#I love her to pieces but let's be real here

[lupinqs]

THE TONIGHT SHOW ━━ paige bueckers x actress!reader

☆ ━ summary: a talk show, an after party, and far too much champagne leads paige bueckers straight to you.

☆ ━ word count: 9.5K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (scissoring, oral, fingering)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: shameless timmy chalamet cameo because i love him…. anyways that pic with p and the champagne single-handedly revived my writing

THE DRESSING ROOM is loud, but in a muted way—voices murmuring over each other, flat irons hissing like snakes, the faint thump of bass through the walls as the Tonight Show band rehearses. You’re sitting in a high-backed chair, eyes half-lidded, a stylist brushing highlighter onto your cheekbone while someone else carefully curls the ends of your hair. You’re barely paying attention, letting yourself be fussed over like a human Barbie. You’re used to it by now.

Timothée’s sprawled on the little velvet couch behind you, legs hanging over the arm like a spider that’s given up. He’s buzzing, as usual, knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. You love him, but he never seems to run out of energy. You glance at him in the mirror as he tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it with his mouth. Barely.

“Missed,” you mutter.

He gasps like you insulted his lineage. “Just untruthful.”

You grin, but your attention shifts. Something itches in your brain—some piece of information you forgot to check.

“What’s the lineup tonight?” you ask, voice pitched slightly above the hum around you.

The girl doing your hair, her name’s Rachel you think, nods absently as she wraps another section around the curling iron. “Rami Malek’s first, then you two. Oh, and I think Paige Bueckers has a little cameo. She’s crashing the monologue but doesn’t have an interview.”

Timothée sits up like he’s just heard his name. “Ohhh, because they won the natty, right?”

Rachel nods, unfazed. “Yeah. She’s just doing a little bit with Jimmy to start the show. Real quick thing.”

“Damn,” Timothée whistles low, like he’s genuinely impressed. “She a hooper, for real. I wanna meet her.”

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t say anything right away. Of course you know who Paige Bueckers is. Everyone does right now.

A few days ago, you watched her team win the national championship. You weren’t at home or anything sentimental—just curled up in your trailer between night shoots, a bowl of cereal in your lap and your assistant’s login for ESPN on your phone. But you’d watched her. The way she moved. The way she led.

You’re not a basketball diehard by any means, but the big stuff? You pay attention. And Paige is big. A name on the rise. A face that teenage girls across America are scribbling in the margins of their notebooks, reposting edits of on TikTok, screaming about like she’s Harry Styles during prime One Direction days. The girl’s got motion.

You don’t know what it is about her. Maybe it’s the way she smiles when she’s caught off guard or how she carries herself like she doesn’t care at all what anyone thinks. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she’s hot and tall and athletic and entirely too marketable.

Timothée tosses another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “What do you think she’s like?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes a little. Your co-star loves sports and Paige has been the biggest name in them this week. “I don’t know. Cool, probably.”

He nods along, chewing his popcorn. “Well, duh. She’s an athlete. They’re all cool.” (Case in point.)

You nod slowly, lips parting but not quite moving yet. You’ve been in rooms with world-famous people, with actors who have Oscars and musicians who have egos the size of planets. But there’s something about athletes—especially ones who just won something. There’s a heat to them, a freshness. Like they’re alive in a way everyone else is pretending to be.

“D’you think she’ll still be here after the show?” Timothée asks curiously. “Maybe at the after-thing?”

You hum, noncommittal.

But secretly, you hope so too.

Not that you’re planning anything. Not that it matters. You’re just curious.

That’s all.

And then—it’s time for rehearsal. Nothing new. You and Timothée are ushered through narrow hallways that smell faintly of hairspray and cold brew, past stagehands with headsets and clipboards. Jimmy’s warm-up guy gives you a quick wave. Someone hands you a printout with a few of the pre-cleared talking points: talk about the shoot in Italy, Timothée’s improv moment in the cafe scene, your character’s breakdown, funny story about the crying scene.

The usual fluff.

You barely glance at it. You and Timmy have done this song and dance enough times to know that the real magic happens when you ignore the cards and just talk.

Still, you sit side by side on the little couch in the green room, tossing lines back and forth as if you’re already on air.

“Okay,” Timmy says, clearing his throat in an exaggerated newscaster voice. “Tell me, what was it like doing another film where all you do is cry?”

You snort. “Life-changing. I mean, I think I’ve really got it down now. You, on the other hand…”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest dramatically. “I cried some beautiful tears.”

“Uh-huh.”

You’re both still laughing as the stage manager pokes her head in. “We’re about to get to your segment. Paige just finished her bit.”

At the mention of her name, something flickers in your chest—quick and sharp, like a spark. You don’t know why. You don’t even know her. You just saw her on TV a few days ago, limbs outstretched and screaming at the buzzer with the rest of her team swarming her like bees to honey.

Now she’s here, in the building. Probably just down the hall.

Timothée, of course, notices your shift. “You nervous?” he teases, nudging your shoulder.

You shake your head. “Nah.”

You don’t elaborate.

The rest of it happens fast.

They mic you up, fluff your hair one last time, and lead you through the wings toward the main stage. Jimmy’s voice floats through the air as he wraps up a bit with the band. The audience laughs, and the floor vibrates faintly with applause.

“Alright,” Jimmy grins, turning toward the camera. “Coming up next, two of my favorite people!” He calls your name and then Timothée’s, ushering you both onto the stage.

The applause swells like a wave. The music kicks in. You walk out with Timmy beside you, the lights hitting hard and hot, but you don’t flinch. You smile. You wave. You hug Jimmy and sit down on the couch, legs crossed, posture perfect. Timmy hams it up immediately, pointing at the crowd and then at you like, can you believe this woman? The audience eats it up.

It’s easy. Familiar. You talk about the movie. Timmy tells the story of how the gelato stand you filmed at got mobbed by fans. You talk about a scene that took eight takes because the wind kept flipping your hair into your mouth. Jimmy laughs too hard. The audience claps on cue.

And somewhere, offstage—maybe leaning against a wall or scrolling through her phone—Paige Bueckers is watching.

Maybe.

Not that it, like, matters.

PAIGE ISN’T USED to feeling like this.

She’s good with people. Always has been. Her dad used to say she could talk to a brick wall and get it to smile. She knows how to work a room, can flip the switch between lowkey and charismatic like it’s nothing. And normally, this kind of party would be her sweet spot—music pulsing, champagne in hand, famous people milling around.

But she’s been a little overwhelmed—and who can blame her? The last few days have been a whirlwind—interviews, flights, appearances, more interviews. Since the natty win, her world’s been spinning faster than usual, and not even her extroversion can keep up with the pace forever.

She’s grateful that Azzi and Kaitlyn are here with her. They’re posted up by the bar, all of them sipping champagne and trying to stay nonchalant, even though they just met Alicia Keys and Azzi legitimately had to walk away before she burst into tears.

“She said she watched the game,” Kaitlyn says, shaking her head in disbelief and swirling her glass.

“She said she loved my jumper,” Paige deadpans.

Paige lets the conversation blur around her, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of her glass. It’s crowded with beautiful, wildly successful people. She recognizes singers, actors, athletes. Everyone smells expensive and looks like they floated in from a campaign shoot.

Then she sees you.

You’re wearing a black dress that makes her blink twice. It clings in all the right places, dips a little lower than should be legal, and your hair is tucked behind one ear like you’re unaware of how gorgeous you look. Or maybe you are aware. Maybe that’s the point.

You’re deep in conversation with Kylie Jenner, who’s leaning in close, sipping on something pink and fizzy. Timothée Chalamet is perched beside you, laughing at something Kylie says, his hand tapping against her hip.

You look… perfect. Fuckable. Edible. Paige knows that it’s probably disrespectful to think of you like that when she’s never even spoken to you, but—damn—she can’t help herself.

Of course, she recognizes you instantly. She’s seen all your movies. Follows you on Instagram. Knows which photo you posted after the Venice premiere because she may or may not have saved it. She’s watched interviews you’ve done, including the one tonight with Jimmy Fallon and Timothée.

“You should go talk to her,” Azzi says beside her, like she’s been waiting for the moment Paige would finally catch up.

Paige startles slightly. “What?”

“You’ve been staring. Go rub your hands together and rizz her up or something,” Kaitlyn adds, laughing a little at the end. Azzi does, too.

“I haven’t—” Paige scoffs. “Fine, maybe a lil.”

Azzi nudges her with her elbow. “She’s right there. Just go say hi.”

“Yeah, because that won’t be weird. ‘Hi, I’m Paige, I’m a fan, please marry me.’” The blonde gives her best friend a look.

Kaitlyn grins. “You’ve said worse to girls you weren’t obsessed with.”

“I’m not obsessed with her.”

Azzi lifts a brow.

“… I’m just aware of her existence,” Paige mutters into her champagne.

She turns back toward you just in time to catch you laughing at something Kylie says. It’s a real laugh—head tilted back slightly, hand brushing your collarbone. You’re flushed with happiness or alcohol or both. Timothée leans toward you to whisper something in your ear, and you swat him away like a brother, grinning the whole time.

You look like a dream Paige isn’t sure she’s allowed to have.

Azzi nudges her again. “Go.”

“I’m waiting til she’s not surrounded.”

“She’s never not gonna be surrounded. That’s the point of people like her. They orbit.”

Paige sips her drink, hesitating. You glance up—just for a second—and Paige swears you catch her watching. Your gaze flits past, then back again, like you’re registering her face. There’s a pause, something unreadable in your expression, and then Kylie tugs at your wrist and you look away.

Paige exhales. She takes a sip of her champagne. She’s going to stay nonchalant. If she gets the opportunity to talk to you—later, maybe—then she will. But not right now.

Or, well, actually, maybe right now.

Because when she turns her head to look back at where you were previously standing, all she sees is Timothée Chalamet is walking toward the bar.

And you’re by his side.

You’re a few feet away, pausing just short of the counter to place a drink order. You laugh at something Timothée says, one hand resting loosely on the curve of your hip, the other reaching for a cocktail menu you probably won’t read. Paige’s eyes catch on the way your dress rides up just slightly as you lean forward, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, and it’s almost enough to knock the air out of her chest and send heat to her stomach.

She forces herself to look cool, calm. Like she belongs here. Like she’s not actively freaking out about the fact that the actress she might, sort of, maybe be lowkey obsessed with is now ten feet away ordering a drink.

And then it happens.

Timothée glances across the bar, eyes scanning lazily—until they land on her.

His whole face lights up. Like, visibly. Like they’re old friends or something.

“Yoooo! Paige!” he says, grinning, like he’s been waiting all night to spot her.

Paige blinks, actually looks behind her to make sure he means her.

“You’re Paige Bueckers, right?” he continues, already stepping closer. “Yo, I watched the championship game. You’re nasty. Ate them gamecocks up.”

Paige lets out a short laugh, genuinely caught off guard. “You watched?”

“‘Course I did, bro!” His grin widens, like it’s insane she didn’t believe. “I’ve been following y’all forever. Y’all are hoopers.”

Kaitlyn is already whispering to Azzi, probably something like what the hell is happening right now, but Paige tries not to pay attention to that. She holds her champagne glass a little tighter and nods coolly.

“Appreciate it, man. That means a lot,” she says, managing to keep her voice steady. “These are my teammates, Azzi and Kaitlyn.”

Paige watches as Timothée daps both of them up, his whole body buzzing—probably with champagne. “Nice to meet you guys. Love both your games, for real.”

And then Paige sees it—the way his eyes flick back to you as the bartender slides your drink across the counter. You’re turning to say thank you, lifting the glass to your lips. And then, without warning, Timothée reaches out, both hands grabbing onto your shoulders.

“Yo, you gotta meet someone,” he says, steering you gently but decisively in their direction. “Come here.”

You glance over, a little curious but not annoyed, your gaze settling on Paige and her friends as you approach. Paige straightens up slightly—not noticeably, she hopes—but she can already feel the warmth rising in her chest.

“This,” Timothée says, pulling you in beside him, “is Paige Bueckers. Bucketssss!” The way he drags out the second word leads Paige to believe he’s had one too many champagnes.

You smile easily, glossy lips pulling up at the corners. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

Paige feels her brain short-circuit for just a second.

Your voice is soft but certain, laced with that familiar confidence she’s seen in your interviews. And now it’s directed at her.

She nods, flashes a small grin. She hopes she seems chill. “Aye, good to know I’m not invisible.”

You laugh, and Paige swears the whole party sound dips out behind it. “Not even close.”

“This is Azzi and Kaitlyn,” Paige adds, gesturing toward her teammates, desperate to keep the conversation moving so she doesn’t drown in her own nerves.

You offer both of them a quick wave, clearly familiar enough with sports to know names, but you’re focused mostly on Paige now. And that’s dangerous.

Because up close, you’re even more stunning. Your dress dips just slightly in the front, and the shape of your cleavage makes Paige want to forget how to speak English. She reminds herself—she’s fine. She’s got game. She’s been in tougher spots than this.

But your eyes flick down her frame briefly—just a flash—and then back to her eyes. You tilt your head a little, smile. And she thinks, maybe she doesn’t.

“You played great in March, by the way. I saw that forty piece.”

Paige raises a brow, impressed. Her forty piece wasn’t in the natty or Final Four—it was in the Sweet Sixteen. So, maybe you weren’t just watching to watch. Maybe. “You watched that game?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “I dabble in excellence.”

Timothée lets out a loud drunken laugh beside you, “Dabble in excellence—I’m stealing that.”

Paige’s grin widens. “You can’t just dabble in March.”

“Guess I’m a committed fan, then,” you say casually, and God, you really don’t play fair.

Azzi catches Paige’s eye behind your back, giving her the most painfully obvious oh, you’re screwed face. Paige ignores her entirely.

“Well,” Paige says, lifting her glass toward yours, “cheers, then.”

You clink glasses with her, your fingers brushing against hers briefly. “Cheers.”

And it’s not flirty, not exactly—not yet. But there’s something in the way you’re looking at her now. A spark. An open door. Well, shit.

Paige doesn’t know where this is going, but suddenly she doesn’t care how tired she is or how long this week has been—because you’re standing in front of her in that damn dress, and you know her name, and your smile is enough to knock her off balance in the best possible way.

But, the thing about nights like this is that they never really slow down.

One minute, Paige is thinking she might actually be getting somewhere—that you might actually be into talking to her—and the next, someone who looks vaguely famous (blonde, sequined, expensive) is whisking you and Timothée away with a cheerful, “Come on, you have to meet—!”

You shoot Paige an apologetic little smile as you’re tugged off, mouthing something like sorry!, and then you’re gone. Just like that. The crush of bodies swallows you whole.

And Paige… is left standing there, still gripping her champagne glass like it might offer answers.

Azzi bumps her shoulder. “Paige,” she laughs.

“I’m calm,” Paige lies through her teeth, staring at the spot you were just standing in.

“Uh-huh,” Azzi nods, looking entirely unconvinced, biting her lip to fight another laugh from escaping.

Kaitlyn grins, too. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinkin’,” Paige mutters, taking another sip, “that I shoulda said more.”

Azzi snorts. “Nah, you said enough. She was into it.”

Paige gives her a side-eye. “You think?”

“She smiled at you like this.” Azzi does a dramatic, slow-motion head tilt, batting her lashes.

“Stop.” Paige shoves her.

But… yeah, maybe she’s hoping her best friend is a little right about this one thing.

IT’S ALMOST AN HOUR before she sees you again.

In the meantime, she’s made rounds with Azzi and Kaitlyn, posed for some photos, took another flute of champagne, and then promptly lost track of them somewhere around a table filled with sliders and very fancy-looking truffle fries.

She heads to the bathroom just to get a breather, leaning against the marble counter and staring at herself in the mirror for a beat too long.

You’re fine, she tells herself. You’re not twelve. She’s just hot. And famous. And you’re…

She frowns. “Also hot. And famous,” she says out loud, trying to hype herself up. It doesn’t work. She’s never really cared about either of those things.

And, of course, the mirror—as expected—doesn’t respond.

She leaves the bathroom and steps back into the party, only to find that Azzi and Kaitlyn have fully vanished. Not just moved—vanished. Gone without a trace. It’s not that big of a room, but the lights are low, and the music is louder now, and she’s weaving through the crowd like she’s suddenly in a dream sequence.

Then—

“Your teammates ditch you?”

The voice comes from behind, low and familiar, and Paige freezes before she turns.

You.

You’re standing there holding an empty glass, still looking so fucking fine in that damn dress, your weight shifted to one hip and an amused tilt to your head like you might already know the effect you’re having on her.

Paige blinks once. “Uh…”

You stare.

She clears her throat, pulling herself together. “Yeah. Seems like they did.”

You nod, tapping the side of your glass. “It’s okay. I was ditched too.”

She laughs softly, eyes flicking down to the floor and then back to you. “Timothée ditched you?” She doesn’t add the fact that she thinks anyone ditching you might as well be a crime.

You shrug, scrunching your nose just slightly. “Yeah. He and Kylie left. They’re always escaping to go be nasty together.”

