#(note: by the article it just seems like she just wasn’t getting the attention she wanted—not that they were actually mean) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bucketgetter535 · 3 days ago

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No Margin for Error: Chapter Nine

WC: 5.9k

CW: None

Notes: Long time no seeeeee. Send thoughts to my anons plz it’s my fav part of the day… might even motivate me to get ch 10 out sooner

The hum of the plane engine had become background noise an hour ago, steady and hypnotic, like the rhythm of breath. Paige had her legs folded beneath her on the cream leather seat, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a half-empty bottle of water rolling gently near her ankle every time the jet shifted altitude. She didn’t bother to catch it. Just watched it drift like it had somewhere better to be.

The cabin was dim except for the soft blue glow of the windows and the yellow-white reading light Azzi had on across from her, illuminating the pages of whatever novel she was pretending to focus on. Her socked feet were propped up on the seat in front of her, posture lazy in the way only someone completely at home in this kind of space could manage.

Azzi’s jet was nice. Quiet. Private. Which made it all the more jarring when Paige’s phone buzzed in her lap with three back-to-back notifications. First from ESPN. Then The Race. Then a push alert from her own F1 app.

Her stomach dropped a little when she read the headline.

“BREAKING: Red Bull’s Top Driver to Retire at End of Season.”

She blinked, tapped into the article without thinking, skimming the lines about “tenure” and “graceful exit” and “opening the door for a new generation.” The typical send-off language. But that wasn’t what her brain stuck on.

It stuck on the last sentence of the third paragraph.

“…likely to spark immediate interest from top-tier drivers currently in contract negotiations.”

“Azzi,” Paige said, too casually.

Azzi didn’t look up from her book. “Hm?”

“You see the Red Bull thing?”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up now, sharp and curious. “What thing?”

Paige angled her phone screen toward her. “He’s retiring.”

That got Azzi’s attention. She leaned forward, taking the phone from Paige’s hand and squinting down at the headline like maybe she hadn’t read it right the first time. She exhaled low through her nose. “Damn.”

“Right?”

“Didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I.”

Paige took her phone back, but before she could lock it again, a new email appeared — top of the inbox, urgent flag marked red.

Subject: Meeting Inquiry: Red Bull Racing

Her mouth went dry.

She clicked into it.

Hi Paige,

Hope you’re well. We’d like to schedule a brief conversation this week, if possible, no pressure, of course, but we’re evaluating options and would love to hear your thoughts.

Best,

Helmut Marko.

Driver Development, Red Bull Racing

She stared at it a little longer than necessary. Not because she didn’t know what it meant, but because some part of her — the part that had started all of this at nineteen, when she didn’t know better — still couldn’t believe this was her life.

Azzi was watching her now. The quiet kind of watching. The “I know something just changed” kind.

Paige closed her phone slowly and didn’t look up. “I just got an email.”

“From who?”

“…Red Bull.”

Azzi sat still for a beat.

And then: “Do they want a meeting?”

Paige nodded.

There was a silence between them now, not awkward exactly, but heavy. The kind that made your ears ring just a little.

Azzi set her book down on the armrest. “Do you want to go to Red Bull?”

The question was simple. Too simple. It hit Paige harder than she expected.

She looked at her lap, hands twisting the hem of her hoodie, heart knocking a little too fast against her ribs. She wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. She hadn’t even decided anything yet. But some part of her deep down (the unguarded part, the one she only seemed to access around Azzi) wanted to let her in anyway.

“I don’t know,” Paige said.

She meant it.

Azzi waited.

“They’d probably offer more money,” Paige added after a second. “And they’re Red Bull. The car’s always fast. Always evolving. They’re ruthless about it.”

Azzi’s voice was quiet. “But?”

Paige hesitated. “I’m used to the Ferrari car. The handling. The engineers. Luka. You. I know how to win in this car.”

Azzi didn’t smile. She didn’t tease or joke or pretend it wasn’t a big deal. She just nodded once, like she’d already played out this entire conversation in her head and was waiting for Paige to catch up.

Paige exhaled. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m glad you did.”

That surprised her.

Azzi leaned her head back against the seat, gaze shifting to the ceiling like she was talking more to herself now. “I’d rather know than guess.”

Paige didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice enough.

The plane continued east across the Atlantic, clouds scattered below them like pieces of some forgotten quilt. The air up here felt cleaner. Lighter. But no altitude in the world could stop Paige’s stomach from twisting into the shape of a question mark.

She stared out the window for a long time.

She was headed to New York first. Then Minnesota. Then probably Italy again, or Japan, or wherever the hell the next GP was. Her life, as always, was measured in terminals and tire compounds.

But somewhere between the breaking news and the unread email and Azzi’s eyes on her, Paige realized she was standing on the edge of something. Something big. Something she hadn’t planned for.

And maybe the part that scared her most was how badly she wanted to take Azzi with her, wherever she went.

–

The landing was smooth, quieter than Paige expected for a private jet touching down at JFK. She blinked against the sunlight as it streamed through the windows, golden and warm despite the haze of city smog. Azzi was already halfway through her phone the second the wheels hit the runway, thumb scrolling through emails like they’d never left Europe. Her focus, as always, moved faster than the plane.

The car waiting for them outside was black and sleek and forgettable in that New York way that screamed wealth through silence. Paige climbed in after Azzi and let her head fall back against the leather, eyes half-lidded as the skyline began to unfold in front of them. Azzi’s driver knew where to go without being told — straight to the penthouse.

Azzi’s place was exactly what Paige remembered and also somehow not at all. High ceilings. Cold marble. A wall of windows framing the city like a movie still. Everything smelled faintly like vanilla and something expensive Paige couldn’t name.

She dropped her bag by the couch and stretched her arms up toward the ceiling with a groan. “I’m starving.”

Azzi glanced up from where she was unlacing her shoes. “Me too. Let’s go eat.”

Paige blinked at her. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Azzi said. Then she paused, surveyed Paige’s wrinkled hoodie and sweatpants. “But, like, get real clothes on.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “These are real clothes.”

Azzi smirked, already heading for her closet. “Not dinner-in-Manhattan clothes.”

Paige made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh but followed her toward the guest room anyway. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from their rooms. Paige was in dark slacks and a crisp navy button-up. Her hair was tied back in a low bun, collar open just enough to pass as effortless.

Azzi grinned when she saw her. “Wow. You’re actually wearing something real tonight?”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You went full outfit. I’m just balancing it out.”

“Sure you are.”

The restaurant was a few blocks from the penthouse, upscale but quiet, one of those places you only knew if you knew. Inside, the lights were low and warm, the air perfumed citrus something. A waiter led them to a booth in the corner, just private enough to feel separate from the rest of the world.

The menus were handed out and barely touched. Azzi knew what she wanted before she sat down.

As the drinks arrived, sparkling water for Paige and some fruity mocktail for Azzi, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t about racing. Or sponsors. Or media days. It was light and slow, looping through stories they hadn’t had time to tell all season. Paige noticed it in the small things — the way Azzi tilted toward her slightly when she spoke, the way their knees brushed under the table, the way neither of them checked their phones unless they were mid-laugh or reaching for their drinks.

Halfway through the main course, Paige caught a flash of something near the window, the glint of a camera lens in the hands of a man sitting alone at a neighboring table.

She didn’t make a show of it. Just leaned in slightly and murmured, “Don’t look now, but camera guy, two tables down.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just reached for her fork and smiled like Paige had said something funny. “Got it.”

For a few minutes, they talked around it. Then the food arrived: steak for Paige, some complicated pasta dish for Azzi that smelled like heaven.

“This is so good,” Azzi said around a mouthful. “I’m never eating airport food again.”

“Liar,” Paige said.

“Okay, fine. But I’m dreaming of this next time we’re stuck in Belgium.”

They were laughing again by the time the waiter came back. “Any dessert for the table?” he asked, poised with his little notepad.

Azzi lit up instantly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Paige gave her a look. “You’re still hungry?”

“I have a sweet tooth,” Azzi said, unapologetic.

“I’m good,” Paige said to the waiter, who nodded and turned to Azzi expectantly.

Azzi tilted her head, mock-betrayed. “Wow. So you’re calling me fat.”

“What?” Paige blinked. “No—”

“I just said I want dessert and you said I’m good, which is code for I don’t need dessert, which is code for some people do, which is code for—”

“Oh my god, Azzi.” Paige ran a hand down her face, laughing now. “You’re impossible.”

Azzi grinned, victorious. “I’ll have the chocolate thing. And she’ll have one too.”

The waiter nodded, utterly unfazed, and disappeared.

Paige gave her a look. “I said I didn’t want dessert.”

“You said it. But you didn’t mean it.”

Paige shook her head, but when the plate arrived, she picked up her spoon without another word. The chocolate was warm and rich and exactly what she hadn’t realized she wanted.

Azzi leaned her chin on her hand and watched her take the first bite.

“Told you.”

And Paige, in spite of everything, couldn’t stop smiling.

–

Back at Azzi’s apartment, the lights were low, and the sounds of the city were muffled through thick glass. Paige dropped her jacket by the couch again and toed off her shoes with a quiet sigh, already feeling the warm hush of late-night softness settle over the penthouse. Azzi disappeared into the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening and closing with the easy rhythm of someone at home. Paige didn’t follow right away. She just stood there for a second, absorbing it. The quiet. The casualness. The fact that she could walk in like this and not ask permission.

Azzi came back with two waters and handed one over wordlessly. Paige took it with a small smile, brushing her fingers against Azzi’s for a moment longer than necessary.

“Hey,” Azzi said, leaning against the counter. “When’s your flight to Minnesota?”

Paige twisted the cap off the bottle. “Whenever I want.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Right. Millionaire life.”

Paige shrugged, sipping her water. “Perks.”

Azzi held her gaze for a beat. “So… is that you saying you don’t have to leave tonight?”

Paige blinked, then smiled faintly. “Is that you asking me to stay the night?”

“Yes,” Azzi said, without missing a beat.

Paige’s smile curved wider. “Then okay.”

Azzi’s shoulders loosened, just a little. She nodded toward the hallway. “Fair warning though. My parents are coming over tomorrow.”

Paige stilled. Just a second. Barely noticeable. But something tightened behind her ribs.

“Oh. Nice,” she said, setting the bottle down.

Azzi didn’t catch it — or if she did, she let it slide. She was already halfway to the couch, flopping down with a sigh, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. “They want to see me before we head out to Azerbaijan. I figured we’d do brunch or something.”

“Cool,” Paige said, easing down beside her. “Sounds chill.”

It did not sound chill.

Azzi’s parents. Tomorrow morning. Paige let her head tip back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling. She shouldn’t care. They weren’t dating. They hadn’t talked about it like that. There was no label, no pressure, no anything. But still.

She felt it again — that quiet, rising panic in her chest. Not the kind she felt before a race. Not adrenaline. This was different. Deeper. Harder to explain.

The idea of meeting Azzi’s parents didn’t scare her because she thought they’d dislike her.

It scared her because somewhere in the back of her mind, Paige was starting to realize she wanted them to like her.

And that was… not a casual thought.

They’d been orbiting this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else thing for months now. Neither of them naming it. Both of them pretending that the in-between space was enough. And maybe it was — for Azzi. She was so effortlessly open, so fine with just being seen, being known. She didn’t flinch when her friends asked if she and Paige were something. She didn’t hesitate when she put her hand on Paige’s back in public, or wore her hoodie that no one knows is her hoodie because it’s just a Ferrari team sweatshirt.

And Paige wasn’t like that.

Not with anyone but her dad and Drew. They knew. But no one else. Not really. Not the media, not her extended family, not even most of her friends back in Minnesota. She hadn’t meant for it to be a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and then it kept not coming up, and then it got harder to bring up at all.

But now she was here, about to stay the night again, and tomorrow she’d sit across from Azzi’s parents and pretend this was nothing. Or maybe not pretend. Maybe just exist in the weird space between pretending and hoping.

Azzi turned to look at her, her eyes soft in the lamplight.

“You okay?”

Paige nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Azzi leaned her head gently against Paige’s shoulder. Paige didn’t move.

She just sat there, suddenly feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing into her ribs. Wanting to say something, anything, and knowing she wouldn’t. Not tonight.

So instead, she leaned her cheek against Azzi’s hair and closed her eyes.

And let herself stay.

–

Brunch was at a small corner spot that smelled like lavender and espresso and fresh bread. It was the kind of place Azzi didn’t even need to look up directions to, she just knew it by heart, like half of New York. Paige followed her through the glass doors, head slightly ducked, even though it didn’t matter anymore. They’d already been seen. Photographed. Edited into slow-motion montages over TikTok sounds. She could hide her face, but a lot of damage had been done a long time ago.

Inside, the place buzzed with quiet conversation and the sound of cutlery tapping plates. Paige spotted Azzi’s parents right away. Katie and Tim Fudd were at a corner table, both standing halfway as Azzi approached, arms open, smiles already on.

Paige braced herself.

She’d never said it out loud — not to Azzi, not even to her dad who she texted this morning — but some part of her had expected this to go poorly. Not dramatic, just… off. The stiff politeness of people trying not to say what they really thought. The overcorrection of guarded approval. The silent evaluation of her outfit or her championship standings or her carefully ambiguous Instagram captions.

Instead, Tim gave her a warm nod and said, “Nice to see you again, Paige,” like they’d had brunch last week instead of never. And Katie pulled her into a brief, not-overbearing hug before they all sat down.

And then it was just… easy.

Not fake-easy, not tension-smoothed easy. Just real.

They ordered quickly. Pancakes for Azzi, a veggie omelet for Katie, black coffee for Tim, and whatever sounded least like food for Paige, which turned out to be eggs and toast. Then the conversation started, and to Paige’s surprise, it didn’t revolve around racing. Not at first.

Katie asked about Minnesota, about Paige’s dad, about what it was like to grow up with “so much snow and so little coffee.” Tim wanted to know what books she’d been reading lately, and Paige fumbled, caught off-guard, before muttering something about having started some novel and then abandoning it halfway through a flight to Monaco. That got a laugh out of Tim. Not a mocking one, just understanding. Then somehow they were all talking about bad travel reads and books people lied about finishing.

It was bizarre. In a good way.

Then the talk drifted back to F1. Not in the press conference kind of way, but more curious. Tim asked if Ferrari felt different this year. Katie asked Azzi if the pink helmet had been a branding move or just because she liked it. Paige waited for the tension to return, for the questions to circle back to contracts or media coverage or what it was like to be twenty-two and under a microscope.

But it didn’t. They just… talked.

And Paige found herself liking them.

Katie had Azzi’s calm, watchful energy. The kind that made you feel seen even if she hadn’t said a word. And Tim was like a low-stakes ESPN commentator, the kind of person who probably had opinions on your golf swing but would keep them to himself unless you asked. They loved Azzi. That was obvious. But it wasn’t overbearing. It was a quiet kind of pride, the kind that didn’t need to be stated.

And Paige… Paige didn’t feel tested.

She felt included.

At one point, while Azzi was busy explaining tire degradation to a very amused Tim, Katie leaned slightly toward Paige and said, “You’re different in person. More relaxed.”

Paige blinked. “Uh. Good different?”

Katie smiled, sipping her tea. “Very.”

There was no follow-up. No pointed glances or motherly warnings. Just that.

Later, Paige excused herself to the bathroom, more out of needing a breath than anything else. She leaned on the marble sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked tired, maybe. Or just unguarded.

Azzi had made it look easy. Paige wasn’t sure if that was a skill or just who she was. But somehow this had gone… well. Better than well.

When she came back out, Azzi had stolen a bite of everyone’s food and was grinning unapologetically while Katie fake-scolded her. Paige slid back into her seat and caught Azzi’s eye.

And Azzi — completely relaxed, pancake syrup on the side of her mouth — leaned in close enough that only Paige could hear.

“They like you,” she said softly, like it was just a neutral truth.

Paige picked up her toast and replied without thinking, “I think I like them too.”

And when she looked up again, Azzi was already smiling.

–

Paige hadn’t intended to go to Montana.

Not really. Not officially. The flight was booked late at night on a whim, sometime after Azzi had fallen asleep beside her in the apartment and Paige had watched the skyline for hours, wide awake and heavy with something she couldn’t name. The car met her at JFK just before sunrise, no public post, no press to catch it. She arrived under low clouds and quieter thoughts, and she didn’t text her mom until the wheels hit the tarmac.

Paige: u home?

Amy called two minutes later. Paige answered before the first ring ended.

She hadn’t seen her mom since the off-season. Since before testing. Before Ferrari. Before Azzi. Before everything got loud again like last time. Like F3. The driveway looked the same. It was cracked in the same corner it always had been, gravel spitting up under the tires of the rental SUV. The mountains hovered in the distance like they’d been waiting.

Amy opened the front door the moment Paige’s feet hit the porch. And Paige, despite being twenty-two years old and leading the F1 world championship, dropped her bags and just let herself be hugged.

It didn’t fix anything. But it helped.

They made tea and sat at the kitchen island like nothing had changed. Like Paige hadn’t just flown across the country on a Tuesday with nothing but a carry-on and a handful of feelings she didn’t understand.

“So,” Amy said eventually, one eyebrow raised, “you wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

Paige gave her a lopsided smile. “You’d guess right.”

Amy took a sip from her mug. “Try me anyway.”

And Paige did.

It came out slower than she meant, with a lot of pauses and not a lot of eye contact. But Amy didn’t rush her, didn’t fill the silences. Paige talked about Ferrari. About Monza. About what it felt like to lose by less than a second to someone you might actually be in love with and not even know it. She talked about the Red Bull thing—how they wanted a meeting, how her name was suddenly in headlines again like she didn’t still have a season to finish.

And then she talked about Azzi.

Not like gossip. Not even like a crush. Just… truthfully.

“She’s the best driver I’ve ever raced,” Paige said quietly. “And also the best person I’ve ever been around. And that’s… complicated.”

Amy didn’t speak, just pressed her hand lightly against Paige’s back. Paige kept going.

“She’s so comfortable. With herself. With people. She doesn’t even think about it, and I… I’m still hiding everything from half the world. I’m hiding what I have with her, I guess.” A pause. “And that’s not her fault.”

Amy just nodded.

Then Paige mentioned the concussion. The one from July. The one she brushed off because the team cleared her after a week and she didn’t want to miss Silverstone. She told Amy about the headaches that still came sometimes, about the way light sometimes made her flinch in the garage, about how her balance felt slightly off on stairs when she was tired.

Amy’s silence was different then. Sharper.

“Paige Madison.”

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, sheepish.

“That was two months ago.”

“I know.”

“You don’t wait two months to say something like that.”

“I didn’t wait,” Paige argued half-heartedly. “I just… didn’t bring it up.”

Amy gave her a look, one Paige remembered from middle school when she forgot to ice her knees. Then she stood behind her and placed both hands gently on Paige’s neck.

Paige didn’t protest.

Amy’s thumbs worked over the knots at the base of her skull, exactly like she used to when Paige was twelve and spent too long karting after dark. There was something about it. About being home, about being touched with that kind of care that made something in her eyes sting. But she blinked it away.

“I didn’t want to sit alone at my house.” she said softly.

Amy didn’t stop massaging. “I know. That’s why you came here.”

“Yeah.”

“You staying long?”

