebody scratching at my front door. It was so quiet that, if I had been asleep, I would have never heard it. I rushed outside and found my friend at the porch, lying in a puddle of his own blood and vomit. I brought him inside and tried to tend to his wounds. He was badly mutilated and broken, almost to the point of death. I checked him over and when I saw his eyes, I felt the most intense fear that I have ever experienced pervade through my body. I could see his terror, complete and abominable, staring back at me through his glassy expression. He had seen something that imprinted itself onto his gaze.

He died on my couch that night. He never spoke a single word, just stared at me and choked. As he died, he pushed his polaroid camera into my hands, coughing up one last glob of blood and mucus as his body finally gave out on him. I was more horrified than saddened, I have to admit, and I resisted every primal urge in my mind and soul that screamed at me not to look at his camera. I had to know, I just had to understand what it was that killed my friend.

Pressing the large button on the camera’s back, it began printing out a photograph of the last thing it had captured. It felt like the process was taking hours, and I found my leg to be rapidly dancing up and down in fear and anticipation. When the photo was ready, I gently pried it from the camera’s metal lips with a shaking hand. I prayed – not to God but to the world itself – that what I would see would not curse me forever.

My prayers went unanswered that night.

What I saw was an image of the woods just beyond my house, the ones our children used to play in past their bedtimes and after school, the ones we built treehouses in and had stupid teenage parties in, where we dumped our trash and our used condoms and empty bottles, where the old man whose arms a pockmarked lattice of diseased flesh hanged himself after a lifetime of screaming, screaming about the Hell that awaited us, about the truth behind it all and the chaos lurking just around the corner.

What stood in front of the woods, in the photo, was not a person. Even in the petrified and darkened state humanity was in, and despite the horror our world had become, I could still recognise my fellow human. I cannot tell you with any confidence that what I saw was real, but I knew it had been real enough to dehumanise and eviscerate my friend. It stood not on two legs but a multitude, and its head was more akin to a crucifix – a fact which greatly unsettled me.

I became sickened at the sight of it and dropped the photograph, kicking it under the couch and pretending it didn’t exist. What mockery of humanity was this? What entity lurked beyond our safe warmth and pretend haven? I closed my friend’s eyelids and set about burying him outside. As I dug his grave, my eyes darted from the dirt to the forest beyond. I wasn’t sure what I’d catch a glimpse of, if anything, but the mere chance of coming into contact with that thing put a boulder in my stomach and dragged cold spikes down my back.

I attempted to forget about what I had seen that night. Before either my partner or son could see it, I retrieved the photo from under the couch and burned it. Or, at least, I attempted to. I doused the thing in gasoline and lit it ablaze with a match, but as I watched it sit in the barbecue grill, it refused to be destroyed. Instead, it only grew more horrific in its visage. I heard a screech from the woods and promptly kicked the grill over, watching as the flames slowly extinguished themselves and the photo remained.

If I couldn’t burn it then I’d simply bury it. Not wishing to damn my friend’s soul, I dug a hole further from his body. As deep as I could, I dug, and tossed the photo inside. I would remain content in its false death. My partner questioned my skittishness, further still when they caught me smashing the polaroid camera with a sledgehammer. I told them it wasn’t something I wanted them to see. They didn’t ask further, and I was glad of it.

Life at the end of the world was terrible enough, not for this new hell that had reared its head. Our community was shrinking by the day. Fewer and fewer of us populated the streets, and soon, the comforting consistency of my neighbours’ safe houses were ruined, when each one was broken into and raided. I couldn’t even trust myself not to get attached to the memories. After just a year, our town had gone from a population of just over twenty thousand to a despairing ninety three. Those that didn’t die by their own hands often succumbed to starvation or disease.

But then there were those who were murdered.

Ever since my friend’s death, I began to notice things amiss in my house. Doors were opened when I had been sure they were locked. Objects of great importance, be they sentimental or key in survival, began to go missing. At first I suspected my son, only four years old, to have taken and played with them, but he was not the type of child to steal. He was a good, kind boy, and I pitied him the most for having to suffer through this torturous world.

At one time, I was preparing food and opened a cabinet drawer, retrieving a knife from inside. I turned my back for a mere second, and when I returned my gaze, the drawer was closed and a second knife was placed on the countertop. Its blade glistened in the candlelight.

My partner began to complain about noises waking them up in the night. I told them it was likely just the neighbours, but then they told me the noises were coming from inside the house itself. I asked if they could be sure, and they swore to me that they had heard scratching and creaking in the hallway. I stayed up as late as I could to make them feel safe, and heard nothing. But as I drifted off to sleep, I began hearing them scream in terror.

The bodies were often found in their beds, faces contorted in pain and fear and arms splayed out like a crucifixion. This fact alone was cause enough for alarm, but what worsened the fright was what was always found on the bodies, carved into them through a hole in the stomach – an apple. I remembered the Garden of Eden and the Tree of Knowledge, and I began to suspect that this was the work of some crazed killer. A serial killer at the end of the world was a fanciful notion, and one, I believe, that could have saved me from the true horror of what was actually happening.