And Paige—

Paige blinks, because the first thought that enters her brain is: you and I can go be nasty together.

And the second thought is: Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me.

She manages to keep a straight face, nodding with a mix of mock solemnity and disgust. “Gross.”

“Very,” you agree, leaning a little closer. “But I guess that makes us the abandoned ones. Left to fend for ourselves in this sea of glitter and Botox.”

Paige chuckles. “Could be worse.”

You smile at her, a dimple popping out of your cheek. “Could definitely be worse.”

There’s a beat. A pause, but not an awkward one. The music swells in the background—some mellow pop remix of a song Paige doesn’t recognize—and your eyes haven’t left hers.

But then they do, glancing at her empty glass. “Out of champagne?”

She looks down like she didn’t realize it. “Apparently.”

You hold up yours, empty too. “Same. Let’s fix that?”

Paige nods, heart ticking up a notch. “Let’s.”

You both drift to the bar again, standing shoulder to shoulder while the bartender takes someone else’s overly complicated drink order. You lean in a little as you wait, not quite touching but close enough that Paige can smell the citrusy perfume on your neck.

“Sooo…” you say, dragging the word out, looking at her sideways and smirking a little. “You’re gon’ be the number one pick next week, yeah?”

Paige feels her face flush a little, blood rushing through her cheeks. The draft. Another thing that’s coming head-on. She’s excited. Grateful, of course. Just… also still a little overwhelmed. It’s okay; she’ll be ready come Monday.

She swallows, shrugging a little. “If that’s in God’s plan for me, then I guess so.”

Your eyes seem to soften a bit at that but before you can respond, the bartender finally turns to you both. Paige puts on her normal smile, ordering two more glasses and sliding her card across the counter before you can even reach for your handbag.

You arch a brow. “Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums, not elaborating. She leans against the bar, looks at you. She hopes she seems smoother than she feels.

Your lips twist into something almost flirtatious. “Fine. But only if I get to buy the next round.”

“You planning on stayin’ that long?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and playful. “I don’t know. You planning on making it worth my while?”

And there it is—Paige feels it hit her chest, the full-body flush of oh my God, this is happening.

She plays it cool. Leans in just a little. “I might.”

You hold her gaze for a moment. The drinks arrive. You both take a sip, and something simmers in the space between you.

“Okay then,” you say softly. “Show me what you’ve got, PB.”

THE DRINKS GO DOWN easily. Too easily, maybe.

Because—one minute, Paige is flirting with you at the bar, and the next, you’re both in the family restroom.

It’s a nice bathroom. Like, really nice. Too nice for what’s about to happen in it.

There’s a changing table, a comfy little chair in the corner, even a soft-glow light coming from behind the mirror. It smells like eucalyptus.

Paige watches as you push the lock in with a soft click. You move then, stepping right into her space.

She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even think.

Her mouth is on yours before either of you says a word.

It’s hot. Messy in the way champagne makes everything feel a little blurred and desperate. Paige’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you until your back hits the edge of the sink. You’re kissing her like you’ve been waiting all night to, and Paige is still trying to keep her cool but—God, the way you taste, the way you’re tugging at the open collar of her flannel—it’s a lot.

Paige slips her tongue into your mouth, licking around, tasting. You make a low sound when she sucks lightly on your bottom lip and Paige feels it everywhere.

“Fuck,” you mumble and Paige manages to laugh a little, low and breathless, before tilting your chin up to kiss you deeper.

Paige’s head spins a little.

How did she even get here?

She’s in a family restroom. At a celebrity afterparty. With you. Famous, perfect, actress you, whose Instagram she’s stalked more times than she’ll ever admit. And now you’re as close as possible, your tongue tangled with hers.

This can’t even be real.

And yet—your mouth moves to her jaw, kissing along it in slow, maddening lines, and Paige grips the edge of the sink behind you because if she doesn’t hold onto something, she might just melt into the floor.

You murmur into her neck, “You good?”

She laughs quietly, shakes her head a little. “Yeah,” she mumbles, a little breathless. She reaches for your face again, adding, “C’mere,” pulling you back in.

She kisses you, harder this time, a little reckless. You taste like champagne and mistakes and her own disbelief. And strawberry lip gloss. The same strawberry lip gloss that she’s essentially sucked off.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of her flannel, lightly tracing the skin above her waistband, and it makes her hips twitch forward before she can stop it. You feel it. Smirk into the kiss.

“Easy, Bueckers,” you tease, lips brushing hers.

Paige swears something explodes behind her ribs. Like a firework. Or a panic attack. Or both.

She groans, kissing you again—if she doesn’t keep doing it, she might lose her mind. Her hands move back to your waist, grabbing you, your dress wrinkling slightly beneath the grip of her palms. You kiss her deeper, mouth open and needy, teeth grazing the blonde’s lip.

Paige’s hands slide lower, palms skimming down the curve of your back, fingers trailing over the fabric of your dress until they land—firmly, confidently—on your ass. She gives a slow squeeze, exhaling lowly at the feeling. You make a soft sound, too, and it nearly sends her spiraling.

Paige feels you press closer to her, your leg nudging between hers slightly. Her pulse picks up like she’s got two seconds left on the shot clock and the ball’s in her hands.

Her hands palm at you again, trying to memorize the shape of you. At the feeling, you pull back just enough to speak, lips kiss-swollen and spit-slick, eyes a little glossy.

“D’you wanna leave?” you ask, voice low and slightly breathless.

Paige’s mouth instinctively moves to your jaw, kissing there, slow and a little greedy. She hums against your skin. “Where would we go?”

You tip your head back slightly, exposing your neck to her in a way that drives her insane. “Back to mine?”

And—fuck.

That snaps something within Paige.

She stills for a half-second. Not pulling away. Just taking a moment. Letting that sentence sit in the air between you two.

Back to yours.

You. Your apartment. You, a little tipsy and flushed and stunning and clearly just as into this as she is.

How in the hell?

This doesn’t happen to her. Sure, she’s fucked a good amount of girls on campus. Sure, she’s got a lot of fans that edit her. But this? You? The girl with the Oscar buzz and the actual fame and that little black dress that’s been driving her out of her mind all night?

All she can think is—thank God for that natty.

She kisses you again, deep and hungry and like that answers the question for her.

You smile into it, pulling back just slightly, lips grazing hers as you ask, “Yeah?”

And Paige—grinning now, breath uneven, hands still resting on your ass, fingers skimming the back of your thighs because your dress is so short—says against your mouth, “Oh, yeah.”

You laugh, and it’s giddy and bright and sounds like bells. Paige wants to hear it again.

But then you’re both moving. You smooth your dress, pulling it down a little, fixing your lipgloss in the mirror with a lazy swipe of your finger. Paige straightens her flannel and tightens her ponytail, trying not to look like she was just seconds away from doing something very vile in a public restroom.

You unlock the door. Step out first.

Paige follows, hand brushing the small of your back before she shoves it in her pocket, like if she doesn’t, she’ll touch you again in front of everyone.

You both re-enter the noise and chaos of the party like nothing happened. Paige sends a quick text to Azzi and Kaitlyn—wherever they are—telling them of where she’s going.

You catch her eye over your shoulder as you lead the way toward the exit. And Paige just follows—completely, hopelessly, happily gone.

YOU TAKE THE SUBWAY.

You could’ve called a car—should’ve, probably—but it just feels easier like this. It’s late, the platform is as quiet as it is all day, and there’s something a little funny about a famous actress and a famous basketball player going home on the subway following a celebrity afterparty. You half expect her to complain or hesitate, but she doesn’t. She stays right beside you the whole time. Close, like she needs to feel the heat from your skin.

You feel the same. It’s almost like your skin might catch fire if she gets any nearer.

You don’t talk much, just a few soft jokes between stations. Stuff like:

“Are the subways usually this dirty?”

“Paige.”

And:

“People are staring.”

“Yeah. At you.”

“Mm. Doubt it.”

“You’re holding the pole like it owes you money, Bueckers. You’re not exactly blending in.”

(Clearly, Paige is not a New Yorker.)

She laughs at that, quietly, and you watch her from the corner of your eye.

You didn’t plan this. At all.

When the girl doing your makeup mentioned Paige Bueckers would be popping into the Tonight Show monologue, you’d barely reacted. Just filled it away. You knew who she was, of course—who doesn’t, at this point? You’re not deep into basketball, more of a casual watcher, but she’s impossible to ignore. A little golden, a little unreal.

You definitely didn’t expect to be on your way home with her a few hours later.

But then Timmy geeked out. Saw her at the bar, dragged you to meet her. Said her name with this over-the-top awe as if he isn’t ten times more famous than her. You’d just laughed and let him, not thinking too much about it—until you got close.

And then, yeah, you understood.

She’s hot.

Like, obviously. She’s tall, strong, stupidly pretty in a way that seems both entirely effortless and at the same time a little intentional. Her posture alone—the confidence in her stature—made you straighten up, and you put on your best perfectly casual acting face for moments when you don’t feel quite as casual as you should.

But it wasn’t just her appearance.

She’s kind. That was clear right away. Not performative or trying too hard. Just nice. And funny, in a dry way. Quick with the side comments. Self-aware. And slightly, slightly nervous around you, which you can’t lie—you like. It’s endearing.

There’s this quiet little tension between you now. A hum under the surface. Every time your knees brush on the subway bench, you feel it spike. She keeps glancing at your legs like she’s trying not to, like she doesn’t realize you’ve already caught her twice.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there and let it build.

The ride doesn’t last long. Your stop comes faster than expected, and Paige follows you off the train without a word.

It’s chilly outside. The city’s quieter than usual, but not silent. It never is. You walk a block to your building, Paige’s steps in rhythm with yours, and when you glance over at her under the streetlight, she looks down and gives you a half-smile. It makes your chest tighten a little. Like something you didn’t know was there is trying to make itself known.

Inside your building, you greet the doorman, who gives you a knowing look that you ignore. Paige nods politely. She’s got that people-pleaser charm—you can tell.

The elevator is slow. Old. You both step in and the doors close with a soft thunk.

You hit the button for your floor. Then, the air shifts.

There’s a pause—quiet but heavy. The kind of silence that makes you feel the other person. Paige stands just a little too close. Not aggressively. Just… aware. The distance between you isn’t quite respectful. Her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away.

You stare straight ahead, but your eyes flick sideways every few seconds. She’s doing the same. You can feel it. Like heat. Like static. The air between your bodies buzzes like it’s waiting for permission to break.

The elevator dings.

Your floor.

You step out. She follows. And this time, she’s close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales.

You swallow and walk to your door, unlocking it quickly, gingers a little clumsy on the key. Your heartbeat’s in your ears now. Loud.

The door swings open, and you step aside to let her in.

Paige walks in slow. She glances around, taking in the space—it’s nice. You know it is. Acting—well, it makes good money. And your apartment is a reflection of that.

You let her look around, setting your keys down and toeing your shoes off. When you glance back up, she’s watching you.

Neither of you says anything.

You walk over to her slowly.

And Paige—still looking at you like she’s not quite sure how this is real—just stands there, letting you close the space between you.

Your fingers find the hem of her flannel, gently.

“You wanna stay a while?” you ask, voice quiet, casual.

She nods.

And this time, it’s her who kisses you.

Its immediate. The fire. The heat. The way her mouth meets yours like it’s something she’s been dying to do all night—maybe longer. Her lips are warm, soft but urgent, and you can barely keep up with the way she kisses you, like she’s been holding herself back and now there’s no reason to anymore.

You make a sound against her mouth, half gasp, half laugh, and she responds with a low hum, hands already gripping your hips like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

Your fingers slide up to her shoulders, trying to steer, to hold, to anchor—but you’re barely steady yourself. The two of you stumble back a few steps, laughing breathlessly between kisses as she walks you toward the couch, bumping a wall, into the table, not even caring. Her hand is on your lower back, guiding you—no, pushing you—and you let her, let her press you into her, let her kiss you like she knows exactly what she wants and exactly where she wants it.

It’s messy. Hands moving with no direction, your bodies pressing into each other like you’ve already forgotten you’re in your own damn apartment. Her mouth moves from your lips to your neck for half a second and you feel your knees weaken a little. You bite your lip, grab her jaw, kiss her harder. It’s so much, too much—but not enough.

You gasp against her mouth, “Wait—bed,” and she pulls back, just a breath away, eyes wide and dark and already a little wild.

“Yeah,” she says, already reaching for your hand, letting you pull her because she’s not familiar with the space.

You thought maybe you’d end up… here. The couch. The floor. Whatever. But no—you make it to the bedroom, somehow. Still kissing, still giggling in these little gasps when you bump into furniture. Still fumbling. Still grabbing.

Once you’re there, you push her down onto the bed, your palms flat on her chest. She goes easily, grinning up at you as her back hits the mattress. She’s breathing hard. So are you.

You crawl into her lap, settling your thighs on either side of hers, letting her hands immediately go to your waist again—strong, sure now. Her fingers grip you tighter than before. She’s steadier. More confident. And it’s really fucking attractive.

You bend down and kiss her again, slower this time but just as deep, just as desperate. Her hands slide up your back, over your spine, under the hem of your dress, wandering. You don’t stop her. You don’t want to.

And God, the way she moves underneath you. The way she kisses you now—like she’s not nervous anymore. Like she’s got you, and she knows it.

Your lips trace down, slow and hungry, grazing her skin like you want to memorize every part of her. Her jaw. The curve of her throat. The warm spot just beneath her ear. You suck lightly at first, then a little harder when you feel her shift beneath you—when her grip tightens and her breath gets heavier.

She mutters something low and strained, a quiet “Christ,” that sends a pulse right through you.

Her hands slide under your tiny dress. You feel her fingers splay across the back of your thighs before moving your, gripping your ass in a way that’s both firm and reverent. Like she’s still shocked you’re even here, straddling her, touching her. You groan softly against her neck, sinking your teeth gently into her skin there before pulling back with a kiss.

Your focus shifts to her flannel. The sparkly thing that you think probably only she can pull off. You eye it, fingers fumbling a bit as you reach for the buttons. She doesn’t move to help you at first. Just keeps her hands right where they are, thumbs brushing slow, distracting circles as she watches you with this little smirk.

You finally get the last button undone and she shrugs it off, tossing it across the room. She’s left in a black Nike sports bra and cargos and somehow still looks like maybe the hottest person you’ve ever seen in your life—and, seriously, you’ve seen a lot of hot people.

Your hands run up her bare abs, firm beneath your palms, before she pulls you back down like she can’t go another second without your mouth on hers.

This kiss isn’t sweet or exploratory. It’s flat-out hungry. Like now she’s got permission to take her time and take her fill. Her hands are back on you again, sliding lower, gripping tighter, pulling you down into her until your whole body is flush with hers. You can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric between you, the tension that’s been simmering since the moment your eyes met hours ago now boiling over.

You grind into her without even thinking, and the way her breath stutters against your mouth makes your whole body buzz.

You chuckle, soft and breathless, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her lips are kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Okay?” you whisper.

“Mm,” she hums before pulling you back into her quickly like she was offended you pulled away at all in the first place.

You respond immediately, tongue sliding against hers, teeth clashing. Her hands are everywhere. Your hips roll against hers instinctively, your breath catching every time her fingers dig into your skin or slide along your thighs. It’s hot and heavy and dizzying in the best way.

At some point, she pulls back just slightly, lips parted, gaze hungry. She looks down at the way your dress rides yo as you move against her and then back up at you like she’s barely holding it together.

“Can I take it off?” she asks, voice low, almost hoarse. Her hands pull at the fabric a little. “Needa see you.”

There’s this desperate kind of honesty in the way she says it that shoots straight through you. You not without even thinking, already helping her—grabbing at the hem of the dress, pulling it over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.

It lands somewhere near the door. Neither of you cares.

Now, you’re in nothing but your lacy black thong (thank God you decided to wear a sexy pair of underwear today, seriously), straddling her, skin flushed and warm and bare to her, and when Paige looks at you—really looks at you—she groans under her breath. Head falls back for a second like she needs to reset, eyes fluttering before they lock onto you again, darker than before, icy blue mixing with the black of her enlarged pupils.

“Shit,” she mutters, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to your waist, then higher. “You’re—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

She pulls you down to her again, but this time her mouth doesn’t go to your lips. Instead, she kisses across your chest, slow at first, open-mouthed and warm. Her rough palms hold you firm against her, fingers splaying along the swell of your ass as her lips move down. And then her mouth closes around one of your nipples, sucking—lightly at first, just enough to make you twitch in surprise—and then again, a little harder, her breath hot where it fans out.

You exhale shakily, fingers fumbling with her hair tie before undoing it, letting her ponytail fall loose. She looks up at you for just a second, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

And she keeps kissing across your chest and tits, mouth open and warm and purposeful. Her lips drag over the swell of you, her tongue flicking occasionally at your nipples like she’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way you react. And you do react—your back arches, your hands tighten in her hair, and your hips roll forward against her without even thinking about it.

