#I have been thinking about this for the past five hours

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Four

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, questionable timeline, timeskips, fluff central, motherhood.

Notes — I love you all so much. Please cherish this chapter the way I do. It's not the 'final' one but... in a way, it is. An epilogue will follow in the next few days, but for now, thank you so much for loving Amelia and Lando.

The baby monitor gave a soft ping — a steady green light blinking in the corner of the room, signalling that Ada’s breathing hadn’t changed. Slow. Sure. Safe.

Amelia didn’t look up.

She was cross-legged on the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, the duvet a wrinkled mess around her knees. Her laptop glowed faintly in the dark, screen cluttered with tabs she hadn’t actually read in over an hour. Her peppermint tea sat untouched on the nightstand, long gone cold.

Lando lay beside her, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting loosely over his chest.

She hadn’t said anything in a while, not since muttering something about WHO flight guidelines for babies and infant body heat differentials at altitude. But now, finally, her voice broke the silence — quiet and flat. “I don’t think I know how to be both.”

Lando turned his head, arm falling away to look at her properly.

“An engineer,” Amelia clarified, still staring at her screen. “And a mother. I thought I could. Not all at once, not perfectly — I never expected that. But I thought I’d at least know how to start. And I don’t.”

Lando pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to have that figured out yet.”

“I just…” She exhaled, rubbed at her eyes with the heel of one hand. “But I feel like I’m letting everyone down. The team. The strategy unit. I haven’t even opened Tom’s messages from last week. I missed Oscar’s debrief.”

Lando frowned. “Baby—”

“I know no one expects me to be there,” she rushed on. “I know I just had a baby. But it’s like the world kept moving, and I just— I stepped away for one second, and I’ve been left behind. And I feel like I’m letting Oscar down.”

She shut her laptop gently, sliding it onto the mattress beside her.

Lando shifted closer. “No,” he said, voice low but firm now. “Don’t say that. God, If Oscar heard you say that, he’d be pissed.”

That drew a weak smile from her — brief but real. “I just feel so… stranded,” she admitted. “Like I’m standing outside my own life. Stranded in the past.”

“You’re not stranded,” Lando said. “I’d never let you be stranded. If you get stuck on an island, I’m right there with you. Building shelter. Fighting off wild chickens.”

That earned him a tiny laugh, which faded quickly. She curled tighter into herself, one hand absently pressed to her chest.

“My nipples hurt,” she whispered. “Everything hurts. And sometimes she won’t latch, and I feel like I’m failing at the one thing I’m supposed to be able to do right now. I love her more than anything, and still… I feel like I’m falling short. Like I don’t know how to be in the world anymore. I just want to stay here a little longer. In this house. Just us. No paddock. No calls. No questions.”

Lando sat up fully now, folding one leg under him, facing her squarely. “Babe,” he said gently, “she’s a week old. You’re allowed to want to hide for the next five days, months, hell, years. You built a human. From scratch. You’re allowed to want to protect her. To protect yourself.”

Amelia looked down, blinking hard.

“And if you want to stay here, stay. We’ll make it work. If you want to go off-grid, I’ll build us a fence and figure out how to plant tomatoes. We’ll get a sheep. Raise Ada to be a weird little farm baby.”

“You’d hate that,” she said through a soft sniffle.

“I’d learn to love it,” he replied without hesitation. “If you’re there, if she’s there, it’s already enough. Whatever pace you need, I’ll meet it. We’ll move when you’re ready.”

She let out a long, unsteady breath, shoulders loosening as she leaned into his side, head tucked under his chin. His arm curled around her instinctively, grounding her.

Ada shifted in her sleep, a tiny sigh from the bassinet. They both froze. Waited. Relaxed when the room settled again.

“I just want more time,” Amelia whispered.

“Then take it,” Lando murmured. “Take all the time. There’s no clock on you.”

They sat in that stillness for a while — Lando’s hand tracing light, aimless shapes against her back, the kind of touch that didn’t ask anything from her except to be here.

And then, quietly, he added, “You don’t have to choose, you know. Between her and your work. You don’t have to sacrifice one love for the other.”

Amelia blinked against his chest. She was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” she said eventually, voice rough. “Yeah, okay. I needed to hear that.”

“You can love her with your whole heart,” he whispered. “And still love building things. Still love solving puzzles and fixing races no one else can fix. You don’t have to be either-or.”

“Okay,” she repeated, a little stronger this time. “Okay.”

—

The smell of coffee hit her first — freshly ground, dark roast, strong enough to drag her out of bed on scent alone.

Amelia stirred, blinking slowly. The morning light was thin and gentle through the curtains. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

The bassinet was empty.

She sat up fast, heart skipping—until she spotted the baby monitor still blinking green and heard a familiar hum down the hall: Lando, singing terribly under his breath. Somewhere between a lullaby and whatever was stuck in his head from TikTok.

Amelia exhaled. Stretched. Swung her legs out of bed, wincing slightly as she stood. Still sore. Still healing. But upright.

She shuffled into the hallway wearing one of Lando’s hoodies and her softest socks — and paused.

There, right outside the nursery, was the whiteboard.

The one from her office. The one she’d forced her dad to bring to her from MTC during a meltdown.

Mounted crookedly, obviously with command strips. Already covered in Lando’s handwriting.

Across the top, in thick black marker, he’d written:

THE NORRIS FAMILY MASTER PLAN

Underneath it was divided into three chaotic columns:

ADA

fed @ 5:12am (boob fed. mummy also pumped 2 bags that i put in the freezer asap)

burped and spit up only a tiny bit

changed: YES (twice since 6am)

currently napping on daddy’s chest (10/10 would recommend)

cuter than all other babies (objective fact)

AMELIA

sleep: as much as she can because she deserves it

coffee brewed and waiting

iPad fully charged in your office bby

do NOT check emails unless emotionally stable (love u)

LANDO

meeting @ MTC moved to Zoom

5k tempo run with Jon @7:50

Send Max (Verstappen) Ada pics

At the bottom, in bright red marker with two stars and a smiley face, he’d written:

Today’s Motto: Take your time. No one’s going anywhere. Love you. 💛

Amelia stared at it.

“Uh oh,” Lando called softly from inside the nursery. “We’ve been busted.”

She padded to the doorway and leaned on the frame.

Lando was in the rocking chair, Ada curled peacefully on his chest in her lemon-print onesie, her tiny fist tucked under her chin. He looked up at Amelia with a grin, his curls a mess and his hoodie covered in spit-up.

“Look who stayed up with me to review my race notes,” he said in a whisper. “She’s got some strong opinions about tyre compounds.”

Amelia laughed. “Of course she does. She’s my daughter.”

She stepped into the room, bent down to kiss his hair.

“I love you,” she murmured.

“I know.” He looked smug. “I made bullet points. Did you see them?”

“Yeah.” She kissed him on the lips that time. “I love them.”

—

Hungary came and went, and Amelia had never known a rage like it.

It should have been perfect.

Oscar’s first Grand Prix victory — a clean, commanding drive. Tactical, calm under pressure. The kind of win that would be replayed in highlight reels for years. The kind of drive that justified every ounce of faith the team had put in him.

And Amelia hadn’t been there.

Not on the pit wall. Not in the garage. Not even in the country.

She was home. Still recovering. Three weeks postpartum, her body aching in ways she didn’t have words for. Her days were measured in naps and nappies, not sector times. Ada curled against her chest, tiny and warm and completely unaware of what her Uncle Ducky had just achieved.

Amelia had done everything right. Listened to the doctors. Stayed off her feet. Trusted the team.

And they’d messed it up.

Not the race — not entirely. Oscar had won, after all. But the way it had happened. The pit strategy had been off. Lando was called in a lap early — not maliciously — just badly timed. A chain of misjudged calls. And it meant he jumped Oscar, unintentionally undercutting him. Then came the order.

Swap positions.

It hadn’t been a request.

Lando had obeyed, eventually. But anyone watching closely could see it: the tension in his posture, the tightness in his jaw, the way he barely glanced sideways on the podium. It was a team win — but the celebration had a limp to it.

Amelia hadn’t seen it live. She was still catching up. Replays on her phone. Data reports trickling in. Fragments of a race she hadn’t been part of — and yet, was still tangled in.

It hurt.

She was proud of Oscar. Fiercely so. But part of her wanted to scream. At the pit wall. At the timing. At herself, for not being there to catch it as it slipped.

Instead, she paced the kitchen with Ada strapped to her chest, whispering, “You’re going to have to be really cute when Daddy gets home, okay? Extra, extra cute.”

In the early hours of the next morning, Lando came home quiet. Kissed her forehead. Pressed a hand to Ada’s back like it was the only thing anchoring him. He didn’t say much. Just curled up beside them on the bed and held on.

Later, when Ada was asleep in her bassinet and the room was soft with the hum of the baby monitor, Amelia looked over at him and murmured, “Tell him to come here.”

Lando blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was tired, but gentle. “I know you’re upset at the team. At the way it happened. But Oscar probably feels bad too. I want to see him. I want to tell him I’m proud of him.”

Lando nodded. “Okay, baby.” He whispered.

—

Oscar arrived two days later, sun-flushed, eyes a little wary as he stepped into their living room. He carried a stuffed kangaroo for Ada, which was ridiculous and perfect, and when Amelia took it, her hands trembled a little.

“Hi, ducky,” she said softly.

Oscar smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

She opened her arms and he folded into a hug without hesitation. He smelled like airport and roasted peanuts and nerves.

“You did it,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” He pulled back, eyes flickering down to Ada. “Can I—“

She carefully unwrapped the baby and handed her to Oscar.

“Careful. She’s very picky about how she’s held,” Amelia said quietly.

That got a huff of laughter from him, but then a quiet settled between them.

After a moment, he said, “It didn’t feel right.”

Amelia tilted her head.

“The win,” Oscar clarified. “It felt… tainted. Because of the swap.”

“It wasn’t,” Lando said from the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “It was your win. I’m sorry, mate. It should’ve been a clean swap; but I was possed at the team. Didn't think about how that'd make you feel. Sorry for being an asshole about it.”

Oscar shook his head. “No. They shouldn’t have pitted you first. That’s where it went wrong. You were right to be pissed. I would’ve been, too.”

Amelia let out a slow breath, glancing between them. “You’re both right,” she said. “And none of it was your fault.”

Oscar swallowed, looking down at the little bundle in her arms. “You missed it. That’s what I hated the most.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But don't let that win feel less than it is,” she told him.

Oscar blinked a few times too fast. Lando nudged his shoulder with a knuckle. “Next time,” he said, “we do it properly. 1–2. No drama. No pit wall fumbles.”

“No swaps,” Oscar added.

“No swaps,” Lando agreed.

“Unless…” Oscar started.