Paige shrugged. “Just a couple days. Then I’m back to New York. Or Maranello. Or wherever.”

Amy pressed into her shoulder blade, then eased up. “You ever think about slowing down?”

“All the time.”

“And?”

“I don’t know how.”

Amy kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to know. But maybe try.”

Paige let herself close her eyes. Just for a minute.

It didn’t solve anything. Not the Azzi situation. Not the Red Bull meeting. Not the press or the performance pressure or the concussion symptoms she should’ve told her team about weeks ago. But sitting there, with her mother’s hands on her shoulders and the smell of home in her hair, it felt like something was okay. Even if just for now.

–

Baku.

There was something about the city circuit in Azerbaijan that Paige liked more than she meant to. It wasn’t just the long straights or the tricky, blind corners. It was the way the city felt alive around her when she was strapped in. Like she was flying through a place still moving, still breathing, the world flashing by in colored lights and old stone.

The castle walls came up faster than she remembered. That tight left-right-left flick through the medieval section always made her nervous her first year in Formula One. Now, it just made her grin.

“Okay, that’s green in Sector Two,” Luka’s voice crackled in her ear, all calm efficiency. “Car’s responding well.”

“Feels good,” she replied, flicking her wrist lightly on exit. “Bit of understeer if I push into that uphill right, but otherwise nice.”

Another pause on the line. “Copy. Tyre temps?”

“Stable. Tell Fred I’m better at managing now.”

“You say that every weekend,” Luka deadpanned.

Paige smirked. “Yeah, but this time it’s true.”

Luka’s laugh was a little more real this time, brief in her ears. “We’ll see in twenty laps.”

Practice was going smooth. No heavy traffic, no weird bumps, and the Ferrari was humming through the corners like it wanted to run. They’d done a good job on the setup this week, she could tell already. Braking felt crisp. Rear traction was right there. No wobble.

Azzi was already on track ahead of her, a few laps into her first run of the evening. Paige glanced down the straight and caught a flash of her teammate’s car disappearing around the turn. Same red livery as hers, low under the lights, moving like it was skating on rails.

She didn’t mean to say anything. It just kind of came out.

“Where’s Azzi on the delta?”

And it was the way she said it.

The tone. The way her voice dipped around the name , softer, quieter, like she was asking about someone she knew from before all this. Luka didn’t answer right away, and Paige knew she’d just told on herself in the dumbest possible way.

“Oh,” Luka finally said, casual and unbothered in that dangerous way. “Now you care where Azzi’s running?”

Paige huffed, fake annoyed but not exactly denying anything. “I always care.”

“Mmhmm. She’s P4 right now. Two-tenths behind you.”

“Okay.” She clicked a paddle shift with unnecessary force. “Copy.”

“McLaren’s ahead of both of you. Gotta keep it tight.”

“Yeah, I saw. They’re on a tear.”

She adjusted her line on the next corner, just to shave off a tenth, maybe two. It worked. The Ferrari responded like it had something to prove, the kind of balance she hadn’t felt since Monza. Still, the McLarens looked quick — maybe too quick for comfort. Paige didn’t mind, not really. It made things interesting.

And besides, she was leading the world championship.

And Ferrari was running away with the constructors’.

She didn’t need to dominate every weekend. She just needed to finish higher than Azzi.

And that was becoming harder.

“She’s closing in,” Luka said a few laps later, a mild warning in his tone.

Paige didn’t answer. Just opened the throttle on exit and pushed.

–

Dr. Liao’s office was always cold, no matter what country they were racing in. Paige knew better than to complain when the doctor liked it that way. “Keeps the brain alert,” she always said, which didn’t make a ton of sense to Paige, but she wasn’t the one with two medical degrees and a license to ground drivers.

So she just sat still on the edge of the padded exam table, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, waiting for the light to turn green on the retinal scan.

“Still a little photophobic?” Dr. Liao asked gently, tapping something into her tablet without looking up.

“Less than I was,” Paige said. “More when I’m tired. Or if I forget my tinted visor.”

“You haven’t forgotten it, though.”

“No,” Paige smirked. “Scared of you.”

Dr. Liao smiled. “Good. I like that you’re scared of me.”

They moved through the rest of the checkup, reflexes, balance, peripheral tests. It was routine by now. Paige knew the drill and the doctor knew her, enough to know when something small was off. This time, there wasn’t. Paige passed clean.

“You rested well during the break?” Dr. Liao asked, her tone lighter now.

Paige shrugged, stretching her neck as the doctor wrote a final note. “Montana for a bit. With my mom.”

Dr. Liao raised a brow, but not unkindly. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paige said. “Just… wanted to see her.”

“How was it?”

“Nice. Cold. My mom gave me a lecture.”

“As she should,” Dr. Liao replied, smiling. “You’re good to go. Try not to hit anything hard.”

“Only curbs.”

“That’s a lie.”

Paige laughed.

–

The meeting room smelled faintly of engine grease and lemon cleaner. Azzi’s engineer, Mateo, always brought a bottle of something citrus-scented and sprayed the corners like a dad preparing for houseguests. Luka was already seated, coffee in hand, and Azzi had her legs kicked up on the chair next to hers, scrolling through data on her iPad.

Fred was running point on the strategy discussion. Calm, clipped French-English, all business. The McLarens had shown top-line speed in practice — more than expected — but both cars had struggled with degradation. Tire wear was going to matter, and the engineers knew it.

“It’s a long-game race,” Mateo said. “We don’t win this in the first fifteen laps.”

Luka nodded. “We can take them. They’ll push early, try to break you. Let them. Make them overheat.”

Paige watched Azzi glance at her then, just once, like they were both already thinking the same thing. They’d done this dance before. Managed races better than anyone else on the grid. The Ferrari wasn’t just fast now. It was smart. Smooth. Balanced.

Paige felt it in her ribs already. They could win this.

The meeting wrapped and most of the engineers filtered out. Some off to brief the mechanics, others to check real-time sims. Azzi lingered, eyes still scanning her tablet. Paige had her AirPods in, low but clear. A beat-heavy R&B track hummed gently in her ears.

Azzi looked up. “What do you listen to before meetings?”

Paige blinked, pulling out one bud. “Music.”

Azzi deadpanned. “No kidding.”

Paige smirked. “Mostly R&B. Sometimes gospel.”

Azzi gave her a look — a curious one, not mocking. “Gospel?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “When I’m stressed. Or if the flights are bad. Just… helps.”

Azzi nodded slowly, like she was adding it to some invisible file in her head.

“You in the gym a lot?” she asked after a beat.

Paige tilted her head, amused by the sudden pivot. “Between seasons, yeah. Like…five, six days a week. During the season? Less. I try to get a lift in when we’re not traveling but…”

“But you’re always traveling.”

“Exactly.”

Azzi nodded. “You can tell, though.”

Paige blinked. “Tell what?”

“That you lift,” Azzi said plainly. “Your arms.”

Paige looked at her, unsure if that was meant to be neutral or not, and Azzi didn’t elaborate. Just turned her attention back to her screen like she hadn’t just said something that made Paige hyper-aware of how close they were standing.

It hung there a second, unsaid, before Azzi stood and brushed her hoodie sleeves down.

“I’ll see you at briefing.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, still holding the AirPod in her hand. “See you.”

–

This might be the worst (or best) decision of Paige’s life.

It was late, but not late enough for the world to sleep. The streets below were still awake with the hum of Baku’s nightlife, headlights catching on wet cobblestones and music spilling from narrow windows. The hotel hallway was quieter, carpeted and still, muffled enough that Paige could hear the small knock of her own heartbeat in her ears as she lifted her hand and knocked gently on the door.

She didn’t wait long.

The door swung open and there was Azzi, barefoot in black sweatshorts and a threadbare Georgetown hoodie, curls pulled back and eyes soft like she’d been half expecting this.

“Hey, P,” she said, voice low.

Paige stepped inside without a word, just nodded, lips pressed tight together in a way she knew would betray her nerves. Azzi let the door fall shut behind them and leaned her back against it, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The hotel room smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and whatever tea Azzi had brewed earlier. The scent was warm, lived-in, hers.

Paige didn’t sit down. She stood there like she had to say it on her feet.

“I don’t know what we are,” she said finally, quietly. “I think I want to. Know, I mean.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Paige swallowed. “I didn’t come here for anything casual. Not tonight. Not anymore.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched, not into a smile, but something close. “You don’t have to say it P. I know.”

“Well… I did,” Paige said. “Because I’ve been… holding back. From you. And I think you’ve known it. And I think you let me.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I didn’t want you to have to tell anyone anything you weren’t ready to say out loud. Especially not about being gay.”

Paige looked down, thumb brushing the inside of her palm. “I told my mom… About us, I mean.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“She might’ve… nudged me.”

Now Azzi did laugh, soft and warm and familiar. “I figured.”

There was a pause, the kind that only made sense when two people had lived in the same small tension for months. Azzi pushed off the door finally, walked closer — not fast, not slow — and stopped in front of Paige, close enough that Paige could smell her shampoo. Close enough that her fingers itched to touch her.

“You came to me,” Azzi said, searching her face. “I waited for that. I’m proud of you for that..”

“I know.”

“I want to be with you,” Azzi said simply. “Not for anyone else. Not for the media. Just for me and you.”

“I want that too,” Paige said, and her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “Even if I’m still… you know..”

“I know that too.”

They stood there, barely apart, the city still humming outside but far, far away from this room.

“It’s better to be private anyway,” Azzi said. “Cleaner. Easier. And we don’t have to care what anyone else thinks. I just want… you.”

Paige let her breath go — shaky, but full. She took one step forward and Azzi didn’t move, just let her. Their foreheads touched, then Azzi’s hand slid to Paige’s wrist.

Then her gaze dipped.

“Alright,” Azzi said with a little smirk. “Now I wanna see those biceps without the sweatshirt in the way.”

Paige let out a laugh, shaky but real.

“You’ve been thinking about my arms?”

Azzi didn’t blink. “They haunt me.”

Paige grinned, finally, and reached down to peel off the hoodie. Her t-shirt underneath clung to her skin. Warm from nerves and night and maybe from how hard her heart was still pounding.

Azzi’s eyes lingered.

Paige flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m sincere,” Azzi said. “And sincere people deserve front row seats.”

“Is that so?”

Azzi’s fingers curled into the hem of Paige’s shirt. “You’re the one who came over at midnight babe.”

Paige exhaled. “Yeah. I did.”

And she didn’t regret it.

Not even for a second.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

Text

Where Do You End Pt. 3

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03! - Pt. 2

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, body swap, mentions of smut, humor, horniness, very weird

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have a talk.

Author's Note: Here we go. Dean about the be on his KNEES (for several reasons)

Word Count: 5.3k

A lot was happening.

Cold wind had filled Dean’s body—Her body—and then suddenly the bunker library was gone. Sammy was gone. Everything was gone, and he felt like he’d been flipped in and out, turned in a circle, and everything was spinning when the world came back into focus.

And he was so fucking confused.

He was back in his own body. Taller, easier to control, better to reach high things with, and less likely to accidentally move too fast and slam into something. He had his own legs and arms and feet and hands.

Dean had never really appreciated his hands before this. But son of a bitch, he’d missed them. One week without them, and he’d failed to open jars, had Her fancy, looping handwriting that he couldn’t even read, and dropped three guns. She could always hold a gun easily, but Dean had almost taken Sammy’s ear off.

He’d never take his hands for granted again.

He’d never take his body for granted. As fun as boobs had been for about two days—he’d never touched them, She would’ve killed him, but he’d liked watching them bounce—he’d quickly gotten sick of bras and how sometimes they just hurt. A lot of Her body had just hurt at random points through every single damn day. Dean was never going to be sure how She just did things, because he’d gotten a fresh wave of what Sammy had called post-menstrual syndrome, and he’d wanted to kill someone.

He’d missed being taller, missed having Little Dean, missed not needing to worry about walking through the gas station at night—he’d had to start taking Sammy every time he wanted some pie, and he was never going to leave Her alone in a bar again—and not having to keep track of his goddamn hair all the time.

Even now it was too long. He’d been ready for a cut by the time the curse had hit, and somehow over just one week of being unattended, Dean felt like he had a mane. When he rubbed a hand over his jaw he could feel stubble, and She hadn’t even left him a razor. Or scissors.

If fact, the room seemed to be mostly empty, save for a lot of books, some stray ritual materials on the floor, and the motel furniture. There wasn’t even food or beer, and the bed looked hardly slept in, and Dean had a feeling that all those books would have worn pages from Her attention.

He didn’t quite know what he’d expected, when they switched back. A warning would’ve been nice, or a heads up that he’d suddenly be transported to the middle of freakin’ nowhere. All he knew what that She’d spent the week somewhere rainy, with trees and a view of the ocean, crashing up in waves on the rocks. Somewhere where the motels had cabin-like furniture and a lot of photos of bird and moose.

This limited information told Dean that he was either on the upper East Coast, or the upper West Coast.

So if he called Sam and took a gamble, he had a fifty percent chance of getting rescued, along with an equal shot of being stranded even longer as Sammy fucked off in the wrong direction and Dean tried to work out where the hell She’d landed him.

But if Dean was here, She’d be back in the bunker with Sam. So, hopefully, She wouldn’t be so pissed that she’d just leave Dean to find his own way back.

Hopefully when Dean got back, She’d still be there.

He’d spent most of the week scowling at books and random points on the wall, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to fix this. He couldn’t lose this. He couldn’t lose Her.

And She did love him. She’d said she loved Dean, and she’d used the present tense, and there was still hope. He’d fix this. Dean had spent the whole week repeating to himself that he would fix this. He’d read a bunch on articles online, asked Sam what he did when Eileen was pissed—Sam had said Eileen never got that pissed at him, so Dean had thrown out all his lettuce—and tried to call Her over and over to fix this.

Dean had been worried She wasn’t getting his messages. He’d started to feel something heavy and sickening grow in his stomach, because She could have been in danger. Sam said She’d been emailing him about the curse, but maybe whoever had been hurting Her had gotten her laptop, and they’d been using the emails to throw Sam and Dean off the trail. Maybe She’d been waiting for Dean to come help Her, but he’d just been brooding so now she thought he didn’t care.

Her laptop was still open, and when Dean clicked on her inbox, his emails had been left unread. Her phone was on the bed, and he could still see all his messages on the notification screen. She hadn’t been in danger.

She’d just been ignoring him.

And he could feel his jaw clench—his hands fist and his brow draw—as anger began to settle in his muscles and throat, but he didn’t have the right to it.

Because Dean was pretty sure She thought he didn’t care.

About Her.

“She just needs space, dude.” Sam had looked up at him from across the war room table about a week ago, his voice dangerously close to a lecture tone. “She just found out you’ve been lying to her for years-“

“I lied for her.” Dean had snapped, glaring at his phone. “Why won’t she call me back-“

“Because as far as she’d concerned, you just lied. She doesn’t care that it was for her,” Sam had put quotation marks around those last words, and Dean had scowled. “She cares that you didn’t think about her at all-“

Dean head had snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Shut the fuck up, Sammy, of course I care about her-“

“I know that.” Sam hadn’t wavered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you tell me. But all you’ve done with her is make her feel confused and dumb-“

“She’s not dumb-“

“I fucking know that Dean! I’m trying to tell you how she feels-“

“I wouldn’t need you to tell me,” Dean’s words had been pushed through his teeth, and he’d been damn near ready to punch Sam in the face or smash his phone on the table. “If she’d pick up the phone.”

Sam had given Dean a long, odd look, and then shaken his head. “Whatever, man. Not the love of my life who’s gonna hate my guts.”

Dean had felt the blood leave his face. He’d felt his whole world shatter just a little, felt his heart fucking stop. Just go dead in his chest, because She didn’t hate him. She loved him. Dean had decided that he’d be fine not being able to touch Her or hold Her as close as he wanted, because at least She’d be safe, and She’d never hate him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to look in the mirror and see anything but a rotten, cracked pile of trash if She hated him.

But he’d looked in the mirror that same night, and he’d seen Her. Awesome, smart, funny Her.

He’d never known what he’d done to trick someone so beautiful into loving him. Dean had been satisfied knowing that possibly, maybe, hopefully, he could’ve been good enough.

That even if he’d never get to have Her, he’d been good enough for Her to trust him, to let him hold Her heart in his hands and keep it safe, just as he’d built his own heart to sit on an alter that was made of Her. An alter that tended to and existed only for Her, that would shatter and cave if he ever became something horrible enough to make Her not want him-

Son of a bitch.

He’d gotten it.

He’d stared at Her reflection, and he’d felt it, in Her chest. Worked out why he’d spent every moment in Her body trailing after himself, and moving to his will, leaning into his own touch. Why his eyes kept scanning around rooms for something he didn’t understand, but would know when he found it. Why when he’d taken a shower and the smell of his shampoo had drifted through the steam, everything in his body—Her body—had relaxed.

She’d built Her own alter.

To Dean.

Of all fucking people, She really did love him in the way he’d always refused to hope for. He’d wanted—for Her sake and his own painful reparation—for Her love to be strong and real, but fleeting.

He’d prayed that She did love him, and She’d always like him, but it would pass and Dean wouldn’t have to spend his life forcing himself a few steps back from grabbing Her and fusing Her love into his ribs until he could really fucking feel it.

He hadn’t wanted to feel it. He’d wanted Her love to wither, so Dean could tend to his own selfish desire in peace, and She could be happy.

A piece of him had hated the idea of Her being happy without him. But that had been part of the sacrifice. Dean would have to break himself down until he learned how to stop getting jealous when Her attention drifted, when he figured out how to lie to himself about not caring if She settled safely with some boring douchebag in a way that stuck on his body.

He’d told himself that one day She’d start flirting at a bar, and his legs would forget to chase after Her because he really did want Her to be happy.

But now he could feel it. He had been able to feel the part of Her that moved and rolled and hummed only for Dean.

He’d started rehearsing his speech that night.

He had a whole thing ready. He’d tell Her she was right. He’d stay he was sorry, and that he’d make the same choice a million times to keep Her safe but he’d never be able to live with himself She thought he didn’t care. He’d say he cared. He’d say it over and over until She understood that Dean could be reduced to ash and sand, and he’d still care. He was just bad at it. He was just bad in general. But he loved Her, and that made him feel okay.

He’d practiced in his head when he was in Her body—using Her voice to apologize to Her had felt strange and wrong—and he spent the time while he waited for Sammy to arrive going over it in the mirror. She’d forgive him. He’d run the speech by Sam, and Sam had rolled his eyes and called Dean a loser and an idiot, but he’d said it would probably be fine.

It would be fine.

Sam said Dean would be picked up in a day, and he’d get to back Her, apologize, and everything would be fine.

He packed Her things as he waited, running over the speech one last time as he heard the rumble of Baby’s engine outside.

But when there was a knock at the door, it wasn’t Sam standing on the other side.

——————

It’s raining.

It fucking raining.

You’re standing outside in the rain, your hair clinging to you brow and your clothing stuck to your bone, and Dean’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost, and this is so dumb.

“Hi.” Your voice is flat and not as strong as you’d like, but you’d also been out here for a minute before he’d answered the door, and the cold is already sinking too deep into your skin.

“Uh,” Dean stares at you, a small line forming in his brow. “I thought you’d be Sam.”