She hums in response, low and satisfied. The sound vibrates against your skin. Her fingers tighten at your waist, holding you in place, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuck,” she murmurs against you. “Don’t stop doin’ that.”

You don’t.

You move against her with a little more purpose, the friction sending a slow burn through your body. Her hands are hot and strong where they grip you, and her mouth doesn’t let up. She kisses over the curve of one of your tits, up to your collarbone, then back down, her breath shaky now too. She’s unraveling under you, even if she’s trying not to show it.

But you’re unraveling, too. Fast.

You let her mouth linger a little longer, let yourself feel every second of it—and then you’re tugging away from her, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Her eyes flick open, meeting yours, a silent question in them.

“I need…” you trail off, already reaching down.

She gets it. She shifts under you, lifting her hips as you start pulling at her cargo pants. She helps, fumbling a little in the rush to get them off, and her boxers come with—unintentional, but neither of you is complaining.

Paige leans up, kissing you again—a little slower now, a little more sensual. Tongues sliding and tangling languidly. There’s a kind of reverence in it now, like she’s savoring. You’re straddling her still, one knee braced beside her bare thigh, your chest still flushed and wet from her mouth, your breathing uneven. Her hands are at your hips, fingers flexing like she can’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let herself get lost in the feel of you completely.

Her fingers drift along, ghosting along the hem of your thong. She pauses, just barely.

“Can I?” she asks lowly. It’s respectful; you like that.

You nod, already leaning in. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, Paige.”

She kisses you once more—quick, urgent—before sliding her hands down, easing your underwear over your hips, your thighs. You lift just enough to help her, and she works them off completely, tossing them to join the growing pile of clothes somewhere on the floor.

And then she pulls you down again. Fully. Flush against her.

You gasp quietly at the contact, your bare cunt pressed to hers, the heat and slick between you unmistakable now.

Paige groans quietly, head dropping to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your waist as she holds you to her. Her hands splay wide across your lower back, like she needs to ground herself in the feeling of you there. Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and you feel her smile just barely.

“Fuck, ma, you’re killin’ me here,” she mumbles into your skin.

You laugh, breathless. “Pretty sure you started it.”

Her hand drifts lower, palming your ass, her mouth now back on your jaw. “And I’mma finish it.”

Her words send a jolt through your stomach. And then she’s shifting beneath you, hips twitching up against yours, your slick clits bumping. Her palms guide you, moving you against her with slow, grinding pressure.

It’s instinct more than choreography. Your bodies find the rhythm together, messy and hot and overwhelming.

You let out a sound—something caught between a sigh and a moan—and she tightens her grip like she’s trying to draw more out of you. Her eyes are glazed over, locked on yours, and there’s a kind of quiet desperation in them that makes you grind down against her harder.

“Fuck, that—” you gasp a little as she shifts her angle, her pussy hitting yours just right. “Right there, Paige—”

She groans, pulling you down so your forehead is resting against hers, your lips brushing. You can feel her breath against your mouth, fast and shallow. You can hear the slick, vile sounds of your wetness against hers filling the room.

“Keep going,” she mumbles. “You feel so good, just—don’t stop.”

You nod, can’t even form a real answer, just roll your hips against her again, and again, chasing the way her body feels under yours, the way her mouth keeps finding your throat, your jaw, your shoulder. Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair dampening, sticking to her forehead.

You’re both panting heavily now, bodies moving in sync, heat building between you like it’s alive. The room spins a little around the edges, your heart pounding so loud it feels like the only thing you can hear besides Paige’s voice, the occasional moan, and the rustle of sheets.

She grips your waist and rocks up into you, and the pressure makes your vision blur.

“Shit,” you breathe.

Paige laughs under her breath, low and ragged. “Mm. I—I know.”

Everything begins to sharpen around you and you lean in, kissing Paige as hard as you can—teeth clashing, mouths open and desperate. Every roll of your hips, every sound that escapes either of your lips, every gasp and half-muttered name. Her hands hold you so tight you think she might leave bruises—you don’t care. Your cunts are warm and wet and swollen, sliding messily enough to get each other’s arousal on both of your thighs.

It builds fast. Hot and tight in your chest, in your stomach, in the way you’re grinding against her now—faster, harder, needing more, needing her. She’s right there with you, her mouth pressed to the side of your neck, her voice rough and muffled against your skin.

“God, you’re—” she chokes out, breath stuttering. “You feel—shit, I’mma—”

“Paige,” you mewl.

She nods, biting at your throat a little.

That’s all it takes.

Everything inside you snaps. White heat floods your senses and you fall into it, trembling and moaning against the blonde, your whole body shuddering as you come, pressed tight against her. Paige follows right after, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around your waist as she falls apart with you.

You collapse against her—completely boneless, your cheek pressed to the curve of her shoulder. Paige’s arms stay around you, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts against yours, skin slick with sweat.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Skin damp, thighs sticky. Hair in your face. Her heartbeat thudding loud under your ear.

Then she rolls, gently shifting you onto your back and settling between your legs again. Her body rests over yours, her nose nudging your jaw before she starts trailing wet kisses along your neck and shoulder.

You hum at the feeling, the pads of your fingers trailing down the side of her arm. “Feels good,” you murmur lazily, eyes half shut.

Paige chuckles against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly, watching as she lifts her head just enough to smirk at you, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright. Then, without breaking eye contact, her hand moves lower—slow, easy. You don’t even realize where it’s going until you feel it between your thighs, her fingers sliding between your slick folds, pressing lightly against your sensitive clit, confident and sure.

Your breath catches.

Paige leans up, her mouth just by your ear. “Can you gimme another?”

You blink at the ceiling for a second, trying to form a coherent thought. She was nervous before, you could tell, and now she’s so damn sure. You turn your head to see her. Her expression is intense—she looks almost like she would devour you if she could. Her fingers stay resting on your clit, unmoving with the slightest bit of pressure. The touch alone makes your skin feel like it’s buzzing.

You swallow. “Mhm. Yeah,” you stumble out.

Paige’s mouth curls into a grin, something between cocky and sweet. “Good girl.”

And then her fingers finally move. She circles your clit—once, twice, three times. Your thighs twitch some, still sensitive from before. Paige reaches down after that, sliding her middle finger inside you. She gives you a moment to adjust before adding a second digit in.

You try to keep it together—you really do—but the way her fingers move in and out, slow and certain, curling just when you need her to… she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her blue eyes flick between where her fingers thrust inside you, covered in your slick, and your face. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling with the same shallow rhythm as yours. It’s hot in here. You’re sweating. You’re both still breathless, still recovering and already going again.

Your hand tightens your grip on Paige’s bicep as she moves her fingers just a little deeper, her wrist flexing with intention. Your hips twitch up in response, and you catch her smirk as she glances up at you—flushed cheeks, messy blonde hair, a cocky look in her eyes that should be illegal.

“Oh, my God,” you mumble, breath hitching.

She grins, biting her lip as her gaze stays locked on the way your cunt swallows her digits. It’s seems to do something to her because then—quietly, mostly to herself—she murmurs, “Fuck, I gotta taste you.”

You think your breath may stop entirely.

She shifts downward, pressing kisses across your stomach as she goes—soft, almost worshipping. Her fingers never stop moving, scissoring inside you, making it even harder for your lungs to function, and her mouth follows the trail of heat between your thighs.

Her tongue flicks out, swiping between your folds. You shudder at the feeling. Simultaneously, her fingers keep working you open, skilled, like she’s mapping out every reaction she gets. The combination of both is almost too much. You can’t help it—you grip at her hair, threading your fingers through the soft strands and tugging when she does something particularly good—which is often.

And she notices. Of course she does.

Paige hums against you, just enough vibration to make your thighs tremble. Then she glances up at you—barely, eyes hooded, teasing. “Don’t tap out on me yet, ma.”

Your eyes roll back at the nickname and the feeling of her fingers hitting that spongy spot inside you. You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a moan. “I—I’m not,” you say, trying to convince both her and yourself.

Her grin flashes, all pride and playfulness, before she dives back in—lips slick, tongue slow and focused. Her mouth wraps around your clit and sucks deliberately while her fingers curl inside you just right. You feel yourself fall deeper into it, into her, one hand pressing to the back of Paige’s head like you don’t want her to go anywhere.

You don’t. You really, really don’t.

She speeds up just a little, coaxing another sound from you, and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily. “God, I—”

That earns you another smirk against your skin, and she doesn’t stop. She’s locked in—and she’s not letting up until she gets everything she wants.

So, she keeps going.

Even when your hips stutter and your lungs stumble. Even when your hands slip from her hair to the pillow, fingers flexing and grasping at anything to hold you down. Even when you whimper something that barely sounds like her name.

Paige doesn’t stop.

Her mouth is certain, her tongue sliding through your folds, up and down across your clit. You feel like you’re melting into the mattress, boneless, trembling, completely at her mercy. Her fingers never lose rhythm, continuing their thrusts, and you vaguely wonder if her hand is cramping yet.

At one point, you hear her murmur something against your cunt, too muffled to catch.

“What?” you gasp, barely managing the word.

She lifts her head slightly, lips shining, and says, “Said you taste really fuckin’ good. Can’t get enough of you.”

And then her mouth is right back on you, her head shaking back and forth as her tongue follows the movement across your swollen clit. You make a sound that isn’t even close to human. It’s almost too much. The way she licks into you with purpose, the way her hand holds your thigh down like you might actually float away, the way her fingers keep coaxing more out of you like it’s her only mission.

“You’re—Paige, fuck, you’re…” You can’t even finish the thought. Can’t form words. Cant think straight. And she loves it. You can tell in the way she groans lowly into you, like you’re the best meal she’s ever had, like she’s the one getting off.

It’s so good. It’s too good.

Her fingers start pumping harder and faster, a white ring forming around them. Paige is unrelenting; she can probably tell that the coil deep in your belly is preparing to snap. She wraps her lips around your bud again, sucking and sucking and sucking.

“Paige—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—shit—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she murmurs, low and husky against you. “C’mon, mama, I gotchu.”

She thrusts again. She lays her tongue flat, shaking it.

That does it.

Everything tightens, your whole body curling in on itself for one suspended second—before it all shatters. You cry out, hips stuttering, thighs shaking as the orgasm rips through you like a wave, overwhelming and all-consuming. You can’t even think. All you can do is feel. Her. Her mouth. Her fingers. Her voice.

She works you through it, gentle now, easing you down. Only when you’re twitching and completely spent does she finally pull away.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Barely coherent.

And Paige looks… completely wrecked in the best way. Her lips are swollen and pink, her cheeks bright red, her fingers slick. She licks them slowly, not breaking eye contact, cleaning the cum off.

“Good Lord—taste unreal,” she mutters, voice rough. Then, she leans down, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling back up your body, lazy and satisfied.

When she finally teaches your face, she’s grinning. She kisses you softly, almost sweetly now, brushing her nose against yours as she whispers, “Told you I needed that.”

You shake your head, smiling a little in disbelief, letting her peck your lips one more time before laying on you. Paige is warm and a little damp with sweat, her breathing now steady. You run your fingers lazily along the slope of her shoulder, and she hums a little at the touch, face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

For a while, it’s silent. You’re not sure if it’s too late or too early, only that the city outside your window sounds far away.

Paige traces circles on your side with thumb. Slow, soft. Barely there.

“Hey,” you say eventually, voice a little raspy.

“Mmm?”

You glance down, and she shifts just enough to look at you. Her eyes have gone a little sleepy—she looks pretty like this. You think she probably looks pretty all the time, though.

“So, like… Dallas, right?” you ask hesitantly, bringing up the WNBA draft on Monday.

She pauses, and you feel her thumb stop its movement. “I mean, yeah,” she says eventually, her voice quiet, almost careful. It’s not set in stone—but everyone knows. She’s going to Texas.

You nod, stare at the ceiling for a second. You’re not sure if you should say what you’re thinking. You just met her tonight. But… fuck, she was good. And she’s hot. And she’s nice. And she’s funny. And—what’s the harm? “I’m filming a movie there all summer.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then you glance down at her and you watch as she stares at you for a long moment before her lips begin to curl up in the softest, most dangerous smile.

And, oh yeah—you already know. You’re both so screwed.

[f1girliefics]

Save the Date

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Planning a wedding with a Formula 1 driver isn’t easy, but when Lando can’t pick a date, you surprise him with one he’ll never forget.

You knew what you were signing up for.

You weren’t just engaged to Lando Norris, you were engaged to his life, and that meant travel, training, adrenaline, and a calendar that belonged to a team long before it belonged to you.

But none of that changed the way he looked at you.

“Marry me,” he whispered one night after a long race weekend, eyes tired but glowing. “Even if I have to wear my race suit to the altar.”

You laughed against his chest and said yes.

Planning the wedding was a dream, at first.

White lace swatches, sea-glass centrepieces, that one playlist you’d both added songs to for years.

Every tiny piece fell into place like a dream.

Except for the date.

“Let’s wait until the season ends,” Lando said.

Then, “Let’s aim for the summer break.”

Then, “Let’s talk to the team and find a quiet window.”

You watched him try.

You saw the guilt in his eyes every time a conversation ended with “not yet.”

So one night, as you stared at your almost-finished wedding spreadsheet, you made a bold decision.

You opened your messages and typed:

Hi, I need your help. I want to surprise Lando with a wedding. I know he’ll love it. But I need a day when he’s available, even if he doesn’t realize it.

You sent it to his assistant.

A secret, desperate, hopeful gamble.

A few days later, she replied.

He’s in Japan for Suzuka.

Qualifying is done by Saturday afternoon.

He’s free that evening. Can you come here? I’ll get him in a suit.

Your heart stuttered. Japan. It wasn’t what you’d pictured.

But it was something. A real moment.

And that was all you needed.

You made it happen in less than a month.

A venue tucked in the rolling hills just outside of Suzuka.

Cherry blossoms in bloom. Lanterns strung between trees. White chairs lined up neatly in a garden clearing.

You flew in both families and kept the drivers in the loop, Carlos, Oscar, and even Max promised to keep it a secret.

Charles texted you:

If he doesn’t cry, I will. 😭

The day arrived.

Lando had no idea.

His assistant handed him a crisp black suit and said, “There’s an evening event. Dress nice. You’ll be driven there.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to speak?”

“Nope. Just show up. You’ll know what to do.”

He arrived just after sunset.

The car pulled up to a quiet, lantern-lit garden. The driver opened his door. Lando stepped out and froze.

Because waiting there, at the top of the path, was you, in a wedding dress.

He blinked once. Twice.

And then whispered, “What the hell…”

The guests turned. Music swelled. His mother was there, dabbing her eyes.

Your father gave him a quiet, knowing nod. The drivers were seated near the front, all of them grinning.

You walked toward him slowly, heart pounding, veil floating behind you in the spring breeze.

Lando stood completely still, jaw slack, eyes wide with awe and disbelief.

You stopped just in front of him. “Surprise.”

“I-what-” he laughed, stunned. “This is-this is our wedding?”

You nodded. “You kept trying to find a day. So I found one for you.”

His eyes shimmered as he looked around, heart clearly racing harder than it did on track. “I can’t believe this.”

“You’re not mad?” you teased softly.

He shook his head, stepping forward and taking your hands in his. “Mad? I’m going to marry you right now.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

Your heels were off. His tie was loose.

The party buzzed behind you, guests dancing, drinks flowing, music blending with laughter under the stars.

Lando pulled you into a quiet spot, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“I almost missed this,” he said into your neck. “I almost missed us.”

You cupped his face gently. “But you didn’t. You’re here.”

He smiled, forehead resting against yours. “I’ll never stop thanking you for today.”

You kissed him slowly, sweetly. “Good. Because I’ll never stop loving you for always.”

And with cherry blossoms falling like snow, you danced your first slow dance as husband and wife, just the two of you, wrapped in a moment you made yours.

[dinoandguitar]

Hey! Can I request reader x seungcheol where their child has just been born and he holds the baby for the first time?

"She's so small.."

New parents! ChoiSeungcheol x Afab!Reader

genre: Pure fluff! (Everyone gets a bit emotional)

warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, childbirth. The setting is in a hospital. Reader has just given birth.

A/N : Thank you so much for the request! Hope you enjoy it :) My requests are open, please feel free to ask away 🫶🏾

Masterlist

The room was dim and quiet now, long after the nurses had left and the chaos had faded into silence. The only light came from the small lamp by the bed, casting a soft golden glow over the room, wrapping everything in a hush that felt sacred.

You were propped up against the pillows, exhaustion heavy in your limbs, but your eyes stayed open. You couldn’t look away from them. Seungcheol was sitting beside your bed, your newborn daughter cradled gently in his arms. And for the first time in his life, he was left speechless.

He hadn’t said a word when the nurse handed her over. He’d just stared,utterly still-as if even blinking would be too much of a distraction from the moment. Now, his thumb traced the edge of her cheek like he couldn’t believe she was real. His other hand cupped the back of her tiny head, his long fingers careful and reverent, like holding something impossibly fragile.