“We discuss it beforehand. Agree on it ourselves. Consult our boss lady.” Lando agreed.

Amelia smiled at them.

—

The weeks after Hungary unfold slowly — warm, drowsy, domestic. Amelia settles into motherhood with quiet intensity. Her days are structured around Ada’s rhythms: feeds, naps, stroller walks through the quiet lanes near their house, tiny onesies drying on the line.

She leans into it, fully, unapologetically. No guilt. No rush. Just her and her daughter.

But in the hours between — when Ada is sleeping against her chest in the sling, or curled in the bassinet beside her desk — Amelia begins to find a rhythm for something else too.

The 2025 car.

She doesn’t force it. She doesn’t try to be the same version of herself she was before. But she does open her laptop again. Starts responding to notes. Dialling into development calls. Reviewing aero updates during cluster feeds. Her whiteboard goes back up in the kitchen. The good markers. The post-its. New magnets are delivered by the Amazon delivery driver who knows her by name.

She's not back on the pit wall, not yet, but her fingerprints are all over the future. Steering concepts. Energy recovery models. Brake migration overlays. She sends long, annotated voice memos at 2AM with Ada fussing softly in the background.

And no one dares to tell her to stop.

—

The first time she goes back to the MTC, it feels surreal.

She wears Ada in a wrap and keeps her pressed tight against her chest, and when she walks through the doors of Mission Control, everything stills.

Not out of judgment — just awe.

The team has Ada’s name on the sign-in sheet. Someone from aero has knitted her a tiny beanie in papaya and black. Oscar has a onesie made with "Wind Tunnel Supervisor" printed on the back. Lando insists on giving her the grand tour like it’s her first time and not the place she helped build the car they’re still racing.

Amelia moves through it all with quiet, grateful command.

She doesn’t stay long. Just a few hours. But she plugs in, hands over feedback, draws up a few revised proposals for suspension stability in corner exit, and her dad comes to kiss his granddaughters head before they leave.

—

As the season continues, Amelia’s world becomes something new.

She’s still mostly at home. Still a mum first, always.

But she spends mornings on the phone with suppliers while Ada gums a teether in her lap. Sketches suspension mapping on the hood of the pram while they walk. Takes conference calls while pacing the garden with the baby monitor clipped to her hoodie.

She laughs more.

Cries sometimes, too. On the days Ada won’t sleep, or she misses Lando too much on a race weekend. But then Oscar texts her from the paddock — “Ran your numbers. Braking delta’s holding. You’re a genius, etc.” — and it buoys her.

She’s found a strange, miraculous equilibrium.

Not full throttle. Not idle.

Just… steady.

—

Amelia’s not officially “back.” There’s no date marked on the calendar. No press release.

But the 2025 car knows her touch.

And so does her daughter.

And for now, that’s enough.

—

Amelia was sitting in the rocking chair by the nursery window, the late afternoon light casting warm golden streaks across the room. Ada was nestled against her chest, eyes fluttering as if trying to stay awake. Amelia’s heart felt like it might burst.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered, tracing tiny circles on Ada’s soft cheek. “Look at you, waking up on me.”

Suddenly, Ada’s lips curled—just a hint at first, barely there.

Amelia froze.

She leaned in closer, breath catching.

Ada’s eyes locked with hers, and the smile widened, pure and bright.

“Wow,” Amelia whispered. “Look at you, smart girl. What a pretty smile.”

—

Lando shuffled down the hallway, a warm bottle in hand, careful not to wake Amelia. Ada had been restless all evening, and now she was stirring again.

He slipped into the nursery, sat on the rocking chair, and gently lifted her from her bassinet. She wiggled, a tiny fist reaching for his face.

“Hey, sweet pea,” he murmured, brushing a finger across her cheek. “Time to eat. Say ‘thank you mummy’.”

Ada latched on to the bottle, her eyelids drooped halfway, a little coo escaping.

Lando smiled, heart full.

“You’re a little nightmare,” he whispered. “But you’re cute, so you’re forgiven.”

—

The crisp autumn air filled Amelia’s lungs as she pushed Ada’s stroller down the quiet path near their home. Ada was bundled up, bundled tighter than necessary, but Amelia wasn’t taking chances. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot was a gentle backdrop.

Ada’s eyes were wide and curious, tracking every movement, the soft rustle of the wind, the distant chirping of birds.

Amelia smiled to herself. “Is that a birdie?”

Ada let out a tiny giggle, more a breath than a laugh, but to Amelia, it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

—

The nursery was quiet. Ada lay sleeping in her crib, her little chest rising and falling steadily. Amelia’s heart ached as she kissed her forehead one last time before stepping out.

“I’ll be back soon,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Just a quick meeting. You’re safe, baby. I promise.”

In the kitchen, Lando was waiting with a reassuring smile.

“You’ve got this,” he said softly.

Amelia nodded, inhaling deeply, trying to quell the swirl of nerves and guilt.

“It’s just the first time,” she reminded herself. “It’s okay.”

And with that, she stepped out — a tiny step back into the world she’d missed, but one she was determined to balance with the one she’d found at home.

—

The late November afternoon was cool, but the garden behind Amelia and Lando’s house was alive with laughter and the hum of friendly voices. Fairy lights twinkled above, strung between the trees, casting a soft glow as the sun dipped low.

Amelia moved gracefully through the crowd, baby Ada snug in her arms, wrapped in a soft knitted blanket. At five months old, Ada’s immune system was strong enough for her first proper gathering — and today was all about celebrating Lando’s birthday and introducing their daughter to their friends.

Max stole Ada gently, whispering something to her in a low, playful tone that made the baby giggle.

Amelia smiled as she watched them.

Oscar, standing close by, was beaming too — in full uncle mode, happily showing her a little toy car, which Ada seemed to regard with wide-eyed curiosity.

A ripple of excitement moved through the group when Lewis arrived, a rare softness in his usually intense gaze. “So, this is the famous Ada,” Lewis said, kneeling slightly to get closer, careful not to overwhelm her. “She’s gorgeous.”

Amelia smiled. “Five months. Growing fast.”

Lewis reached out gently, letting Ada’s tiny hand wrap around his finger. “Hey there, little one,” he murmured. Ada’s eyes locked onto his face, and she gave a tentative coo.

Fernando was next. He approached slowly, cautious.

Oscar glanced at Amelia for approval before handing Ada over to him.

Fernando cradled Ada carefully, the baby turning her head toward him. Then, much to everyone’s surprise, she broke into a toothless smile.

“Look at her,” Amelia said, nudging Lando, who was watching nearby with a proud grin. “She’s more sociable than me already.”

Fernando’s laugh was soft. “Hello, tiny Nina. What a beautiful girl you are.”

—

The house was quiet now, the party’s laughter and music a distant echo behind closed doors. In the softly lit nursery, Ada lay asleep in her crib, her chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.

Amelia and Lando slipped quietly into the living room, hands entwined, eyes searching for each other in the warm, dim light. No words were needed; the day had been full, full of joy and new memories, and now all that mattered was the space between them.

Lando brushed a loose strand of hair from Amelia’s face, his touch tender, reverent. She leaned into his palm, her breath catching in that familiar way — the way she’d come to love, even in the whirlwind of new motherhood.

Their kisses were slow, deliberate, the kind that spoke of comfort and deep connection. No hurry. No expectations beyond the simple closeness of being together.

Amelia’s fingers traced the line of Lando’s jaw, memorising the curve, the warmth, the promise in his gaze.

“This,” Lando murmured against her lips, “this is home.”

She smiled, her heart swelling with a love that felt endless. “Yeah.”

They moved together gently, the world outside fading until there was nothing but the quiet harmony of their shared breath, the softness of skin against skin, and the peaceful presence of their sleeping daughter nearby.

Later, wrapped in each other’s arms, Amelia rested her head on Lando’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

“Like you,” he replied.

—

Amelia triple-checked the list.

Then checked it again.

The suitcase bag was full to bursting. Sterilised bottles lined one side, alongside pre-portioned formula packets just in case. Four dummies carefully tucked in. Fifteen muslins folded and stacked. Eight sleep-suits laid out with precision. Noise-cancelling baby headphones rested on top, alongside two packs of sensitive skin wipes. The giraffe toy Ada had recently started to favour was nestled between a small bottle of lavender oil and the emergency bottle warmer. A digital thermometer peeked from a side pocket, and ten labelled, frozen breastmilk storage bags were packed in a cooler — backup, in case her supply dipped mid-flight or Ada reacted badly to the travel and refused to latch.

Amelia exhaled sharply, brushing a hand through her hair, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves. The stakes felt so much bigger this time.

Her mum stood calmly by the front door, suitcase already packed, reading glasses perched on her head. “Love, she’s a baby, not an international diplomat. You’ve done brilliantly.”

“I know, I know.” Amelia didn’t stop pacing. “I just— It’s a pressurised cabin. What if her ears hurt on takeoff? Or she gets overstimulated? Or the recycled air triggers something?”

Her mum smiled knowingly. “Then you feed her on takeoff. It helps with the pressure.”

“I’ve pumped, too,” Amelia said quickly, nodding toward the cooler bag. “Enough for the whole flight. And spares. And formula, in case everything goes wrong.”

“You are, without question, the most prepared mother I’ve ever met,” her mum said, smiling.

From upstairs, Ada let out a soft, sleepy grunt.

Lando appeared a moment later, cradling her carefully, still dressed in her footed onesie with the tiny embroidered rocket ships. “She’s out,” he whispered, stepping into the room softly.

He crossed over, handing Ada to Amelia like something sacred.

“Okay,” Amelia murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her daughter’s soft head. “We’re doing this.”

Lando ran a hand over her back. “You’ve got this. And your mum’s with us. Literal nanny power.”

Her mum grinned. “Nanny and pack mule, apparently.”

Amelia hummed but didn’t argue. Her arms tightened around Ada, and she inhaled the lavender-sweet scent. “I’m going to cry a few times, I think,” she warned them both.

“Okay,” Lando said, looping the baby’s wrap over Amelia’s shoulder with practiced ease. “You’ll be alright.”

“And if anything goes wrong—”

“It won’t.”

She nodded once. “Right. Okay.”

At that moment, Oscar stepped into the hallway, dressed in casual clothes. He looked at Ada sleeping peacefully in Amelia’s arms and smiled softly. “Ready for the big finale?”

Amelia looked up, her nerves settling just a little. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

As they stepped outside, the night air was crisp but calm. Max’s jet was waiting on the tarmac an hour away, gleaming under the runway lights.

Amelia’s heart fluttered with nerves and excitement.

They were going to clinch the constructors championship.

And she wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

—

The roar of engines had barely faded before the crowd erupted into cheers. Lando’s helmet lifted from the cockpit, his face breaking into the widest grin — a victorious, exhausted smile that had been years in the making.