“I’m not.” You raise your chin slightly, holding his gaze. “I’ve had enough of being someone else for a long, long time.”

“I- you- Uh,” he clears his throat, and there’s something shaken and slightly off in his gaze, something that makes him falter. “I’ve never been good at-“

“Am I allowed inside?”

Dean blinks at you, his brow fully drawing, and you roll your eyes.

“It’s raining, Dean.”

He frowns, scanning over the grass behind you and the pavement, and the sight of the mist and darkened concrete almost seems to shock him. He stands a little taller, almost stumbles back, and grabs your arm.

Yanking you right inside after him.

Forcing your body to fall right over his, keeping you there for a brief second as you regain your balance, and then just fucking moving away.

He’d been so warm. He hadn’t quite smelled right, but you’d smelled like him, and it had made up the difference. His strong, steady arm had wrapped around your back for a second, and then he’d left you standing in the center of the room as he shuffled away.

He’d left you standing alone.

Nothing had changed.

“I missed you.”

You glower at the air, turning to see that his voice had come from the bathroom. The door has been left ajar, and you can see him moving around inside, and you hate that you’re still listening. That it’s Dean’s voice—his real voice, with all that same gravity he always has and the deep sound almost a bass in your chest—so you’re clinging to it like it’s wood and you’ve been set adrift.

Dean set you adrift. He’s the one stranded you and threw you to the waves and lied. Then he’d always pulled you just close enough to the shore for you to foolishly believe he’d left you rest somewhere warm, and then he’d fucking left again.

“You missed me.” Your voice has a little more fire behind it, and you can feel it bubbling up in your neck and stomach. The explosion. “You fucking missed me?”

Dean’s head pokes through the door, and there’s a small frown on his face. “Of course I-“

“Did you really miss me? Or are you just saying that when you secretly want me gone?”

He flinches. Dean visibly recoils, like you’ve stabbed him, and you’d feel worse about that if he hadn’t broken your heart into pieces with the blunt end of a gun and then fused you back together a little more his than before. A little more devoted—because at least he’d cared enough to pay you any mind—and a little angrier.

Dean says your name slowly, you hold your hand up, and his mouth shuts closed in a second.

“We’re going to fight, Dean.” You let out a slow breath, scanning over his face. “We’re going to fight, and then I’m going to leave.”

His eyes widen, something wild and panicked flashing behind them. “You’re-“

“I’m leaving with you. Or without you. But I,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t look at him. He looks wounded and smaller than he should be, and he can’t do that. Not now. “I need to know, now. I need to know why you lied, and why you just made me stay in love with you-“

“I didn’t mean to.” He mutters, and his voice is soft, and you still won’t look at him. “I didn’t- You had to be safe-“

“I was safe-“

“Yeah, you were. But you wouldn’t have been, with me.”

Something’s passed to your hands, and it’s soft and warm. You risk one eye open to stare at the fluffy towel in your hands, and Dean’s still talking.

“You woulda had a target, people with me and Sammy always get targets, and they always end up dead. And I-“ He chokes on something, and you’re staring at his knees. You still feel like you’re seeing too much. “I couldn’t lose you. I don’t- I won’t lose you. I needed to protect you, and I wanted you to be happy-“

You scoff, glowing at his thighs. “That’s a lie. You always stopped me from moving on-“

“I know-“

“You don’t know, Dean!” You’re shouting at his stomach, strangling the towel in your hands. “You have no idea how- It hurt! It hurt all the time that you’d say you didn’t love me, and then you’d turn around and tell me nobody was good enough for me, and I- I was confused, and lost, and lonely-“

He says your name, and you shake your head at his chest.

“No! I would’ve been safe! I’m always safe with you-“

Dean’s laugh is dry and humorless. “That’s not-“

“It is. You-“ You choke on the air, and the base of his neck tenses. “I don’t trust just anyone, Dean, and I trusted you with my life, I loved you-“

“Loved?”

You stare at him, and he’s never been so still. Like he thinks that if he even breathes a little too loud, you’ll bolt.

And he looks pained.

You can feel it. In your own chest there’s a phantom of something clenching at your heart, and there’s a wired tension in your muscles that you’d grown used to over the past week.

He’s shivering a little. It’s humid in the motel room, and he’s dry, but Dean’s shivering.

And it’s a little hard to breathe.

“Love.” You whisper. “I love you. But it hurts, Dean. It really fucking hurts.”

He bows his head, and only mutters, “I- I had to protect you-“

He keeps repeating that, like it’s a mantra or prayer. Like he can make it real, if he just says it over and over until the words are only sounds.

“You didn’t need to protect me Dean, and you know it.” You sigh, rubbing your neck with a hand as Dean seems to curl into himself. “You were just afraid.”

He flinches again. “I-“

“But you are not a coward, Dean Winchester.” You force your voice to be a little stronger, your spine moving to stand slightly taller as you watch him. “You are an asshole, and a masochist, and self-sacrificing dick, and the best man I know.”

He glances up at you, swallowing slightly, and you push on.

“You’re clever, and resilient, and loyal, and caring. You’d give your life in a second for anyone, and you’d give your happiness for the people you love because you are an idiot who can’t see how it kills us. I did not fall in love with you against my will. I am a smart woman, and I chose you.” You narrow your eyes at him, taking a firm step closer. You can feel something charged and bright moving between your bodies, and you don’t know if it starts in him or you, but it’s all the same. Right now, it’s only you and Dean in the whole world. “I chose you because you are brave, so stop being a coward and be fucking happy, Dean.”

“I-“

“Tell me you’ll be happy.”

Dean stares at you. “I- I’ll be happy.”

He frowns at the words, as if they taste odd on his tongue.

You’ll have to work on that.

You nod. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” He almost lurches forward, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out to hold you. “I’m so goddamn sorry, and I’m never gonna-“

“Tell me you love me. But,” You stand a little taller, and this could break you. “Only if you really fucking mean it-“

“I love you.” The words are fast. Firm.

They jumpstart your every nerve at once, and you’re going to be okay.

“I’m in love with you,” Dean says your name, his hands fisted at his side. “I love you, and I’m sorry, and I’ll be happy, and just- Don’t leave. Don’t leave, please. I love you, goddamnit, so don’t-“

“You can say it all you want.” You swallow, keeping your gaze locked on his. “I want to see you do something.”

There’s a long moment where he just stares at you, but there’s no sickening worry in your body. You didn’t push him too far, you said everything you had to, and Dean might be drawing ragged breathes you can feel tighten around your own lungs—might just be standing there and watching you—but if he does nothing at all you’ll know. You’ll finally know in a way that you can trust, and you’ll be able to walk away and relearn how to move and think in a world where Dean really doesn’t want you-

He moves so fast. One second Dean’s staring at you with a drawn brow and flared nostrils, and the next he’s on you. Bent over your body, his hands molded and perfectly fit on your waist and jaw, his lips slammed over yours and pulling every part of your soul out through your mouth.

And every bit of doubt evaporates without any suffering or pain.

Because Dean cares.

And you can feel it.

It’s not just in how he kisses you, like he’s returned from war and you’ve been a crumpled picture in his pocket, his kiss bruising and searching all at once, as every bit of his adoration and desire and hope—there’s something that’s still delicate in this kiss, because his hands stay on your body like you might be set adrift once more and he’s fighting against all the tides and rocks to keep you at his side—sinks from Dean’s lip into yours.

It’s in the lingering sensations you can still feel between your bodies. It’s in how when your arms wrap around Dean’s neck and you return the kiss with every bit of wrathful and determined love you’ve ever held for the man before you, you can feel the rush of relief in his body.

He pulls you closer, and groans against your skin when you squirm in his hold. Dean presses kisses over your collarbone and sucks a line up your neck that makes you fold into him like putty, and when you scratch at his arms a prickle runs over your own skin.

You think Dean’s feeling it too. He grabs at your hair and tugs it back to bite and kiss at your throat, and his own body jerks slightly. He falls over you on the mattress, and makes a low grunt that matches the weight of him that’s

been dropped on your chest. You reach a hand between your bodies as he nips at your lower lip—palming and squeezing at his bulge, feeling yourself melt into the sheets at his low groan—and when he swats you away he replaces the loss with his knee, his thighs tensing in that brief moment where you’re aching without relief.

Dean rises over you, and furrowed expression on his face.

“Got makin’ up to do.” He mutters, his eyes so dark on yours it feeds something in your gut that had been flickering and humming into an inferno. And you could get lost in that darkness. They’d be warm. “I just- I’m takin’ care of it, sweetheart. You need to trust me-“

You push up to kiss him, cupping your hand around his head and keeping it short and gentle.

“I trust you.” You whisper against his lips, running your thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m staying. Just- I-“

You don’t have the words. For how if this is it, if he’s going to love you and hold you, he can’t drop you. You can’t do this just to be left stranded once more.

But you don’t need the words.

Because there’s still a little bit of you that is Dean, and he understands.

Dean lays you back on the bed, pulls his shirt over his head, and now you have nothing but time and care. His hands trace and map over your body as he strips you out of your wet clothing, and lingering cold from the rain vanishes as Dean starts to touch you.

Really, properly touch you.

Rough, calloused hands squeezing and pulling at your breasts and hot, full lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking and pulling it between his teeth with low groans that vibrate through your body. By the time he’s trailing down your stomach—sucking dark marks all over your skin that make your back arch off the bed and your knees spread in a silent plea for him to move further down—you’re tugging at his hair and gasping his name in need.

Then Dean dives right past where you’re dripping and rolling the sheets for him, kissing down your thighs and up to your ankle, switching legs and keeping you pressed to the mattress with one firm hand.

You can see his own need, pushing against his jeans. You can feel it, throbbing and pulsing in your core.

“Dean,“ You moan as he nips at your knee, slowing working his way back up to your center. “Shit, Dean, please-“

His mouth moves to your inner thigh, sucking another, almost possessive spot right near your core before hiking your legs over his shoulders, his breath warm over you pussy and his mouth so close-

“Dean-“

“That’s my name, baby.” He hums. “Get ready to scream it.”

The asshole winks at you, and you barely have time to glare at him before he dives into your cunt, and everything in your body lights on fire.

It’s infuriating how everything Dean does, he’s good at. How even eating pussy feels like something artful when it’s Dean doing it, and he’s working you like clay with only his mouth. Turning you into a writhing, moaning mess on the bed as he licks and sucks and bites and kisses, and his scruff is just long enough to burn on your thighs in the best way, and his hands are drawing pattern on your thighs in perfect rhythm with his movement between your clit and clenching pussy, humming and growling against you in harmony and pushing his tongue into you right as your hips buck off the bed-

When you start to grind and moan a weak warning of your release—barreling towards you like a tidal wave—Dean keeps you on the edge with teeth on your clit and teasing movement of his tongue for just too long. Just until you’re whining and squirming and trying push your cunt right into his face, and then he pulls your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue over you in almost a frenzy, and you unravel.

You might be screaming his name. Your heart feels like it’s filled with helium and your body feels a little bigger as Dean presses one calming kiss over your clit and draws away—keeping at least one part of his body pressed to yours as he sheds the remainder of his clothes—and you think he might be proud.

You’ll let him have this. Just for tonight, when all he’s done is eaten you out and you feeling like you’re glowing, you’ll let Dean be pleased with himself.

He settles back over your body, his gaze locked to yours as he bumps against your inner thigh, and every breath feels important.

“I-“ Dean clears his throat, scanning over your face. “I, uh- You didn’t happen to bring protection-“

“I’m clean.” You whisper, your fingers curling on his chest. “And on the pill.”

He swallows, nodding slowly. “And you’re okay-“

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure-“

“Dean.” Your voice gets a little more solid, your eyes firm on his. “If you don’t want to, we won’t, but I’m more than-“

You yelp as Dean slams his mouth down to yours, kissing you into the mattress and swallowing your high sound as he pushes his cock right into you without resistance.

He pulls back to watch you as he bottoms out, reaching down to trace a small circle on your clit, and his hips jerk with a grunt.

The movement make him press right against your g-spot, Dean groans and rolls his hips, you whine and start to grind against him as your own pleasure crest and vaults, and you both freeze as you realize what’s happening.

Dean pressed his thumb flat on your clit, the movement slow and careful, and lets out a hiss through his teeth. Still staring at him, you purposefully clench around him, and stars cloud your vision as need pools deeper in your gut.

Something snaps.

And you’ve never been higher.

Every movement is doubled, and everything seems to only carry you higher. Dean begins to slam into you at a brutal pace that grows sloppier and sloppier the more you grind and writhing beneath him, squeezing his cock whenever he hits that spongey, needy part deep inside of you, the feeling of practical euphoria doubled and practically intoxicating.

At some point Dean rolls onto his back, never removing himself inside of you and never breaking his pace. Your nails scratch at his chest as you ride his dick, rubbing your clit over his chest and reaching a hand behind you to play with his balls as he guides you up and down with a tight grip on your hips-

Dean almost roars when you squeeze his balls with light fingers, and you would’ve fallen forward if he didn’t hold you up. One of Dean’s thumbs move to furiously rub at your clit, and you’re not sure who cums first.

All you know is that it’s all an almost infinite high as you fuck yourself on his cock through your orgasm, and Dean pushes up to suck at your tits as his release drips down your thighs.

You could’ve stayed here forever. Basking in the little, electric aftershocks of your shared orgasm, squeezing around Dean when he twitches inside of each other, watching each other with open looks of wonder because you might have just found a backdoor to heaven.

But eventually, Dean has to roll you onto your back press a kiss to your brow before shuffling to the bathroom. He returns with a wet washcloth that gets tossed to a corner of the room once he’s cleaned you up, and wastes no time settling his body back over yours with a low groan.

“Sammy’s gonna have a field day.” He mutters against your skin, and you giggle, letting your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Been telling me for years to just talk to you.”

You hum. “You should’ve listened. Sam can be wise beyond his years sometimes.”

He snorts. “You’re supposed to be on my side-“

“I am.” You tilt your head to kiss his cheek, smiling against his scruff. “Just not for this.”

“Whatever.” Dean grumbles, and he’s clinging to you like you’re a teddy bear. “Long as he shuts his big mouth about it-“

“We could make out in the war room. When we get home. Just to fuck with him.”

There’s a long pause, and when Dean speaks again, he sounds a little breathless. You feel a little lightheaded.

“You’re my dream girl.”

“I know.” You smile at the ceiling. “Dean, can you still feel-“

“Yeah.” He pinches at your waist, as if testing that the aftereffects are still there. “Kinda hot, though.”

“You wanna keep making it up to me?” You hold his gaze as he pushes up on his elbows, raising his brows at you. “Sam doesn’t know where we are, you still have about four years of missed sex to catch up on, and it is storming outside-“

Dean grunts your name, and you give him your best innocent pout.

“You forgive me?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “But I’d like a few more apologies, please.”

He raises his brows. “Am I ever gonna get to stop apologizing-“

“No.” You offer him a small smile. “But mostly just because your apologies are amazing.”

Dean rolls his eyes, you open your mouth to tell him that you have forgiven him—so if he really doesn’t want to keep having sex, he by no means has to—but you don’t have to.

He knows.

And based on the fervor with which he kisses you back into the mattress, he wants nothing more than to try and fuck you until you’re turned inside out, and he’s gotten that lingering bit of the curse inside of him to stick.

End Note: Rare Dean Winchester dealing with emotions, spotted in the wild! Thank you so much for reading!! Shoutout to the anon who requested a body swap series, huge W for that idea <3, this one's for you.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

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@chi-raz @lori19 @wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey

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@dyhsversion @Laurakirsten0502 @megara0224 @funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction

@kr804573

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jhyoos · 4 months ago

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Dreams Come True

Chapter 7: Unconditionally

hockeyplayer! vi x idol!reader

summary: fans find out about you and vi’s relationship, but she’s a country away

mentions: angst, panic attacks, fluff, fame au, modern au

notes: I hope y’all are bundled up for the people that are experiencing the cold front rn. And my heart goes out to everyone who lost their home from the fire in California! 🫶🩷

Getting ready for the meet and greet felt strange. From the moment you stepped into the venue, it seemed like everyone was walking on eggshells around you. Mel and the rest of your group members kept checking in, offering reassuring smiles and casual questions like, "You good? Need anything?" Even the makeup and wardrobe staff seemed overly attentive, constantly fussing over small details that normally wouldn’t have mattered. You appreciated their care—it came from a good place—but deep down, you just wanted to feel normal again, not like someone everyone had to keep an eye on.

When the time came to step out on stage, you were blown away by the turnout. The venue was packed to capacity, and even more fans crowded into standing areas, clearly having paid extra to get as close as possible. The energy was electric, and the roar of cheers when your group appeared sent a wave of warmth through you. You couldn’t help but smile as you scanned the crowd, their signs, banners, and glowing lights all meant to show love and appreciation.

The meet and greet itself went off without a hitch. Fans were respectful, kind, and incredibly enthusiastic. Each member of the group got equal attention, with fans taking time to gush over everyone’s talents and personalities. The gifts were overwhelming: stuffed animals, handmade crafts, letters, and even a few bouquets. One fan had made a scrapbook of the group’s achievements over the years, and everyone had to take a moment to admire the thought and care put into it. It was a reminder of how deeply your music touched people.

Still, there was an emptiness lingering in your chest. Vi wasn’t there. She was across the country, competing in a major hockey game. You were proud of her, of course, but you couldn’t help but miss her. It had been days since you’d last seen her, and though she tried to call or text whenever she could, it wasn’t the same.

But there wasn’t much time to dwell on it. Your schedule for the week was packed. There were acapella renditions of your debut album to rehearse and record, talk show appearances to prepare for, and photoshoots for magazines and the company’s promotional campaigns. The constant rush of activity was exhausting, but it kept your mind off things, at least for a while.

On a Saturday, your group had a gig with a popular talk show to perform and chat with the hosts. The experience was exhilarating—the hosts were welcoming, the audience was lively, and it felt amazing to showcase your group's music to such a wide platform. The performance went flawlessly, and the interview segment brought a lot of laughs and heartwarming moments, solidifying the bond your group shared in the public eye.

When the show ended and you were leaving the building, a wave of fans awaited you outside, their excitement palpable as they cheered for your group. You followed your members out, but as you stepped through the door, you couldn’t help but notice the cheers weren’t as loud for you. The realization hit you like a cold gust of wind, making your heart sink. You pushed through the uneasy feeling, plastering a smile on your face as you waved to the crowd and joined your group in the waiting van.

Inside the van, your group members settled into their seats, chattering about the performance and the fans. Steb, your manager, climbed in after you, shutting the door firmly behind him. The lively energy in the van was quickly replaced with a heavy tension when Steb sat directly across from you, his expression serious. He leaned forward, holding out his tablet.

“There’s an article,” he began. “With a lot of evidence about you and some hockey player…dating.”

Your stomach dropped as you hesitantly took the tablet from him. It was a TMZ article, complete with all the hallmarks of a scandalous exposé. The text messages featured in the article were clearly hacked, showing snippets of private conversations between you and Vi. There was also a side-by-side photo comparison of you wearing Vi’s hoodie the night of your attack and Vi wearing the same hoodie during a halftime appearance at one of her games. But the most damning evidence was a photo of you and Vi outside your apartment door, mid-kiss.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, your hands tightening around the tablet. The weight of the situation felt suffocating.