“Cheol,” you said softly.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy, his lips slightly parted. There was so much written on his face...shock, awe, fear, adoration...it made your heart ache. He let out a breathy laugh, breath shaking.

“She’s real,” he whispered, eyes flicking down to her again. “She’s really here. She’s ours.”

You nodded slowly, reaching over to gently stroke her little arm where it peeked from beneath the blanket. Seungcheol’s gaze followed your hand, then lingered on your fingers like he was still processing everything.

“She’s so small,” he breathed. “How… you just went through so much.. you gave her life.. How did you—” His voice cracked, and he shook his head slightly. “You’re incredible.”

You smiled tiredly, and in that moment, something shifted in him. You saw the awe settle into something deeper. Something tender. He leaned closer, kissing the top of your head without shifting the baby in his arms.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured. “She’s got your nose, you know that?” He gave a soft laugh. “And your stubborn little chin.”

“She has your eyes,” you whispered, and he paused. You watched the way he blinked slowly, as if that thought alone made his heart burst.

His voice dropped even softer. “God… I didn’t know I could feel this much...” His thumb brushed over her tiny knuckles. “She only an hour old yet and I’d give her the world. I’d tear it apart if she ever needed me to.”

You watched him gently lower his head, pressing the softest kiss to her forehead. “You hear that, baby girl?” he whispered against her skin. “You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger already.”

She stirred slightly in his arms, letting out the tiniest sound, and Seungcheol stilled completely. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared...watching her nose wrinkle, her lips part slightly, her tiny brows twitch in sleep.

“I didn’t know I could love someone this fast,” he said, looking up at you again. “But the second I saw her… the second she cried… I was gone. She’s mine. She’s ours.”

He looked down at her again, his eyes glistening. “And you...you gave her to me. I don’t even have words, baby. You-you’re everything.”

You reached for his hand, wrapping your fingers through his gently. He squeezed yours, shifting the baby carefully so he could hold both of you, your hand, and your daughter...like they were two pieces of the same miracle.

“She’s going to love you,” you whispered, heart heavy with emotion. “So much.”

He looked down at your little girl, who was now breathing softly, safely tucked into the crook of his arm. His voice was almost inaudible. “I already love her more than anything. But I don’t think she’ll ever know how much I love you for giving her to me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek as he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, then one to your temple, then your lips—soft, slow, full of gratitude and reverence.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Thank you. For this life. For her. For us.”

And as your daughter stirred again in his arms, curling her tiny hand instinctively against his chest, you knew there would never be a moment quite like this again.

But that was okay—because it would live inside both of you, forever.

A/N : Hope you all liked it.. My requests are open :)

[f1-mcmuffin]

Hii i was wondering if u can do my request where reader is like the fifth member of bp and she is dating lando and she came to the race

YESSS!!! Of course. I was planning on doing something like this, and you just gave me the motivation, so thank you. Hopefully, I met your standards.

Spotlight & Slipstream

(Requested) Lando Norris x 5th Member of BLACKPINK Reader

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist |

Barcelona Grand Prix – Saturday Morning, Quali.

The sun was already high and golden over the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya. Fans were pressed against the barricades lining the paddock entrance, phones raised, merch clutched tight, waiting for glimpses of drivers, team principals, or—if they were lucky—someone unexpected. And then, just as the buzz began to dip…

They appeared.

Lando Norris, in some baggy blue jeans, wife-beater with a button-up as a cover, tinted sunglasses, and casual shoes, cool and composed, walking hand in hand with (Y/n)—member of BLACKPINK, global pop phenomenon, and the quietest of the group until now.

(Y/n) was effortlessly striking in her outfit: tailored black wide-leg trousers, a crisp white corset top, sleek sunglasses, and her long hair pulled into a low twist that framed her face with soft elegance and her signature silver “BP5” ring caught the Mediterranean sunlight. On her shoulder, a small bag with a silver McLaren logo—a gift from Lando, customized for her. Subtle. But personal.

Click. Click. Click.

Cameras erupted like fireworks.

The paddock practically froze. They hadn’t seen a launch like this in a while. Not through Instagram. Not a blurry paparazzi shot. Hand in hand, side by side—no room for doubt. PR staff members tensed. Journalists exchanged frantic glances. Fans screamed. And somewhere in the blur, someone whispered:

“Is that…?”

“Is this for real?!”

“Wait, (Y/n)? From BLACKPINK?”

“She’s dating Lando?!”

“Wait… are they dating?”

“That’s Lando’s girlfriend?”

Lando kept his hand wrapped around hers, thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles—a grounding gesture, one that steadied her even with the chaos humming around them. She leaned into him slightly as they walked, letting him lead her past the sea of cameras. (Y/n) took it all in—the garages, the engineers, the humming sound of the cars being prepped. Every now and then, a camera lens would catch her, and soon, fans on Twitter were piecing it all together.

Twitter/X: @f1updates: (Y/N) FROM BLACKPINK JUST WALKED IN HOLDING LANDO NORRIS’ HAND??? THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

People pretended not to stare—but they stared. Mechanics, media crews, engineers, interns, even other drivers mid-conversation paused just a beat too long. The Paddock had seen supermodels, celebrities, and even royals. But not like this. Oscar Piastri looked up from his water bottle and nudged someone. “Lily, that’s (Y/n), right?”

“From BLACKPINK?” asked his girlfriend, Lily, blinking hard.

Oscar grinned. “I guess we’re having a real K-pop moment.” In the hospitality suite, Lando gently introduced (Y/n) to Oscar and Lily,

“(Y/n), this is Oscar. And Lily—his better half.” Lando said, his arm now around her waist. the energy a little awkward at first. (Y/n) smiled warmly as Lily stepped forward. “You’re glowing,” Lily said, leaning in for a friendly cheek kiss. “Aw, thank you.”

“I can’t imagine walking in here with everyone staring at me like that,” Lily said gently.

(Y/n) laughed, small and polite. “It feels like walking into a lion’s den covered in meat.”

Lily snorted. “Perfect analogy. C’mon, I’ll show you where to escape the cameras.”

“I’d love that,” (Y/n) said, immediately relieved. Lily looped her arm around (y/n)’s. They walked ahead, letting the boys talk strategy. Within ten minutes, the two were chatting like they'd known each other for weeks. Lily guided (Y/n) through the paddock rhythm—where to stand, when to move, how not to accidentally get run over by a scooter. And most importantly, how to survive the internet later.

Barcelona Grand Prix – Race Day

The sun was harsher today, the air heavy with race-day nerves. Fans had already started lining the barricades before the teams had even finished breakfast. Reporters sharpened their pens. The broadcast crew had their cameras locked in. And like the most anticipated sequel, they returned.

Lando Norris and (Y/n), hand in hand again, this time walking slower, quieter—but no less magnetic. Gone was the sleek, polished “statement” energy of the day before. Today, it was personal.

(Y/n) wore a cropped vintage McLaren tee—cut just enough to show a sliver of skin above a black MUI MUI Velour mini skirt. Her hair was down with curls that bounced with each step. Simple gold hoops, black sunglasses, and McLaren-designed acrylic nails with a subtle nod to Lando’s livery completed the look. She looked like a girlfriend, not a global pop star. And that somehow made it all the more stunning.

Lando kept it casual too: black relaxed-fit trousers, crisp white trainers, and a grey quarter-zip layered over his race tee, the collar tugged slightly open at the base like he’d been rushing. His McLaren backpack was slung lazily over one shoulder, and with his free hand, he squeezed (Y/n)’s fingers now and then, the way you’d tap someone just to say I’m here.

Photographers were more aggressive, some even tried jogging backwards to get a cleaner shot.

Some fans screamed their names. Others… less friendly.

“Lando, focus on the race!”

“(Y/n)! We love you!”

“She’s not even wearing a pass—oh, wait, it’s on her bag.”

“They’re kinda iconic, I won’t lie.”

“This is not a music video, it’s Formula One!”

A teen girl behind the barrier shouted, “(Y/N), YOU LOOK AMAZING!”

(Y/n) turned, smiled, and blew her a kiss

The girl screamed like she’d won the lottery.

They didn’t say much as they crossed the paddock. They didn’t have to. (Y/n) caught glimpses—team members pretending not to stare, a Sky Sports camera shifting toward them, a McLaren PR assistant whispering urgently into a mic. But Lando kept his pace steady, his hold on her hand firm, and when they reached the McLaren entrance, he leaned in.

“You alright?” he murmured, eyes scanning her expression.

She nodded once. “Yea, you?”

He smirked just slightly. “I mean, we’re trending. Again.”

She rolled her eyes and bumped her shoulder into his. “Hope your car’s faster than your Instagram feed.” Lando let out a quiet laugh and pulled her a little closer so he could wrap his arm around her shoulders. Her arm went to his waist as they disappeared into the team suite, camera shutters echoing after them. And that was it. Just a walk, on a Sunday morning, between a pop star and her driver. But to the world, it was everything.

When the race began, (Y/n) stood just behind the McLaren pit wall, headphones on, sunglasses up, watching every second of it.

The moment (Y/n) was shown on the global broadcast, everything exploded. She’d just pulled her hair up into a loose claw clip, sipping water, nodding at something Lily pointed out on the grid when the commentator’s voice broke through screens worldwide:

“And there’s (Y/n)—BLACKPINK’s fifth member—here supporting her partner, Lando Norris. The paddock’s real showstopper this weekend!”

(Y/n)’s name trended within minutes.

Twitter/X [Screengrab of (Y/n) in Lando’s garage] @/F1teaqueen: WHO is the girl in Lando’s garage, and WHY is she hotter than the sun?? @/landohive: Not (Y/n) looking calm while Lando is fighting for his LIFE in that last stint 💅 that’s a WAG if I’ve ever seen one @/blinkontrack: Blinks are invading F1 Twitter rn sorry but we’re HERE FOR OUR GIRL 😭💅 “WAG era unlocked” ”SHE’S SOO PRETTY” “The grid girls could never”

The cars roared past with violent beauty, but she wasn’t looking at the track. It was louder than she expected. She gripped Lily’s arm once when Lando overtook someone on a corner and again when his engineer called in with urgent tire strategy changes.

Lando had started P5. But through sheer grit—and a well-timed pit stop—he was P1 in the final ten laps. (Y/n) was on her feet, clapping, heart racing. And when he crossed the finish line in first, a poll finish, the crowd and garage erupted. Mechanics cheered—and the cameras found her instantly. His name lit up on the timing screens, the McLaren garage erupting in cheers. Mechanics jumped, engineers clapped, and Zak Brown released a full-bodied “YES, mate!”

Still strapped in his McLaren, Lando slammed his fist against the top of the wheel in celebration. The orange beast was sitting in its box— first on the podium. He unbuckled fast, snatched off his steering wheel, and launched it into the car holder. Helmet off. Balaclava peeled. Hair sweaty, eyes wide, heart pumping like mad. But he wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He was looking for her.

Across the barrier, (Y/n) stood with her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes glistening under the brim of his McLaren cap. Her voice was hoarse from cheering. And when he spotted her? He bolted.

No cameras. No press. No protocol.

full race suit, gloves half-off, Lando dodged past a Sky mic and made a beeline straight to the barrier. A security guy instinctively stepped forward, but Lando waved him off and leaned across the partition. (Y/n) didn’t wait.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he grabbed her in an unfiltered, full-body hug. Lifting her off the ground just slightly, arms locked around her middle like he never wanted to let go. She laughed—light, breathless, near tears. “You did it.”

He mumbled something into her hair, something no mic could catch, but she nodded and pressed her forehead to his. The crowd’s noise faded into a low hum for just a second. A moment stolen between champagne and ceremony.

“P1, baby,” he whispered. “That was for you.”

(Y/n) pulled back just enough to look at him, hands on his flushed cheeks. “I’m so proud of you.” He grinned, breath still uneven, and rested his forehead against hers one last second before pulling back. “Okay. I gotta go do the whole... champagne thing.”

She laughed, eyes dancing. “Just don’t hit me with it.”

“No promises.”

The photos hit the internet minutes later:

Lando in his sweaty race suit, hugging (Y/n) like they hadn’t just soft-launched the day before. Her smile mid-laugh, his eyes closed, their bodies pressed tight like no cameras were there at all.

Twitter/X: “He ran STRAIGHT to her omg my heart 🧡” “Not Lando looking like a Disney prince in race gear.” “(Y/n) whispering ‘I’m proud of you’ is cinema.” “They’re just…ugh. The way he held her.”

When he climbed up to the podium, her jaw dropped seeing how effortlessly he belonged up there—confident, flushed with adrenaline. Their eyes met. He stood P1, cap slightly askew, heart still racing. But his eyes? His eyes were only on her. (Y/n), standing just beyond the fence with the McLaren team, eyes locked on his like the world had slowed down for just them.

She wasn’t filming on her phone. She wasn’t looking at the crowd or the jumbotron.

She was looking at him—shoulders straight, McLaren hat now turned backward, sunglasses tucked away on her shirt. Her lips parted just slightly, a breath caught in her chest, hands wrapped tight around her pass lanyard. She looked like she was trying to memorize him. Like she didn’t want to blink and miss this version of him: sweaty, grinning, flushed with victory. He stared back. Not at the trophy. Not at the camera. Not at the crowd.

Just her.

It was a silent conversation stretched over a sea of noise.

When the anthem ended and the trophies were handed out, he lifted his bottle, shook it once—and in a bold, mischievous spin, he aimed his champagne bottle right at her.

“NO—!” she shrieked, ducking just a second too late as cold, bubbly mist splashed across her shoulders, her legs, and her shoes. She laughed, mouth open in disbelief as the crowd howled, the cameras zooming in on her shocked but giggling face. “Lando!” she shouted, half-laughing, half-scolding—but with that grin she got when he made her feel sixteen again.

He just threw his head back and laughed, pointing down at her like it was the best aim he’d ever had. Charles, on the top step, clapped him on the back while Max raised a brow, smirking.

“Love’s got you reckless, mate,” Max muttered under his breath.

Lando winked.

Twitter/X: @blackpinkglobal: LANDO SPRAYING (Y/N) WITH CHAMPAGNE ON THE PODIUM I'M GOING INSANE

Back down in the crowd, couldn’t stop smiling. She wiped her legs with a towel a mechanic handed her, muttering “unbelievable” with a shake of her head, but her eyes never left the podium. And even after the music faded and the ceremony wrapped, even as the drivers were ushered away for media and debriefs, Lando turned one more time before stepping off the stage. She was still watching him. And he gave her one last look. She kissed her hand and waved it at him. A smile stretched across his face before he was ushered away

After the media, the champagne, and the photos, they found a moment alone—tucked away in one of the private corners of the McLaren motorhome, lights dimmed, the buzz of the race slowly fading outside. (Y/n) curled into the oversized hoodie—his hoodie—draped down to her thighs, sleeves swallowing her hands. She still smelled faintly of champagne and summer air, skin warm from the Spanish sun. Lando leaned against the wall beside her, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and a thousand camera flashes. His curls were messy, still damp from the podium celebration. For a second, they just looked at each other—silent, smiling, suspended in the calm after the storm.

“You looked good up there,” she said softly, her voice still a little hoarse from screaming trackside. “Like… born to be there.” trying to figure out the words.

“And you,” he replied, stepping closer, “looked like my lucky charm.”

A breathless laugh left her lips as she glanced up. “Is that your way of saying I should come to every race?”

“I’m saying,” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear, “I drove like hell because I knew you were watching. I didn’t want to let you down.” Her lips parted. Her breath hitched.

“I could never be disappointed in you,” she whispered, and before she could say anything more, he leaned in—pressing his lips to hers. It was soft at first. Warm and steady. Her hand rose to the side of his neck, his arms wrapping around her waist like he couldn’t believe she was there, real and glowing and his. Then he deepened it—urgent now, like everything that had built up between them finally burst open. His hands slid up to cup her face gently, her hoodie sleeves bunched between them. She smiled mid-kiss, tilting her head just enough to match his rhythm. He tasted like adrenaline and Gatorade and something entirely Lando.

When they pulled back, foreheads still touching, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You kiss like you’re trying to kill me.”

She grinned, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “You kissed me first.”

He laughed—full and soft- and then kissed her again, quicker this time, just because he could.

The Morning After

Sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains, painting gold across the sheets. (Y/n) stirred first, still wrapped in Lando’s hoodie, her cheek pressed to his bare chest. His arm was slung over her back, heavy and warm, fingers resting at the dip of her spine. His heart beat steady beneath her ear. She shifted slightly, and his arm tightened.

“Mmm… stay,” he murmured, his voice gravelly and half-asleep.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” she whispered back, lips brushing the skin just over his heart.

He cracked one eye open, curls a mess, lashes tangled from sleep. “You’re real, yeah?”

She smiled, nudging his chin up with her fingers. “Very.”

He leaned in and kissed her slowly—like a secret, like a promise—and then buried his face in her hair, mumbling, “Best podium I’ve ever had.”

She giggled, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you love it.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The way she held him said everything.

