#I’ve been watching them on repeat for the last 3 days | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dottiro · 4 months ago

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Lethal Pursuer

Unreliable summary: You’re at a club with friends when you meet Ajax—a charming ginger, whose company you’re starting to enjoy. // When your friends abandon you without a way home, Ajax offers you to stay at his place until your friends pick you up. Warnings: Yandere, clubbing, mentions of alcohol, being drugged, kidnapping, GN reader. Note: This is a rewrite of THIS fic from my old blog. Big thanks to @teabutmakeitazure for encouraging me with the emojis and comments on my doc <3

Over the sound of music, a voice calls out to you.

“What’s your name?”

When you turn around, the colourful lights that spin around the club hit a stranger's face. Freckles that were previously hidden appear on the bridge of his nose, creating constellations on his skin before they fade when the lights move.

I’m Y/n. You?”

A pair of dull blue eyes are locked on you. With a boyish smile, the stranger watches you sway to the beats of music echoing around the club.

“I’m Ajax.” He answers as he brushes the ginger hair that had fallen before his eyes. With inspecting eyes you notice a streak of lighter hair amongst his untamed locks.

To your surprise, the name is native to Snezhnaya. However, you can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the unusual clothing and tanning—which are uncommon.

“You’re a local?”

When he tilts his head towards the side, you move closer, repeating your question.

“Morepesok.” His leg bounces unmatched to the beat of the music. With him leaning in closer, you feel the strands of his hair brush against your cheek. “I grew up there. It’s a seaside village. Though, recently, I’ve been spending my days in the capital.”

You repeat his answer in your mind. Morepesok… it sounds familiar.

Ajax leans back, a charming smile spreading along his cheeks as he points at you. Through the sounds of music, you’re unable to hear him.

When he repeats it, you focus on the way his lips part and you understand his words;

‘You?’

You entered the club with friends a few hours before your quid-pro-quo with Ajax. It was a Friday that had lasted an eternity, and once you were cleared from your duties, you decided through text to go clubbing. That way, you could catch up while simultaneously destressing over drinks.

Then, after assigning your designated driver for the night, the alcohol did the rest.

With your friends on the dancefloor, some alcohol buzzing through your body, and the loud music; you were able to forget the stress that had accumulated over the past weeks.

Soon, you found yourself an admirer. Then, a free drink. Then…

“Another one?” You say with a hint of a joke as Ajax approaches—again.

A mischievous smile forms on his lips. He swirls the cup in his left hand while bringing the other to his lips. He teases you. “Don’t tell me, you’re a lightweight?”

You roll your eyes at him.

It’s been a while since you’ve strayed from your friends and found company in your stranger. Though, you suppose ‘strangers’ is no longer the right word for him.

Ajax hands you the cup from his left hand. “You seem tired. Did you have a long day?”

“Yes, but I’m not ready to go home yet.” You take the drink to your lips and let the liquid slide past your lips.

Ajax’s eyes strain when he forces them to move from yours. Between looks, he scans the area. Eventually, he finds a place and gestures his head to the bar. “Need a break? I can search for your friends while you’ll take a rest.”

His offering solidifies that his act of tonight has been genuine.

You can’t help but smile.

“Thank you, but it’s alright. I know you’ll keep me company, right?”

“I’d be offended if you’d assume otherwise.” He places his hands on his hips. A dramatic huff escapes his lips, but you catch the corner of his lip curling into a cheeky smile.

Escaping your problems only works for a short while. Before long, no matter how hard you run, you’re confronted with them again. As much as you love to hang out with your friends—to dance the night away with Ajax, you’ve grown tired of the music and the happy faces, knowing it’s all temporary.

Yet, you hang on as tightly as possible.

Under the colourful lights, you share a brief, knowing, glance; a silent whisper to each other, hoping the night would last for just a while longer.

As you head toward the bar together, the lively atmosphere of the club wraps around you. With most people on the dancefloor and away from the seats, finding a place isolated from the crowd takes no effort.

Settling into a darker corner of the bar, you take a deep breath. Here, the noise of the music and people seems to fade, giving you a sense of privacy amidst the chaos.

Those dark blue eyes meet yours again. This time, the recognition in them speaks volumes.

“So, Ajax.” You emphasise his name, letting the two vowels slur into each other. “What do you do?”

Despite the music being in the background, he furrows his eyebrows and hesitates. With the lack of dancing lights, you can’t grasp the emotion in his eyes. Darkness has cast a shadow over you, making you huddle up to him.

Believing he didn’t hear you, you specify; “Your work?”

The ginger leans back, then forces a smile, and finally raises an eyebrow. “I do a bit of everything, I guess.”

He’s leaning closer again. The smell of his cologne makes you feel dizzy.

Playfully you roll your eyes. The drinks you’ve drank have made you bolder. “Come on, tell me! You can’t say that without expecting me to be curious.”