You glanced at Mel, who was sitting beside you, her concerned eyes scanning the article over your shoulder. She noticed your reaction and gave you a reassuring rub on your back. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly, trying to ease your nerves.

Steb took the tablet back, his face unreadable. “What’s the plan?” he asked.

You exhaled sharply, leaning back against your seat. “Set up a press conference for me, Steb. I’ll figure it out there,” you replied, your voice steady despite the anxiety bubbling inside.

Steb nodded, sliding the tablet back into his bag. “I’ll get it arranged.”

Mel turned to you, her brow furrowed with worry. “What are you going to say?” she asked, her voice low to avoid alarming the others.

You bit your lip, looking down at your hands. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just want to make sure it doesn’t affect you guys any more than it already has. I’ll take responsibility…this is on me.”

The group had fallen silent, their attention now focused on you. You looked at Mel again, guilt weighing heavily on your chest. “I’m really sorry, you guys. Especially you, Mel.”

Mel gave you a small smile and shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize. Just focus on being honest. We’ll handle the rest together.”

Her words brought you a small sense of comfort, but the lingering unease about the situation made it hard to fully relax. As the van drove away from the venue, you stared out the window, mentally preparing yourself for the storm ahead.

When you got home to your apartment, the silence felt deafening. The weight of the day clung to you like a heavy cloak, suffocating and inescapable. Dropping your bag by the door, you walked to the couch and sank into it, hoping for a brief escape from the chaos. Grabbing the remote, you turned on the TV, flipping through channels without much thought.

But as soon as the screen settled on a news station, your stomach dropped. The same incriminating photos from the article—Vi’s hoodie, the kiss outside your apartment—were plastered on the screen, accompanied by speculation and commentary. The bright, intrusive graphics felt like a spotlight exposing your vulnerability to the world.

With a frustrated groan, you quickly turned off the TV, tossing the remote onto the couch beside you. You leaned forward, burying your face in your hands as the emotions overwhelmed you. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks as the stress of everything finally broke through. The constant pressure of being in the public eye, the fear of how this might impact your group and career, and the vulnerability of having your personal life laid bare—it was too much all at once.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, pulling you from your spiral. Sniffling, you pulled it out and saw the name on the screen: “My Violet 🫶.” For a moment, you hesitated. You didn’t want to drag Vi into your breakdown, but the familiar name and the thought of her voice gave you the tiniest glimmer of comfort.

Taking a shaky breath, you answered. “Vi?”

“Yeah, cupcake,” her voice came through, soft and grounding. “I know. I saw the article, and I’m on my way back to the States right now. We’ll figure this out together, okay? I love you so much.”

Her words made your chest ache. “Vi…” you began, your voice trembling. “Wait. I have a press conference tomorrow, and…I’m going to decide what to do. What’s best for both of us.”

There was a pause, the silence on her end filled with her hesitation. You could imagine her trying to find the right words. “Do what you feel is best,” she finally said, her voice steady but carrying a weight of unspoken emotion.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Vi,” you admitted, your voice breaking as fresh tears threatened to spill.

“No matter what you do, I’ll always be here,” she assured you, her tone firm and unwavering. “I love you.”

Before you could respond, the line disconnected. You stared at the phone in your hand, the screen fading to black. Her words echoed in your mind, offering some comfort but also adding to the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

You curled up on the couch, holding your knees to your chest, as exhaustion crept over you. The silence returned, but this time it felt heavier, laced with uncertainty about what the next day would bring.

The next day, the press conference room buzzed with anticipation. As you prepared in the small green room beforehand, the reality of what you were about to do sank in. You stood before the mirror, adjusting your outfit for the hundredth time—a simple but professional ensemble meant to exude confidence you didn’t quite feel.

Your hands trembled as you smoothed the fabric of your blazer, and you met your own eyes in the reflection. "You’ve got this," you whispered to yourself, taking a deep breath. "This is just another performance. Just get through it."

But no matter how many times you tried to steady yourself, the pit in your stomach remained. You ran a hand through your hair, adjusted your earrings, and straightened your posture. After one final glance in the mirror, you walked out to meet your manager, Steb, who was waiting for you by the door.

The press conference room was alive with energy. Bright camera flashes and the low hum of murmurs filled the space as you stepped onto the stage, flanked by your manager. The air was heavy with expectation, every pair of eyes fixed on you as you took your place at the long table.

You sat down, your heart pounding as you adjusted the microphone in front of you. Steb sat beside you, his presence steady and calm, but the tension in the room was suffocating.

"Good afternoon, everyone," you began, your voice steady despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "Thank you for being here today. As many of you know, there have been recent rumors circulating about my personal life. I’m here to address them directly."

The floodgates opened almost immediately, questions firing off from all corners of the room.

"How long have you known Violet?" one reporter asked.

You cleared your throat, forcing a small smile. "We’ve known each other since freshman year of college," you answered.

"And how did you meet?" another voice chimed in.

"We had the same English class," you replied, your voice more confident now. "We supported each other through it—late-night study sessions, group projects, and everything in between."

The questions kept coming, each one more pointed than the last. You handled them with as much composure as you could muster, giving measured and thoughtful answers. But then came the question you had been dreading.

"Let’s get straight to the point," a reporter said, leaning forward eagerly. "What’s the nature of your relationship? Are you dating? Friends? Friends with benefits?"

The room fell silent, the weight of the question pressing down on you like a physical force. Your heart raced, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own breathing.

You looked out at the sea of expectant faces, and then at Steb, whose expression remained neutral but supportive. This was the moment everything could change—your career, your group’s reputation, your carefully crafted image.

But as you thought about the truth and what it meant to you, a calmness settled over you. You’d worked so hard to get where you were, but you also knew that living a lie wasn’t sustainable.

With a deep breath, you leaned forward to the mic. "Yes," you said, your voice firm and clear. "We’re dating."

The room erupted into a flurry of murmurs, cameras clicking wildly as reporters scrambled to capture the moment. You held up a hand to quiet the room, taking another breath before continuing.

"We’ve been dating for a few weeks now. I understand this might come as a surprise to many of you, but I want to be honest—not just for my sake, but for everyone who has supported me along the way."

"Do you worry this will impact her career as much as yours?"

You froze for a split second, the gravity of the question settling over you. Steeling yourself, you met the reporter’s gaze.

"Of course, it’s a concern," you admitted. "We’re both very dedicated to our careers, and we’ve worked hard to get where we are. But we’ve also talked about this. We’re committed to supporting each other, no matter what. That’s what a partnership is—standing by each other through the highs and lows."

The room quieted, all eyes locked on you as you continued.

"Look," you continued, your voice softer, yet firm, "I know that to many of you, we’re just faces on a screen or people you cheer for from afar. Vi is an incredible athlete, and I’m part of a group that’s had the privilege to share our music with the world. But we are so much more than the images you see or the personas we put out there."

You paused, your gaze sweeping the room, making eye contact with some of the reporters as you gathered your thoughts.

"We’re human," you continued, your voice cracking slightly but growing stronger. "We have feelings. We have fears, dreams, and lives that exist outside of the spotlight. Vi is more than just a hockey star—she’s a person with the biggest heart I’ve ever known. She’s been there for me when I felt like I had no one else. We were together before…but fate brought us back together. She’s made me laugh when I couldn’t find a reason to smile. She’s been my rock, my safe space. And I hope I’ve been that for her too."

A few reporters leaned forward, their pens still, as they listened intently.

"I understand that this is shocking for some of you," you went on, swallowing hard. "But for me, love isn’t something I can just put on hold or hide because of what other people might think. It’s real, and it’s messy, and it’s terrifying sometimes. But it’s also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced."

You paused again, your hands gripping the edge of the table as you steadied your breath.

"Vi and I... we didn’t ask for this attention. We didn’t plan for our relationship to become public this way. In fact, we haven’t even confirmed our relationship to ourselves yet. But now that it’s out there, I want you all to know that we’re not just some headline. We’re two people who care deeply about each other. And we’re asking for the chance to live our lives—our real lives—without judgment or assumptions."

A lump formed in your throat, but you pushed past it, your voice unwavering.

"I also want to say this to my fans or just over all AURORA fans," you added, looking directly into one of the cameras. "I love you all. I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am, and I’m so grateful for your support. But I also hope you’ll remember that I’m a person, just like you. I have a heart that beats for the things I’m passionate about—music, my group, and yes, the person I love. I hope you can continue to stand by us as we navigate this new chapter."

You leaned back, your heart still racing as the reporters clamored for more questions. But you tuned them out, focusing on the sense of relief washing over you. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were being true to yourself.

Steb placed a hand on your shoulder, his silent gesture of support grounding you. As you left the stage, the cameras continued to flash, but you walked away with your head held high. No matter what came next, you knew you had faced the truth—and that was something no one could take away from you.

The moment you stepped off the stage, the tension in your body began to dissolve. The green room was a welcome reprieve from the blinding lights and relentless questions. You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, tugging at your tie and tossing it onto the desk.

"Jesus Christ…" you murmured, running a hand through your hair as you tried to compose yourself.

"Jesus Christ indeed, cupcake," came a familiar, teasing voice behind you.

You spun around and saw Vi leaning casually against the doorframe, her sharp features softened by the warm smile on her face. Relief washed over you.

"Thank God," you said, moving toward her without hesitation. Your arms immediately wrapped around her neck, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"I missed you so much," you murmured into her shoulder, inhaling the comforting scent of her familiar cologne.

Her strong arms circled your waist as she pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "You were so brave out there," she whispered, her voice filled with pride and love. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Violet. I love you more than anything," you replied, pulling back slightly to look at her.

Her blue eyes searched yours for a moment before she leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. You melted into her, one hand resting on her cheek while the other clung to her jacket. The kiss deepened, filled with all the emotion and unspoken words that had been building between you. It felt like the world outside didn’t exist, just the two of you in that moment.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and with your forehead resting against hers, Vi smirked. "You know they’re probably going to write about this too."

You chuckled softly. "Let them. I don’t care anymore."

She kissed you again, softer this time, before grabbing your hand. "Come on, let’s get out of here before someone barges in."

The two of you exited the green room hand in hand, but the moment you stepped outside the building, a swarm of paparazzi descended. Flashing cameras and shouted questions filled the air as photographers jostled for a better shot.

The security guards pushed the crowd back, creating a path for the two of you. Despite the chaos, Vi kept her arm around your waist, holding you close as she guided you toward her car.

"Over here!" one of the guards called, opening the passenger door. Vi helped you inside, her hand lingering on yours for a moment before she closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

Once inside, the noise of the crowd was muffled, and you let out a sigh of relief. Vi glanced over at you, a soft smile playing on her lips as she reached over to squeeze your hand.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice low and comforting.

"Yeah," you replied, looking at her and feeling a sense of calm wash over you. "I’m okay now."

"Good," she said, starting the car. "Because you’re stuck with me for the rest of the day."

"Best news I’ve had all week," you said with a small laugh, leaning back in your seat as she pulled away from the chaos and into the streets.

Your company decided it was best for you to take a brief, secret hiatus to let everything settle down after the press conference. You didn’t protest—this was the perfect opportunity to relax and reconnect with the people you loved. For a few days, you surrounded yourself with your family, Vi, and Vi’s family, cherishing every moment of normalcy and peace.

One highlight of the hiatus was Vi finally meeting your parents properly. Despite your initial nervousness, they welcomed her with open arms, immediately putting her at ease. Vi, usually so confident, seemed genuinely touched by their warmth, and you couldn’t help but smile as your worlds started to blend seamlessly.

On another day, you visited Vi’s family, where you were already a familiar and beloved presence. As soon as you stepped through the door of Vander and Silco’s cozy home, you were met with literal open arms. Vander immediately pulled you into a bear hug, his hearty laughter filling the room.

"Welcome back, superstar," he said, ruffling your hair like he always did.

"Thank you, Vander," you said, laughing as you gently swatted his hand away.

Silco, ever the reserved one, gave you a knowing smirk from the doorway to the kitchen. "That press conference you had—it’s everywhere. Kudos to you for handling it with such poise."

"Thank you, Silco," you said, your cheeks warming slightly.

Before you could say more, you heard a familiar soft giggle from behind you. You turned to see Isha, Vi’s younger sister, running up to you with her arms outstretched.

"Hi, Isha!" you said warmly as you bent down to hug her.

Isha, though mute, was one of the most expressive and intelligent kids you’d ever met. At just her young age, she was already tackling middle school math and doing science projects for fun. Her enthusiasm and brilliance always left you in awe.

As you stood back up, the sound of a door opening caught your attention. Jinx and Ekko emerged from her room, and Jinx’s mischievous grin lit up the hallway.

"Hi!" she said as she bounded over to hug you tightly. "You’ve been MIA."

"Hi, Tinker. I haven’t seen you in a while either. You too, Ekko," you said with a smile as Ekko gave you a casual wave.

"I’m a busy man," Ekko replied with a smirk, leaning against the wall.

"Oh, please," Jinx interjected with a dramatic eye roll. "He has nothing on his plate but his own ego."

You laughed, shaking your head at their usual banter. "Ekko, I owe you my life, seriously. As soon as my long-awaited check comes in, I’m buying you something. Name your price."

"Don’t worry about it," he said, but you could see the playful glint in his eyes. "But if you insist, I’ll start making a list."

The warmth and familiarity of their home wrapped around you like a blanket. Vander soon returned with a tray of drinks, while Silco called everyone into the kitchen for dinner preparations. You felt a profound sense of comfort, knowing that no matter how overwhelming the outside world could get, you had this—these people who cared for you without pretense, who saw you for more than just your fame.

And most importantly, you had Vi, whose hand brushed yours under the table as you shared a quiet smile, both of you basking in the simple joy of being surrounded by family.

taglist : @val-k13 @ren-ren23 @snowbunnyboo @taurtel @justsomegaygirlig @alex-thegiraffeboyy @tobiotruther @krilara @veladeangl @maruiin

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shiny-jr · 2 years ago

Text

how to steal a heart (I)

[ a dummy's guide on how to steal the heart of a poor pathetic man ]

- Warning: Yes, this is still a yandere thing. You have been warned. Female reader.

- Note: This has been an idea (heavily inspired by Howl's Moving Castle) I had in my docs since fall 2022. I was talking to a mutual about how writing on Tumblr vs Quotev feels very different. If I leave something unfinished on Quotev, I feel incredibly guilty which prevents me from posting new stories. However, on Tumblr, I don't feel as guilty. Not sure why. Anyways, I know most of my followers here don't care for my ocs, and I've been wanting to post this for so long. So instead of posting on Quotev, I'll post it on here just to get rid of the urge to share this story (might delete this later). This is the same story I posted that little screenshot of not too long ago, and that screenshot was basically just the prologue chapter. So yeah. Hope you enjoy?

IN WHICH THERE IS A SEAMSTRESS . . .

Black smoke concealed the window like a thick veil as the walls around her shook. It was a sure sign that the train was inching by. The screech from its whistle and clanking against the railroad tracks, so loud that it must’ve been heard over a mile away, only confirmed her guess. Her hands continued to cut smoothly through the linen fabric, separating enough to fulfill another order placed this morning. As the young woman worked to separate the colors and gather more material, the corner of her eyes caught sight of the smoke concealing her perfect view.

The train’s fading motion and clanging against the tracks was eventually replaced by chatter just outside her workshop. It all became background noise, as she began to utilize the sewing machine. Lines formed over the cloth, blending it and connecting so they formed an article of clothing. Needles, pins, and scissors cut and dug deep through the cloth. Buttons of all shapes and sizes were neatly organized in little boxes, so she could easily take what she needed. Time just seemed to fly as she worked so quietly and efficiently, oblivious to the hours ticking by. Any other noise fell on deaf ears, even as a knock resounded on the firm wooden door that happened to be wide open already.

A pause before the person tried again, knocking a little louder again. “(Y/n)?”

Snapping out of her efficient trance, the tailor snapped to attention and straightened her sitting posture. Gazing at the door and back the window where the sun was much lower than before, it took her a moment to figure out what exactly was going on and what time it was. It was later in the day, and the woman at the door was Dalena… Well, everyone called her Ma Dalena because she was a kind older lady who tended to see the young female tailors as her own children. At least, most of the tailors.

“We closed up five minutes ago. You can go now.” Ma Dalena gave an encouraging smile that displayed the dimples on her skin, showing signs of age evident by the wrinkles. Judging by her long dress and small woven handbag hanging from her wrist, it was probably safe to assume that she had evening plans. “Why not spend the rest of the day with us?”

Us. Correct she was again. As welcoming as the invitation was to join Ma Dalena and the other tailors, she wasn’t willing to join them anymore. Not after the first time when she dared to venture with them. After shifts, the tailors had a tradition of going out into town. Not that it was a bad thing. But they used their time cafe hopping, searching for flirtatious men to satisfy their need for affection. Oftentimes, they would get caught up with the pushy kind. And ever since some troops from the military have returned from their duties, well… encountering a bunch of men who hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in months, was not ideal. At least for her.

Taking her foot off the pedal to pause her work and silence the sewing machine, she pretended to consider the invitation before mustering a polite smile with a shake of her head. “Hm… It sounds nice. But I promised the client I would finish this so they can pick it up tomorrow. So I’ll stay, but have fun. Have another drink in my place, alright?”

Ma Dalena merely nodded in understanding, her polite smile turning somber as she turned on her two-inch heels and began walking to the front entrance. The chatter of the other tailors ready and eager for the rest of the day off, went quiet as she announced, “We’re leaving now. Hurry now if you’re coming!”

The chatter resumed, accompanied by the sound of more heels tapping quickly against the wooden floors in an effort for the straying members to catch up with the group. They complimented each other's outfits they spent days making by hand, discussing various fashion trends, gossiping about clients and others in town.

In a way, she did and she didn’t regret accepting the invitation. It may have been nice to have good company for once, but it never felt right when she was present within their clique. It was as if she were trying to forcefully add a puzzle piece to an already complete puzzle, which is why she stopped forcing it. She wouldn’t want to sit there awkwardly during tea, unsure what to say as they spoke so confidently and loudly. It felt as if she were an imposter, someone trying to disguise themselves to blend in. It was why she worked in a small separate room, away from everyone else. That, and because she was the fastest tailor there. Part of her wondered if Ma Dalena was beginning to dislike her since she turned down invitation after invitation. But how was she to explain what she was feeling, when it would only sound like whining?

Drowning out her thoughts with work to occupy the space in her mind, she pressed her foot against the pedal and began sewing once more. The loud hum of the machine filled her ears as it worked against the red cloth under her fingertips. This was the way it was supposed to be. Mindlessly spending her waking hours working at a craft she didn’t excel at, but was decent enough to earn wages in. All while wondering what could’ve been, and secretly hoping that maybe soon there is something that can be––

“Look! Look out there! It’s Reyes’ temple!”

“Reyes?!”

“Where? I don’t see it!”

“There! Over the hill!”

Now that was something you don’t see everyday. Everyone retreated back to the window, desperate to catch a glimpse, even Ma Dalena. Halting her work once again, (Y/n) too was the tiniest bit curious.