Same Night — Internet Breaks

@F1HARDWIRE "BLACKPINK's (Y/n) spotted with Lando Norris—hand in hand 👀 Relationship soft-launch confirmed?"

@BLACKPINKGLOBAL "(Y/n) supporting Lando at the Barcelona GP. The way he sprayed her with champagne and she LAUGHED? Soulmates."

@Formula_tea "BLACKPINK showing up in the McLaren garage is actually the wildest crossover of 2025."

@trackratforever: “I’m sorry, why is a KPOP IDOL in the garage like she knows what DRS is 💀 stick to dancing.”

@lovesickf1: “(Y/n) in a paddock dress and sunglasses while Oscar tries to explain tire degradation to her is PEAK WAG behavior. I’m obsessed.”

@blinksy: “The way Lando LOOKS at her… I’d quit my job for less.”

@landoismybfnotreally: “As long as he treats her right, we’re cool. If he breaks her heart, we riot.”

@girlsontrackk: “WHO HAD BLACKPINK X F1 ON THEIR 2025 BINGO CARD??”

@lanpink_edits: “When a literal global superstar dates the grid’s golden retriever…”

Comments ranged from chaos to thirst to full support:

“I know Lando hasn’t seen her live because he would NOT survive ‘Tally’ or ‘Pretty Savage.’”

“If she’s bringing the girls to a race, the entire paddock is done for.”

“Imagine Toto Wolff trying to understand a BLACKPINK lightstick.”

Within hours, hashtags exploded

#PinkPitstop #GetIn(Y/n) #ProtectLando #(Y/n)Out #HeCanDoBetter #SheDeservesBetter #F1BLINKS

(Y/n) didn’t say a word. She just posted a photo on Instagram:

@/yourusername

❤️ 5.7M 💬 36.3k ➤ 512k

Yourusername been together for a while now. 🧡🏆 finally get to show you off 🧸

Comments:

@/USER1 GRID PRINCESS

@/jennierubyjane I saw you on TV. You are so pretty 🥺

↳ Yourusername stawpp 🙂‍↔️

@/USER2 F1 just got 10x hotter

@/GeorgeRussell63 Still waiting for BLACKPINK to teach us choreo. I’ll bring the helmet

@/USER3 THIS CROSSOVER IS INSANE

@/USER4 power couple 🤞

@/pierregasly Never seen Lando smile that much before. Congrats mate 👀

@/paddocktea y’all she was wearing his chain in the garage HIS CHAIN AHH

@/USER5 god really has favorites 😔😔

@/chaoticblink First Jennie dated Kai, NOW (Y/n) is dating an F1 driver? Blackpink's dating rosters stay elite

@/USER6 can’t believe Lando is now “(Y/n)’s boyfriend” to half the internet 🥹

@/Sooyaaa_ 의심스러운 활동 🕵🏻‍♂️🤔 (suspicious activity)

↳ Yourusername 🫣

@/Teamlando If she shows up to Silverstone, it’s OVER for all of us

@/yn’sluvbot LANDO YOU BETTER BE TREATING OUR GIRL RIGHT OR we’re coming for u

@/charles_leclerc Me and Alex want VIP tickets

↳ Yourusername Straight to the point 😭

@/lalalalisa_m 😍👏👏

↳ Yourusername 🧡

@/danielricciardo Can I meet Rosè? 😁

↳ roses_are_rosie 🙋‍♀️

[itsxarien]

how bad do u want me | natalie scatorccio x reader

“Cause you like my hair, my ripped-up jeans, you like the bad girl i got in me.”

SUMMARY: After a quiet conversation with Coach Ben in the wilderness, you come to a realization about yourself that you’ve been avoiding for a long time - you’re in love with your best friend, Natalie Scatorccio.

warnings: nsfw, smut with plot, slight angst!

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The fire was dying again.

You and Coach Ben sat across from it, the silence thick between you. Most nights, no one really talked anymore. But tonight—tonight felt heavy, like something needed to be said. You were chewing on a piece of dried something (you didn’t ask), half-listening to the hiss of the flames when he broke the silence.

“You ever been in love?”

The question felt like it came out of nowhere. You blinked at him. “What?”

He gave a tired shrug. “It’s the kind of question you think about a lot out here.”

You stared into the fire for a long time, the heat kissing your cheeks. “No,” you answered too quickly. Then, quieter: “At least, I don’t think so.”

Coach nodded, then said gently, “What about boys?”

“I dated some, but my heart was never really in it.”You shrugged, pulling your knees up to your chest. “It’s always been like that. I tried. I kissed them. I let them take me out. But it just felt like going through the motions. Like I was acting out a scene someone else wrote.”

He looked at you, not with judgment but with something like… curiosity. “So what does feel real to you?”

Your heart stuttered. The answer lived right there, under your tongue, ready to spill. And once you started talking, it didn’t stop.

And someone came in your mind.

Natalie.

You let out a long breath and started speaking, your voice softer than usual.

“When me and Natalie were younger… I don’t think I ever realized how much I needed Natalie. But there was always something between us, something I could never quite explain.” You paused, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. "When we were at my house, my mom would always be downstairs, cooking or doing something. And Natalie and I would go up to my room, lock the door, and just... be together."

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to find the right words. “We’d lie there in my bed, close, too close sometimes. I’d press my legs against hers, feeling the heat of her body next to mine.”

“I think I always knew, even back then, that I wanted more. But I didn’t know how to say it, how to make it real.”

Coach Ben stayed silent, watching you as you spoke. His presence was comforting, and yet, there was a pang in your chest as you relived those memories.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You and Natalie were sitting on her bed in the dim light of her room, the air thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of her cheap perfume. The faint sound of music played low, something from the ‘80s. Queen, maybe? You weren’t sure, but the static from the speakers added to the feeling of everything being just a little bit hazy.

She was sprawled across her bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out lazily, her ripped jeans showing more skin than you'd care to admit. Her black eyeliner smudged just slightly, as it always did, and her messy hair framed her face in the way it always did—like she didn’t care, but still somehow looked like she owned the room.

You were sitting a little too stiffly beside her, in your usual outfit of pink, a fuzzy sweater and white skirt with a flower hairclip on top of your head. A stark contrast to her—the good girl, the one who was always so... perfect.

You were used to the way people looked at you both, always wondering how the two of you ended up as best friends. You were opposites in every way. You were the quiet, perfect girl, the one who sat in the front of class and smiled politely. She was loud, messy, always caught up in something she shouldn’t be.

Still, here you were. Side by side, as you always were. Yet tonight, something felt different. You could feel it in the air, that shift that always came before something bigger, something you weren’t ready for but knew was inevitable.

“I don’t get why you hang out with me, (Y/N),” she muttered, her voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. She turned her head, her eyes searching yours for something—maybe an answer. "I'm trouble, you know that, right?"

You glanced at her, biting your lip. You always hated when she said things like that. Like she wasn’t worth it, like you weren’t worth being around her.

“You’re not trouble,” you said, though your voice was quieter than you intended. “You’re just... complicated. But I like complicated.”

She snorted, a sharp sound that made your heart flutter in an oddly comforting way. “Yeah, sure. You like it ‘cause you’re perfect. You’ve got everything together. I’m just a mess.”

That ache you were feeling deep in your chest earlier felt heavier now. The gap between the two of you was always there, but tonight it felt bigger, harder to ignore. You looked at her again, really looked at her. Natalie—your best friend, the one who you’d known for years, who knew you better than anyone else ever could.

“Maybe I like you because I’m not perfect,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “And I don’t want to be.”

There was a long pause as Natalie processed your words. She tilted her head slightly, watching you closely, and then a small, almost sad smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You’re so good to me, cupcake,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest at the nickname. That nickname. She only ever called you that when she was soft, when she wasn’t trying to hide the part of her that was vulnerable, even if she didn’t always let herself show it.

“I’m not... I’m not good,” you whispered back, your words shaky. You wanted to say more, but the words were stuck in your throat. "You... you’ve been through so much. And you—"

But Natalie cut you off with a shake of her head, her expression turning serious. “You’ve always been good, (Y/N),” she said, her voice like gravel. "You just don’t see it. You always help me, no matter what. You keep me from falling apart."

Her words hung in the air, and you could feel them pressing down on you, making everything feel heavier. You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “You don’t have to let me in, you know? You can—"

“I’m not going anywhere,” she interrupted, her voice suddenly more forceful than before. She moved closer to you, her leg brushing against yours as she did. The proximity sent a jolt through your body, making your pulse quicken.

The closeness was something you both had always shared—laying side by side, pressing your legs together when you watched movies, when you talked about everything and nothing. But tonight, with everything hanging in the balance, it felt like so much more.

You stared at her for a long moment, the words you wanted to say stuck on your tongue. But then she spoke again, her voice quieter, more vulnerable this time.

“Promise me something,” she said, looking down at your intertwined legs. “Promise me you’ll never leave me. No matter how... messed up I get.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

The air between you two felt thick now, like something unsaid was hanging there. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it out loud yet. You couldn’t tell her what you were really feeling, not when the world seemed so uncertain.

You were so different. She was so different. And yet, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere but right here with her.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

“She kissed me once,” you admitted, pulling your legs closer to your face.

“Said it was practice."

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Madonna crooned from the cassette player, half-muffled by your bedroom pillow.

Like a virgin… touched for the very first time…

Natalie was sprawled next to you, one foot crossed over the other. Her flannel was sliding off one shoulder, eyes smudged with the kind of liner she never wiped off before crashing at your place. She had a joint in hand, laughing at something stupid you’d said about math class.

“Wanna practice?” she asked, not looking at you.

“Practice what?”

She raised a brow. “Kissing.”

You thought she was joking. But then she rolled over onto her side, facing you, close enough to smell the weed and grape soda on her breath.

You hesitated. “Okay.”

She leaned in like it was nothing. Like you were the one being weird about it. Her lips brushed yours, soft, slow, as if she’d done it a hundred times.

You didn’t even move at first. You just felt it—this terrible, perfect spark crawling up your spine. You kissed her back, and it felt like falling. You wanted to cry, and you didn’t know why.

When she pulled back, she grinned.

You wanted her to do it again.

And she did, again and again.

When she kissed you, it wasn’t playful. Not really. It was slow, searching. Her tongue moved against yours like she was memorizing it.

Later, she had pulled back, breathless, eyes darker than the night.

“Damn,” she whispered. “They don’t kiss like that.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

“She kissed me again, later,” you told Coach, your voice cracking. “A bunch of times. And then she touched me.”

You didn’t mean too say it out loud, but it was already gone. Out in the cold air, hanging there like smoke.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It had been late, after another party, when she’d stumbled into your car, laughing. Her eyeliner smeared, her voice sticky sweet with whiskey.

“You’re always so soft,” she murmured, leaning against you in the passenger seat, cheek pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re always so loud,” you said back, trying to steady your voice even though your hands were trembling on the wheel.

She laughed and turned her head, eyes glassy, breath warm on your skin.

“You ever think maybe I’m loud ‘cause I don’t wanna hear myself think?”

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t. Just drove her home in silence, the quiet between you almost unbearable.

That night, she left her bedroom door cracked open like she always did when she didn’t want to sleep alone. You followed, heart hammering like you were doing something wrong.

You helped her change. Her skirt was hitched too high, her shirt sliding down one shoulder. When she sat on the edge of her bed, legs loose and lazy, she reached for the strap of your sando, tugging them, letting it leave your shoulder.

“Wanna practice again?” she whispered, lips brushing yours.

Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing. “Yeah,” you said, and kissed her.

God, you kissed her like it would be the last time. Like it had to count.

It started soft. Your lips, her tongue, the way she cupped the back of your neck. But she tasted like smoke and sugar and something that burned, and soon your sando was half off, her hands under your bra, skimming the bare skin of your sides.

She touched you like she meant it. Like she’d been thinking about it.

Her hand slid beneath your waistband, fingers grazing the elastic of your panties. Your hips jolted.

“Natalie…” you gasped, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a plea.

She paused, eyes locking with yours. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

Her fingers dipped lower, slow and careful, until she brushed against the wet heat of you. You choked out a sound, half gasp, half whimper.

“God, you’re already soaked,” she said, voice low and rough, almost reverent.

She kissed your collarbone as she slid a finger inside, then two. Her touch was practiced, but gentle. She curled them just right, dragging them slow, deep, the heel of her hand pressing firm against your clit. You buried your face in her neck, biting down to muffle the moan tearing from your throat.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. Her fingers worked you open, curling and stroking, coaxing you toward the edge until your thighs were shaking, your back arching, your hands twisted in her sheets.

You came like that, trembling in her lap, forehead pressed to hers, a quiet sob catching in your throat.

She kissed you after, messy and slow. Then she pushed you gently down onto the bed and climbed between your legs.

“Wait - ” you started, but her mouth was already there.

She kissed your thighs first, soft, dragging her teeth across the skin. Her hands pushed your legs open, steady and sure. And then-

Her tongue. Warm, slow, deliberate. She licked a long stripe up your slit, then circled your clit, teasing, tasting.

You cried out.

“Natalie -”

She moaned against you like she was drunk on it. Like she wanted to ruin you slow.

And she did.

The last thing you remembered before the flashback burned out was the sound you made. loud, raw, real - and the way she looked up at you from between your legs like you were something sacred, as she enjoyed

You never noticed but the way she looked at you, it was love.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You looked down at your lap. Your hands were shaking.

“It was my first time,” you admitted.

Coach Ben nodded, listening intently.

You thought that was it—that the conversation would taper off into silence like everything else here did. But then he looked at you again, steady and quiet, like he was waiting for something to click.

“Maybe the love you’re looking for,” he said gently, “has always been in front of you. Waiting.”

You froze.

The fire popped. Your heart did too, in a different way.

He said it like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d seen it in the way Natalie passed you her joint with soft fingers. The way she always sat just close enough that your knees touched. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking - tired, tender, like she didn’t know how to say don’t go.

“Maybe,” he added, “you’ve just been looking for it in the wrong people.”

Your throat burned. You didn’t have an answer.

Just Natalie’s name echoing through your chest like a secret you’d been too afraid to tell out loud.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe she’d always been right there.

Waiting.

And as you return to the cabin the, faint rise and fall of Natalie’s breathing as she lay curled up on the cot, her face relaxed in sleep.

There was space next to her, an empty spot on the edge of the blanket, clearly left for you.

You smiled softly to yourself, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. It was a small thing, but it meant the world to you.

As you moved closer, the cool night air from the door fading behind you, you hesitated. You knew what you were feeling now. You couldn’t ignore it anymore. You couldn’t hide from the truth.

Coach Ben’s words echoed in your mind—Maybe the love you're looking for has always been in front of you, waiting. You thought about it again, about how, all this time, you’d been searching for something that was never really gone.

It had always been Natalie.

You gently eased into the space beside her, sliding your arms around her waist and pulling her close. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her body fitting into yours like it was always meant to. You hugged her tightly from behind, feeling the warmth of her skin seep into yours.

And in the quiet of that moment, you realized what Coach Ben had meant. You’d been looking for love in all the wrong places, convinced that there was something out there for you, when all along it was right here. Right in front of you. Waiting.

Natalie.

The love you’d been searching for, the love you had been too scared to admit, was already yours.

And as you held her close, the world outside the cabin seemed so far away. The noise, the chaos, it all faded to nothing. All that mattered was the warmth of her body in your arms and the gentle sound of her breathing.

 Coach Ben had been right after all.

THE END

[sturnsblogs]

YOU’RE PREGNANT!?

Teacher!Matt X Milf!Reader

—

You had the ultrasound photos propped up on the kitchen counter like they were pieces of art—because honestly? They kind of were. Two tiny little blobs that had turned your world upside down in the best way possible.

Eliana had been told not to say anything, but she kept bouncing around the living room with the kind of energy that gave her away immediately. She was chewing on her bottom lip just trying to contain herself.

“They’re gonna freak out,” Matt said, peeking out the window as he saw Chris and Nick pull up in the driveway. He looked back at you with a grin, his hand sliding across your bump—even though it was still barely there. “You ready?”

“No,” you laughed, smoothing down your shirt. “Yes. Mostly.”

Eliana was already at the door the second the bell rang, flinging it open like she owned the place. “HI UNCLE CHRISSY! HI UNCLE NICKY!”

Chris scooped her up and spun her dramatically. “There’s my girl! You been good for mommy and daddy?”

She giggled but immediately looked at you, and you shot her a warning look like, don’t say anything yet. She clamped her mouth shut like it physically hurt.

Nick wandered in behind them, already sniffing. “It smells like cookies in here. Wait. Are you guys buttering us up for something? Did Matt get arrested?”

Matt gave him a flat look. “No, idiot. Come sit down.”

You brought over a tray with cookies, and nestled between them were two tiny photo envelopes. Chris eyed them. “What is this? A gift? Is it weed?”

Nick picked up one, opened it—and froze.

It was the ultrasound photo. The top one, the one that might show a second sac. Right below it was a little sticky note Matt had written:

“Coming soon… Baby Sturniolo (maybe Baby Sturniolo-s?)”