I was known in the town as a religious person, despite my loss of faith at the eclipse. My neighbours, those that remained, pleaded with me to call upon my God and ask Him for forgiveness. In turn, I asked them what exactly they expected me to do, and they all responded in the same way: they believed this was their punishment for something. One by one, they began to confess to me things that I never knew, things I never wanted to know, things that marred my perception of them almost instantly.

“It was just one time, I never meant to hurt her!” “Oh God… he killed himself after I did it. I didn’t want that to happen!” “Nobody ever told me the truth, I just wanted to have it for myself!”

Their words sickened me, and I boarded up my house from the outside. My son, a very curious boy, asked me why everybody wanted to talk to me. I told him they were very scared, and they wanted to speak to me because I used to have a friend who people would rely on a lot. He asked who I meant, and, not wanting to bore or confuse him with all the definitions, I simply told him he was somebody like Santa. This friend was very wise and very special, and he gave hope and comfort to a lot of people, including me at one time.

When he asked why I didn’t believe in him anymore, I took a deep breath before giving my answer.

“Because he’s been quiet for a long time, and I’m scared he’s not listening to me anymore.”

My partner’s doctor was murdered last week. She was found in the same state as the others: confined to her bed, arms spread wide, face twisted in horror, and the same crimson apple buried in her abdomen. That night, my partner told me we had to leave. I asked them to where would we go, but they simply told me to listen. Every night since the eclipse, they had had the same recurring nightmare. In it, our home was overrun with monsters, hiding in the dark and slowly cutting pieces of our bodies off us while we slept. Eventually, there would be nothing remaining but our souls, and they’d feast on those too.

The sounds coming from downstairs got worse that day. I began to hear them too. What started off as croaking sounded more like laughing now, and the screams across the street began to sound more agonised and tortured. It was getting worse. I knew there was nowhere to go, but this place was becoming something else, something far more evil. Two nights ago, I began packing everything vaguely necessary to our survival. I had filled up the garage several hours later, planning to drive into the wilderness for as long as possible. Our car ran on electricity, and I had saved up twelve batteries since the eclipse for a moment like this.

I had it all planned out. And then my plans were destroyed.

Last night, as I stared at the ceiling and did my damndest to rid my brain of terrible thoughts and questions, I heard my son’s door creak open. Assuming he had had a nightmare and was coming to sleep in our room, I sat up and awaited him. His presence would surely calm me. But there was no sound from the hallway. I stared into the darkness, counting the seconds since I heard the noise. After thirty of them had passed by, I quietly left my bed and walked towards his door.

It was ajar, and through the crack I could make out his curtains swaying gently. I opened the door all the way and felt my body freeze in confusion and horror. His window was wide open, the black sky laughing down at me with its unforgiving cold. My son’s bed was empty. He was gone. I stood in complete fright for a moment before bolting to the window, breathing heavily and shaking uncontrollably. There was no sign of him. I pulled off the duvet on his bed and found it to not be as empty as I thought. In the indentation where my son had once slept, there was a single red apple.

It rolled over slightly and I saw that a tiny chunk had been taken out of it. The bite of a child.

I screamed and wailed, dropping to my knees and bashing my fists against the bedframe. My partner rushed in moments later, and their cry was piercing and agonised. We held each other for hours, sobbing in terror and misery at the truth of the night. Our son had been taken. He was not murdered  but stolen, stolen from his bed as he slept and taken away to only God knows where.

I held my partner close to me as we wept. They passed out from sheer exhaustion several hours later, and I set about gathering supplies. I packed weapons and rations, compasses and maps and absolutely anything I thought would aid on my journey. I was going to find my son. Nothing would keep me from him, no demon or monster or beast would defeat me in my search for him. Once I was ready, I began this account. It serves as a reminder of my history, and of what I must do. It serves, also, as a memento of the ghastly journey I have taken to arrive at my current point.

When I return with my son, and upon his eighteenth birthday, I shall give him this account and tell him it is his to do with as he pleases. He may read it, ignore it or even burn it if he wants, but it is his and his alone. I am not blinding myself with optimism; I know I will succeed. My son will return home, even if I do not.

My partner wanted to call upon the whole neighbourhood to search with me, but I convinced them to let me go alone. Those left behind would only slow me down. Too weakened to protest, they obliged. Our mutual friends agreed to stay with them as much as they could to help them feel safe, and I’m more than confident in them and their abilities. I promised them I’d bring our son home. I think they would rather die than see him never return.

I’ve already started walking. I know whatever took him went into the forest, so that is where I shall look. Beyond that lies a world I have never seen, one I will not recognise. There are forces out there beyond my knowledge and understanding, and whatever took my son will do all it can to kill me or keep him stolen. I do not doubt that Satan himself would cower at the world I live in. Hell is but a weak shadow of this place, and I have long since stopped waiting for God to answer me.

If He is out there, as I suspect He is, He is no doubt waiting for me to fail.

I cannot defeat my God… but I do intend to prove Him wrong.