In truth, magicians failed to interest her, not that she had an opportunity to see them much anyways. But all those in Etére knew to be cautious of two particular magic wielders: La Bruja de Bruez, the Witch of Bruez, and Reyes Ladrón de Corazones, Reyes the Thief of Hearts. The pair were like the local boogeymen, tales of their horrendous deeds spreading and becoming bedtime stories for children in order to scare them into good behavior.

Ever since her youth, she heard stories of La Bruja de Bruez. It was said that she was a wicked woman who’s lived for over a hundred years. A slight against her is taken seriously, and she curses those she comes across. But she was no mere fairytale. The witch has been a thorn in the country’s side for a long time, as she terrorizes the towns she visits. There hasn’t been much action taken against her, because she’s so powerful that hardly anyone stands a chance and she’s so elusive. Besides, the royal family don’t particularly care if the witch curses a random citizen every month or so, as long as they don’t have to risk pawns in their own arsenal of magicians just to take her down.

Only a few years ago, a second magician with fearsome spells and a horrible reputation, appeared. Reyes Ladrón de Corazones, or more commonly known as Reyes, was another brujo many feared, although not as much as his counterpart from Bruez. There were rumors, yes, but they were more lighthearted with little evidence to ever back up the claims. While the Bruja de Bruez spared no one, it was said that Reyes chose to pursue only young beautiful women. If you asked around town, half of the population would consider him a threat, while the other half would giggle and whisper about his rumored good looks. Maybe that’s how he lured them in? With charms. Either way, he was a cause for concern. It was said that at a young age after abandoning his position as apprentice under the royal sorceress, the most powerful known magician, he not only challenged her but won and stripped her of her powers. Of course, no one can neither confirm nor deny it, as the king kept a tight lid on the situation and supposedly those who approach Reyes meet a terrible fate. But his abode was proof enough of his sheer strength. It was like a castle, a temple wandering on mechanical legs, rumored to not only be fueled by magic but also made of it.

Through the mist and low hanging clouds, just over the rolling hills on the horizon she could make out the distinct shape of a temple. A magnificent temple that appears so small from so far away. But she knew that it was a beast, a titan wandering the wilderness where very few dared to venture. It prowled around on its mechanical legs, spewing black smoke as the only trail it left behind. Reyes’ moving temple disappeared behind the clouds, seemingly vanishing from sight. Onlookers within the tailor shop could only awe and wonder aloud what the brujo was like, what was true and what was not, their minds creating horrible fears and outlandish fantasies that would take root as rumors.

Lowering her gaze back to her work, she resumed once more, but the rumors overpowered the hum of her machine until their words reached her. The other tailors proceeded back to the front entrance, marveling about what they just witnessed. Was he hiding from soldiers practicing their flights just outside the town? Did you hear that he literally steals the hearts of women, but only beautiful ones? Someone said that a pretty waitress on the other side of town had her own heart torn out and stolen by Reyes just last week!

The door was shut and she was alone, left with her work and the noise outside. Swiftly she worked, able to repair tears and wears with ease and create other things. Able to get lost in the work for much longer, until she felt the ground shake and the screech of another whistle. The afternoon train. It’s smoke covering her window once again. It was getting late already. Not wishing to waste the rest of the day by continuing work or go to bed with a book she had already read twice, she switched off the machine and organized all the tools back into their places. Brushing off all stray strings from her dress, she then rearranged her completed work thus far and prepared to have a different kind of day.

Today, she would try to make it a can be sort of day. Even if it meant just visiting a close friend like Lía at the bakery. Just putting out the effort to go out today was more than she was usually willing. Although wishing it would be something special, a proper can be day without even trying, was like wishing to be acknowledged by a person you admire but never once talked to, it was much like winging it on a test without studying and praying you would get a perfect score even though knowing that it’s almost near impossible. But it isn’t statistically completely impossible, so you cling to that thin shred of hope that’s as taut as a piece of string.

The whirring of small planes buzzed overhead, the flying machines brandishing their flags like the proud and numerous soldiers. On nearly every home and business, there was the flag hanging over the door, a symbol of patriotism and support of the war effort. (Y/n) quickly crossed the streets and reached the trolley station that would take her further into town. Right now there was not a soldier in sight, but that was sure to change the closer to the center of town she got. She only prayed that there wouldn’t be any trouble with them.

The trolleys were full, people all going towards the center of town, in the same direction the planes overhead flew towards. If she had to guess, most of the people within the trolley were likely friends or family of returning soldiers. All giddy from the victory high of a major battle just won.

While watching the scenery go by, she wondered how Lía was fairing.

It was because of Lía and her family that she now worked in a tailor shop. (Y/n)’s parents had met an unfortunate end while traveling outside the kingdom. They were doctors dedicated to a good cause, determined to stay in dangerous war torn lands to heal and treat the poorest of folks. While she was busy with school and often alone but checked on by family friends, her parents were saving people an ocean away in a faraway land where Milavi’s war had spread. They had been too close to Milavi claimed territory, likely mistaken for doctors healing rebels, and were thus punished for their good deeds. With no one left to turn to, her family’s closest friend, Señor Obregón, adopted (Y/n) and treated her as one of his own.

Señor Obregón was a quiet but respectable man that spent his time either working or with his family. He was the one that taught her how to sew, knit, and tailor, after she became curious of his skills. There were two other girls, Lía and Cova, a few years younger than (Y/n), which is why she became the oldest sibling. Lía was the beauty admired all throughout their childhood and still beloved to this day. She most resembled her mother, but she wasn’t half as vain. Cova was the youngest and somehow the smartest, as she was able to quickly grasp the concepts from lessons even in (Y/n)’s class, despite being a few grade levels apart. She mostly resembled her father and his own wits. Then there was her, (Y/n), who had… whatever was left. Of course she never held any resentment toward her sisters, since they were always well behaved but perhaps a bit annoying with their squabbles. Lastly, was Señora Obregón, Rosita, who she just called Tia Rosa for short, was never rude or dismissive to her. Tia Rosa was actually very outgoing and talkative, but she was the sort of woman that wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something from last season. She desired the finer things in life and settled for no less, which is probably why Señor Obregón ended up in an early grave due to working himself to death just to try and afford the luxuries his wife craved.

Immediately after the funeral, while they were still dressed head-to-toe in black and their eyes were puffy from crying, Rosita sat all three of her daughters for a conversation about the future. It would be impossible for her to keep them all in school, especially considering she hadn’t worked a day in her life. However, she wasn’t cruel enough to just toss her young girls out into the streets with nowhere to go. So, she devised a plan for each girl. Cova would be able to best utilize her smarts in a challenging field full of promise, which is why she was sent to a good witch in the next town over, to become an apprentice in magic. Lía was already very popular around town, she would thrive in a social environment like the bakery on main street where to this day men constantly asked for her hand. As for her, (Y/n), she would stay here in Obregón’s tailor shop, where Tia Rosa deemed was best fit. Afterall, she did know how to carry on the business, she had even helped their reputation grow substantially as more people came in every day and profits increased. Although, she hardly had the time to spend the earnings on herself, that’s what Tia Rosa was there for. Rather, never there for. She’d collect earnings from the business (Y/n) ran and would disappear for weeks or months at a time to another town or city. But that's besides the point…

By now, the trolley she was on was near the center of town that happened to be within blocks away, the streets became crowded with people walking on foot. On roads below bridges, there were lines of military tanks rolling by. Not much further in, the sidewalks were jam packed with hundreds, upon thousands, of people. Confetti rained down, banners and flags were strung from every corner and door. Every window was occupied as citizens cheered and waved at the parade of temporary victors, a show of military strength. Soldiers in their crisp uniforms marched in unified lines, cavalry on horseback carried large flags.

As the density of the crowds increased, and the volume of cheers and the parade along with it, she felt her heart beat louder. This was too much, it was too loud, she couldn’t even think…! But she had come this far, to go back home now when she was so close would be a little pathetic. Avoiding the commotion like a plague, she decided it best to take the maze of alleyways to calm her nerves. There were hardly any people on those backstreets, just the occasional stationed soldier. Focusing her gaze on the war propaganda posters on the brick and clay walls underneath window boxes filled with colorful flowers, she pretended to carefully study them as she increased her pace from a calm stroll to a quick speed walk, examining the items as if they were the most fascinating objects she ever saw. Really, she’d rather not make awkward eye contact with the soldiers on guard that watched her like a hawk, which is why she hurried along until they were out of sight.

Now that she was alone, with the crowds and their entertainment separated from her by walls of homes and businesses, she felt relief as the once loud sounds melted into background noise. For now she could concentrate on the address scribbled out on the folded piece of paper in her hands, and her anxiety could be replaced with confusion as she attempted to navigate these small hidden paths. This was only the second time she was on this path, since (Y/n) barely had time to ever go out due to work and her own incompetence. The first was on a holiday some weeks ago when the shop closed early, which granted her a few hours to venture on the main roads to the bakery where her friend worked. This was the second time, and she’s never taken the back roads, which was why she couldn’t tell left from right here.

Just in time, she looked up from her note to stop her feet from moving, as she came face-to-face with an obstacle. It wasn’t another dead end, this obstacle wore clothing and golden pins, and had a head that could easily look down from his height and see the top of her hat. Immediately she stiffened up and took a step back, hesitantly forcing her eyes to look up at the smiling soldier that casually leaned against the wall.

The young man only appeared amused as she jumped a step back in surprise. (Y/n) noticed that delighted sparkle in his eyes, as if her skittish self and startled reaction was his entertainment for the afternoon. Before she could open her mouth to mutter an apology and force her head down to continue ahead, the man leaned just a few inches closer to get a better look at her face hidden by the rim of her colorfully embroidered sun hat. “Huh, just like a mouse. Are you lost?”

A mouse… A skittish field mouse. Would that then make him a rat or a predator? Holding her tongue so not as to speak her mind, she merely shook her head. Offending a soldier would not be good. Not that she had the confidence to say the quick comeback that came to mind anyways. “No… I’m not lost.” That was a lie.

The young soldier persisted, refusing to move off the path as he continued to block her way. “You look lost. Say, what do you say to an invitation to tea? Afterwards, we can go over directions and escort you to where you’re heading.” Even his partner in patrol, an older gentleman, also a soldier but likely more experienced by at least a few years, moved from his post and approached in curiosity.

As the second man stepped closer, she could distinctly hear his polished shoes tapping in a steady rhythm as he stood beside his friend. Her own heart rate easily outpaced his steps, and it wasn’t increasing due to excitement, it was due to growing unease. Yes, she knew rationally that these soldiers likely meant no harm and merely wanted to flirt, but her mind could only conjure up the worst possible scenarios as she reminded herself that they outnumbered her, they were stronger, and they had their long firearms strapped to their backs. Keeping her head down, she replied, “Thank you, but no. I’m supposed to be meeting up with someone.”

Just like the first did, the second soldier bent down a bit to peer at her features. Just like his accomplice, he wore an amused smile as he shook his head and remarked. “A mouse? That’s not very nice. Don’t worry, you’re much better than a simple little mouse.”

Rolling his eyes, the younger soldier only continued, “If you’re old enough to drink, we can go to a bar if that’s more your style? Do you live around here?”

This was getting ridiculous. Did they never learn to accept rejection? No means no, even children could comprehend that. But for now, she was at their mercy, no one would come to help her here. It would be up to them to decide she was no use for any fun and let her go, or continue to persist for their selfish desires. “No. Please let me pass.”

Barely phased by her firm reply, the younger of the two turned to his partner and scoffed, “See? I told you the girls don’t like the beard you’re growing out. It scares them.”

It’s as if her plea went through one ear and out the other, not swaying them in even the slightest bit. The older gentleman merely rubbed the stubble on his chin, “It makes me look better. Besides, I’m sure she doesn’t mind. She might even prefer a man with facial hair.” Actually, the word gentleman did not describe him well.

In that moment she was wondering, would she truly risk it all just to snap back in reply? It must’ve felt so satisfying, but was it necessary? Later, would she come to regret her decision or revel in it? Would she seriously use this sprouting frustration, minimal not only compared to her current fears but also in the grand scheme of things, to temporarily push past her anxiety and say something…? Probably not. As annoying as these men were, like the constant buzz of a pestersome fly, they hadn’t caused any harm except to waste a bit of her precious free time.

“Ah, there you are, mi corazón. I was worried about you.” A smooth and silky voice interrupted.

#yandere #yandere guy #yandere story #yandere male #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere writing #yandere fic #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x y/n #yandere original character #how to steal a heart

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bibiwrld · 1 year ago

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Coworker Stephen Glass!— “𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚” pt.1

Pairing: Stephen Glass! x Black Fem Oc!

Content warning: Stephen Glass isn’t a manipulative liar in this, jealousy, fluff, OC is a bit of a bitch. (It’s kinda short, but I finally decided I wanted to make multiple parts for this)

Summary: A young journalist working at New Republic, wants the attention of journalist, Stephen Glass, only on her.

Mary-Anne’s POV

I watched maliciously from the blinds of my office, as Francesca got up for the 5th time to use the bathroom.

My grin got wider.

Maybe if she stopped eating my lunch from the office fridge, she wouldn’t have vomiting and diarrhea.

My officer door suddenly opened. “Mary-Anne.” His sweet voice pulled out of my conniving trance.

I remember when he first said my name.

“Mary-Anne…that’s a very beautiful name. You don’t hear names like that anymore. It really suits you.”

The first compliment he ever gave me and it’s been stuck with me ever since I started working at New Republic 2 weeks ago.

He thought it was cute that I was named after my great grandmother, and I thought it was cute how he adjusted his round glasses and ran his fingers through his dark curls as he read my notes for an article I’m planning to publish , but I couldn’t say that— he’s basically my boss.

Out of everyone in the office, Steph is the only one I could call my friend. We weren’t extremely close, but close enough to have a relationship outside of the office.

“I’ve read your work, and it’s just..amazing. A freelance journalist with your talent coming to work for New Republic, is a dream come true.”

He stroked my ego that day two weeks ago. I was a smiling and giggling mess. How could one man be so funny, charming and beautiful all at the same?

But then there was his over friendliness that I hated, he treated everyone in the office the same. Giving out compliments to all the women in the office like god damn candy.

“Did you do something with your hair? It looks gorgeous.”

“I think your necklace compliments your eyes.”

I internally rolled my eyes in disgust at my thoughts and looked at the angel before me.

Stephen Glass. Even his name was perfect.

“Something wrong, Steph?” I batted my lashes and slightly pouted my lips.

“Are you okay?” The concern in his voice matched the look on his beautiful face. He closed the door behind him, taking quick strides to my desk.

“Yeah, why do you ask?” I tilted my head to the side, fiddling with my pencil.

“Francesca seems very ill and I hope it’s not something going around, everyone in the office could get sick.”

He was such a caring guy, busy wondering if everyone was okay and comfortable. I hate him. I hate him for how kind he is, but how could I stay mad at him? That perfect face, sweet voice and charming personality, I could never do that to him.

“I’m sure she’s fine and it’s probably nothing airborne. Stop worrying yourself, Steph.” I sighed, leaning back in my seat.

His body seemed to relax at my words. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I studied his face well, he looked like he wasn’t getting any sort of sleep. His glasses weren’t hiding anything.

“When was the last time you’ve had a good 8 hours?” I leaned forward. “You look exhausted Steph, you have eyebags.”

He sighed deeply, looking away. “I’ve b-been working overtime.”

“You’re not a machine, you need sleep.” I tried hiding my anger. He was always there for everyone, but who was there for him? Not one of them, just me, and I’m fine with that.

He was mine after all.

“You’re on break, right?” I glanced at the watch on my wrist.

“Y-yeah.” He stuttered, looking back at me.

“You can take naps in here on your breaks if you want.” Maybe that was too much, but who am I to hide my attraction for him?

“Mar—”

“It can be our little secret, plus, you can’t be fired for sleeping on your break.” I slightly shrugged my shoulders. “Just a little recharge in the middle of the day and your office doesn’t have a couch, so just use mine.”

He hung his head in defeat then looked back up with a smirk. “You’re very persuasive Mary-Anne.”

It took everything in me not to bite down on my bottom lip at his words. “ I know.”

#my works💌🌷#stephen glass #hayden christensen #shattered glass #journalism #black coquette #black fem oc #office workers #co workers #the boy is mine #anakin fic #anakin fluff #anakin skywalker fanfiction

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alwritey-aphrodite · 2 years ago

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A Bitch Not A Baller

Chapter 4 of There’s Nothing Like This

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x fem!footballer!reader

Warnings: vague mentions of mental health

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: there’s slightly less Jamie in this one but it’s all about the buildup, baby!

Walking into Nelson Road for training on Monday morning, you can immediately tell the energy is different. Normally, you can hear your teammates chattering from down the hallway, but it’s nothing but silence today as you and Mackie make your way to the dressing room.

As you push the door open, you can’t help the rush of deja vu that overcomes you as you see the rest of your teammates huddled around a newspaper. You grab at it immediately, staring at the title that reads Richmond’s Bitches, and you hear a “how fucking original” from somewhere over your shoulder. You know you should drop the paper and walk away, but you can’t help the way you read further and further, your eyes darting down the page and taking in snippets of the article.

… uninspired and boring…

… upsetting to watch…

… nothing is as surprising as their win…

… exhausted excuse of a captain…

It’s with that last sentence fragment that you finally slam the paper down and turn away, heading towards your locker. Mackie is only a moment behind you, quick to place a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You are pretty exhausting,” she tells you and you can’t help but to smile at her stupid joke, knowing that was exactly what she wanted.

The rest of your team disperses as Roy storms into the dressing room from his office and snatches the newspaper off the table in the middle of the room and throws it into the trash, and it’s then that you notice the trash can is already overflowing with newspapers. You can handle one negative review, one shitty opinion of one shitty reporter, but knowing it wasn’t just the sports reporter at The Independent that has it out for you makes your stomach turn.

You knew this wouldn’t be easy, knew people weren’t lining up to support the team when Rebecca revealed no one wanted a coaching position, but the fact that reporters were giving you such blistering reviews even after a win made you want to throw up. If this is what you get when you win, what’ll the articles be like if you lost?

Roy turns back into his office and shuts the door without another word, leaving the team desperate to take your minds off of the fact that everyone seems to be hoping for your downfall.

“On a more positive note, how was your little date with Jamie?” Elena asks and you slam your head into the top of your locker in your shock and struggle to turn around.

“What are you talking about?” You ask in return, baffled at how she could possibly know you were with him yesterday and wishing the floor could swallow you up as the rest of the team stares at you with rapt attention.

“Jamie talks to Sam, Sam talks to me,” Amelia adds with a shrug, as if she’s being nonchalant despite the giant grin on her face. Really, it’s unsurprising that it’s the boys who’re spreading all this gossip around, and now it’s up to you to set the record straight.

“It was the farthest thing from a date,” you clarify, knowing the girls would never let it go if you turned and left the locker room the way you wanted to, “we wandered around Richmond and then I ate dinner by myself in my pajamas.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Mackie says as she tugs her shirt over her head, changing for practice and setting everyone else in motion as if they’d momentarily forgotten the reason you were all here. The conversation breaks off and chatter starts up around the room, but you finish changing in silence, trying to ignore the feeling of everyone’s eyes on you.

“Leave it,” you tell Mackie as you look up to see her staring at you with a disbelieving expression, as if she’s expecting you to confide in her something you wouldn’t share with the rest of the group, “we’ve barely moved up from work acquaintances.”