Nick’s eyes went huge. “Shut. UP.”

Chris looked between you and Matt, then yanked the second envelope open. He saw the little peanut-shaped blob on the paper and let out the loudest yell known to man.

“YOU’RE PREGNANT?!?”

Eliana screamed too, just because he screamed. “YES!!! MOMMY HAS A BABY IN HER BELLY!!”

Nick just stared at you, then at Matt, jaw fully dropped. “Oh my god… are you serious? You’re gonna be a dad? Again?”

Matt was already grinning like a fool, arm wrapped around your shoulder. “Yeah. We are.”

Chris’s eyes were watering and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. “Dude. This is—like, real? A baby?! Maybe two??”

“Don’t jinx us,” you laughed, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

Nick held up the photo like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. “Bro. You’re literally having kids. You’re gonna be so annoying about this.”

“You say that like you’re not gonna spoil the hell out of them,” Matt shot back.

Chris leaned over, gently ruffling Eliana’s hair. “So you’re gonna be a big sister, huh?”

She nodded so hard. “I TOLD HER NOT TO FORGET HER VITAMINS EVERY DAY.”

You and Matt burst out laughing while Chris wiped his eyes dramatically. “I can’t believe my brother’s gonna be a dad again. God, I’m gonna cry.”

Nick smirked, looking between you both. “Next family dinner’s gonna be wild.”

And just like that, your little living room was filled with laughter, warmth, and the kind of joy that only happens when the people you love most in the world are right there beside you for the ride.

—

A/N- The reason why they say “again” is because matt has made it clear that eliana is considered his daughter.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset-deactivate @lezleeferguson-120 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @cherryystemfemme @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn @ribread03

[bullet-prooflove]

6500 Follower Bingo Card Celebration: The Shirt: John Shen x Reader (feat: Jack Abbot)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @miraclesabound @cannonindeez @fadeinsol @nommingonfood @yousigned-upforthis

Hitting The Bingo Squares: Wearing His Shirt

Companion piece to:

Dick Pics - You and John discuss your dating life in the ambulance bay during a rare shift break.

Brunch - John refuses to give up when you miss brunch with him.

Silly Little Boys (NSFW) - John's not like the other men you've been with.

In The Summer - You discover John's secret.

Tiger, Tiger - John reveals the truth between his engagement and his history.

Jack - John's mother opens up old wounds by giving John a copy of your DCFS file.

Bare (NSFW) - John and you commit to each other in a special way.

It’s the shirt that tips Jack off, that followed by the body language.

It’s royal blue with faded gold branding for the Pittsburgh food festival you went to last week. The thing is that shirt, it’s too big, not enough to swamp you but enough for him to know it’s a boyfriend shirt even if you are tucking it into the waistband of your jeans.

He doesn’t say anything about it when you hand back his keys after borrowing the car, he’s still putting the pieces together because you’ve not mentioned you’re seeing someone, that it might be getting serious.

The question is why?

It’s answered almost immediately when his gaze shifts to Shen, whose mouth twitches up into an subtle smile when he lays eyes on you.  You smile back and that’s when he realises that the breaks Shen takes in the ambulance bay, they’re not really about getting a couple minutes of fresh air.

You could do a lot worse, he supposes. He should know, it was him who let down the tires on Pharma Bro’s Audi after you found out he was also seeing Ivy. The dumbass had ended up calling AAA to get the thing towed.

It’s a couple of hours later he finds himself alone with the other man, the two of them are both standing in front of the intake board, surveying their options. The silence, it stretches between the two of them, thickening until it becomes uncomfortable and still neither moves, neither flinches, they just stand there waiting for the other to break.

“You know don’t you?” Shen says finally and Jack makes an affirmative noise.

“I do.” He states crossing his arms over his chest.

“Cici wants to tell you this weekend-.”

“I’ll work on my surprised face.”

“Look I get you’re pissed-”

Jack huffs out a laugh.

“You think I’m pissed?” Jack says turning his face towards Shen. “I’m not. I know you, I know you’re not one of those assholes that’s gonna run around behind her back but Cici is handle with care-”

“I know.” Shen says pointedly and that’s another surprise because Cici, she doesn’t talk about that time of her life, not to anyone.

“Huh.” Jack responds, his whiskey eyes meeting Shen’s with an intensity that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “Then you know if you fuck things up with her, you’re probably gonna have to transfer to another hospital right? Because I will make your life an absolute misery. I’m talking shit you couldn’t even imagine, real Psyops level, fuck with your head kinda stuff.”

“That’s fair.” Shen says before turning his attention back to the board. “So which one you want? Shitting through the eye of a needle, or vomiting up blood?”

“Vomit.” Jack says, snatching up a pair of latex gloves from the box on the counter. “I’ll take puke over anal seepage any day.”

Love John? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[dmhayle]

This scene. If Seulgi had any doubts about how Jaeyi truly felt about her, this scene should have erased them all. The relief that Jaeyi expressed at finding her before the cops. The exhale. The searching her face and touching her face, almost as if to confirm to herself that it was real. That her love was there in one piece and ok and her dreams of becoming a doctor weren’t ruined. And I will forever continue to praise Lee Hyeri for her amazing acting in this series. It was phenomenal. Everyone did an amazing job, but Hyeri blew me away w her slight expressions that managed to convey so much of the character’s emotions. Bc let’s face it. Jaeyi does not express her emotions outwardly much at all.

Jaeyi is almost always 3 - 10 steps ahead of everyone around her and she always has a backup plan it seems. But…Ara surprised her w this set up of Seulgi. If we go back a little further in this episode, we see Jaeyi frantically searching for the meds and then she goes in search of Ara only to find out she’s already reported it to the cops and framed Seulgi. Jaeyi knew Ara liked her. She never imagined she’d set up the girl that Jaeyi so obviously is head over heels for bc she literally does everything Jaeyi tells her to…but she did. And Jaeyi had not calculated for this hiccup, so she has to think fast to try to fix it.

The amazing thing about Jaeyi is that she’s not only able to save Seulgi from being arrested here, but she also sets up her sister to be arrested in her place. Not to frame her sister or to get her in trouble, but to get her sister away from their horror of a father. If only the cops had gotten to Jena first she could have saved them both here. Jaeyi cares about her loved ones SO much and she will do anything for them.

I am clearly still not over this show y’all. I can’t just reblog gif sets without word vomiting first . 🫠🤦‍♀️

[arsonsara]

[The phone rings four times, and just before it can ring for a fifth, the phone is answered.] "Hellosie posies, you've reached the home of one Arso-" "...ahem." "This is Vivian speaking, can I help you?" [Silence.] "...H-hello?…" [Silence.] "...O-oh...oh my stars. Is...is that you? Goodness gracious, it has to be! I mean I don't remember anyone else who wasn't as...talkative. And nobody ever really called me like this except…" "You..." "Hahah...oh god, how long has it been since we last talked? Years now? It feels like only yesterday I got that call from you and just...let my gourd pop open! Hehe! I had a lot on my mind back then. To be honest I uh...still do." "Things are...better than they were. At least in a lot of the places that count but, the world keeps spinnin' y'know! It's enough to make you dizzy sometimes, hehe! And sometimes I get...pretty dizzy." "...I'm really glad you called. I've been really dizzy lately, a lot of memories are coming back to me that are a bit...rough to organize. Like a jigsaw puzzle and the pieces just sorta...change shape every-time you try to place a piece. Heck I don't know what i'm even building at this point! I don't think any of us are! Hahaha! Ahahaha!…" "But...i'm worried. About...someone I care about. They're a friend of mine that means a lot to me and...from what I could gather she's not doing as great as I thought she was. I mean i've...never met her. Is it weird to consider someone a friend if you've never met? I mean one of her friends has been trying to talk to me lately...does that count?" [Silence.] "...Are you here to lend an ear, stranger? That friend of a friend i'm referring to he's...talking about stuff like that lately. Lending an ear. Are you trying to do the same for me again?…" "...Thank you…" "...I guess I should...just get started."

On July 3rd, 2023, posted exactly at 5:44 PM Eastern Standard time, I wrote my personal review of my thoughts regarding the Anti-Fiction ARG Story Project, Welcome Home. I don't quite remember specifically when I came across the Welcome Home Website, but it was during its earliest incarnation, and I've been around since its inception on the internet. And ever since, it has captivated me and only continues to grow and reach towards loftier, dreamier heights and crawl into darker, isolating caverns. I don't wear my fandom seniority as a badge of pride, but can't help but fawn over it the same way someone does a hand-made gift. That's what Welcome Home is to me, in a lot of ways: A gift. It's a beautiful and haunting story, a complex and enrapturing puzzle, and a stunning, awe-inspiring work of art and despite how small the present box it came in was it just keeps getting bigger. There is a lot I could say about Welcome Home now that we're further into its story. When I wrote my review of it back in 2023 it was practically just getting started, and there are a lot of discussions I could have regarding all we've seen from the two Halloween Updates and the absolutely insane knockout that was The Homewarming Update… But i'm not here to talk about that. At least not now, because I want to zoom in on not just a particular update, but a particular character within Welcome Home's cast. The one that caught my attention the most, stole my heart, and as of the recent update, spoke more to me than anyone else on the cast. And I can't think of a better way to start than here:

For context, I always love playing into a scene or story even if it's just in small ways. When I wrote this signature in the Guestbook I thought it'd be fun to play in the space of Welcome Home being a real piece of lost media, whilst also sharing my love for the character that made my heart flutter like a butterfly and couldn't help but make me giggle. At this point in time, when I wrote that message, we didn't know a lot about Julie Joyful. We didn't have as much media surrounding Welcome Home aside from the biography pages that gave us descriptions for everyone in the cast. We didn't even have proper voices for the characters yet! And somehow Julie Joyful was the one out of everyone in the cast where I picker her out from the crowd and said: She was my favorite. Not just that she was my favorite, but that I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, without even a smidgen of hesitation: If Welcome Home was in fact a real show that I grew up with as a child, that Julie Joyful would be the one I loved the most out of everyone. And as days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to a year, year to years, and as Welcome Home has grown and flourished we've only come to learn more and more about this delightful as a daffodil Rainbow Monster. Can you tell that she's even rubbed off on me? This most recent update, April 12th's 2025 Springtime Salutations update, gave us a lot to learn about Julie Joyful. Not only did we see her at her brightest, her peppiest, her singingest, her skip-hop-and-jumpiest...but we also saw her at her darkest. Julie has quickly become one of my favorite characters in media ever. The more we saw of her the more my heart was captivated, and now that we've reached such a primal boiling point for her character, I felt like now was the time for me to give her the proper celebration she deserved. Like a hand-written letter in a pink envelope, covered with stickers, full to bursting with confetti and game pieces and little knick-knacks and doo-dads...and in the card i've written a deeply earnest and sympathetic thank you. Because out of a lot of the characters i've grown attached to, there are few like Julie who equally embody the person I want to be, remind me of the person I am, and make me feel truly seen. I think that's enough pre-amble ramblin'. Let's get started, shall we?

---

One of the big things that captivated me about Julie Joyful, once more updates began to roll on and we got to see more of the scamperingly sweet Rainbow Monster in action was just how utterly, reverently silly she was. She speaks in such a squeaky, chipper, bouncy lilting voice and is constantly talking a mile a minute, throwing out mounds for pounds of alliteration, spoonerisms, rhymes and a gargantuan greenhouse worth of flower names and funny games. Out of everyone in the cast, she's the one who is the most childlike in demeanor, and it seems no matter the reason or the season she finds some way to make a simple occasion into an all out affair! At least, when it comes to her appearance on screen. Within Welcome Home, there is something of a divide between the cast: How they appear in media made for the Welcome Home TV Show, through merchandise and other second-hand findings, and how they appear when the cameras are "off" so to speak. Throughout the website's history there have been hidden videos and audio logs where we seemingly see the neighbors of Home interacting with each-other on a far more casual, day to day basis. Almost as if the world of Welcome Home is real, that that little clearing in the forest with cutesy houses surrounded by a phantasmagorical cornucopia of brightly colored trees is somewhere out in our real world, and the merchandise surrounding the show is only a representation of the real thing. Almost like learning about someone through a game of telephone. Welcome Home has already played with a lot of themes regarding the restrictions of television for the time period of when Welcome Home supposedly aired, and art created for the sake of a corporate end-goal. Think about it, all of the things we learn about Welcome Home aren't from the show itself, we as an audience have never even seen an episode, let alone a clip or screenshot from the actual puppet show.

All of it is secondhand merchandise or advertisements, at least with regards to the physical remnants we have of the Welcome Home TV Show. And as the story continues, we keep seeing characters drift away from their television personas and show us more of who they really are, and the more that time passes things start to weigh on their minds more and more, become heavier and heavier, and the seams at the edges of their existences, their realities, start to fray… But it started out very subtle, and gives us a lot to think about regarding how the cast actually feels about eachother outside of the "show". One of the differences from her Show Persona and how she truly interacted with the rest of the cast, didn't have anything to do with her character herself, but rather how another person reacted to her. In "The Show", Frank Frankly is constantly seen as a grumpy grump and a sourpuss when it comes to dealing with Julie's constant shenanigans. Crossing his arms, rolling his eyes, saying thinks like "Not again" and "Julie, we've talked about this." This isn't to say Frank's Show Persona dislikes Julie, even in spite of his apparent frustration with her allyoop antics, where Julie is Frank is never far behind and there's always something of a begrudging fondness for her. A very "Yup, this is my circus, and that is most certainly my monkey." kind of attitude.

Yet when the cameras are off, it's almost the complete opposite. In one of the hidden-videos from the first big update, we hear Frank bringing Julie to his freshly grown tomatoes so he can get advice on how to deal with the beetles that have been eating them. It's odd to think about isn't it, Frankly coming to Julie for advice? By this point we knew a little bit about Julie regarding her affinity for plants and flowers, but it's still a bit odd isn't it? And before we know it, Julie breaks out into her usual serendipitous self, with her absitovely posituley silly observations and suggestions, but instead of the usual exasperation we're used to from Frank Frankly, he reacts far more warmly. Even joining in on Julie's little games and bursting with laughter when she says his nose looks like a Banana! It feels like it's almost a completely different dynamic, the two sharing in a very small, sweet, domestic moment of silliness, and both of them feeling like true best friends. Not only that but in another one of these secret videos, we see Julie trying to convince Barnaby that she's capable of telling a good joke, only for the big blue dog to heckle her to no end! And for the first time we see Julie actually get frustrated at being belittled, trying her best to be seen as funny only for Barnaby to keep pulling at her leg and steaming her. We get to see a little more regarding Julie's thoughts on Barnaby in this most recent update, so we'll put a pin in it for later. For now, let's dig into the fertile discussion regarding Julie's siblings, Franny, Jonsie and Bea. The Springtime Salutations update gave us a LOT regarding Julie's family, lore about Rainbow Monsters, and us actually getting to see The Joyful Family interacting with other members of the cast, and their sister! While we don't know the precise age of anyone in the cast, it's safe to say just based off of interactions that Julie is the youngest of the Joyful's, as there's a certain level of fraternal responsibility the three have over Julie, or at least they behave as such. Afterall, the story is functionally about Julie going to her siblings for help, only for everyone to eventually realize Julie's made a mistake and accidentally having made a mountain out of a molehill. And during the family talk amongst each other in "A Darling Broadcast", the Joyfuls ask why it is that Julie hasn't joined their band, and that they want their "Dynamite Drummer." But...Julie doesn't play the drums. At least we've never seen that! She sings, talks and kisses the flowers and that's what makes them bloom, as we learn in the storybooklet "What Makes The Flowers Bloom." Not only that but in Julie's biography and implied elsewhere on the site, she moved out of her home with her siblings in the cave so she could move to the neighborhood of home! But...why? From what we know about Rainbow Monsters and their culture, they seem to all be cohesive family units! And when Julie is asked about when she'll join the band, she avoids the question by pretending that the connection is breaking and hangs up. And even afterwards, we hear Bea talk about how she hopes that one day Julie will join the band. But for as much as she seems to love her siblings, she doesn't seem to want to be in the band with them. Maybe their constant insistence on her joining the band, of her being a drummer was what made her move away? A feeling of being constrained by the views of her peers? Not only that but we don't get to hear any interaction with Julie and her family when the cameras are "off". As time goes on the line between the show, the world of the show, and our world continue to blend, but we haven't seen any interactions from the Joyfuls that would explain what exactly happened between them…

This next part is going to get into heavy spoiler territory regarding a lot of the secrets in this most recent update, so if you don't want to be spoiled, I recommend finding them on your own and coming back afterwards. But later we learn something very important: Julie is terrified of the idea of being a "bad" rainbow monster, and being unable to live up to the example of her siblings. Over the course of the secret videos in this update, we see Julie; who is sometimes accompanied by Frank, attempting to get a black tulip made of felt, with an odd looking eye in the center of its bud that looks similar to the Marlo Logo, Marlo being a corporation tied with the creation of Welcome Home. It seems that out of all the flowers in the neighborhood, Julie can't get this single flower to blossom, and what once starts as apprehension soon grows into outright terror at the idea of failure. She starts to fear whether or not this is "just the start", that she'll loose her ability to make plants grow and blossom and that Home will be full of nothing but wilting flowers and dead fields. She agonizes over the idea of if her siblings found out, that she can't let them find out, that nobody can know.