Amelia stood on the edge of the McLaren hospitality, arms wrapped tightly around Ada. The baby’s wide eyes scanned the world around her, curious and calm amid the chaos.

A large screen nearby switched from the race replay to live shots of the celebrations. The broadcast caught sight of Amelia standing there, bathed in the golden Abu Dhabi sunset, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she held her daughter.

Then the caption appeared on screen, simple but profound.

Amelia Norris — engineer, mother, wife of Lando Norris.

The words lingered on the screen, echoing everything she’d fought for. The late nights in the factory, the endless zoom calls between feeds and naps, the quiet moments of doubt, and the fierce determination that never wavered.

She glanced down at Ada, whose tiny hand curled around one of her fingers, and felt a swell of something fierce and whole inside her chest.

Lando caught her eye, his smile softening when he saw the way she looked — not just as the mother holding their child, but as the woman who had carved her place alongside him in this whirlwind world.

Together, they’d made it. Not just to this moment, but to everything it represented.

As the cheers around them rose again, Amelia allowed herself a small, steady breath.

This was just the beginning.

—

The entire team gathered together, smiles bright and energy buzzing after a hard-fought victory. Cameras flashed as they lined up for the official photo — engineers, mechanics, strategists, and drivers, all shoulder to shoulder.

At the centre stood Lando, cradling Ada like a precious trophy. The baby, nestled safely in his arms, gazed up with wide eyes at the sea of familiar faces around her. She was the smallest member of the team and yet she looked like she’d quickly become the heart of it all.

Amelia approached with a grin, her steps quickening as the countdown to the champagne pop began.

“Okay, sweet pea,” she said softly, slipping her hands under Ada. “Let’s get you out of the splash zone.”

Lando handed Ada over, the baby wrapped in her blanket as Amelia lifted her effortlessly away from the front row.

The bottle popped. Foam exploded into the air, sparkling like tiny fireworks in the sunlight.

Laughter erupted, the spray glittering across helmets and overalls. Champagne arced in golden loops through the air, soaking suits and sneakers, the scent of victory clinging to everything.

Amelia stood just beyond the splash zone, Ada bundled securely against her chest. The baby blinked sleepily, her noise-cancelling headphones firmly in place, one hand curled into Amelia’s shirt.

She watched her boys — Lando and Oscar — grin at each other, knock shoulders, ruffle each other’s hair with the casual affection that came only from seasons of shared pressure and quiet loyalty. Teammates. Friends. Brothers in every way that mattered.

Next year, Amelia thought, they’d have the best car on the grid.

Next year, they’d be fighting for not only the Constructors’ Championship again, but the Drivers’ as well.

And she would be there — to support them both. Her husband. Her Ducky.

Because she believed in both of them with every scrap of her soul.

Ada would be there too. Five months old now and already stamped into the heart of the team. Next year, she’d travel more than most people did in their entire lives. Planes and paddocks. Hotel bassinets. Garage naps wrapped in team-issued ear defenders. The scent of rubber and champagne and jet fuel quietly imprinting itself onto her earliest memories.

It wouldn’t be easy.

But it would be theirs.

They’d make it work. They always had.

And when the cameras snapped another picture — the final team photo of the season, confetti still clinging to Lando’s curls — Amelia caught his eye across the crowd and smiled.

“Home?” He mouthed.

Monaco. England.

It didn’t matter.

“Home.”  She agreed. 

[pathologicalreid]

put a bow on it | s.r.

in which Spencer is in charge of doing both of your daughters hair in the morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: twin dad!spencer AND girl dad!spencer. twin jealousy. word count: 1.5k a/n: twin dad!spencer!!!! a pathologicalreid first!! this one goes out to arya because she let me ramble about this idea lolololol

The pout that was being reflected in the mirror reminded him of you. At another time, he would’ve found it cute, adorable even, that one of your daughters had adopted your mannerisms, but right now, he was running late. 

He’d spent hours over the past week assuring you that you didn’t need to move your appointment this morning and he was more than capable of getting the girls off to school on his own. Breakfast was easy enough—they liked his french toast more than yours anyway—and the girls were old enough to lay their own outfits out the night before, but what he hadn’t anticipated was what happened after their teeth were brushed and he was handed two combs. 

It was something you enjoyed, individualizing the girls’ hair every day before school, but aside from a classic ponytail, he wasn’t well versed in styling their hair. Naturally, a ponytail wasn’t going to cut it today. 

“I wanted mommy to curl it,” June insisted, pointing at the curling iron that was neatly hung away from the reach of tiny hands. She’d been the first to scowl at the offer of a ponytail, insisting that her hair had to be done precisely the way she wanted it. 

Eyeing the hot tool warily, Spencer quickly tried to put together an excuse that the five year old would accept, but he came up empty. “I don’t think I should use something hot until mommy shows me how to use it,” he tried to explain. 

As if on cue, June tilted her head to the side curiously and asked, “Why not?” 

Admittedly, he had walked right into that one, but he sighed and scrambled for the answer, “Because you might get hurt.”

Big, brown eyes stared up at him, waiting for further explanation to satisfy her inquisitive nature, but instead of it coming from him, it came from her twin, standing on the other side of the counter. “It’s like the stove,” Edie offered, trying to climb up on the bathroom counter and frowning when Spencer gently tugged her down. 

Realization flooded June’s eyes, “Oh, you need an adult to use the curler.” She rattled off the answer that made sense to her. 

With both girls standing on their respective stepstools—engraved with their names and bedazzled by Aunt Penelope—Spencer took a deep breath. “Exactly,” He conceded. “So, what do you want me to do with your hair?”

“Braids, please!” Edith piped up with her request, but those were outside of Spencer’s skillset. You’d been teaching him how to braid the girls’ hair, but it was difficult to find the time and to get to stay still. Fruit snack bribery only got you so far. 

June looked pensively in the mirror, shrugging off her frustration about the curling iron and looking up at Spencer, “Can you do a half-pony?” 

“I can’t, but I appreciate your manners,” he responded to Edith first before turning to June, “Can you show me what a half-pony is?” He asked, making a note of the hairstyle jargon that he was getting a crash course on. 

June nodded happily, pulling strands of her hair back from her face and gathering them at the back of her head in her little fingers, “And then you do a bow.” 

He frowned slightly, “A bow?”

Junie beamed, “Yeah, a matchy bow.”

Spencer was familiar with the tote filled with bows that you’d invested in over the years, he was convinced they had a bow for every outfit. “Can you pick a bow?” He moved the tote on the counter in front of her, hoping to solve the issue of needing a matching bow by having her choose one on her own. He turned his attention to Edith, who had traded expressions with her twin and now bore a pout. “What’s wrong, honey?” 

“I wanted braids,” Edie explained, dragging her fingers down each side of her head to show that she wanted french braids. Disappointed tears welled in her eyes, and the fact that Spencer couldn’t fix the issue broke his heart. 

He frowned slightly, “Hey, no tears,” he cooed. “What if I try to do little braids?” His offer was a carefully calculated plan, using words that he’d heard you use before when talking about the girls’ hair. These weren’t french braids, little braids would start at the base of her neck and go to the ends of her hair. 

Woefully, Edith nodded, fiddling with the cuff of her sweater while she eyed the bows her sister was deliberating on. “Can I have a bow too?” 

“You can have two if you’d like,” Spencer proposed, “One for each braid.” He accepted the bow that June was holding out for him and slid the tote over to Edith. 

June gaped at his offer, “I want two bows!” 

Somewhere, he had misstepped, “She gets two bows because she wants two braids, you only wanted one pony.” He was fairly certain he was approaching pigtail territory, and his almost never turned out even. 

“I want two!” June exclaimed, waiting a moment before speaking up again, “Please.” 

Spencer nodded reassuringly, “Okay, but no more changes,” he told her, knowing she was already on her third hairstyle of the day. 

She nodded happily at his compromise, producing the matching bow that she had already fished out of the tote for him. June teetered on the balls of her feet excitedly at the prospect of getting pigtails while he sprayed her hair with detangler, just barely starting to comb her hair back for the pigtails when she flinched away from him. 

His heart jumped for a moment, fearful that he’d pulled too hard on her head, but he relaxed when she spoke up, “That’s not how mommy does it.” 

No, he supposed it’s not how you would do it, but then again, you would’ve been able to curl her hair the way she wanted, avoiding the realm of pigtails entirely. “Trust me on this,” he tried to reassure her despite his rapidly dwindling confidence. 

June put her head back in place, letting him brush her hair back before parting it down the middle. He glanced up at the mirror, watching Edith as she took her own brush in her hands and started raking it through her hair. “I’ll do yours in a minute, Edie,” he told her, not wanting her to feel like she had to do it on her own. 

“She always goes first,” Edith whined, slightly out of character for your bashful daughter. Spencer frowned slightly, not realizing her had conformed to the general order of things. 

“Cuz I’m older,” June countered pointedly, glancing up at her father to gauge his reaction to her claim, but Spencer remained stone faced. Both of you had decided to refrain from revealing which twin is older, and it’s saved you from dozens of arguments along the way. 

Spencer hummed, wrapping the first elastic around June’s hair, “I’ll let mommy know, and you can go first tomorrow.” 

Junie huffed at his dedication to keeping the secret, but her scowl turned into a grin when she saw her hair. A golden rush of victory led to a sigh of relief from him, clipping her bows to her pigtails while she bounced in excitement. He had a sneaking feeling she didn’t act this way when you did her hair, meaning all of this joy was solely for him. 

When it was Edie’s turn, Spencer still combed through her hair, even though she had done most of it on her own. She fiddled with the peeling laminate of the bathroom counter while he braided her hair, talking himself through the process—left, center, right, center—and hoping he wouldn’t get them mixed up. 

June was unable to stand still any longer, so Spencer told her she could go watch cartoons until it was time to leave. “Is she older?” Edith mumbled slightly. 

Spencer shrugged, tying off her braid with a bow that previously belonged to a doll, “Does it matter?”

She sighed in a way that only a five year old could, “Guess not.”

“You’re still twins, you were born on the same day,” Spencer tried to explain in a way she would accept. 

“Is that why we have the same birthday?” She asked, fumbling through her words—birfday. 

He hummed a confirmation, “Yeah, because your birthday is the day you were born.” He tied off the second braid before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 

She was quiet for a moment, he thought she was pondering birthdays, so he was surprised when she whispered, “Daddy?” 

“Yeah, baby?” He responded. 

Pointing at her hair, Edith gave him a sympathetic look while silently showing him the huge chunk of hair that had been left out of the braids.

“I think mommy’s gonna have to give me another braiding lesson,” he told her, unraveling the braid so he could try it again. 

Edie nodded mournfully, “I think so too.”

[sereia4skz]

I love the way you write for the boys.