She just keeps staring and you can’t help but to laugh at how ridiculous she is, slapping your balled up t-shirt against her shoulder, “I promise no one could ever take your spot.” She seems pleased with this, as if Jamie Tartt could ever boot her out of your best friend position, as if spending an afternoon with anyone would dislodge years and years of happy memories, would eliminate all the memories of her.

It’s easy to be silly and playful with Mackie, but sometimes you wonder if she knows how much she really means to you. You know the deepest, darkest parts of her and she’s held you as you cried and you know she’s as close to a soulmate as you’ll ever get, but you can’t help but to wonder if she recognizes the way you care for her.

Now, though, is not the time to sit Mackie down and remind her of how special she is, so you try to focus up for training, putting all thoughts of shitty journalists and Jamie Tartt into the back of your mind. Training is as thrilling as ever, and you spend most of your time trying not to focus on the pain spreading through your foot.

While your teammates shower and change and head home, you’re grabbing your headphones from your locker and making your way to a treadmill: just because you’re in pain doesn’t mean you get to quit. You’ll do a slow-paced incline walk for an hour, an easy workout compared to what you’d typically do.

Your plans are thwarted, though, when you see Roy entering the gym only a few minutes into your walk, and you slip your headphones off as he approaches.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, coming to stop in front of you. You glance down at the treadmill before you look back at Roy.

“Walking?” Your response sounds more like a question than a statement, confusion clouding your voice.

“We all saw you fucking in pain out there, go the fuck home.”

It’s still surprising to you how embarrassed you get whenever someone points out your injury, points out that you’re walking with a limp or you seem a little slower than normal or that your face is screwed up in a wince because you thought no one would notice. Even now, when you’re putting in double the effort, trying twice as hard as everyone around you, they can still tell that you’re behind.

You want to stay, want to stand your ground and prove that you don’t need to rest, don’t need to be babied, but you feel a lump rising in your throat and you’d rather die than cry in front of Roy Kent, when anyone from the men’s team could walk past. Instead of being strong and standing up for yourself, you turn off the treadmill and duck your head and leave without saying another word to Roy, trying to keep your tears at bay.

Stuffing your headphones into your bag, you practically rip it out of your locker in your rush to leave, not even bothering to shower or change or take a second to breathe. You plow ahead, walking so fast you're practically running as you leave Nelson Road with your head ducked, and you’re wondering how far you should get from the stadium before you start crying when you run into someone.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Jamie says with a small laugh as he reaches out to steady you, his smile dropping as he notices your red-rimmed eyes and your continued sniffling, “are you crying?”

“No,” you reply, even though your voice is hoarse and you reach up to swipe at your eyes, double checking that no tears have fallen.

“Do you want a ride?” He asks then, turning slightly to survey the parking lot, as if he’s double checking that you truly don’t have a car.

“I’m fine, I’ll just walk,” you reply, even though every second you spend with Jamie makes walking home alone seem less and less appealing.

“Are you sure? Me mum always says you shouldn’t be alone when you’re feeling shitty.”

He looks hopeful, desperate to do something nice for you, to make you feel better even for a few minutes so you swipe at your eyes again and you nod in agreement, feeling lighter already when Jamie smiles at you. He opens the car door for you, slamming it shut once you’re safely inside before jogging around to the driver’s side.

There’s music playing softly, some song you don’t recognize but it isn’t unpleasant, it feels gentle and calming and perfect after the day you’d had. Jamie asks for your address before falling silent, the two of you sitting next to each other with nothing to say and it’s nice. There’s no internal push for you to fill the silence, to ask about his morning or his thoughts on the weather, you’re able to sit in a comfortable silence and it’s wonderful.

When Jamie pulls to a stop in front of your house, though, you can tell there’s a question on the tip of his tongue but he’s restraining himself for reasons unknown to you. You decide to do the polite thing and answer him anyway, the sight of his inner turmoil playing out across his face making your chest ache.

“I’m fine, really, I think I’m just tired,” you try to smile at him as if your eyes aren’t still all puffy and red.

He nods back, seemingly content with your answer and looking much less conflicted. You reach for the door handle while searching for something else to say, reluctant to leave the wonderful little bubble of Jamie’s car.

“Thanks for the ride,” is what you settle on, even though you want to thank him for everything he’s done for you, but that seems a little intense.

“Yeah, of course,” his eyes are darting around as if he’s unable to look you in the eye.

The two of you sit for another moment, the silence suddenly begging to be filled, so you say goodbye and thank him again before leaving, waving once more as you open your front door. You can’t help but lean back against the solid wood after you’d closed it, needing something to keep you upright when all you want to do is fall to the floor.

Once you feel like you’re not going to crawl onto the floor, you ignore the throbbing of your ankle and the dull pain of blooming bruises and push yourself off the door and towards the bathroom, stopping to throw your bag onto your kitchen table. A long, warm shower works wonders in calming you down, in reminding you that one bad day doesn’t mean the end of your career.

Feeling better, you heat up some of the food Elena had brought over when she’d joined you for dinner a few days earlier to reminisce on your time together at Chelsea, however brief it was. While you wait, you fire off a text to Jamie, to thank him again for the ride home, and another to Roy, to apologize for being weird and intense and a little overdramatic.

Happily in your pajamas with dinner in hand, you settle in front of the TV to watch a few hours of mindless television to turn off your brain instead of spending the night mentally beating yourself up over everything that has gone wrong today. Setting your empty dishes to the side, you check your phone, seeing texts from Keeley and Mackie and the Greyhound groupchat.

Scrolling through the notifications, the words ‘gala’ and ‘fancy as hell’ and ‘free drinks’ pop out at you, and you grow more and more confused until you reach Keeley’s message, the first one to come in a few minutes ago.

Hey babe! Just wanted to remind you of the gala Friday night - attendance is mandatory and the dress code is formal but drinks for players are free! Remember to be on your best behavior

The message closes with a winky face and an abundance of hearts, and even though your mind is spinning at the idea of buying a formal dress you can’t help but to smile at Keeley, as if she’d need to bribe any of you with free drinks, as if the team wouldn’t die for her if necessary.

You check Mackie’s message next, more to avoid the chaos of the groupchat than anything else, and it’s a demand that the two of you look for outfits after training tomorrow. Rolling your eyes, you reply with a sounds good, thanks for the option to say no before you brace yourself for checking the team groupchat.

It’s a constant stream of messages, one after the other and no time for you to read any of the previous texts. It’s mostly full of complaints and anxiety and the general desire not to go, so you know it’s your duty as captain to rally the troops despite your desire to never add onto the endless messages.

We’re doing it for Keeley, remember?

As a flood of responses come in to agree with you, you try not to become preemptively stressed about your second match on Thursday and a fancy, mandatory event on Friday. Hopefully, once you find an outfit you can push the gala to the back of your mind and focus on nothing except winning and proving everyone wrong because now that you know what people say about the team when you win, you’re determined to never lose.

Tags: @andr0medafallen @buckychristwrites @benedictscanvas @whimsical-roasting @sokkigarden @guccilongboard @onceuponaoneshot @presidential-facts @yepyeahuhhuh @loveslide @allthefandomtherapy @gibby31 @buddyjuststop @ellietartt @cancvr @brianandthemays @sonyume @aiyaiy @captainfrisbee @dalebo3 @theloud-yet-quietone @imsoluckyeverythingworksoutforme @rockchickrebel @legobatmans9thab @curlypeter @lostinwonderland314 @yokolesbianism @jamietarttdodo @fan-goddess @innocentbi-stander @skewedcherries

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt fic #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt fluff #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfiction

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b4tasquad · 2 years ago

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✭ JERSEY: GAVI

Authors note: a really short one that just came to my head and i just had to write it out. also sorry because I know most of the people following me are here for the beta squad content… and it’s coming😭

Warnings: none

…

For the past 90 minutes you had been grinning as you sat in the stands of the football match. When being invited to a Barcelona match by your cousin, the last thing you expected was to catch the eye of star player- Pablo Gavi. But exactly just that, you had managed to do.

From the moment he walked onto the pitch, getting ready to start the match, he had noticed you. It first started with occasional glances thrown between you too, but during the last minutes or so, you could see him look at you after everything he did.

Almost like he wanted to… impress you?

It was fun to say the least. He was the golden boy, with dozens of titles to his names, getting girls left and right. But he had for some reason chosen to pay attention to you, for the 90 minutes he played at least. Of course you were going to entertain it.

What you hadn’t expected once the game ended was for him to walk towards where you were getting ready to pack up and leave. You and your cousin were giggling to each other about the whole ordeal when her eyes suddenly widened at a sight behind you, as you were too busy picking up your purse from the seat.

“Y/n.” She for some odd reason whispers, and you look up questioningly. When she doesn’t answer you turn to where she’s staring and words get caught in your throat.

In front of you, a half naked Pablo Gavi was grinning as he held tightly on to his jersey. The barrier stopping the stands from the pitch made it impossible for you to stand close to each other, but he could still throw over the article of clothing easily. You heart was beating like crazy as he tossed it in your direction, a smile on your face as you got ready to catch it.

It seemed as though the universe wasn’t on your side because the jersey was snatched out of your hands the second it landed in them. With the most baffled expression, you whip your head to see a girl around your age, gripping it to her chest, a teasing smile on her face.

“Hello?” Those weren’t even the words you intended to come out, but you were just so shocked at the fact that she would take it from you like that, and smile as if she accomplished anything. “I was holding that.”

“It was obvious he threw it to me. Don’t be jealous.” Her voice almost makes you want to hurl, because it’s so high pitched. The lack of empathy in her tone angers a part of you so much, but you still try to be the bigger person.

“I think he threw it to me.”

She cackles, actually opens her mouth and lets out the loudest cackle you’re sure the whole stadium can hear echo around. “Why would he throw it to you?”

The look she gives you is nothing but mocking. Asking you why he would ever give his jersey to someone like you. Well, damn. No need for that one, you thought.

“Do you have problems digesting the most simplest things? It was obvious he threw it to her, he was legit looking at her while he did it. Stop being an insecure bitch and just walk away before you end up on the news for embarrassing yourself in front of a bunch of people.”

The girl just huffs, but still holds onto the clothing. In the midst of the situation, you had completely forgotten about Gavi. Talking about him, the guy stood with his mouth slightly open in shock, as his plan had totally not gone the way he was hoping it would go.

Seeing his troubled expression, you only shake your head with a motion of your hand to let him know it was okay. As you convince your cousin to just leave, you’re finally on your way out when you hear someone calling for you.

“Wait.” Gavi screams behind you, as he jumps over the barrier, probably breaking a few rules as he does so. He walked up to the railing and you lean down to hear him. “Do you have a pen?”

“A pen?”

He nods. “Yes, a pen.”

Rummaging trough your little hand bag you actually find a discarded pen in there. Giving it to him, you eagerly wait as he just motions for your hand. You’ve lowkey figured out what he was doing by now, but you still find some entertainment in acting clueless.

When he’s done and gives your hand a quick peck, you don’t even have to question what’s written on it. His smug expression alongside his next words telling you everything you needed to know.

“Call me.”

#gavi #Pablo gavi #Barcelona #spain national team #Spain nt #pablo martín páez gavira #fiction #pablo gavi x you #gavi x reader

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vanya-evergreen · 1 year ago

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THANK YOU FOR 100 NOTES ON HOW TO REMEMBER.💖💖

I am over come with joy by how much people have been enjoying it! I was working on the next part when I noticed haha!

So in celebration I give you a small look into the next chapter 🥳

*it might change a bit in the final draft!*

“Welcome the 9 pm GBC News, we are currently following batman and robin while they pursue-” Click

You were hanging upside down on your coach, clicking through the local news channels trying to find the best view of the chase. Your laptop was discarded besides you. It’s open to an article about Dick Grayson ‘soaring through’ the annual charity ball on the chandler when he first was adopted into the Wayne family. There were multiple other browsers open, all on the Wayne Family and their lucrative businesses and charities, along with their scandals too.

You said you would do your research.

Your attention was taken away from this ‘research’ as a new alert about Batman and Robin chasing some nameless villain, who had kidnapped some poor boy, on founders island came up. No new station could find a good angle, you were annoyed.

“Damn you!” you toss the remote to the other side of the coach, quickly you flip yourself around and get off of the coach. You mumble about how they do it on purpose, they were trying to make you read their shit article. You had to wait for social media to do its thing of supplying you with clips of your favorite heroes (well not absolute favorites). Your apartment was nothing to overlook, always seems to have been updated without you knowing. It always had the latest tech, or trendiest look. You have been rich for 7 years now and still can't seem under it.

You walk over to the floor to ceiling windows, looking down you see people walking home or to a club, taxis and cars driving in opposite directions. Slowly the news faded to the back of your mind.

Nights in Gotham were always busy, especially near Old Gotham. It was rich with history and culture, and also money too. When you first woke up in this world you wanted to visit every place possible. You went to museums, office buildings, the GCDP nearby, and shops you had never even heard of. You used to stand out on the corner of the street watching the luxury cars pass by, while your ‘Assistant’, Val Miller, carried bags from the toy store you frequented, or the candy stores you couldn’t help but indulge in. Yo had never really had a childhood, but looking back you weren't as grown as you thought. You looked up at the neighboring building, the neon lights danced in your eyes. There was one that always caught your eye.

You went into that office building, or what you know as Wayne tower, once. You were dressed like a typical kid or preteen, you wouldn’t stop looking at all the expansive interior. The front desk workers thought it was the funniest thing that a kid was excited to be there. They gave you a small tour of the base floor level and let you answer some calls. It was great for you. You were just a kid when you came here, and even now you are just a kid. Everything was new and shiny to you.

This place is a far cry from your home near the east end of gotham. There was a high rate of villain bases and criminal activity in your area. While it wasn’t the safest environment for you as a child, it is what you knew. It’s where you learned to survive, how to live. So you tried your best to protect your small place of peace, your shabby second floor apartment. Full of splitters waiting to happen and ready to cause a concussion at any moment, it was far from ideal, but it had running water, gas, and occasional heat. You lived with your mother, she was a brilliant flash of light in the darkest corner of Gotham, but she wasn't alway there for you. While she wasn't the perfect mother, she did what she could with what she had for the both of you.

#batfam #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #dc x reader #batman #batfamily #dcu #dc universe #dc comics #x you #x reader

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vaultedoverthehorse · 4 months ago

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the greatest thing we’ve lost

Notes: this is too long for tumblr…ANYWAYS. Enjoy the first part :) the rest is linked below.

The bustling sounds of New York City were music to his ears.

He enjoyed the constant barrage of people in all directions, the constant hum of taxis and buses roaring down the street, the opening and shutting of store doors all down the street.

His feet carried him to the small coffee shop he frequented often. It was off to the side, a mom-and-pop shop where the workers were all related in some way or another. In his opinion, it had the best coffee in the city.

He’d been there often enough that the barista knew his name. She was pretty, her wavy blonde hair and deep blue eyes making her look like a model. Her smile was warm as she greeted him.

“Hey, Michael!” Her cheery voice rang through the quiet shop. “I’m assuming to-go?”

Michael nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Got a big article to write. Thanks, Peggy.”

Peggy smiled, grabbing a cup. “No problem! I’m excited to read that piece when it’s done. You should come in some time and show it to me.”

Michael had a small inkling she might be interested in him. She’d always talk to him, more than any other guests. And she always hinted that she wanted to spend time with him outside of the small interactions they shared. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued, but his heart belonged to a town far away, and he didn’t want to hurt her by giving her something that belonged fully to someone in his past.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He assured her, knowing full well he didn’t want to. She seemed to understand, but it didn’t damper her spirits. She handed him his coffee with her usual flourish, handing him a small pastry as well.

“I didn’t pay for-“

“I know,” she cut him off softly. “Just wanted you to have it.”

He muttered his thanks as he took his goods. He didn’t have time to waste, so he started his walk back to his apartment. It was a small, one bedroom where he lived with the cat he’d rescued his first night in the city. She was brown and white, with big black eyes. He’d named her Goldie.

He pushed the door open, Goldie meowing at him as he walked in, he chuckled softly, setting down his coffee and croissant.

“Hey, I was only gone for ten minutes!” Pony scooped up his cat, petting her under her chin. He adored this cat more than he would admit to anyone ever. He set her down on the floor, picking his coffee back up. The dessert would sit for a while, until whatever friend stopped by took it. He never really grew out of his small appetite. Just like he never grew out of his fear of cold water and his addiction to cigarettes.

Pony took a seat at his desk, his notebook open on its surface. He worked as an editor for a local newspaper, and he had a big piece that needed to be finished by the next day. The paper sat on one side of his notebook, his pens on the other. He took a sip of his coffee and got to work.

Pony could lose himself in editing. He loved it. It was his escape from the world, his personal recluse he could go to anytime. And he could get paid doing it.

He worked for hours, only stopping to pet Goldie when she came begging for attention. He didn’t plan on stopping, but the phone ringing caught his attention. He groaned, assuming it was someone from work. He picked up the phone, a grumpy tone to his voice.

“…hello?”

“Ponyboy?”

He stopped. Nobody had called him that in years. When he’d met his college roommate Tim, he’d made the split second decision to go by his middle name, and once he was out of college he had it legally changed. The voice on the other side of the phone wouldn’t know that. The familiar musical tone of his brother’s voice made him feel both nostalgic and guilty. He hadn’t been good about calling - in fact, he hadn’t talked to either of his brothers in eight months.

“Sodapop? How have you been.” The smile could be heard through the phone. Pony loved his brothers, he really did, but life got away from him at times.

“It’s been…look, Pone, something bad happened.” The blood in Pony’s veins ran cold. He felt like he might pass out. Soda sounded bad, worse than he’s ever heard him.

“…what happened? It’s not-“

“It’s Dar. He’s…I’m sorry, Pone, he’s gone.”

Pony’s world seemed to be coming crashing down. That can’t be true, Superman can’t die! But Darry Curtis wasn’t Superman. He was his brother. And his brother could die.

Pony’s vision blurred as he stared at the wall blankly. This couldn’t be real. He…no. If he called Darry’s work he’d be fine, they’d tell him he was working a shift.

“…Pone?” Soda’s soft, grief-filled voice brought him back. Pony wiped his eyes.

“When?” He couldn’t say much. He felt sick. God, he hadn’t even seen Darry in five years. He was a terrible brother.

“Two days ago. Roofing accident.” His brother’s voice broke, and the line went quiet for a few minutes as he collected himself. “The funerals in a week. I get it if-“

If you don’t want to come.

“I’ll be there.” Pony’s voice was quiet yet determined. He messed up while his brother was still here - he wouldn’t miss his funeral, too.

“Thanks, Ponyboy. That…that means a lot.” The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Neither of them knew what to say.

Pony suddenly remembered the first time he’d called home after moving to the city. It had been almost a year, he’d been so busy that phoning home had fallen down his priorities. He’d been talking for a while about his new job when Darry interrupted him.

“Glory, Pony, you sound different.”

And he did sound different. He’d lost his southern accent over the years, instead forming a slight northeastern one.

Pony wondered if that was the first sign of him backing away from his brothers completely.

“Soda, I’ll take the first flight home. I swear, I’ll be there. I’ll be there in the morning.”

Soda’s sigh was barely picked up by the receiver. “Okay, honey. I missed you a lot.”