Now, up to this point we've seen another Welcome Home resident behave in a similar manner: Eddie Dear. In the Homewarming Update, we see him start to grow stressed over not being able to do his job of delivering presents for Homewarming to everyone in the neighborhood, cooped up in his post-office and growing frustrated that he can't do anything, even saying "Who’s ever heard of folks gettin’ recognition for nothin'? No one, that’s who!" Eventually, he goes outside to learn that the Neighbors have already done all the delivering for him, and that he doesn't need to do his job, he can simply enjoy the festivities!… But when he tries, he starts seeing things nobody else can. Things that feel like aren't meant to be seen. Things he doesn't want to see.

It seems that the "Roles" of the characters within Welcome Home almost act as an anchoring point for them. That if they aren't able to be who they are, they start to slip, they start to see things, and the world around them begins to twist and shift. Julie herself, the more stressed she gets, starts to speak differently. Her voice is lower, her tone is more quiet, reserved, far more human and less cartoony. Almost like she's becoming a completely different person. But unlike Eddie, whose anxieties seem to stem from recognition or the knowledge that he's doing a public service for the people he cares about, Julie's seem to come from a deep seeded fear of failure. Earlier in the videos we hear her talk about how sometimes she worries about what Barnaby and Howdy think of her, that she thinks she isn't funny, and she tries brushing it off as friendly ribbing, but the tone in her voice clearly lets us know that ribbing or not that it still hurts her sometimes. Not only that but we already have the expectations she feels she has from her siblings. Were these fears she imparted unto herself for feeling like the odd one out of her family, or was there some form of long-form confrontation within the Joyful family from a young age that left her feeling like she not only lived in their shadow, but needed to live up to their example. There are a lot of things we can speculate about Julie's relationship and feelings towards her family and her friends, but one thing is certain: Julie believes that she can't let anyone see her slip. They can't see her when she's unhappy, and they most certainly can never, ever, ever know that she did something wrong. It almost puts her kind of playtime into perspective: You don't need to worry about loosing if the rules to a game are so loosey goosey, or even if loosing is the fun part, as we see in the video where Eddie and Julie play pretend as corporate business workers. Hell, maybe Julie's exaggerated break down of Everything Inc. going "Out of Business" was foreshadowing for Julie's actual fears of failure. But the point is, it doesn't matter if you loose if the rules are made up to be nonsense and a winner can simply be picked at random, or if the purpose of the game is simply to have fun and have no proper goal. But once there are rules? There are stakes. And there's a punishment if you loose.

Now here's a question that seems to be floating around the fan communities of Welcome Home: Is Julie's pollyanna attitude genuine, or a front? When we see her break down in front of the Black Tulip, is this us finally seeing her true colors, mask off? I think the answer is more nuanced than a simple yes or no, but what I do believe is that Julie's demeanor comes from a genuine place. We've seen her behave all serendipitous and silly when "the cameras are off" and I don't think she's secretly a constant bundle of anxiety on the inside. I think her being so joyful is what she does to quell her anxiety. It is what makes her happy, it's what makes life worth living, but it is a coping mechanism and up until this point, a pretty effective one! Not only that, but Welcome Home is always constantly playing with our perception of where the boundaries lie between our world and that of Welcome Home's.

I'm not the only one to have come to this conclusion, but I believe when we hear Julie's voice break we're hearing what her original voice-actress sounded like when she was out-of-character, and potentially Julie's fears are mirroring that of the original actress. So, are we seeing Julie, or her actress? I think it's both. I think we're getting both an in-depth read on Julie's character and starting to see behind the curtain of what the production crew was dealing with, to a certain extent. To what extent, we don't know, but with how often Welcome Home blends the lines of reality, I think we're witnessing a co-existing truth and not something that contradicts itself. There is another thing I am absolutely certain of regarding Julie's reaction to the Black Tulip not blooming: This is a trauma response. Julie isn't just being traumatized in the moment from the Black Tulip not blooming, something had to have happened to her in the past to make her react in such a way.

It gets to the point that, for the first time in the series, we hear one of the characters swear! JULIE SAYS "SHIT!" And by the end of it all we start to hear her threatening the Black Tulip, saying that by Homewarming when Winter comes that they'll never be seen again, that nobody will know it's there! She's threatening the Black Tulip, and in the same breadth convincing herself that this is something she can bury and that no one will know of her shame... ...Say… Remember when Julie was the one who played the main character in Sally's rendition of The Telltale Heart? Almost like it was foreshadowing this very moment, and that Julie feels the same amount of guilt and shame over not being able to bloom a flower as much as the main-character in The Telltale Heart feels about killing another person? Safe to say, these emotions can't be coming from nowhere. Something happened to Julie Joyful. And if that isn't enough, the last secret page we find for the update is Frank, seemingly exploring the Forests of the Outskirts of Home, the sun is starting to set, and he's looking with a thousand yard stare at something we can't see. And the image's name is called "uhoh."

Remember in the Halloween Update, when Sally told the story of why you don't leave your home after dark? Did Julie stay in that forest, berating the Black Tulip until the sun came down, and Frank has found the aftermath? Or is this before the sun goes down, and Frank is seeing something else… Either way, from what we can tell, it can't be good. And I am dreading the next update. I hope above anything else that Julie will be okay. But at this point, it's hard to say. --- Julie has always been an important character to me, ever since Welcome Home started. I was recently transitioning, voice training, and when I finally got to see Julie in action proper, the first thought I had is that I wanted to be just like her. Exuberant, goofy, caring, silly, reverent, colorful, joyful, she was the embodiment of everything I so deeply, deeply wanted to be. And in this update, I wasn't just thinking about how much I wanted to be like her. Julie reminded me of myself. Of fears i've had, of struggles i've gone through, of the terror that grips your heart when you think you are on the verge of a failure you can't come back from, a failure that will make you worthless. I don't say this to garner sympathy, and whilst we all go through our own struggles, i'm happy to say that i'm in a better place than I was when Welcome Home came out, and that the future looks even brighter. But i've never had a character both embody the sort of person I wanted to be, and the sort of struggles that gripped my heart. In a weird way, it made me feel more like Julie than I ever did before, over something I never thought the two of us would share. There's a lot more I could talk about regarding Julie, and as deep as I go I feel like I am only ever going to scratch the surface. There's the discussion of the queer theming in Welcome Home regarding the Show seemingly forcing Julie and Frank into a relationship, and the potential romance between Frank Frankly and Eddie Dear. I could talk about what is essentially the "Beta" of Welcome Home before all of its details were canonized, where Julie looked far more wonky and had the name Julie B and the seperate story that tells. (which I personally believe is referenced when Jonesy calls her by the affectionate nickname of Julie Bean.) I could talk about how before we even met The Joyful Family, I made a Self-Insert OC of a Rainbow Monster named Vivi Vacilate, how she'd interact with the rest of her cast, wrote up her own theoretical "It's-For-You Talking Telephone" script and even what-if scenarios of how she'd be incorporated into the ARG itself, playing with themes of fan-creations for works like this and the strange nature of how things manifest through Welcome Home as a show, with there being a question of whether or not Vivi was an actual character or a fan-creation that somehow manifested itself alongside the show. I can talk about what I think the future holds for her character, for the story as a whole, and what it'll mean. And I more than likely will, in the future, whether between friends or in errant posts or maybe even another analysis like this. Only time will tell what form it takes, but there's one thing I do know for certain: I love Julie Joyful. Never has there been a character that has brought me such happiness into my life and made me feel so known. Never has there been a character that represents everything I want to be in life, how far i've come, and the lengths i've yet to go. I don't know how Welcome Home will end, whether it'll be happy, sad, scary, or all if it at once. But no matter what happens, Julie Joyful will always have a very, very special place in my heart. I commend Clown for planting this little seed, all of the artists and writers for giving it some good soil and watering it with their love, and to Cyberscraps for letting its voice bloom into something beautiful and inspiring. And i'll always cherish it. ...Oh, no wait, there is one second thing I know for certain. ...I really want that Julie Plushie... ---

"Thank you again for listening to me again, Stranger. I needed that more than I thought I did. Sometimes you have thoughts that just keep bubbling up inside you until it POPS like an overstuffed grape and just gets messy and all over the place but...now I feel better...at least a little…" "...I guess all there is left to do is wait. I mean i'm used to that now and i'm a patient girl but...it's...really all I can do right now, isn't it?" [Silence] "At least I can say I did all I could! I had some help of course, I don't know if I could'a done it all by my lonesome! So here's hoping that when things happen again that maybe...they'll be better?…" [Silence] "...Is it silly of me to think that way?…" [Silence] "...I guess so. But...maybe that's not all that bad. Stranger, I feel like it's my time to go, and i'm sure you have places to be but...can you do me a favor? If you can?" [Slience.] "...If you..."

"Happen to come across her…" "Can you let me know if she's okay?" "That I hope she's okay?" [Silence.] "...Well...it's worth a shot." "...Goodbye and uh...g-goodness what is that thing he says…" "...Don't forget to wave up high." [Vivian hangs up the phone.]

[maxknightley]

What's your process for coming up with character concepts and powersets for eidolon? I've been putting together one myself after absolutely adoring poprock and especially Harvey and it seems like you'd have an interesting perspective on it

I usually start by choosing a well-established archetype, or an existing character who I like, to model the character on.

Once that archetype is established, I think about a suitable eidolon name and concept for them.

Having established the broad strokes of the eidolon and the wielder, I work to create a fresh spin on the concept. Over the course of the campaign, I differentiate them further over time.

Some examples, keeping in mind that my memory of the older ones isn't going to be 100% accurate.

Harvey D. Godlove (ROCK)

Okay, ROCK is going to be the campaign that leans more Jojo and less Persona. The Virtuoso playbook seems interesting... Hol Horse and Mista are both basically Virtuosos. I'll draw on that - make a ranged attacker who's kind of a dumbass.

Just making the Eidolon "a gun" would be kind of boring, though. I'd like to use an OK Go song for this... hey, I was on a pinball kick recently. What if I made him really into pinball - so that's the skill he mastered - and that means he can fire a pinball like a bullet, and control its movements to some extent like Sex Pistols? Call that shit "Here It Goes Again."

Okay, so he's really into pinball, maybe other arcade games too. Since he's a Virtuoso, he must also be really good at it. Maybe he's got a bit of an ego? Sees the whole "career criminal" thing as a side gig? If he's flashy, that lines up with a high ELE build.

Emilia del Valle (Against!)

You know who's sick as hell. Nico Robin from One Piece. But I wish they had leaned harder into the fact that she's, like, one of the oldest members of the crew and spent time as a hardened assassin. I like it when she's silly but the Context should be there. What if I played someone who's a bit older and worn down by life? A Veteran, but what would their sub-playbook be?

Looking through Against Me songs, there's a few good options. Maybe Cavalier Eternal, maybe Dead Rats... an Alchemist would be fun this time around. Something kind of edgy, to fit the vibe she's got going on. "My eidolon turns love into hate?" "Turns comfort into pain?" No, those are too abstract. I should think of something concrete, something piratey and One Piece-y... say, "Violence" would be a fun pick. Very straightforward. Maybe she can just summon a fuckton of cannons? And if she's an Alchemist, the most efficient material to use would be wood - she can turn a ship itself into a new weapon!

Okay, so she's a bit older than the others. Since she's a Veteran, maybe she was a big deal at one point, but got captured and nearly killed. It's cool when characters have monikers. Since her attacks are technically using plant matter, maybe I'll call her something like "The Wilted Rose" or "The Wilted Lily..."

Solo (SKA)

It's the Mystery Solving Teens season! Gotta have a Beast in there to be the Scooby (or the Goober if you're nasty). We're doing a "two generations" thing, too... maybe go for a Mystery Incorporated inspired vibe, where my character is a bridge between both shows, and has mysterious motives of their own...

If I'm making my character "the bridge" then I should look into some real early ska, something from the 70s or early 80s. That also means we'll get some more variety on the Playlist. Let's see, "The Untouchables" sound cool. What do they - oh my god. Oh my fucking god lol I know exactly what to do here.

"Soul Together" = "Clump Spirit" = Katamari. My guy is a little fucking scarab beetle but instead of a ball of dung he could roll a ball of Everything. Like it's a miniature black hole basically. And I'll double down on the "prince" thing - his motivations are tied up in the politics and faith of a whole little civilization of bug people. What if they lived in a terrarium in the science classroom lol

The only major exception I can think of is Flip, and that's only because I came up with a rough concept long before Luke and Molly had actually figured out the details of the setting or started on the new rulebooks. Even then it still followed the broad strokes of "pick some existing characters I like, draw inspiration from them, and then tweak/iterate until they have their own thing going on."

[thejayviksterekalliance]

Stiles Stilinski: Pre-Season 3B Era

Meet Mieczysław "Stiles" Stilinski. He comes from a Polish family and hid name is pronounced "Mitch-E-Slav", or that's what my ear hears, so forgive me if I got the pronunciation wrong. It means "glorious sword".

For anyone who has not watched the show, you are lucky. We didn't find out his first name until the final season of the show, so your welcome.

In my "Beacon Hills" post I let you know that his father is the Sheriff. His mother died before he was 10 of a disease called frontotemporal dementia. It can be passed down genetically. (More on that later.) His dad had a rough go for a while and took a swim into the bottle for a bit but found a way through and has not touched a drink of his own volition since then. Yeah...it was rough and Stiles still carries the emotional scars. He was diagnosed with ADHD as well. Put all of that together, it wasn't a bad upbringing, but it wasn't great either.

He and his dad have lot's of love for each other. Here are two examples out of many. Example 1 (It was not kids, but he did not want his dad to get tangled in the supernatural mess going on.) and Example 2 (Those Stilinski hugs are serious business).

Stiles is very smart and witty, sometimes too much so. Here are two examples of what I am talking about. Example 1 and Example 2.

The whole show started because he went to his friend Scott's house one night because he heard on the police scanner that there was a body found in the woods and he wanted to go check it out. That's when the murderer, a werewolf, bit Scott and boom there you go we have a teen wolf on our hands. (More on that later) I'm telling you plot, luck, and proximity are the only reasons Stiles didn't get bitten. (Oh how the werewolf wished it was Stiles, but more on that later.)

He had a girl he was crushing on for years named Lydia Martin.

He even had an active 5 year plan to finally get her to be his girlfriend even though at the time she was dating Big Man on Campus Jackson Whitmore.

Who happens to be the captain of the Lacrosse team both Stiles and Scott are on.

It's Stiles that pieces together that Scott is a werewolf. Stiles is a big movie buff so all the clues were there. He went out of his way to help train Scott to control his senses and see the limit of his strength. It was real funny. Scott and Stiles are best friends at this point and who knows where Scott would be without him.

His memory is so good that he actually remembers the tragedy that happened to the Hale family even though he was in single digits.

He and Derek do not get along at first. Seriously, Stiles was asking if they could kill Derek in a joking, not joking manner. Here is a fan art that adds to this point.

But through trial and tribulations, the aggressive tension waned (I know, fiesty lol).

When it comes down to it Stiles is not above breaking the law to help those he cares about. He can not stand the thought of losing anyone he cares about, to the point that he demands his father eat more salads to stay healthy, even though he himself will kill a sack of curly fries.

There is also another character that is so closely intertwined with Stiles, that's Roscoe his blue Jeep.

It belonged to his mother and now it is his and he loves Roscoe so much. But damned if he does not know how to maintain it. Check this out.

Oh and to the annoyance of myself and I am sure a lot of other Stiles fans, the show completely dropped a plot point that would have been awesome. I do believe Stiles can wield magic.

Remember how I mentioned the Nematon and there being a space under it? This is that space under that big stump and it's being held up by Stiles's metal bat to get his father out from under it. Movie magic right? Suspension of disbelief? There were other things before this and after that pointed to this new character development, including a druid telling him he has a Spark inside of him, but the show did not pursue that. I guess it's because it would have taken the focus off of the Teen Wolf.

**Mini rant. There were a whole lot of contenders that would have taken the spot light off of the main character, the Teen Wolf himself Scott McCall and rightly so. These threats to that spotlight were either slowly phased out or removed all together. Who knows what kind of show it would have been if the show actually followed it own internal logic. Ok mini rant over**

So anyway this is the brief rundown of this Era in the life of Stiles Stilinski.

Next...the Season 3B and Beyond Era...

Pain...

[wormholxtreme]

Cinna was right to put her in flames. That's what she was. A force of nature. Something that people thought they could control, tuck away in a box, but that's not what one does with fire. You have to coax it, treat it right, add fuel and kindling to it, tend to it, otherwise it could burn the entire forest down. It wasn't lost on Peeta the way she set something aflame in him. Her symbols weren't entirely who she was, no, at the end of the day, she was just a girl wanting to live her life just as any of them wanted, but Peeta would be amiss to ignore how utterly captivating she was.