Could you possibly write for maybe Han (or whoever you think fits this better) where the reader overhead him talking to another member about paying up for a bet involving her and she gets upset and they argue. But happy ending because the bet actually giving han a timeline to ask the reader out because he was too nervous and if he did it in the time limit the other member would pay for the first date.

If you don't want to write for this that's fine just ignore it lol -Nova 🩷

oneshot | bad bets? good intentions

pairing: han x reader

genre: angst to fluff

warnings: bets, chan pushing han to be brave, reader seems lowkey into han groveling

word count: 914

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

You weren’t supposed to hear. You were just packing up your things from Jeongin’s room. He’d passed out mid-movie, and you figured you’d grab your overnight bag and let yourself out quietly. The dorm was quiet, Chan and Jeongin’s shared place always got like this past midnight. You thought Chan was at the studio, but then you heard your name.

"Alright, I’ll pay up," came Chan's voice, half-laughing through the barely cracked door to the kitchen.

You breathed quietly, not to eavesdrop, just not wanting to bother the two.

"You asked her out, didn’t you?"

Silence. Then Jisung's voice, sheepish and soft, "Yeah, barely. You gave me a week, and I did it with like… what? Three hours left?"

Chan laughed, easy, pleased, "Barely counts. She said yes though, right?"

"Of course she did. I’ve been working up to this for months."

You blinked, your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

The ringing in your ears was overwhelming, blood pulsed hard against your temples.

Pay up? Week? A deadline?

You backed up before you could hear more. The apartment door was closer than the voices. You slipped your shoes on quietly and left without a sound.

Jisung didn’t hear from you for two days. Not after the goodnight texts. Not after the check-ins or the memes. Not even when he sent a voice note singing your favorite song in a dumb voice to make you laugh.

And the silence was driving him insane.

On the third night, he stood outside your apartment for a full five minutes before working up the nerve to knock. You opened the door halfway, eyes tired, expression unreadable.

His hoodie was rumpled, hair a mess from anxious tossing, and his phone was already in his hand, just in case he needed to show you something to prove he hadn’t completely screwed everything up.

“Hey,” he said, voice small. “Can you… can we talk? Please?”

You didn’t speak, but after a moment, you stepped aside. He exhaled as he stepped in, taking in the warm clutter of your apartment. It looked the same as always. His heart stuttered, noticing his absence had seemingly no impact on your routine. You stayed near the kitchen, arms folded tightly.

“I heard you,” you said. “At the dorm. You and Chan.”

His face went pale. “That’s… not what it sounded like.”

You cocked a brow. “It sounded like I was a deadline? A bet. A joke between you and your hyung.”

Jisung groaned, running his hands down his face. He sat down on your couch like the weight of it knocked the air from his lungs. “Please, let me explain.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. The silence stretched long enough that he took it as permission.

“I’ve liked you for so long. Like… since Jeongin first introduced us. And every time I tried to tell you, I choked. I’d plan what to say, but the second I saw you smile or say my name, my brain just evaporated.”

He laughed, bitter and breathless. “Chan got tired of watching me suffer, said it was pathetic that for all my lyrics I couldn't muster to ask you out. So he made a bet. He said I had one week to ask you out, and if I did, he’d pay for our first date. If I didn’t, I had to wear a dress and heels and do Britney Spears karaoke.”

Your mouth twitched. You didn’t want it to, but it did.

Jisung caught it, a flicker of hope lit behind his eyes. “It wasn’t about winning anything. It was about giving me a push. He knew I wouldn’t do it otherwise. And I didn’t want to waste more time pretending I wasn’t completely gone for you.”

He stood slowly, moving closer, voice softening. “It was real. Asking you out. Everything we’ve done since? before? It’s the most real thing I’ve ever had. I just… I didn’t think you’d say yes if I told you how scared I was.”

“You should’ve told me,” you said quietly.

“I know. I’m sorry. If I could go back, I’d do it differently. I’d say all the things I wanted to say from the start.” He stopped in front of you, hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t dare.

“But if this is where it ends… I’ll understand. I’ll hate it, but I’ll get it.”

You stared up at him. At the soft curve of his mouth, the nervous flick of his fingers, the ache written across his whole body.

“Do you still want that date?” you asked finally.

He blinked, nodded rapidly. “More than anything.”

“Good. Because if Chan’s paying, I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Jisung’s mouth fell open. “Wait! Does that mean?”

“I’m still mad,” you said, stepping into his space. “But I never said no.”

He breathed out a relieved laugh. “Fair. Yell at me all you want. Just… let me take you out."

You nodded, your expression finally softening. “One condition.”

“Name it.”

“No more dumb secrets.”

He raised his hand like a scout. “Swear. You can even make me wear the heels if I mess it up again.”

“Tempting,” you muttered.

Then, finally, finally, you let him hug you. 

Jisung buried his face in your shoulder and whispered, "I missed you like hell."

You rolled your eyes, but your hand slid into his hoodie pocket all the same.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t.”

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss

[sparrow-and-seed-scrawls]

Wilson stared at the man. It was an endless cycle. Try to cull the addiction. Try to help. Try to do something.

Until it went back to the way it had always been.

Until he hurt someone again. That ‘someone’ usually being Cuddy or Foreman or one of the three other people who tolerated House.

Wilson stared into the dimly lit office, at House on his side of the desk with the bottle of pills open in his hand.

It was too late for this. Past 10 PM, certainly. Wilson wasn’t even sure why he was still here. To finish paperwork had probably been the original reason. Instead he was on the internal medicine floor watching his friend count pills.

“You do understand you’re hurting people, right?”

“Uh…” a mouthful of pills, and then— “yeah. I simply don’t care.”

“Half your team is scared of you. Half your patients don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Good.”

Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can’t keep babysitting you, House.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“This isn’t some—some sitcom with a laugh track! You’re playing toss-up with real people, and it’s having real consequences.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you cheated on your twelve girlfriends,” House said drily.

“You don’t get to make judgements about my life when you’re high on drugs.”

“Mmm.” House glanced as his watch. “Not high yet. Give it another five.”

“You’re killing yourself.” Wilson moved so he was at the opposite side of the desk. “The pills aren’t helping you.”

“Bold words from someone without the pain.”

Wilson took the bottle from House’s hand. “You’re an addict. You’re an addict and you can barely think straight. You’ve almost killed three patients this month.”

“But I didn’t. Give me my pills.”

“No.”

“You’re not an AA leader, give me my pills.”

Wilson dumped the pills to the floor and stepped on them, digging the heel of his shoe into the mess so the Vicodin turned to dust and fell into the threads of the carpet.

House stared at him.

The dark streets outside flickered with the lights of traffic, sending shadows across the floor. Wilson sucked in a breath. This didn’t feel real. It felt like an illustration for a rehab facility, or some drunk dream. Not a confrontation. Not what it was supposed to be.

It was too late for this, wasn’t it? Physically and metaphorically.

Everyone always said addiction was a disease. That it could be cured, that it wasn’t the victim’s fault. That a strong support system was needed, that optimism made all the difference.

Wilson stared at the empty bottle in his fingers.

Sarah Breckenridge

Take one (1) tablet every twelve (12) hours as needed. 15 ct. No refills.

It wasn’t even House’s prescription.

“Are you done?” House asked.

Wilson slipped the bottle into his coat and returned to the doorway. “Yeah. Goodnight, House.”

There would be a new bottle with a new name on it in the morning.

So the cycle continued.

—————

Writing Prompt #3079

"Do you understand that you're hurting people?"

"Oh, yes. The thing is I simply don't care."

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Mornings at the Motel

Ben Mears x Reader (2024)

Words: 2842

Summary: In the following days after the events at Jerusalem’s Lot, the odd trio of evacuees try to make sense of it all.

Notes: Listen…it’s a Lewis Pullman summer for us all. Expect many more. I won’t apologize. 

-

You didn’t sleep at night anymore. No matter how hard you tried, how long you stared at the motel ceiling, you always found yourself tossing and turning until the sun came up. Even then, you would get a few hours of shut-eye before Mark decided it was time to move on. He’d taken on quite the role in your odd little group as the navigator, deciding what areas would be best to hide out in. 

Ben let him call the shots, hoping to give the young boy a little purpose to take his mind off of everything he’d lost. He knew what it was like to lose his parents. 

So you’d get up, pack up, and get back on the road, traveling from town to town and waiting each night for a tap at your window. Five days had gone by since everything, and you’d probably gotten less than ten hours of sleep in total. 

It wasn’t going unnoticed, of course. Mark commented once that it was important to get some rest despite the nightmares so you would all be ready in case one of them did find you. You’d told him you slept in the car just fine, to which he’d frowned and lectured you about the loss of some brain function or another, the more you went without sleeping. You didn’t mind, though. It was the only way to get him to talk some days. Otherwise, he’d just go silent for hours, staring out of the window. 

And then there was Ben. 

If someone had asked you a week ago, you would have told them he was a romance passing through. You’d grown too cynical from lovers' past to believe the two of you would run off into the sunset together, no matter how much your feelings for him might have developed. He would leave, just like they all had, and you would go back to your monotonous life, working with Susan at a job you both hated, waiting for your mothers to try and pair you off with some town low-life to ensure you never left the Lot.

“I made you some coffee.” Ben appeared in front of you with a pair of Styrofoam cups, breaking you from your trance. He gave you a small smile. “It’s not great, but I think it’s at least better than the last place.”

You shuddered at the memory of that lukewarm, black sludge. 

“Thanks,” you said softly, gratefully accepting the caffeine.

He took the seat beside you at the tiny outdoor table posted between your room and the man who smelled like old cigarettes. 

“How’d you sleep?” Ben asked, already knowing the answer. Each time he’d woken up to Mark’s screams, you were already awake, ready to soothe him. Every time he’d bolted upright from one of his own nightmares, he’d find you sitting at the kitchen table or pulling him into your arms until he fell asleep again.

You shrugged. “Fine.” 

“Fine,” Ben mimicked your tone, hoping it would make you smile. It did. He let his hand fall to your knee as a way of reminding you he was there, if you wanted to talk. 

Of the three of you, you were the one who never mentioned the Lot. Not once. Ben didn’t have to ask why. He and Mark had just moved to town when everything happened. You were born there. You knew the name of every person who’d burned up at that drive-in. Susan had been your best friend. While the group as a whole had suffered terrible grief, you’d lost everything you’d ever known. 

Still, Ben hated to see the weight of it all eating away at you. It was more than just grief, too. 

You thought there was more out there. 

“Where to next?” You asked. The highway rumbled with early morning traffic, but the small town behind you was quiet. You appreciated that once. Now, it just left you more on edge. 

“I was thinking we could stay here for a few days,” Ben said, his thumb gently moving back and forth over your knee. “We could all use a break.”