“I missed you too.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62161891

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testingthewatersss · 1 year ago

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I never lost him Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, etc. Just unapologetic cuddling and comfort ft. Steve Rodgers. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Chapter 8 2560 words fluff, angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI Post TWS Steve realises that he's not the only one looking for Sargent Barnes. Reader is Tony’s sister, a non-enhanced shield agent who recently resurfaced.

“That went great” Y/N says instantly, "Well done, Buck"

The praise washes over him like water, soothing the frayed edges of his soul like a balm.

He relishes in the soft swell of affection for a moment, nuzzling down into her embrace until he feels like he might be able to speak without his voice cracking;

“‘days not over yet, doll” he murmurs eventually, “’s only the afternoon— still plenty of time for me to ruin’ it”

“Don’t be ridiculous” she counters, “You’re here, with me— there’s no way you could ruin anything.”

He scoffs, holding onto her a little bit tighter.

Y/N can feel the way he’s clinging onto her waist with both of his hands, clutching onto her t-shirt like a child who’s afraid of being abandoned.

Her heart is aching, behind her ribs. He’s clearly trying to catch up with the reality of everything that’s just transpired, and she doesn’t really know if she can do anything to help.

Holding him seems to be doing something, at least.

So, she decides to just keep doing that, stroking circles across the back of his ribs.

“I can’t believe he went to the deli dressed like that” she murmurs, “I bet it makes the news.”

He smiles a little at that, small and hidden against her shoulder.

“He… he wasn’t wearin’ his dog tag”

That hurts.

It hurts more than she’d have expected it too.

“I asked him where it was” she tells him, “He says he lost it, y’know? In the ice”

That sounds reasonable, he’d been prepared for a similar answer, but, she doesn’t sound sure. There’s something about her tone, that makes him furrow his brow;

“You don’t think he did?”

“I might be wrong” she sighs, “but, I could’ve sworn I saw it in one of Peg’s old boxes”

It’s why I recognised yours so quickly, she thinks.

“If… If it was in Peggy’s stuff, maybe he did lose it, but she, she found it?”

“Maybe” Y/N agrees, “Or maybe I never saw it at all”

‘Excuse me, boss’ FRIDAY inserts politely, ‘But Bucky is right, I can confirm that when Captain Rodgers was first brought to SHEILD headquarters he was booked in, and his dog tag was noted along with his compass and original suit in the documentation regarding his personal belongings.’

That catches her attention, she tilts her head and hums,

“Was… was he awake when you brought him here?”

‘No’ FRIDAY replies, ‘He remained frozen until our medical officers felt confident in their ability to bring him round without complication’

“But he had it on him when he arrived?” Y/N cuts in, wanting to clarify, “Do you have any record about where it went?”

‘Yes, boss.’ the AI agrees, ‘And whilst there is no official mention of the article after that initial reference, I can use the archived security footage to speculate that Agent Carter may have retrieved it from him during one of her regular visits.’

Oh—

“Well there we go…” Y/N murmurs, stroking Bucky’s back again, “…mystery solved.”

“She…” Bucky says, clearing his throat, “… Y’think she took it?”

“Probably” she sighs, “she loved him, it’s not a stretch to think she’d want to try and keep a piece of him close, ‘specially… ‘specially when she realised that he probably wouldn’t be wakin’ up any time soon.”

Bucky thinks that’s awfully sad.

Sometimes he forgets how unfair fate was to Steve. He forgets that it wasn’t just him who lost everything in ice.

“I think we should get it back to him, don’t you?”

Y/N’s voice makes his head lift up, away from the crook of neck.

He’s starring at her, trying to read wether or not she’s being serious.

“You… you think we can?”

“Of course we can” she chuckles, stroking his cheek, “Baby, if Peggy kept it then it’s here— After she died a lot of her stuff was archived, y’know, for security— Tony and Sharon agreed that the tower was the best place for her personal belongings, since it’s real easy to protect, and, if I saw it before got scooped up, then I’d wager it’s still exactly where it was back then.”

“So” he murmurs, “We… We really could get it for him?”

“Sure” she says, “We can go grab it ourselves, or I can ask Tony or Nat to go and find it?”

His face shifts into something terribly conflicted. For a moment, she thinks that he might speak, but instead, he just ducks his head back down into her shoulder, burying his face against her like hiding might erase the burn of shame he’s experiencing because he just can’t volunteer himself to go and retrieve it himself.

It doesn’t.

Her arms wrapping back around across his body helps though.

So does the way she presses her lips against the top of his head, hushing him before she says,

“FRIDAY, can you message Natasha discretely for me? Do it in Russian so she knows it’s private— ask her to go down to the archives and use my override to get into the safe in room 12, tell her that I think the tag is somewhere between boxes 1-8 under one of Peg’s old dresses. When she’s got it, ask her to bring it up here, don’t let Rodgers see.”

‘Yes, boss’

“I- I’m sorry” she hears Bucky whisper, voice melting against her throat, “I just can’t-“

“It’s okay” she soothes, “Baby, it’s fine, Nat loves snoopin’ around down there, she’ll get it for us, and then you can double check, make sure it’s right before you give it to him.”

“Before-“ he gulps, “before I give it to him?”

“well, yeah” she says, smiling, “Sweetheart, unless you don’t want too?”

“I- I do” he blurts out urgently, “I-I just, thought maybe you-”

“No, baby” she murmurs, “I think it’ll mean more if it’s you.”

‘Ms Romanoff is on her way to the archives now, Boss— she asked me pass on a message to Bucky on her behalf’

“Oh?” Y/N scoffs, pressing another kiss against his head, “What message would that be?”

‘Dobro pozhalovat' domoy, serzhant’

Welcome Home, Sergeant.

That makes a smile bloom across her face.

The recorded greeting being laced with a genuine tone of kindness is enough to make her affection towards her old friend swell in her chest.

“She… Is, is that her voice?”

‘Yes, Bucky- I can relay messages to anybody you like.’

“Could you reply for me? could… could you tell her ‘Thank you, and I- I’m sorry, for— for fightin’ you, and for- for shootin’ you back… back in Japan.”

“Sure I will.”

“Sweetheart” Y/N says, “you know she’s not angry, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter” he counters weakly, “It doesn’t matter if she’s angry, doll, I— I’m still sorry.”

The silence that follows doesn’t last long, but it’s still long enough for his words to make Y/N’s chest ache again.

“C’mere” she purrs, settling herself back against the arm of the couch, guiding him up, so he’s back in position between her thighs, “Grab that blanket, baby, are you sure you’re not hungry?”

He lets one of his hands snake out so he can pull the covers out from underneath his legs, whispering out an “I- I can eat if… if you want me to?” as he passes it to her.

“It’s not up to me” Y/N says, arranging the quilt across his back, “what do you want?”

“…To stay here for awhile?…”

He means in her arms. He means against her chest, where he finally feels safe, and there isn’t a single thing in the world that could convince her to prise him away. Not with the way he’s looking at her, wide eyed and touch-starved.

“Then you can stay here awhile.” she tells him, one hand snaking up to cup his cheek, “You can stay right here for as long as you want”

“Excuse the interruption, but Miss Romanoff has sent a reply, Bucky, would you like to hear it now, or shall I store it for later playback?”

Bucky’s eyes widen for a moment, and he pushes back into Y/N’s hand as he gulps;

“Can I- Can I hear it now?”

‘Ofcourse—

Zabud' ob etom. Vy byli pervym chelovekom, kotoryy ustroil mne dostoynyy boy za desyat' let. My provedem match-revansh, kogda tebe stanet luchshe.’

Forget about it. You were the first person to give me a decent fight in a decade. We'll rematch when you're feeling better.

There’s a laugh in her tone that makes Y/N scoff, eyes rolling as her old friends voice floods the space.

“See?” she whispers, pressing a kiss against his lips, “Don’t worry about Nat”

His smile is tight and anxious, and she can tell he wants to hide again, so she reminds him that he doesn’t need to reply, and that is when he surrenders, nodding and retreating to her chest.

“We’ll eat later” she says, “You, you just get comfy, it’s been a hell of a mornin’…”

It has, it has been a hell of a morning.

“I love you” is the response he settles on, “I- I love you so much”

That makes her laugh, but it’s sweet, it’s happy and girlish, and he’s beaming into the skin of her throat.

“Baby boy” she coos, “I love you more.”

“’s not possible” he counters, because he can’t not, “doll, It… it’s like you hung the damn moon”

“We’ll argue it out another day” she whispers, feeling him sagging against her, “you’re exhausted.”

He is, he is exhausted, he’s emotionally drained and the heat from her body is drawing him in, making it easy for his breathing to synchronise with hers, deep, and slow.

His eyes are closed and her fingers are in his hair.

God, he feels like the luckiest man alive.

and then, he’s asleep again.

Y/N spends more time showering him in gentle touches, this time. She plays with the curls that are hanging loose across the back of his neck. She presses her lips against his brow and then finally drapes one arm across the back of waist so that she can pull up the STARK internship paperwork that she’d mentioned filling out earlier with the other.

In two hours, it’s early evening and she’s half way through the file.

In three, she’s still half way through, but now Natasha has let her know that she has the dog tag, and she can bring it up whenever.

Now might be the best time, she considers, whilst he’s sleeping— maybe we can avoid another introduction.

She relays her thoughts to FRIDAY who quietly, and politely agrees with her theory, and tells her that ‘Ms Romanoff will be with her in a few moments.’

It’s been just over five minutes when Natasha lets herself into Y/N’s suite.

Unlike Steve she’s used to dropping by, so, there isn’t any cause for her to stop to survey her surroundings.

That is, until she spots her best friend, curled up on her couch with the very same super-solider that had been deemed as ‘HYRDA’s most dangerous weapon’ passed out between her thighs.

That is definitely worth a double take.

Y/N’s eyes roll at the look on her face, and she uses her free hand to beckon her towards her,

“He’s sleeping—” she tells her helpfully, “— and thank you for finding it so quickly”

The dog tag is already in her outstretched palm. Natasha’s smile is curious more than anything else, so Y/N finds herself mirroring it, quirking a brow and murmuring out a “what?” that makes the other woman chuckle, quiet and tempered into the air between them;

“This isn’t just a hook-up is it?”

“No” she replies, “No, I don’t think it is.”

The red-head nods, and her face morphs into something only approving.

“You met him whilst you were away?” she checks, waiting for Y/N to nod before she continues, “So you’ve been, together, for awhile?”

“Yeah” Y/N agrees, “better part of 5 years.”

“Well” Nat sighs, “I hope he deserves you.”

“He does” she’s quick to tell her

“good” the other woman replies, “if you trust him, then that’s good enough for me, just let him know that if he breaks your heart then it won’t just be Tony he has to watch out for.”

That makes Y/N snort, childish and happy as she nods, curling her fingers through Bucky’s hair again.

“Speaking off” Natasha murmurs, “Is he okay? With this whole thing?”

“I think he’s more than okay” she says, “Honestly, I didn’t expect him to be so good about it, y’know? but he’s really gone out of his way to make this easy on us.”

“He can probably tell how happy you are” she replies, “and if somethin’ happens and you need me then-”

“I know you’ve got my back” Y/N swears, “You always have, Nat- ya tebya lyublyu”

I love you

A genuine smile blooms across the red-heads face. She’s beaming as she leans in to press a kiss on Y/N’s brow, and she’s still sporting the same grin when she starts towards the door.

“Do you think he’ll mind if I stop by tomorrow?”

“I don’t know” Y/N says honestly, “I doubt it? If he isn’t ready then I’ll slip out and catch you before training”

And then she’s gone, and Y/N finds herself tucking the dog tag into her pocket so that she can return her attention to the papers she’d been working on before.

Bucky doesn’t stir for another hour. By then she’s actually almost finished. She’s so focused on the task at hand that she only notices he’s awake when he moves, rolling onto his side so he can peer at the glowing hologram she’s typing on.

“Hey, love” she purrs, “Sorry, I thought I’d try and get this finished whilst you slept.”

“Don’t be sorry, doll” he replies, voice cracking with disuse, “Have I been out long?”

“3 hours, maybe 4?” Y/N answers, looking at the clock, “it’s about 8 now, Nat’s been and gone.”

That catches his attention, he paws at his eyes, and then at his chin, all whilst using his metal arm to support his weight so he can stare at her face.

“What?” she presses, typing the final sentence of her conclusion with impressive speed, “Did you want me to wake you?”

“No” he admits, “I- I just didn’t think she’d be able to find it so quick”

The papers are finished so Y/N hits submit, dismissing the screen with a flick of her wrist so that she can give him her full attention.

“It wasn’t hidden” she reminds him calmly, “Do you want to see it?”

His lip quirks as he nods.

She shifts her hips pulling the silver, age-stained trinket out of her pocket before letting the charm drop, so that its where he can reach out and grab it.

He does, turning it over in his flesh fingers as his eyes scan the engravings again and again.

“Is it the right thing?” she wonders, already suspecting from the look on his face that it is, “I’m pretty sure, but-”

“Yeah” he says, “Yeah, it- it’s right— can I give it to him now?”

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | x | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

#bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barns x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky fanfic #the winter soldier x you #fluff #x reader #drabble #series #BBneverlosthim

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pinkacadessays · 1 year ago

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Jackie, Marilyn, and Elle: Comparing and Contrasting two ICONS to remind us that Warner was WRONG

Too BLONDE?? An Introuction

Elle Woods’ iconic journey in Legally Blonde is prompted by Warner Huntington III breaking up with her.The comments made are how Warner needs to be “serious,” and the deep blow of how if he’s to be a senator, he needs to marry “a Jackie, not a Marilyn.”

While in the musical, the scene adds an implication that Warner thinks Elle is “tacky,” Elle’s thought process leads her to summarise Warner’s viewpoint as being that Elle is “too blonde.”

Warner sees Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy as being two polar opposites- one the sultry actress knows for ‘bimbo’ film roles, and the other the respectable wife of the President of the United States.

But Elle can’t fathom differences between these women aside from their appearance.

Let us analyse what can be compared and contrasted between two iconic women.

In the climax of Legally Blonde, Elle discovers that Chutney Wyndham is the real perpetrator due to her knowledge of hair care. As Elle notes, “any Cosmo girl would’ve known.” It is Elle’s feminine knowledge that guides her to victory in her very first trial. With that in mind, let us examine the feminine knowledge of Marilyn and Jackie as our real-life role models to Elle Woods, and uncover just why she sees so little difference between these fascinating women.

A note before we begin: this is not a competition. But Warner sees it that way, and the purpose therefore is to remind him just how wrong he is.

Marilyn Monroe: Political Powerhouse

Firstly, Marilyn Monroe is known to most as either the glamorous actress of 1950s films- such as the notorious Gentlemen Prefer blondes, which certainly could have influenced Elle’s mindset, especially with the pink drama of the Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend sequence. Others may know her from regularly recreated images, such as her holding her blowing-up skirt from The Seven Year Itch, or the pop art portrait by Andy Warhol.

Either way, the most prominent images in the heads of many in regards to Marilyn Monroe are glamorous, sexy, feminine- and blonde and pink, of course.

Famously, like Elle, Marilyn’s femininity and sex appeal lead her to being boxed into roles of the comedic blonde bombshell, though the fought to be out of her typecasting.

After the success of “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” and “How to Marry a Millionaire,” Marilyn was offered what would have been a third ‘dumb blonde’ in “The Girl in Pink Tights,” she not only refused, but CNN’s article ‘How Marlyn took the male-led film industry and flipped it on its head” notes that she reportedly labelled it “Trash.”

In that same article, Mira Sorvino is quoted. “She was the main attraction,” the actress notes, saying “she was the reason people flocked to the theatre. So it was insane that she wasn’t in a more powerful position in terms of salary.” The reference here is to Marilyn’s discovery that Frank Sinatra, her would-be co-star in “The Girl in Pink Tights” was offered $5000, while Marilyn was offered $1,500- a third of Frank’s pay.

The article points out that Marilyn’s contract was changed after the snub, showing Marilyn to be valuing her feminine charm and wiles that made her studio so much money and garnered them so much attention. Is this why Warner does not wish for Elle to see Marilyn as aspirational, given she was something of an upstart?

Not to mention, Warner doesn’t seem like the biggest advocate for equal pay…

A lesser-known contribution that Marilyn made to her society was in the civil rights movement, drawing attention to Ella Fitzgerald.

The Biography article by Sara Kettler titled “Ella Fitzgerald and Marilyn Monroe: Inside Their Surprising Friendship” opens with a photo of the songstress and the starlet smiling together in conversation. Kettler notes how Marilyn helped Ella get a gig in Mocambo, the famous LA nightclub. Marilyn “promised to come every night” that Ella was booked, and to “bring along other celebrities.” With this promise of publicity, Ella was granted several weeks employment at the famous club.

Kettler also notes that, despite Ella’s success, some clubs would hire Ella, but still have her enter through the side door “due to the colour of her skin.” In order to combat such prejudice, Marilyn “refused to go inside unless both she and Fitzgerald were allowed through the front doors.

Marilyn may not have been dying on the front lines of the civil rights movement, but she was using her status to forward the career of someone directly affected by said movement.

Marilyn used a name built as a blonde bombshell in order to be an influential activist, just as Elle Woods being a Cosmo girl is what won her her first legal trial.

Have we emphasised enough that Warner doesn’t know his rear end from his elbow when it comes to powerful women? Perhaps Warner doesn’t want a Marilyn, not because she’s blonde, but because she was an upstart who knew her own mind and fought to make her own way in the world. Is that just too much for him to handle?

Jackie Kenney: First Lady of Fashion

On the side of Jackie Kennedy, later Jackie Onassis, she is of course best known due to her time as First Lady of the United States. She was from a respectable family, studied French literature in university, and is perceived largely as classy, elegant, and educated. To this day, she is cited as an image of grace, with This week in Libraries magazine writing “In the realms of elegance, poise, and grace, one name reigns supreme- Jackie Kennedy.”

While Jackie’s other accomplishments are not to be overlooked, let us focus on traditionally feminine aspects of life that she has embodied to remember the value of both aspects of her, and of Elle.

As Vogue writes, “Before Jackie graced the halls of the White House, she trod those of this very magazine,” referring to her job as junior editor of Vogue, immediately showing that, like Elle, Jackie not only had political potential, but fashion icon potential early on in her life.

It should be noted that Jackie “quit by mid-morning,” as the environment was not suited to her goals, however, she is still heavily associated with the magazine as she contributed to salvaging the Temple of Dendur, which has played host to the Met Gala, as noted by Vogue.

This Week in Libraries also notes Jackie as a “Style Icon,” praising her boucle suits, pearls, and, of course, her pillbox hats- the latter being described as “synonymous with her name.”

It’s also not just her connection with Vogue that cements Jackie’s name in the world of fashion, as countless articles have addressed her style as “timeless” or “iconic,” so why exactly does Warner have such an issue with committing to a woman with a degree in fashion merchandising?

Town and Country’s list “11 Brands Jackie Kennedy Loved” notes how Gucci named the Jackie bag after her, and I wish for that kind of influence for Elle Woods, which I thibk highlights just how much of an influence that Jackie would have potentially had on Elle.

Warner, your Jackie was in front of you all along.