Haymitch said he'd made her desirable in the games. He had shown her off to the Capitol in a way that fit into their delicate palate, but really all he did was show them pieces of someone he'd been watching since they were five. Someone the rest of the districts could see clear as day. She wasn't just special to him.

So to spend an entire day with her, hand in hand, before crashing into kisses, he felt like he'd been dreaming. He hoped, whatever this attraction, whatever this spark between them, it was more than just being bonded from the arena. But they had time to figure it out, they had time before the cameras returned and they had to put on their stage play to determine how much this was real and how much was just teenage addled infatuation.

Usually he'd make the trip back into town to have dinner with his family, but after the conversation with his mother this morning, spending time with the Everdeens felt more welcoming. He grabbed the pot with both hands, letting her lead them out the door and down the road.

"Is that a question or a demand?" Peeta asked with a laugh, poking a bit of fun at her. Not that she need demand anything of him, everything was fair game. "I did just spend all afternoon making this, it'd be a shame not to have some for myself." he said logically, as if he'd ever need an excuse to spend time with her.

Really, he just wasn't ready for the dream to end. Tomorrow would be another day. Another moment where he'd have to face his mother. Another day where he'd have to debate which family needed bread the most and deliver it to their doorsteps. But right now, he was just a boy in love with a girl.

Prim bounded up to the door, her braids growing long down her back, her bright eyes looking between the two of them curiously before she smiled that sweet smile of hers. Whether that gleam in her eye was at the sight of food or an acknowledgment of the sparks between him and Katniss, who knew. He wasn't about the break the spell by opening his mouth. Instead he came inside, setting the pot in the kitchen and severing each of the Everdeen ladies before making his own bowl.

There was still pain in the house, the clear absence of Burdock Everdeen left its scar on them. Peeta remembered seeing the Everdeens in the market before, how soft they seemed to be with each other, that look in their eyes. He never saw that in either of his parents. Nothing so all consuming and sweet. They just existed. His house was quieter, his brothers would talk about their days in class clinically as if nothing ever interesting happened. The one time Peeta told the story of hearing Katniss sing, the excitable little five year old without the words to describe the mark she had left on his heart, his mother had screamed at him like he'd set a curse on their house.

Pain existed here with the Everdeens, but love did too. A warm welcoming feeling of belonging, of unconditional understanding. There was nothing that would make this family stop loving each other, no matter how hard it got, no matter how angry or resentful, there would always be an undeniable foundation of love. It felt utterly reverent.

Peeta's eyes kept searching for Katniss throughout the meal, stolen glances, little flirtatious hints of what they had done all afternoon but nothing so bold as to outright say it to her mother. He'd smirk when a flash of blush would touch her cheeks before he changed the subject to ask Prim about Lady and Buttercup. For the first time in a long time Peeta felt an overwhelming sense of belonging.

He waited patiently until Astrid and Prim found their way upstairs, easily persuading them not to worry about the dishes. He and Katniss could handle them. All the while just itching for another chance to kiss her. The moment they were alone his hands found her hips, playfully pulling her closer her. "Thank you, for today." he professed. "And thank you for leaving me game. And...I don't know if I ever thanked you for saving my life."

Katniss pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to slow the fluttering in her chest. Her fingers still buzzed where they'd curled in the fabric of his shirt, where they'd memorized the warmth of his skin through cotton. She was no stranger to adrenaline—had lived her life on it—but this? This wasn't a rush to survive. It was something far more dangerous. Was this what other girls felt like? The ones who giggled behind their hands at the hob towards a group of boys or whispered secrets by candlelight? Had they felt this same dizzy warmth in their limbs, this urge to lean closer when they should probably pull away?

She caught her reflection in the polished edge of a tin cup on the counter, cheeks pink, lips swollen from his kisses. A mess. A girl completely undone by something as simple as being wanted. As being allowed to want.

Was it selfish to stay here? To steal time inside his home, wrapped in a safety she’d never known? To want his touches, his kisses, without always needing to explain why? For once, there was no Capitol, no cameras. Just the two of them, and the soft sound of vegetables hitting the cutting board like nothing in the world was breaking outside these four walls. Was this the future of the star-crossed lovers or just a fleeting moment between two dumb teens?

Maybe that was why it felt safe to want him.

Because he didn’t ask her to be anything but who she was. Not the Mockingjay. Not a victor. Just… Katniss. And maybe—just maybe—it was okay to be selfish for once. Just in this one part of her life. Especially if it meant letting herself fall into a world where she could kiss him whenever she wanted, and trust that he’d always kiss her back. Katniss glanced at Peeta from the corner of her eye, her lips still tingling from the last kiss, and found herself circling back to his teasing comment—The words had been light, meant to make her smile, but now they lingered, pressing into a space she hadn’t realized was insecure. Had he kissed other girls before the Games? Before her? He was kind, easy to love, and far more open than she'd ever been—so it wouldn't be impossible. The thought sent an odd twist through her stomach. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, wondering if she was doing it right, if her kisses were too stiff, too hesitant. She’d never had anyone to teach her—not in District 12, not in the Capitol, not in the woods. But if there was anyone she trusted to tell her the truth, it was Peeta. And if there was ever someone she wanted to be good for, it was him.

And as if he could read every thought in her head, his thumb and index finger caught her chin. Lifting her gaze up to meet his. Katniss was normally the leader between them, in all things survival, and in the pacing of....this; but Peeta was taking charge in this moment of their relationship. Flirty touches, words that made her toes curl. She hated that she liked it so much. Would he let her kiss him anytime she wanted?

Time trickled on as they cooked, although it wasn't filled with words. Instead they spent the time between actually focusing and stolen kisses. Her hands in his hair, the counter at her back and his hands on her waist. Even as Peeta brushed unruly hair from her flushed face, Katniss wondered how she never realized how much she enjoyed her time with him. A calm in a storm.

"—Come have dinner with us"

[awesomechocolatesauce]

So, I don't really care if people don't like Ben. I get it, he's not everyone's cup of tea. Fine. At least tag your hate, though.

[willyhoos]

you know for someone who loves metamy so much. i gotta say having it be fully unrequited is honestly fitting with metal's whole arc (or rather his LACK of arc)

he wants what he can't have. he's not anything or anyone, he doesn't deserve it. what would he even do with it?

"i don't think i have anything. i don't think i can have anything. i don't know how to have something." (src: 17776)

whether or not you subscribe to the roboticized metal theory, it doesn't change that metal's goals are not aligned with reality. ironically it's the robot that is unable to logically analyze his situation. he wants to be sonic but it doesn't change the fact that he isn't. he wants to win but it doesn't change the fact that he won't. his desires are narratively and morally unfulfillable because what he wants is wrong (factually and ethically.)

and so if he, in theory, wanted amy rose how could he ever actually have her?

the most she would give him is "you're more like him than i thought."

because he's Not sonic. all he can be is sufficiently Like him (sometimes). whatever metal claims he is (and honestly whatever he ACTUALLY is) is irrelevant because he can't MAKE himself sonic. he can't make himself the version of sonic that amy loves. amy loves sonic for WHAT he is (good) not what he's named. the most she could ever do is passively appreciate the traits of sonic that metal is able to imitate. emulate. simulate. fabricate.

sonic's role (in the meta story and in-universe) is so unique and treasured and irreplaceable. the only way to kick him out would be to, idk, replace him with an identical copy and put the old sonic in a lose-lose situation where he could not possibly be believed or sympathized with. or something.

say he gets "rehabilitated," rebels against eggman... you know those metamy fics. what is he then?

-> another job well done. another good deed for team sonic (y'know, the real one).

because it's not just that he's Not Sonic. (and he isn't. even if you believe he once was, he's not anymore in any way that is relevant to the narrative. the narrative, as you know, is the real sonic's pov.) it's that he's not even really a person anymore.

he's been forcibly depersonalized, dethroned, removed from his role (+ promptly replaced with something canonically better!) and isolated from any semblance of humanization. he doesn't even have a mouth. either it was taken from him or he was never given one. and we are not given any glimpse into his thoughts. (they're not important.)

like. this is a dead end. he is a dead end. there's nowhere to run.

he won't "get the girl" (pardon the term) not because he's evil not because he's not sonic but because he is not a "person" in any sense. not literally not socially not narratively not practically not really

idk. whether metal falls in love with amy genuinely, or if it's just out of jealousy/desire to want what the real sonic has/instinct to emulate the real sonic's emotions... it's doomed. he's just a ghost from a doomed timeline and everything he will ever do is destined to fail. he can't kill sonic. he can't hold amy's hand. he can't do anything but lose.

in that sense, metal "losing" amy to the real sonic (as if metal was ever even a contender, as if he was ever real enough) is just another failure in a long, long string of mostly unpleasant memories of a character who doesn't even get to go by his real name. because someone more important took it already has it.

[theink-stainedfolk]

Ohhh, ouch. This arc isn’t just stabbing Atlas in the heart—it’s taking a sledgehammer to his entire identity and leaving him to sweep up the pieces. 😭

Let’s talk about the devastating irony here: Atlas has spent his whole life being used—by Eden, by the war, by his own damn hero complex—and the one time he volunteers to be the sacrificial lamb, he gets hit with a "lol no, not even worth it" from Rikiyo. The way his brain just blue-screens at her rejection—"Wait, you’re supposed to WANT me to suffer?? This was my WHOLE THING??"—is equal parts tragic and darkly hilarious. Bro really thought he was the main character, and Rikiyo’s out here treating him like NPC dialogue to skip through. 💀

And Alastair’s just stuck in the middle, watching Atlas unravel in real time while also being the literal hostage?? The layers of "I need to protect him" vs. "I can’t even protect myself" vs. "Why won’t she LOOK AT ME" are chef’s kiss. Atlas’ entire sense of purpose crumbles because for once, he’s not the prize—he’s the background noise. And the worst part? He’d rather be tortured than face the void of being unnecessary.

Also, the "Do what you want with me" lyrics at the end?? CRUEL. That’s not a song, that’s Atlas’ entire trauma in a single line. This boy’s love language is "please hurt me instead of them", and now he’s stuck in a nightmare where no one even wants to take the offer.

Rikiyo didn��t just break the mission—she broke Atlas in ways Eden never could. Because Eden molded him, but she made him obsolete. And now he’s just… a 20-year-old kid with no script, no role, and no idea who he is without the war.

10/10 would read again while sobbing into a weighted blanket. When’s the therapy arc?? (Asking for a friend. The friend is me.)

(P.S. The way you write psychological horror disguised as angst should be illegal. I’m unwell.)

Takes place in the RIKIYO GEUN arc

.༉‧₊˚

Atlas struggles with his mental health very heavily by the time he is 20. He is a man who is in many ways still a boy, having been thrust into a war before he could even properly speak, given no time to develop, to grow into himself. He has been groomed into this since he was 5-years-old, having all of his ideologies and opinions influenced by those who had superiority over him. By the time he is 16 he has not shed these beliefs, even if he has abandoned Eden. He carries them with him every single day, viewing Wren and Alastair as his duty as a protector first, and his friends second. He simply doesn’t know any better.

By the time he is 19 he has been kidnapped, tortured, and stripped of his memories. His identity is a huge part of who he is, and it’s one of his main struggles throughout the story. He has lived his entire life putting up a persona of who Eden wanted him to be, and when he has his memories entirely removed, he is left to wonder who exactly is he? Even after he recovers from his amnesia he doesn’t know the answer to this question, a hollow spot left inside him from the damage that Eden ensued.

Enter the Rikiyo arc.

As much as Atlas has tried his best to recover from his time under Eden’s command, it's difficult for him to properly do this when he doesn’t have any access to professional help or a strong adult support system in his life. He’s in the middle of a war that he did not have any decision over being a part of, and as something such as a war is, he is not allowed to rest for very long.

Just after he turns 20 he is called on his first big mission in over two years. He, Wren, Alastair, and the two leaders of the Alliance, Kokoa and Kau’i, are sent to infiltrate one of the Cardinal’s temples and gather intel about the Congregation of the Chosen. They’re supposed to free any humans that are being kept, and destroy the temple.

The mission is a disaster.

It in many ways is what leads to Atlas and Alastair’s inevitable fallout. Although things had already been tense between the two after Alastair’s month-long stay with a certain scientist, but this is the final nail in the coffin.

Unlike many of the other foes the trio faced together, Rikiyo is nothing like them. Because Rikiyo has her sights set on one thing and one thing only: Alastair.

Atlas is used to being the centre of attention. From the minute he was taken to Eden he was treated as this important figure, told over and over that he’s a hero. He still believes this at 20 years old, even if it is a very black-and-white way of thinking. People have always wanted something from him. Whether it be Eden, who wants him for his powers and strength, who wishes to mold him into a weapon to turn the tides of the war. Or it be the AOM, which held him to very high regard when he first arrived with Wren and Alastair. Wren and Alastair have always looked up to him, seen him as their leader. He has this notion that he still needs to be their leader, even if he’s…. changed.

But Rikiyo doesn’t even acknowledge him.

.༉‧₊˚

It is Atlas’ voice that cuts through this scene of horror: “Let me take his place.”

He is standing still, jaw set. There is a fiery light present in his eyes, a flash of foolish bravery that these four walls don’t see often. His fists are clenched and he has his chin pointed, danger flickering across his face. He stares at the woman looming over Alastair as if she is an ungodly beast — which is in a way completely true. He stares at her as if he is only seconds from marching over and ripping her limb from limb.

Alastair stiffens, an ugly feeling washing over him. He lets out a grunt of protest, a sort of angry desperation shining in his eyes, “Atlas, you don’t know—”

“Free him.” Atlas cuts him off sharply, still staring straight ahead. There is a tenseness in his brows that Alastair knows all too well, this stubborn look in his expression that tells him all he needs to know: Atlas has made up his mind and there’s nothing they can do to stop him. “Free him and take me instead. I’ll be your prisoner. You can do whatever you want to me, as long as you let him go.”

Rikiyo doesn’t bat an eye. “No.”

Her words are clipped and sharp, as if he is a lowly bug, an annoyance that is doing nothing but interrupting her from her fun. Her golden gaze is still fixed on Alastair, piercing through him as if he is a prize, or, perhaps, her next meal. She won’t turn to look in the other boy’s direction.

Atlas’ expression wavers, his anger quickly dissipating at the harshness in her answer. He blinks, his calm composure beginning to fade. It is as if he has never heard these words before, as if he didn’t even consider the idea that Rikiyo wouldn’t accept his offer. Sacrificing himself was the only option. It was what he did, what he had always done. He is supposed to be the saviour; the hero. If he is not the one enduring the suffering, then what is the point? What is his use?

“What?” He croaks, suddenly nervous. Surely he misheard her. Surely there has been some sort of mistake. There had to be. He’s supposed to save Alastair. He needs to. “I said I’ll take his place, I’ll be your servant instead—”

“And I said no.” Rikiyo doesn’t allow him to finish. Her back is still turned to him, not allowing him to even try and decipher what she’s feeling. What she’s playing at.

A small noise escapes Atlas’ throat, desperate and confused. He swallows hard, his usual level-headed tactics and calm defiance not the thing that next leaves his lips, but instead a horrified question. “Why?”

“Because,” Rikiyo cards a single slender hand through Alastair’s hair, her smile gloating; cruel. The boy shivers underneath her grip, terror freezing him in his spot. “I don’t want you.”

She says it like the answer is obvious, like even an idiot could have pieced it together. But to Atlas, it couldn’t make less sense. She’s supposed to want him. He’s stronger than Alastair, he’s more of a threat. He’s powerful. He has so much to give her.

So why doesn’t she want it?

And why does he…. Wish she did?

.༉‧₊˚

Atlas doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t wanted. He as a person has been shaped by the mentality that he needs to be wanted, needed, used, at all times. He needs to have a purpose, needs to be serving someone.

But it is the Rikiyo arc that he is completely tossed to the side. Every act of defiance is met with complete indifference. For once he is not the thing being used against others, but instead on the receiving end. If he acts out Alastair will be punished, killed.

And it is this long, tiresome month at Rikiyo’s temple that Atlas has the realization that he isn’t needed. Eden doesn’t want him anymore — he’s defected, useless. He’s no help to his friends. He can’t lead them or protect them like he used to. He’s impulsive and unstable, driven by fear that he previously thought he didn’t hold.

He isn’t a hero, or a saviour. He isn’t a good person at all. He’s a lonesome man with the blood of hundreds on his hands. He can’t do anything right, can’t even do the one thing he has always known: Fight.

He has no purpose.

.༉‧₊˚

You're free to have everything you can see

All that you want from me

Free to be all that you want to be

Do what you want with me

— Step On Me by The Cardigans

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Dear Slow Horses book readers - without spoiling anything major for me… does Catherine ever get to fight Isobel Cartwright?