“If you’re tired of driving, I could-”

His hand tightened a little. “That’s not what I meant.” Ben let his fingers dance along your skin until they interlocked with yours. 

You moved your chair closer, laying your head against his shoulder. For a long, silent moment, you were both still. You took in each other’s presence with every soft breath and sway of the wind. Ben kissed your forehead, sighing. 

“You should sleep.” Before you could argue, he continued. “Nothing is coming this morning.” He kissed you again, this time tilting your head back to catch your lips. “Get some rest, Y/N.”

You didn’t have to voice the question in your eyes. He already knew and he knew his answer. Always. The answer would always be always. Ben gently tugged on your hand as he stood, leading you back inside, where he held you until you finally let yourself sleep. 

-

Vigilance wasn’t the only thing that kept you up. The dead-eyed demons haunting the shadows of your mind never let you close your eyes for long. 

The figure of Marjorie Glick’s shrouded body remained at the edge of the bed even after you were certain you were awake. She crawled up the mattress toward you, bloodied fangs piercing through the fabric. But when you tried to crawl away, arms pinned you in place.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’ve got you. It isn’t real.” Ben whispered, his breath against your cheek drawing you out of the nightmare.

Marjorie Glick’s ghost faded away, leaving the sunlight free to spill over the cheap comforter tangled up in your legs. 

“It’s okay.” Ben kissed the spot behind your ear, arms still holding you from behind. 

You scanned the room like you were waiting for another monster to take Marjorie’s place. There wasn’t. It was just you and Ben and the sun.

“Where’s Mark?” You finally managed to gasp out. Shifting in his embrace, you turned to look at Ben. His gaze was so soft you felt like you could fall into it and dream forever. Good dreams. Not like the one you just woke up from.

“I let him walk to the gas station down the block for a soda.”

You sat upright. “By himself?”

“I told him if he wasn’t back in twenty minutes, I’d be out after him,” Ben sighed. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. I don’t think anyone is going to grab him. Human or not.” He ran a hand down his face, reminding you that he was also tired, also trying. “Besides, I think he’s getting a little sick of just seeing the two of us,” he cracked a small smile. “Getting out will be good for him.” Ben’s arms fell to your lap as you shifted away to check the time. It was past 1:00.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Another sigh. He lifted a hand to brush a stray hair behind your ear. “You needed the sleep.” The quiet, patient, pleading tone in his voice snapped something in you. He felt it, too, even before your eyes welled with tears. “Alright,” he said into your hair, pulling you back to him. “Alright, baby.”

You curled against him, still fighting the urge to break down completely. You let one tear fall and hastily wiped it away. 

“Did I ever tell you I used to babysit for the Glicks?”

He exhaled sharply like he’d been hit. “No. I don’t think you had.”

“Well,” you blinked back images of their mother’s face. “I did.”

He’d never seen the boys outside of missing posters and memorial photos. They seemed normal. The whole town did. Now, that was all gone.

“What if we didn’t get them all?” You whimpered, clinging to him a little tighter. 

Ben’s hold never faltered. “Then we’ll be ready for them.” He wondered if the feeling of being hunted would ever go away, no matter how many vampires you killed.

You brought his hand back to your cheek, pressing against his palm. With your other hand, you ran your fingers through his light brown hair. In a slow, quiet moment, your lips found his. Ben deepened the kiss, sliding his hand to the nape of your neck and pulling you closer. It was gentle, but desperate. The two of you needed the reminder that you weren’t alone in all this. 

You were so focused on each other that you didn’t hear the door open.

“I knew you sent me out so you could be gross together,” Mark accused with a huff. The two of you all but jumped out of the bed.

Ben cleared his throat, dabbing the moisture from his lips with the back of his hand. “Did you find anything good?”

Mark held up a Coke and a bag of chips, then tossed the latter onto the nightstand while he hung something on the lamp that sat between the two beds. “I thought, maybe,” he said, “it would help.” 

A dreamcatcher cast a web pattern shadow onto the ceiling. You gripped Ben’s hand to keep from tearing up again. 

“It’s perfect, Mark.”

He gave you a small nod and opened his chips. 

-

When the sun went down that night, you were all wide awake, so Ben suggested a game of cards. He was thinking along the lines of Go-Fish, but Mark started dealing a game of Texas Hold ‘Em and neither of you complained. 

The horizon turned the color of a bruise, and the hairs on your arms stood on end. This was the first time you’d stayed in one place more than one night. It felt like a trap. The wind rattled at the windows like bars on a cage. Everything was pressing in. The sun sank lower and lower, getting darker and darker. 

“Y/N,” Mark said. You turned back to them with a jolt. The young boy looked at Ben, then at you, his eyes like those of a much older, wise man. “It’s your turn.” 

Your mind struggled to stay at that table, the magnetic pull of the night seeping down to your bones. There were more out there, you were sure of it. They wanted you to join them. 

Nobody from the Lot could leave.

“Y/N?” Ben reached for you.

You recoiled away. “I need some air.” Pushing back from the table, you stood on shaky legs, feet moving toward the door without thought. 

“You can’t go out at night,” Mark said, sounding more like a stern parent than an eleven-year-old kid.

“I’ll just be a minute,” you tried to breathe through the words, feeling like you were being pushed under water. You unhooked the chain lock and bolted out the door. 

Ben scrambled to his feet. “Mark, stay here.”

The boy watched him run out after you and reshuffled the cards in silence.

The night air filled your lungs like it was your first breath in years. It danced across your skin in a cool, sweeping breeze. The streetlight shined on the scabbed-over mark on your arm- the one you’d kept hidden from the others. 

The bite. 

She’d attacked you on that final day, when Ben and Mark were after Barlow. Susan- who’d been your best friend since you could talk, who’d stayed over every other weekend like you were still teenagers, who helped you pick an outfit for your date with the handsome author new to town- she’d dug her teeth into your flesh just before you plunged the stake into her heart. 

Was it calling to you now? Was the same poison that destroyed her now trying to take you back to ‘Salem’s lot? Or was it just the guilt that you’d gotten away and she hadn’t?

Footsteps behind you made you jump, but you didn’t turn around. You were frozen in place by the beams of the streetlight and the trembling sobs that overtook you. 

“I know,” Ben said quietly, careful as he came up behind you. He held up his hands as you shied away. “Easy, baby, I just want to talk.” He took another step, his heart breaking in his chest when he heard your quiet cries. “Will you look at me, please?” 

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying still so desperately to hold it all in. 

“I know about the bite, Y/N.” He stood right next to you now, just over your shoulder. 

You whipped around, teary eyes wide. “W-what?” 

“It started bleeding once while you were sleeping. Must have caught on something,” he said. Ben held out his hand and you let him take yours. He lifted your arm to the light. 

The angry red mark shone in a crescent shape, bits of dried blood around the scab like rust on a broken wheel. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” you cried. 

“No,” Ben felt like a piece of him shattered with your every sob. “Honey, there’s nothing wrong with you. Don’t you see? You would have-” He swallowed. “You would have turned by now.”

“But I can still feel it.” You looked into those sweet, dark blue eyes. “It wants me to go back.”

Ben took your face in his hands like he did before, like he had countless times, drawing you away from the darkness and back to him. 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he swore. Ben leaned his forehead against yours. “Okay? Nothing is gonna happen.” Ben’s lips found yours with three words whispered between. “I love you.”

Another sob tore through you. “That’s why I feel like I should go.”

Ben tensed around you, shaking his head. “No. No, honey, that’s the fear talking.”

“Of course it’s the fear talking!” You exclaimed, pushing away. “I am terrified, Ben.” You paced under the streetlight, moving between the odd shadows. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to live with this… this guilt.” 

Ben caught you again, wrapping his arms around you like he was scared you would disappear into the night. 

“Just come back with me, baby,” he pleaded. “And we’ll figure it out together.” He tucked you so tightly against him, you could feel his heartbeat next to yours. “You’ll feel better when the sun comes up. Just come back with me.”

Above you, the streetlight flickered. You went limp in his arms, body numbing to everything but the cool evening breeze.

“I think I want to sleep,” you whispered against his chest. 

A shudder of relief washed over him. 

“Okay.” He kissed your forehead. Keeping his hand laced tightly with yours, he walked the two of you back to the room, where Mark was still shuffling cards. 

The door closed behind you and the orange glow of the street light went out. 

-

You slept at night for the first time since leaving the Lot. It was fitful and as full of phantoms as ever, but maybe your body was too exhausted to wake up. And you didn’t, not until the early morning hours, when the sky was just beginning to turn its pinkish orange. Mark was asleep, thank God, in the bed next to yours, but the space beside you was empty. You felt at the cold sheets. He’d been gone for a while. 

Ben sat at the little table on the connected porch around the perimeter of the motel. So far, he’d seen a few stumbling drunks fumble with the keys to their room and at least one couple who only rented for the hour. He watched the steam waft from his Styrofoam cup, clutching it in his hands until his palms burned. 

“How’d you sleep?” Your voice made him jump. 

He gave you a small smile, stealing your response from the morning prior. “Fine.”

You nodded, remaining in the door frame as it clicked shut behind you. 

“I think we’ll leave once Mark is up and around,” Ben said. He took a long, slow drink. “I want to put this place behind us. Get on the road.” He didn’t look up from his coffee until you plucked it from his grip and set it on the table. 

You climbed into his lap, curling your body against his like you were always made to fit there. You draped your arms around his neck and he enveloped you against his chest. 

“How do you feel?” He asked, lips against your collarbone.

You laughed humorlessly. “Scared shitless.”

His light chuckle rumbled through you. “Yeah.” Ben kissed the crook of your neck. “Me too.” And then he said it again- those words that scared you more than any moon-shaped scar on your arm. “I love you.”

Leaning your head on his shoulder, you breathed a sigh. “I love you, Ben Mears.” You knew whatever pull you felt toward Jerusalem’s Lot, it would never be stronger than this. Sitting there in Ben’s arms, you both let the morning sun wash over you, feeling its warmth on your face.

[sillycicle]

must... make.... the sea beast oc.... must.... make.. httyd oc.... must make.... pirate

[microwave-core]

thank you for feeding the lesbians with your works :3 don't die pls

-lesbian

anon do you want to get married

Thank you for serious anon, it means a lot :)

I'm not dead yet, prommy, i just. haven't written anything. Woops. It's not that I don't want to, I just tell myself I'll do it later and then I check the calendar and realize it's been a month since my last piece. Like, what do you mean my Cogita piece was made a month ago. Hello?