And of course, while steeped in tragedy, it is nonetheless fair to say that one of the most iconic images of Jackie is of her pink suit on the day of her husband’s assassination. Loathe to overlook the horrors of such an event, but be that as it may, it emphasises that Jackie Kennedy is just as pink and pretty as Marilyn Monroe.

In the Legally Blonde sequel Red, White, and Blonde, Elle even sports a tribute to this suit, which really sends home how far Warner is from the mark.

On that note, let us now discuss beautiful pink outfits worn by Jackie to intensify how connected Jackie can be to Elle. Firstly, the aforementioned suit became an iconic moment of defiance as Jackie bore the bloodstains, cited as saying “let them see what they’ve done.”

She also had a similar sleeveless suit designed by Oleg Cassini, as well as a matching coat and hat worn in New Delhi.

One of her other beautiful pink moments was a floor length, strapless Dior gown worn with white opera gloves. Other pink outfits include a dress with a unique pink bow detail by Joan Morse, and a high-collared suit by Oleg Cassini. The point here is not to simply list pink outfits, but to remind us that a woman- such as Elle- can be fashionable, elegant, and bright pink, AND be a force of change.

Elle Woods knows that Marilyn and Jackie had it all: fashion girl status, and cultural and political know-how; and frankly, it’s lucky for her that Warner knew less about these iconic women than she did.

Always have Faith in Yourself

And to my masculine girls, you’re the real winners here, because Warner would probably be threatened by your vibes. Not only are you valid, but take comfort in not attracting Warner Huntington III.

Let us remember to value our own self worth, just as Elle did when she shows us all how valuable she could be- and she did it in a playboy costume.

WE DID IT!! To Conclude

In conclusion, my place is not to overlook one woman, or pit her against another; it is not to overlook one woman’s achievements and put them against the achievements of another woman; it is not even to claim traditional femininity as a pinnacle of achievement, or to explore what it means to be a feminist, or anything so grandiose.

My intention here is just to remind us all, whether we relate more to the story of a Marilyn or a Jackie, to always have faith in ourselves, and to always remember that the Warner Huntington III we have in our own lives is a bonehead.

#essay #pink academia #pinkacademic #pink academic essays #elle woods #legally blonde #marilyn monroe #jackie kennedy

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basu-shokikita · 2 years ago

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Kloktober 2023 Day 20

Original character or self-insert

I'm not much for OC content but I do have an OC called Molly Rttengerlrtn that I created at the beginning of the year. And today's prompt is a great opportunity to introduce more people to her :) She's a silly little girl. <3

Below is an illustration of Molly, drawn by my friend! This entry also features his OC, Klokateer N°479 :D

It had started so long ago. Four years ago and 6 months with 2 weeks and 1 day to be exact. Molly had been dragged by her friends to this metal band, Dethklok or something. Apparently they were big but Molly wasn’t really into metal. She liked vaporwave music and 8-bit music, so when Dethklok started playing, she was convinced it wasn’t for her.

In her boredom, she tried to hunt for any signs of homoeroticism within the band. If she wasn’t going to enjoy the music, at least she could try to entertain herself with some good old fanservice.

Unfortunately, these Dethklok guys were really devoted to their instruments, barely paying attention to each other. Vocalist and guitarist were such a classic duo with lots of tension in between them, however neither the huge black-haired guy or the tall blonde seemed to care about anything besides looking hardcore as hell.

She did notice, however, that there were two guitarists in the band, which piqued her interest just a little bit. Wasn’t sharing instruments totally gay? It also, sort of seemed like the brunet guy was copying the poses of the tall blonde, though she wasn’t sure. From then on, she zoomed in on the guitarists and stopped paying attention to fuck-else.

And then, the blonde one started playing a solo and she could not help but gasp. No, she didn’t care about the solo, that wasn’t the point. It was the fact that the brunet was looking at the blond with almost bitterness in his eyes. Bitterness and…jealousy? The brunet looked away and Molly could not be entirely sure because of the distance but she could’ve sworn he had rolled his eyes. And she felt it.

Like the second coming of Jesus.

Like the ascension to Nirvana.

She had found her new life’s purpose.

And it was…to ship these two guys!

From then on, it had all happened so fast. She urged her friend to tell her more about them and learned that their names were Skwisgaar and Toki, and that they were Scandinavians. She also learnt that Skwisgaar was the band’s womanizer and also the most popular amongst women. On the other hand, Toki was the youngest band member and also regarded as ‘the cute one’. All this information was incredibly fascinating and only fed her growing obsession.

When she got home, she started watching band interviews and found out that Skwisgaar and Toki’s English was pretty poor and that Skwisgaar was quite arrogant vs Toki’s more friendly manner. She took notes, she studied it all. 8 hours of footage and no sleep later, Molly felt like she was starting to get a grasp of these guys. However, the music was a fundamental part of their relationship so she started listening to her albums. Turns out, it was a lot more bearable now that she was doing it with a specific goal in mind. And, man, was the way their guitars complemented each other absolutely gay.

She kept researching for the rest of the weekend: theories, fanforums, articles, random comments under their performance videos, anything she could find. She even found out there was an already shipping fanbase and that the name of the pairing was Skwistok.

On Monday morning she faked having a fever so she didn’t have to go to school. As soon as her mother left the room, she grabbed her laptop and started typing furiously. A few hours later, Molly posted her first Skwistok fanfiction online. It was a short little story about Toki having a secret crush on Skwisgaar. It was a massive success, with commenters asking for more and linking to their own stories and drawings.

She had found her people.

From then on, Molly kept writing more and more and befriending fellow Skwistoks, with whom she shared her own theories and ideas about the nordic guitarists. SSoon enough, she realized the Skwistok community was not only pretty big, but also that a lot of them lived in California. And so, Molly decided to found the first Skwistok club ever, based in LA. They met every second Sunday of the month to discuss their findings and artworks.

Life continued, some of them grew apart, some of them died (Dethklok fans died a LOT during concerts), but new people joined too. Molly finished high school and got a part job at a smoke shop while taking Scandinavian studies during the day. Even when life was busy, she always had time for Skwistok.

One day, while looking at her commenter’s section on her latest fic, she noticed someone under the name of ‘anon479’ had written the following:

Hey skwistokfujo420

Your works are great.

I have something you might like.

Message me.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Molly immediately opened the commenter’s profile and wrote him a ‘hi :3’. Less than 10 minutes later, 479 replied to her, claiming to be Klokateer for Dethklok and that he could give him inside information on Skwisgaar and Toki if she agreed to write really specific stories about Murderface.

Understandably skeptical, Molly asked for proof that he indeed worked for the most famous band in the world. 479 shortly after sent her a picture of Toki’s underwear drawer and Skwisgaar sleeping in the infamous Mordhaus hot tub, guitar on his lap. He claimed that he was putting his life at risk with this, but he was truly desperate.

It was a no-brainer, Molly accepted and 479 sent a long detailed list of kinks that he wanted to see Murderface subjected to. In exchange, he would report any interaction between Skwisgaar and Toki he had witnessed, as well as send any pictures she wanted. Molly asked why he had chosen her out of the hundreds of Dethklok shippers out there and 479 said that he had been scurrying the fandom for a long time but didn’t like any of the Murderface content she saw. In his desperation, he had started reading stories of other ships. When he stumbled with one of Molly’s fics, he grew enamored with how perfectly in-character he was, and thus decided to deposit all his dreams and hopes in her. Molly was flattered, but mostly she felt very lucky.

And like that, started the most productive business relationship of Molly’s entire life. They talked every two weeks, in which Molly would deliver her latest story featuring Murderface and a brand new kink, while 479 would dump all the footage he had been able to collect, as well as gossip on Skwisgaar and Toki’s lives. It was fascinating really, she was now able to see facets of the men that she would’ve never gotten to otherwise. Evidently, it affected her writing as her characterization now had to take in account Skwisgaar and Toki’s behavior behind the public lens. She didn’t tell anyone where she was getting it, though, both because she knew they wouldn’t believe her and also because she didn’t want to share.

Eventually, 479 and Molly became friends too, casually chatting about their everyday lives.

skwistokfujo420: yoooo

anon479: Hello.

skwistokfujo420: whatcha up 2

anon479: Just cleaning some coworker’s blood. He got accidentally impaled by Sir Toki last night.

skwistokfujo420: oh noo :((

skwistokfujo420: was he cute while doing it at least? :3

anon479: He panicked for about 30 seconds until Murderface tripped with the blood. And then they all started making fun of him.

skwistokfujo420: LOL

anon479: It gave me a new idea for a story.

skwistokfujo420: oh??

anon479: I’ll send the concept later.

skwistokfujo420: oki

skwistokfujo420: a costumer just said my skwistok shirt is rlly cool :3

anon479: Is it the purple one?

skwistokfujo420: nop, the pink one

anon479: Oh…the purple one is my favorite.

anon479: I gotta go, Sir Nathan is screaming that his chips are too salty.

skwistokfujo420: bye bye!

anon479: Talk to you later.

Molly put her phone back in her pocket and glanced at the time. With delight, she realized her shift was almost over, so she packed her things and waved his coworkers goodbye.

The customer that had praised her shirt earlier was sitting at a bench right by the entrance. She waved at Molly, walking up to her in a hurry. “Hi, I wanted to ask you about something, if that’s ok.”

Molly raised her eyebrows and then readjusted her glasses. “Sure.”

The girl glanced to the sides and then leaned in to say. “I’m a Skwistok shipper too…” She pulled back hesitating before talking again. “I heard there’s a group in LA…do you know anything about it?”

Molly’s face turned solemn. “I might. But I need to make sure you’re not a spy.” Over the years, Skwistok antis had tried to get in the club for their own wicked purposes so Molly had developed a security test before letting anyone new in.

Nervously, the girl stood straight. “I’m ready.”

Inhaling, Molly took a long look at the girl. She had long brown hair, wore oval-shaped glasses and was dressed all-in-black. “Favorite Skwistok fact?”

“That Skwisgaar accepted Toki into the band!”

“Top or bottom Toki?”

“Both is good, but I prefer top!”

“Dom or sub Skwisgaar?”

“Dom all the way!”

“Is Skwistok mutual or unreciprocated?”

“It’s complicated but it’s mutual! They’re meant to be!”

“Name your favorite Skwistok fic!”

“Skwisgaar’s Not Good, Very Bad Time with Tentacles and Other Kinks by jizzgaar!”

Molly smirked. That was her friend’s epic Skwistok erotica. “Any Skwistok merch?”

The girl searched in her backpack and pulled out a Skwistok pin.

“Stand down!” Molly said and the girl stood straight again. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“C-Clara!” The girl stammered, her eyes on the front.

“Well, Clara…” Molly shoved a card inside her hand. “Hope to see you this Saturday.”

Clara looked down at the card, where the exact address and time for the bi-monthly Skwistok club meeting would take place. She gasped with excitement, her free hand covering her mouth, eyes welling up with tears. “Thank you…”

Smiling, Molly patted her shoulder and turned around. “Skwistok canon!” She shouted as she walked away.

“Skwistok canon!” Clara repeated behind her.

Molly rubbed her hands, an impish grin on her face. The Skwistok family had gained a new member.

#kloktober2023 #kloktober #metalocalypse #molly rttengerlrtn #my oc #skwistok #yes they're relevant lol #my writing #no beta we die like men

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paradise-in-k4 · 8 months ago

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The Gap in the Evening, Entry 2: “Alarm the Aya”

With our thoughts aligned, we started making our way to the Human Village from the junction before getting jumped by what looked like a flying girl with a camera. It was exceptionally difficult to keep track of her movements since she was moving at mach speeds, something that could only be achieved with jet aircraft. At the same time, she could’ve easily been able to achieve warp speeds and we would still not be able to tell the difference. That’s just how fast she was. She could keep up with the JSDF’s latest fighter jets if she wanted to, which says a lot about how researchers are slowly breaking down barriers between fantasy and reality before reclassifying last millennium’s fantasies as our reality or simply fiction. It wasn’t until she stopped to review the photos she snapped of us that we could get a grasp on who she was… mostly because she introduced herself as Aya Shameimaru the tengu, and then started to press us for an interview like any other pushy journalist trying to comprehend the ongoings of our modern world. She asked me what we were doing as we walked to the Human Village, under the assumption that we had recently arrived in Gensokyo and somehow ended up in Youkai Mountain’s foothills. We didn’t really say much about our investigations, but she somehow eventually figured us out as she walked us to a vacant building in the village where we could stay overnight.

It was there when she promised us that she wouldn’t do anything rash with the information that she’d gather from the impromptu meeting. So we told her everything we knew about what we now considered the Parallel Satellite Incident… until she said that she’d publish it in her public newspaper. At that point, Maribel did the only thing she could do and kept quiet, much to Aya’s surprise. Seems like she’d try every trick in the book to get the rest of the story out of us, but she didn’t want her real name to be associated with this article. None of us had any room to settle this matter financially, and we surely didn’t want to draw more attention to ourselves than we already did as impromptu investigators from another universe. But after a long night of negotiating and a bit of light banter coupled with a promise to meet again at a local lamprey vendor, we did the only thing we could think of to find a middle-ground between our proposals, and asked her to keep this issue as low-profile as possible if she were to publish our findings.

She agreed to the terms with the condition of limiting the amount of newspapers containing this interview with us to her boss, a couple shrine maidens, four wise people that Marisa had called the Sages (of whom we had assumed were authority figures), and a few other people who Aya said had resolved similar incidents in the past. Chuckling about how she had this scoop and someone else named Hatate (probably a rival coworker) didn’t, we shook hands and went on with our interview. It wouldn’t be long until we would emerge onto the radars of many notable people that lived here. Was this a kind of fame we sought out? Perhaps as much as the fame sought out by scientists and detectives unknown when they find a major breakthrough in a case that they’ve been unable to fully understand for years. Perhaps then, we could begin establishing a sort of long-term forward office where we can conduct our research on the Parallel Satellite and other notable sites with the help of the local public without any further delay…

-Renko Usami

——————————

Muse Notes: Aya Shameimaru

Title: Traditional Reporter of Fantasy

Universe of Origin: L1

Size (headcanon): Average, 5’7”

Species: Youkai, Crow Tengu

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 1,000+, exact age unknown

Personality: Aya is good-willed and often gets along with humans and other youkai, especially when they subscribe to her newspaper, although she has a disinterest in the rigid tengu hierarchy. At times she can become overly opportunistic to get big scoops for her newspaper to make herself known as a reputable news source that reports the truth, even if the words are sometimes twisted to lie through omission (or just outright lie), slander/whistleblow others, publish opinionated/sensationalist articles, or fulfill another of her motives. However, her interests also lie with the wellbeing/protection of the Human Village as part of her role as a tengu, as they are sometimes seen as mountain-dwelling protectors of humans. To this end she fulfills this role by cooperating with others to resolve incidents, and sometimes publishing somewhat-altered news to keep the Human Village from descending into mass panic during crises and incidents.

Occupation: Owner and Writer of the Bunbunmaru Newspaper

Home Region: Youkai Mountain

Abilities: Capable of manipulating wind

Wind: Aya’s innate/inherent ability as a tengu. Both with and without her fan, she can create, control, and disperse high-pressure winds at will. She could even create tornadoes if she wanted to, although that is more of a last resort deal for her. Many consider this power to be among some of the strongest abilities in Gensokyo, although Aya prefers to prevent fights if/when possible. She almost never uses this power to purely show off, much like other tengu.

Speed: Tengu as a species are really just that fast, left unmatched by many humans and youkai alike. Aya alone declares her claim to being “the fastest” in Gensokyo, even being capable of out-speeding a speedy vampire like Remilia Scarlet according to Marisa.

Skills: Aya is a skilled photographer, interviewer, and writer, all necessary skills to facilitate a one-tengu newspaper that could be considered a prominent source of information. At the same time, she is proficient in combat with nothing more than her fan as both a melee weapon and a means to use her wind ability. Just like almost all tengu, Aya’s drinking tolerance can rival that of most oni.

Possessions:

Hauchiwa Fan: A hand fan made of bird feathers that can generate wind. Often used as a melee weapon.

White Blouse: White with a maple leaf pattern, perfect for all seasons.

Black Skirt: A skirt to match her shirt, it also sometimes sports a maple leaf pattern.

Red Token: A hat that doubles as a divination cup. It prominently features pompoms on either side of it.

Tengu Geta: Clogs and other footwear with one extra-long tooth on the bottom. She can balance and walk on these no problem, since she has the balance of a crow tengu.

Camera: A tengu-grade camera that can take pictures and sometimes erase bullets. It was created by kappa. Many pictures and unwanted publications were the handiwork of this camera.

Bunkachou: A tengu notebook used by Aya to make personal notes and record information for her next scoops.

Armband: An orange reporter’s armband that reads “Shuzaichuu” (“collecting material/the scoop”). She sometimes wears it when she’s out interviewing people for her newspaper.

Reporter’s Uniform: An ensemble consisting of a blazer, suspender pants, and matching cap. The whole outfit makes her look more like a human.

Muse-Specific Headcanons:

She likes to say “Ayayayayayayaya” in many situations as both a catchphrase and a reaction to others

Aya has a number of youkai crows under her supervision, but not a whole lot. Probably about 4 to 6 at most on a normal day, but that doesn’t equal a hard limit she can call upon in certain circumstances (see Crow Sign “Daymare in the Dark Night”)

Aya can fly on her own just fine, but she can also fly by using her crow’s wings that she can summon at will or conceal from sight

The newspapers she sells are typically free and super affordable, although super-limited editions go for about a few hundred yen or more each depending on the contents

Futsubasa no Rei helped Aya get the Bunbunmaru Newspaper off the ground before she departed elsewhere

Blog-Specific Lore Notes:

Previously unaware of the Parallel Satellite Incident, she planned to publish this incident alert in her newspaper after being informed of it by Renko and Maribel. After their vehement refusal to disclose further details after realizing that she would publish it, she made a compromise to instead print a special limited edition that she would only send to a dozen or so “important” people of Gensokyo. Among them included the Tenma, the sages, the two shrine maidens, the usual incident resolvers, and prominent residents of the Human Village

She has attended the 2nd Multiverse Fighting Tournament as a journalist alongside Alice to gather information for a special edition of her newspaper

Aya has joined in the investigation of the West Mountain

Aya is aware that an alternate Marisa has come to her Gensokyo following Rei’s initial investigation of the West Mountain

Aya was the one to spot and report on another Marisa attacking the Scarlet Devil Mansion, easily making a headline for it

Aya was once corrupted by darkness after blindly flying into it during the Eternal Dark Incident

While she was originally slated to apply as a judge for the 3rd Multiverse Fighting Tournament after a sudden commission request forced Alice to concede the application form to her, resurfacing news of Kotaro’s “unpaid dues to Hakurei Shrine” resulted in Aya handing off the application to Reimu.

Spell Cards:

*Intended purely for close combat

**Can be used for close combat, but also meant for longer range danmaku duels

Wind Sign “Wind God’s Fan”

Gust “Wind God Girl”

Crossroad Sign “Crossroads of Heaven”

Crossroads Sign “Saruta Cross”

Wind God “Wind God’s Leaf-Veiling”

Wind God “Tengu’s Fall Wind”

Wind God “Storm Day”

“Illusionary Dominance” (“Taking Fantasy by Storm”)**

“Peerless Wind God”