[certifiedmaidenlessblog]

Okay literally nobody asked but since I am procrastinating AND restless:

My final thoughts/ranking of the Eternal mini:

(warning this is a full on yap sesh and I have next to no knowledge of music except for the very basics feel very very free to ignore)

1. Deja vu: I have feelings for this song. So gorgeous, dreamy and ethereal. Smiling so big because this song exists blah blah. Anyway the way I thought this song would be #chillvibes from the album preview snippet but then it turned out to be #nochill kajskajsj even tho there is definitely a lethargic quality to the song. I was so gagged but despite the tables turning on me I loved it immediately. Also the very random (but very well incorporated) tabla in the bridge? Slay. Initially I was mad that this wasn't the tt but with all the melodrama and orchestral arrangement, it has a similar vibe to guilty so I get it. But this song is ten fold of what guilty wanted to be (to me, that is). And I think this song remaining as a b-side to be occasionally performed instead of it being dragged through the promotional cycle and losing all the weight and impact of the song is a good choice too (the song itself is not very promotion cycle friendly either). I can't wait to see what the choreo looks like.

2. Horizon: Very kibumcore as a lot of people have also said, I think so too!! A very unexpected sound for a taemin song but he delivered sooo well. I do wish the song was longer tho. Don't know what being the second title track on this album means as of now but it's worthy of the position I'm sure.

3. Crush: Extremely shineecore! A cute and funky little number! Got me moving! The layers in the instrumentals are neat. I got exactly what was promised on the album preview. Well executed. No other notes. Other than the funky vibe there isn't really any standout element so I might get bored of it quickly tho.

Can't decide between ranks 4 and 5 so I'm calling it a tie.

4/5. Sexy in the air: I definitely should have let my brain soak this in a bit more before complaining about it cause now I literally can't stop listening to it helpppaksnakms cause Damn... This is crazy. What am I gonna do now?? Jaksjksks My first ranking for this song was literally second last (in a derogatory way) and now here we are. Also I held off from watching the mv first because I'm a very visual creature and I get easily swayed that way so I was trying to be #unbiased or whatever. I still think that the second verse is a bit meh, specially because of the English lyrics (i don't even know why I was so pissed off by the "turn me down" that was obviously supposed to be "turn me on", it wasn't even that serious 😭) but I was definitely being too harsh and it's not even as bad as I made it out to be and it doesn't stick out enough to get in the way of me enjoying the rest of the song. The switch up after the beat change is soooo good I've been obsessed with that part (the horny choreo definitely helps :D).

The good things about this song being the title track are: it's produced by dem jointz (the production is interesting and immaculate), the mastering of this song is better than most tracks on this album, it is performance oriented/friendly, both halves of the song are tied together so neatly that honestly the beat change doesn't even seem that unnatural even if it's shocking, tm devoured this track in a way that only he can, tm freak lore continues!!!! but most importantly it's bold!!! and it's a statement!!! (instead of playing it safe like he did with guilty imo lol, musically i mean). My only real grievance with this song is probably the fact that it wasn't allowed to go full freak nasty the way it was originally envisioned to be because we live in a society or whatever. Tm was moaning and groaning and saying fuck in the studio only for it to be muffled and be barely audible on the track. The dem jointz trademark of an addictive repeated word/phrase being distorted because otherwise tm would be put in horny jail fr (horny gay jail even because its so crazy that they had another man moaning on the track like skdkksksjdkd). Some of the lyrics being altered hastily (like "turn me down" ksjsjsks).This song being called sexy in the air instead of sex is in the air kajskaksksks. Sad. Because if anyone can pull off something like this without being cringe, it's tm. But it's okay I get it. Also notably this song has one of the veeery few ethical uses of that infamous bed creak sample (by ethical i mean relevant to the song at hand in a way that maximizes the slay of the song).

4/5. Say Less: Very pretty, short and sweet, could have been longer. A solid closer for this album and definitely stands it's own ground despite being on the track list after Deja vu. Which is lowkey a feat of its own. The instrumentals are infact drowning out his voice a bit but I don't think it bothers me as much as I had feared. Reminds me of Truth a bit.

6. The Unknown Sea: I don't have particularly strong opinions on ballads but I do generally only listen to ballads if I'm already super into the idol. And I do like most of the other ballads from tm. However. He's singing his ass off here but the vocal processing.... specially in the chorus his voice sounds very tinny. When I first heard the song I thought it wasn't that big of a deal but now it is definitely getting in the way of me enjoying this song. Beautiful bridge tho, definitely the highlight of the song for me.

7. G.O.A.T.: This instrumental is so fucking nasty I'm obsessedddd. Unfortunately the instrumental might just be the saving grace of this song. I went into this track thinking I was not even gonna be able to listen to this but thankfully it's not thaaaaaat bad. But we definitely need to get tm off his rapping agenda. Even after listening to this a bunch of times it's not sitting that well with me. (Which is crazy because after first listen I thought his voice was more well suited to GOAT than SITA???) I do understand that this song was meant to be a bit tongue in cheek like yeah the goat bleating sounds are hilarious in a good way but tm is Not giving the hardass aura that he thought he was going for and um. that's enough for me to be like :/ which is such a shame cause even the arrangement of this song is so interesting. But yeah whatever this track needed vocally is not in tm's strengths so. I'll wait for someone to upload the instrumental tho so that I can download it and play it with the rest of the album jksjsksksjsjs

I think it's a good choice to drop an album that's just him coming out swinging after such a drastic career altering decision. There's no more room for regrets or dilly dallying and he's confident. Which is a good thing. Because it definitely makes the statement he wants to make. The album as a whole is interesting, all the tracks differ from each other but that doesn't take away from the cohesiveness of the soundscape of the album. There is a clear logic in the way the tracklisting was done, the transition from one song to the next makes sense (even if I can't explain it properly).

That being said, yes the production and the mixing is a bit lacking (along with the other downsides of a low budget) but I don't think sm has songs like this in their vault anymore so... You win some you lose some idk.

Overall I do see this as a win. Yapping over and out.

[aidenwaites]

Man. It's only been three months

[mitamicah]

.

[daughterofhecata]

Had an insanely hectic 8h work day today, which definitely calls for some comfort tv* and spending the evening on the couch.

*Tatort Berlin - Der gute Weg

[raeathnos]

.

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — MAKING HIM THINK HE FORGOT YOUR DATE

a/n: loved this request, i had so much writing it

ZAYNE

You’re not proud of it.

Okay, maybe a little.

Zayne’s always been so composed — calm, cool, collected. The picture of perfect, responsible, annoyingly unflappable maturity. Which is exactly why you’re determined to throw him off his rhythm… just a little.

So at 10:00 AM sharp, you send him a message:

“Don’t forget our reservation at 7 tonight! Dress nice!”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t respond to his inevitable follow-up message. You just wait.

At 12:13 PM, you get your first bite.

Zayne: I’m sorry — did we have plans this evening?

You leave him on read. Cold-blooded.

At 1:46 PM:

Zayne: You said 'reservation.' Did I make it or did you? What kind of place is it? Casual? Formal? Should I cancel my meeting with the TAVR team?

You smile wickedly to yourself and text back:

You’ll figure it out. You always do <3

By 3:30 PM, Zayne’s gone through the five stages of Date Panic:

Denial: “No way I forgot. I never forget.”

Anger: (mild and internal) “Why didn’t she remind me?!”

Bargaining: “Maybe I can move things around... Call the florist...”

Depression: “I probably forgot something important. She’s being so sweet about it. She must be crushed.”

Acceptance: In full formalwear, researching romantic restaurants near Akso.

At 6:45 PM, he shows up at your door.

He’s in a dark suit. Not too formal, not too casual. Sleek. Effortlessly handsome. He’s holding a single rose like he’s walked out of a movie. His tie is the exact color of your eyes.

You almost feel bad.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, leaning on the doorframe. “Right on time.”

“…So I did forget, then?” His brow furrows slightly, and his voice is calm, but there’s a faint crease of concern between his eyes. “I’ve been going through my calendar for the past three years.”

Your face almost breaks into a grin, but you hold it together. Barely.

“Well,” you say, folding your arms. “Do you remember making a reservation?”

“…No.”

“Do you remember discussing it?”

He pauses. “I remember talking about wanting to try that new place near the observatory... but I don’t think we picked a date.”

You finally burst out laughing. “Zayne. We don’t have a reservation. I was messing with you!”

He blinks. Slowly. “You pranked me.”

You nod gleefully. “And it was so easy. You spiraled.”

He lets out a long, slow exhale and then —smiles. That warm, slow-building, almost incredulous smile that makes your heart stutter.

“I canceled a meeting with the TAVR team,” he says mildly.

Your eyes widen. “You what?”

“And rescheduled a conference with the medical board.”

“…Okay, I might’ve gone too far.”

He just laughs, stepping past you and handing you the rose. “Well, I’m already dressed. And technically, I do have reservations. I made them an hour ago just in case.”

Your jaw drops. “Zayne.”

“I take potential dates seriously,” he says, smug now.

You’re too flustered to argue. “I was supposed to win this prank!”

“You did.” He brushes his fingers along your cheek. “You made me believe I’d let you down, and that was the worst part.”

“…Okay, now I feel really bad.”

“Don’t.” He takes your hand. “Just come with me. And next time, I’m the one planning the prank.”

You squint at him suspiciously.

“…You don’t do pranks.”

“I didn’t,” he says, eyes glinting. “Until today.”

Oh no.

You’ve awakened something dangerous.

And you kind of love it.

XAVIER

You don’t usually mess with Xavier.

Mostly because he’s the kind of guy who triple-confirms plans, color-codes mission schedules, and somehow has time to save the galaxy and make perfect pancakes. He’s thoughtful, dependable, borderline scary-efficient.

So naturally, that makes him the perfect target for your newest prank.

At exactly 9:42 AM, you send him a message:

Hey! Can’t wait for our date tonight! You didn’t forget, right?

And then, as the ancient texts of chaos command: you go silent.

10:03 AM

You get your first reply.

Xavier: …Our what now?

Xavier: Hold on.

Xavier: Did we plan something? Did I miss a message? An alert? I’ve checked all my logs.

You stare at your screen, already shaking with laughter.

11:12 AM

You receive a second message. This one is voice. You hesitate for dramatic effect, then hit play.

“Okay, so. Hypothetically,” Xavier begins, and you can hear the fluster in his voice, “if someone were to forget a date — which, to be clear, I don’t make a habit of — but if they did… would it be… better to confess immediately, or to just start planning and pretend they remembered all along?”

There’s a pause.

“I’m asking for a friend.”

By lunchtime, the panic has set in.

He messages you a photo of three outfits on his bed with the caption:

Which one did I say I’d wear? I’m leaning toward blue because it’s our ‘lucky color,’ apparently??

You text back only one thing:

You remembered the color!

Which you absolutely made up just now.

6:45 PM

You’re sitting on your couch in your pajamas, holding a bowl of popcorn, when there’s a knock at your door.

You open it to find Xavier — dressed sharply in a navy blazer, holding a bouquet of slightly chaotic-looking flowers (which are probably from the emergency med-bay garden), and blinking at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“…So I did forget?” he says softly.

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, Xavier — there is no date! I was messing with you!”

His face does a full system reboot: blank stare, blinking, cheeks slowly turning pink, eyes squinting in realization.

“…You pranked me?”

“You should’ve seen your messages,” you snort, stepping aside to let him in. “I’ve never seen you so panicked over something non-explosive.”

He walks in, carefully sets the flowers on your table, and then flops dramatically onto your couch. “I had two monitors open, cross-checking every conversation we’ve ever had in the past two months.”

You flop down beside him, giggling uncontrollably. “Did you really go with the blue because you thought it was our ‘lucky color’?”

“I didn’t know,” he mutters, tugging at his collar.

You grin, scooting closer. “Well, you do look good in blue. Even if it’s not canonically our lucky color.”

He gives you a long-suffering look. “You know I’m going to have to get revenge, right?”

“You’re welcome to try,” you say sweetly. “But I’m not the one who thought he forgot a whole romantic evening.”

He groans into a throw pillow, muffling something like “I checked my planner twice.”

You hand him the popcorn. He takes it with a grumble.

You lean into his shoulder. “To be fair, you were really cute when you were freaking out.”

“…Don’t encourage me.”

“You’re adorable.”

“…Stop.”

You smirk, then whisper, “Lucky color.”

Xavier groans again. And you’re already plotting the next one.

RAFAYEL

It starts with a simple message.

Don’t be late tonight! I’ve been looking forward to this date all week!

You hit send and wait.

You can almost hear Rafayel gasping across the city.

Three minutes later, your comms light up.

Rafayel: My love, my symphony, my light… I have, of course, not forgotten. How could I ever forget something so sacred?

Oh, he’s panicking.

You lean back and sip your tea, smug as a cat.

Rafayel: ...Quick question: what precisely did we plan for this eve of destiny again? Simply so I can relive the joy of it all anew, of course.

Rafayel: Also is there a dress code? Will there be interpretive dancing? Fireworks? Both??

You type slowly:

You’ll figure it out. I trust you <3

And then, naturally, you ghost him.

One hour later —

You receive a string of increasingly unhinged updates.

Rafayel: I am in front of my closet. It’s judging me. I’ve changed outfits four times. Do we feel like an embroidered vest is too much? Or not enough?

Rafayel: I just tried to bribe a restaurant hostess for a reservation I didn’t make. She said no. She was very mean.

Rafayel: There are exactly seventeen establishments that fit our "vibe"—yes, I’ve ranked them. No, I’m not okay.

Rafayel: I’m currently speed-walking through the city with a bouquet, a bottle of sparkling nectar, and no clue where I’m supposed to be. Do I look desperate? Be honest.

You almost drop your drink laughing.

7:05 PM

Your doorbell rings.

You open it to find Rafayel standing there in a velvet jacket, clutching the aforementioned bouquet, a half-melted chocolate sculpture of a heart, and a very large grin that’s about 80% panic and 20% pure drama.

“My love,” he says breathlessly, “forgive me —I’ve scoured every date-worthy destination in the district. Have I passed your test? Or am I moments away from tragic romantic ruin?”

You blink. “You... sprinted across town?”

“I jogged romantically,” he says, offended.

You double over laughing. “Raf, there is no date. I was pranking you.”

His smile freezes. “What.”

You straighten up, wheezing. “There was never a reservation. You didn’t forget anything. I just wanted to see how far you’d go.”

He places a hand on his heart like you’ve mortally wounded him. “You cruel, beautiful creature. You tricked me.”

“I texted you.”

“And I took you seriously! I panicked!”

You dissolve into fresh laughter as he dramatically flops onto your couch.

“I demand recompense,” he says, pointing at you. “You will now go on an actual date with me. Immediately.”

“I’m in pajamas.”

“Perfect. I shall match you.” He begins unbuttoning his vest. “Velvet is overrated.”

“You brought snacks?”

“I brought romance and chaos and a slightly sweaty bouquet. And I will not be leaving without at least one cuddle.”

You raise an eyebrow, sitting beside him. “So you’re saying the prank... worked?”

He sighs, tossing a chocolate heart into your lap. “I was humiliated and flustered and had a mild identity crisis.”

Then he smiles.

“Best fake date of my life.”

SYLUS

Just a reminder for our date tonight! Can’t wait to see what you’ve planned.

You send it at 9:00 AM sharp and sit back like a mastermind watching the first domino fall.

9:02 AM

Sylus: …Oh?

Oh yes.

You say nothing. Silence is power.

9:06 AM

Sylus: Of course I haven’t forgotten. I just… want to make sure I don’t spoil the surprise by saying too much.

You bite your lip, already grinning. Oh, he's bluffing.

10:14 AM

Sylus: Hypothetically, what sort of vibes were you expecting? Classic and romantic, or… spontaneous and thrilling? Asking for planning reasons. Or curiosity. Or both.

You send:

You always get it right ;)

2:39 PM

A message arrives. It’s just a photo.

A table. Two place settings. Candles. Mood lighting. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Suspiciously fancy folded napkins.

Sylus: Trial run. Thoughts?

You nearly drop your phone.

He’s actually preparing.

6:00 PM

You hear the knock on your door right on time. You open it, and there’s Sylus — leaning casually against the frame, bouquet in one hand, that ever-present smirk on his face.

He’s wearing a crisp shirt, blazer unbuttoned, hair slightly tousled in a way that’s definitely on purpose.

“Ready for our mystery date?” he asks smoothly.

You cross your arms, grinning. “Sylus… there is no date. I made the whole thing up.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying… you sent me a fake message to make me think I forgot something?”

You nod. “Exactly.”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. “Interesting.”

“…You’re not mad?”

He steps forward, offering the flowers. “I suspected something was up the moment you left me on read. You never leave me on read.”

You blink. “Wait. So you knew?”

“I suspected.” His smirk turns triumphant. “But just in case I was wrong, I still made a backup plan. Which, by the way, includes reservations at a rooftop cafe, your favorite dessert, and a playlist labeled ‘Emergency Romance.’”

“You made a playlist?”

“Of course. You think I’d risk being underprepared?”

You stare at him, half-impressed, half-offended. “You… confidence-bluffed your way through the whole thing.”

“Absolutely.” He loops your arm in his. “I may not have known what was going on, but I refused to lose.”

You laugh as he leads you out the door. “I can’t believe you turned my prank into a real date.”

CALEB

It starts with you lounging on the couch, watching Caleb scramble around the room like he’s ten minutes late to everything — which, to be fair, he probably is.

He’s halfway into his jacket, holding his datapad in one hand and wrestling with the other sleeve like it personally wronged him.

You sip your drink, totally casual. “Don’t forget about tonight.”

Caleb pauses, arm frozen mid-flail. “…Tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, doing your best impression of offended-but-trying-to-be-cool. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

His eyes widen. “No! Of course not. I totally remembered. Our… uh… date.”

You watch the realization hit him like a space freighter.

“Oh shit, I forgot,” he mumbles under his breath — and then louder, in a tone you recognize as Caleb entering full-blown emergency charming mode—“I didn’t forget! Just confirming! Totally in control!”

He gives you a crooked smile. “You’re testing me, right? Classic relationship banter. I see you.”

You just smile sweetly. “Mmhm. Seven o’clock.”

He salutes — salutes! — and practically trips out the door.

You flop back on the couch, grinning.

This is going to be so good.

10:22 AM

Caleb: Just to be clear, we said formal-ish, right? Or was it cozy-casual with optional sparkle? No reason. Just dressing with INTENTION.

12:37 PM

Caleb: What kind of flowers say “I remembered the whole time” and not “I panicked in a gift shop and picked the first thing that smelled nice”?

3:02 PM

Caleb: I may have triple-booked us at three different places just to be safe. One has mood lighting. One has noodles. One might be a jazz club or a bowling alley.

By the time 6:59 rolls around, you’ve received:

A photo of Caleb in a slightly wrinkled button-up, holding a bouquet of flowers that seem to include a cactus.

A screenshot of a menu that features both fondue and combat karaoke.

A message that just says: “If I don’t survive this night, you have legal rights to all of my possessions.”

Then — knock knock.

You open the door to find Caleb looking like a man who tried everything and is now barely holding it together with pure optimism. His hair’s doing its own thing, there’s a flower tucked behind one ear (not matching the bouquet, by the way), and he’s got that dazzling, boyish smile of someone desperately hoping he passed the test.

“Happy… date night?” he says, holding out the cactus like it’s a precious gem.

You laugh. “You seriously believed me?”

He blinks. “Wait. Wait.”

“There’s no date, Caleb. I made it up.”

He stares at you, stunned. “You — you pranked me?!”

“Yep.”

“I almost took us to a planetarium-themed fondue disco. Do you know how many kinds of cheese they were offering?”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “You looked very prepared.”

He squints at you, mock-serious. “This means war.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Gonna prank me back?”

He leans in, suddenly smug. “Oh no. I’m going to make you fall so hard for a date that doesn’t exist you’ll be the one showing up in heels to a pizza delivery.”

You laugh again. “Deal.”

He grins, offers you the cactus, and says, “Still brought you this, though. Just in case.”

Honestly? Best date night that wasn’t

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier sat cross-legged on the couch, his attention fixed on a book about claw machines. You had been quietly moving around the apartment, but something about your mischievous energy must have caught his subconscious attention.

When you flashed him, his book dropped from his hands. His eyes widened as if he’d spotted an unknown life form, lips parting slightly without words forming. For a long moment, he simply froze, processing what had just happened, watching as you giggled and darted away down the hallway.

The spell broke when you disappeared from view. He blinked twice, then rose to his feet with surprising grace for someone who had been completely immobile seconds before.

“What was... that...” he murmured to himself, moving toward the direction you’d fled. His steps were steady but quick, no hesitation in his pursuit.

As he turned the corner, he almost collided with the bedroom door you’d hastily closed. He paused, resting his palm against the cool surface.

“Hey, don’t run away,” his voice carried through the door, the usual flatness tinged with a hint of amusement.

He tried the handle, finding it unlocked. “I’m coming in now,” he announced, pushing the door open slowly. His eyes immediately found you, and despite his typically reserved demeanor, there was undeniable warmth in his gaze.

“You know,” he said softly, approaching where you hid, “I’m not sure if I should admit this or not, but...” His hand reached for yours. “I wasn’t done looking.”

For just a moment, the corner of his mouth quivered upward—oh, he’s planning something to repay that.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Papers were spread across the coffee table, Zayne’s focus unbroken for the past hour as he reviewed case notes that he had suddenly received a call for. The living room had fallen silent except for the occasional rustle of paper and scratch of his pen. You’d wandered in and out a few times, but he’d barely acknowledged your presence, lost in his work.

When you suddenly flashed him, his pen froze mid-sentence. His eyes widened, quickly darting up to confirm what he’d just witnessed before you took off running with a laugh.

He sat perfectly still for exactly five seconds, jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the pen until his knuckles whitened. Then, he set the pen down and pushed himself up.

“This is hardly the time,” he called out, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. He glanced at his abandoned work with clear reluctance, then back to the hallway where you’d disappeared.

A barely audible sigh escaped him before he rose to his feet. “Why are you like this...”

He moved through the apartment with measured steps, not rushing but certainly not wasting time either. When he reached the bedroom door, he found it cracked open—an invitation.

“You know I have to finish those reports,” he said, pushing the door open fully to reveal you hiding poorly behind the curtains. The stern edge in his voice contradicted the warmth in his eyes. “But now I won’t be able to concentrate.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, pulling the curtain aside. “You realize,” he said, voice dropping to a lower register as he approached, “that I’ll be thinking about nothing else now,” he murmured, his hand coming up to cup your face with unexpected gentleness. The coldness he showed the world had melted away completely as he leaned down.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

Rafayel lounged on a chaise, absently sketching in a sketchbook. Music played softly in the background—one of his old recordings—while he hummed along, occasionally glancing up to watch you move around the room.

When you flashed him, his entire body jerked in surprise. The sketchbook clattered to the floor as he choked on air, eyes bulging comically wide.

“Wha—” he sputtered, “What was—where are you going?!” He scrambled to his feet as you dashed away laughing, nearly tripping over the fallen sketchbook in his haste.

“You can’t just—that’s not—come back here!” he called, voice breaking slightly as he chased after you. The sound of his bare feet slapping against the floor echoed through the house. “I wasn’t done looking!”

He skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with a side table. “That was incredibly rude, you know,” he shouted, a breathless laugh in his voice. “You can’t just give someone a heart attack and run away!”

When he reached the bedroom, he found the door locked. He leaned against it, catching his breath.

“Open up,” he coaxed, knocking playfully. “I promise I won’t retaliate... much.”

When no response came, he pressed his forehead against the door. “Fine, stay in there. I’ll just go back to my boring sketching. All alone. Abandoned after such a stimulating display.”

He waited three beats before adding dramatically, “I might die of loneliness out here. Is that what you want? My death on your conscience?”

From inside, he heard your laughter. The lock clicked open, and Rafayel’s face broke into a delighted grin as he pushed the door open.

“Now then, where’s the show?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The spacious living area was quiet except for the occasional tap of Sylus’s fingers against his phone as he reviewed something from the comfort of an oversized armchair. His posture was relaxed but regal, legs crossed at the knee, seemingly unaware of your approach.

When you flashed him, one of the rare moments of genuine surprise crossed his face—eyebrows rising slightly, eyes widening just a fraction. It lasted only an instant before his lips curled into an amused smirk as you turned to flee.

“And where do you think you’re going?” His voice was silky smooth, almost lazy in its confidence.

You made it three steps before feeling an invisible force wrap around your waist, halting your escape. The familiar tingle of his Evol held you firmly in place.

“That was bold of you,” he remarked, setting his phone aside as he rose from his chair. His footsteps were unhurried as he approached, circling around to face you. “Did you really think I’d let you get away with such a… delightful provocation?”

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The invisible restraint loosened enough for you to move, but not to run.

“I admire your initiative, kitten. I really do,” he continued, voice dropping lower. “Always so full of surprises. But, you should know by now—” he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear “—that I don’t let what’s mine simply run away.”

His other hand settled possessively at your waist, the touch gentle despite the authority in his grip. “Now, did you have something specific in mind when you decided to capture my attention so thoroughly?” His eyes glittered with amusement and something darker, more intense. “Or shall I decide how we proceed from here?”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Sports highlights played on the television, but Caleb’s attention had started to wander. He was sprawled comfortably on the couch, one arm draped over the back, legs stretched out on the coffee table. His expression brightened when you entered the room, a smile warming his features.

“Hey, Pipsqueak.”

When you suddenly flashed him, his entire body went rigid with shock. The remote control slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the floor as his mouth fell open. For a split second, he looked utterly dumbfounded—but as you turned to run away giggling, his surprise transformed into something else entirely.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he called out, his voice playful but determined. He extended his hand in your direction, and suddenly your feet felt impossibly heavy, as if the air around you had turned to thick molasses.

You struggled against the invisible force of his Evol as his footsteps approached from behind.

“That was quite the hello you returned to me,” he said, circling around to face you with a crooked grin. “Were you planning on following through, or was this just a hit-and-run situation?”

He reduced the gravitational field enough to let you move your upper body, but your feet remained firmly planted on the floor. His eyes had darkened noticeably as he stepped closer, one hand coming up to brush your cheek.

“Because I’ve got to say,” he continued, voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’m not a fan of being teased and abandoned.”

His other arm snaked around your waist, pulling you against him despite your immobilized state. “Next time you want to start something,” he murmured against your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine, “be prepared to finish it.”

His Evol dissipated as his lips found yours.

Based on this request.

[sunset-peril]

My brain: We should work some more on Link's family tree!

Me: But... tired

Brain: FAMILY TREE :D

[maskedbyghost]

Hear me out, possessive reader plays a prank, or maybe to see how it would work out and starts acting wayyy less possessive, to the point of being a normal partner..

I NEED SI REACTION

Anon, I love your fucking mind. I had the best time writing this, literally giggling and kicking my feet while imagining Simon spiraling because his crazy girl went "normal mode" on him and he couldn’t handle it for even a second. BASED ON THIS IDEA

You barely looked at him when the waitress called him handsome.

You just smiled to yourself and kept sipping your drink, didn’t glare at her, didn’t grab his hand and lace your fingers through his, didn’t scoot closer in your seat or wrap your arms around him like you used to, and Simon sat there blinking at you like he’d just been slapped across the face.

And then when you walked past a group of girls at the grocery store and one of them giggled and said something about his arms, you didn’t even flinch, didn’t even frown, didn’t even murmur something low and territorial under your breath the way you always did, and Simon actually almost tripped over the cart trying to get a reaction out of you, heart hammering so hard.

You used to get pissed if he so much as looked at another woman too long, used to give him that smug little smirk when you caught someone staring at him, used to lean into him and press your mouth to his ear and mutter "mine" so dark and low that it left him shivering for hours, and now? Now you were just... chill.

Way too chill.

He caught himself thinking insane things like maybe you were losing interest, maybe you were getting ready to leave, maybe you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you, maybe you were pulling away slow and silent to make it easier when you walked out for good, and by the time you got home, Simon’s brain was working overtime, replaying every interaction, every glance, every smile you had given that wasn’t just for him, every time you hadn't touched him when you should have.

You didn’t steal his hoodie when he tossed it on the couch.

You didn’t scroll through his phone and make snarky comments about the girls who liked his photos.

You didn’t pull into his lap when he sat down to watch TV.

You didn’t tell him to shower because he "smelled like other people," which he always secretly loved, even though he rolled his eyes and grumbled about it every time.

You just... existed next to him.

Detached.

Simon sat there on the couch while you scrolled on your phone, completely casual, legs tucked under you, not touching him at all, and he was spiraling so badly he almost convinced himself he could physically see the relationship disintegrating in real time, piece by miserable piece.

He thought about asking if you still loved him.

He thought about proposing on the spot just to lock you down before you could change your mind.

He thought about texting Johnny and asking him if it was normal to feel like your entire world was slipping out from under you because your girlfriend wasn’t being a possessive lunatic for five seconds.

Finally, when you stood up and stretched and said, "I'm gonna head to bed" without even glancing at him, without even saying goodnight or trying to drag him with you, Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

He launched off the couch and followed you, heart pounding like he was about to get left behind at the airport or something, stomach twisted into a knot.

You climbed into bed and flipped onto your side, facing away from him like it was nothing, like you hadn’t spent months curling around him like a vine the second he lay down.

He just stood there at the foot of the bed, breathing way too hard for a normal human being, feeling an honest-to-God panic attack brewing in his chest.

"Love," he said, his voice way shakier than he wanted it to be.

You didn’t even roll over. "Hmm?"

He swallowed hard, hands fisting at his sides. "You don’t want me anymore."

You snorted. Actually snorted. "What are you talking about?"

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "You—you’re not even—you didn’t get mad when that girl flirted with me. You didn’t steal my hoodie. You didn’t call me yours even once. You’re acting like we’re—" his voice cracked and he cursed under his breath, "—like we’re normal."

You turned slowly, propping yourself up on your elbow, and the look you gave him was so infuriatingly calm he almost burst into tears on the spot.

"You mean," you said, so evenly it made his eye twitch, "like a normal girlfriend who trusts her boyfriend?"

He stared at you, chest heaving, entire body screaming at him that something was wrong.

"You’re gonna leave me," he said, absolutely sure of it, absolutely certain this was the beginning of the end.

You blinked at him for a second, like you were trying very hard not to laugh in his stupid, panicking face, and then you moved so fast he barely had time to react—you were grabbing him by the front of his shirt, hauling him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, and pinning him there with your thighs as your hands locked around his neck, firm but not tight, just enough to make him shut up and listen.

"Listen to me, you stupid, beautiful man," you said, voice low and furious in that way that made every nerve in his body light up, "you need me just as much as I need you. You belong to me. You hear me? You are fucking mine. I’m not going anywhere; I’m never fucking leaving you. I don't want normal; I want you wrapped around my fucking finger where you belong. Don’t ever doubt that again."

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing his, your hands still gripping his neck just enough to keep him pinned under you, and you added, your voice dropping even lower, smug and wicked, "And maybe I wanted you to lose your fucking mind for a bit. Wanted you to see how much you love it when I’m unhinged about you."

Simon just exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach and kissed at the same time, his whole body sagging against the bed.

He groaned, almost whining, burying his face against your chest with a muffled, desperate, "Fuckin’ hell, don’t ever do that to me again, you psycho."

But his arms were wrapping around you like steel, holding you so tight, and when you laughed and tugged his hair gently, he actually sighed in relief, like his whole world had finally clicked back into place.

"You’re crazy," he muttered again, not even trying to sound annoyed, his voice almost grateful.

"You love it," you said against his hair, grinning wide enough your cheeks hurt.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice raw and low and real, "yeah, I fuckin’ do. I need you crazy. Need you to ruin me a little. Keep me yours."

You kissed the side of his head, smug and sweet and savage all at once, and Simon just kept breathing you in, letting that awful gnawing terror bleed out of him one slow second at a time until there was nothing left but you, your hands, your voice, your body wrapped around him like armor, pulling him deeper, anchoring him exactly where he belonged.

And he was fine, better than fine actually, and exactly where he needed to be.

-----------------------------------------------

i can't even explain how much i love this idea...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6