“Okay, so, I’m serious. Please don’t laugh.” His finger mindlessly caresses the rim of the empty glass on the table. Then, with a look of despair, Childe answers with the unexpected. “I'm a toyseller.”

You put your hand up to your mouth to hide a smile. His answer, not to mention the buildup, makes you unable to hide your chuckle. The thought of him surrounded by stuffed bears and wooden cars creeps into your mind. While it’s a cute scenario, it seems silly when he is physically built to win battles.

Carefully, you remove your hands, revealing a broad smile. “No way. You’re kidding.”

He bashfully smiles and gives a light shrug. “What, you don’t think I’m capable enough? I’ll have you know that my little brother says I’m the best toymaker in Teyvat.”

“You also make them?”

He crosses his arms, leaning forward like you did moments ago, his voice whispering in your ear. “Enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

Your cheeks warm up and you’re grateful for the darkness. “Me? Well…”

Something about his playful yet clumsy attitude leaves you entranced, easing you to open up to him—something that normally doesn't come easy.

“I might've teased you, but at least your life sounds entertaining. My job is hardly anything to boast about. Sure, it brings money, but I hardly get time off and my boss is an uptight prick who thinks he’s above everyone else.”

There is a short silence before you continue,

“At least I can say I’ve decided to chase my dreams. Despite ending up with an ordinary life, I’ve at least escaped my hometown.”

Ajax frowns. “What about your boss?” He spreads his legs further, becoming more intruding physically and in conversation as he unknowingly presses the subject. “Why? Is he giving you any problems?”

You shrug. “It's not like he picks on me specifically. He's the kind of person that can't be pleased, no matter how perfect one might be.”

A silence falls over your perfect stranger.

You try to lighten the air. “Don’t worry about it. Tonight has made me forget all about it. In the end, it’s just work.”

“Yeah,” He forces a smile that fails to hide his frustration with the topic. “Just work.”

“Take it like this; if he didn’t give me such a rough workload, I likely wouldn’t have gone clubbing tonight, which means I would’ve missed meeting you.” You push your elbow against his arm. “So for all the things he does wrong, he did one thing right.”

In the background, you hear the energetic lyrics and melody from the songs. You turn your eyes towards the crowd and fail to see any of your friends.

For the first time since Ajax approached you, you decide to check your phone.

Lockscreen— time: 1:03.

6 missed calls, 99+ unread messages.

What? Is it this late already?

You stand abruptly, leaving your drink unfinished with Ajax. Your eyes fly over the notifications, reading the messages you’ve missed—starting from the first at 21:42 to the last sent at 00:46.

In your group chat, many missed messages cheer for the night.

It starts with a few videos of you and your friends dancing, still together at the start of the night. Then, after an hour, wishes for you and the ‘hot ginger’ to have a ‘safe’ night start. Between the teases, you capture a picture of you and him talking on the dancefloor, still having fun. Then, more pictures and conversations with your drunk friends follow. Until, finally, the message; ‘We went back home, if you need a ride, call us.’

You feel your heart sink to the bottom of your toes.

There is no doubt that your friends are good people. They mean well, meant well, but a feeling of betrayal slithers through the cracks of your love for them. It makes you feel guilty, yet angry with them.

In frustration, you swipe away the notifications for the missed calls.

“Are you alright?” Ajax’s voice is next to you when he speaks. You instinctively turn off your phone and face him. Quickly, he holds up his arms, giving you space. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, that’s not—” You frown. “I didn’t mean to cut our conversation off. I was surprised by the time.”

Ajax lowers his hands to his sides and tries to comfort you. “Did anything happen?”

You close your eyes. Your words come out mangled and wrong. “I think I’m going to go out for a moment. I just saw that my friends left the club without me and I need to call them, or else they’ll pass out and I’ll have no ride home.”

Already a step ahead, Ajax puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. With one arm, he hands you your jacket which went forgotten by you.

“Will you be alright, Y/n?”

A lump forms in your throat and you purse your lips to keep yourself grounded.

Bright lights in many shades hit the side of Ajax’s face, bringing forward his best features, not to mention a strong determined expression. During the night he has in no way forced himself on you, and you consider your choices.

Either you can call your friends and hope for the best as you wait alone outside the club; which will be cold, dark, and uncomfortable for many more reasons. Not to mention that there is no guarantee your friends won't be passed out—they might not pick up. Worst case scenario: you’ll be stranded for the night.

Or (and this option is preferable), you can call your friends and ask Ajax to wait with you. Worst case scenario: he turns out to be a creep and you’ll have to retreat into the club.

You flash your eyes to him once more, finding nothing in them.

Eventually, you decide to let go of your doubt. While it’s not a ride home, Ajax would be at your side, willing to stay there if you’d ask.

You really need to ask for his number before the night ends.

Your fingers subconsciously fiddle with the case of your phone, finding comfort in the repeating motion. “Is it alright if you could stay by my side until I find my friends?” Your eyes dart to the crowd, then back at him. “I’m not in the mood to be bothered by some creep.”

“Of course, I get that.” The lights have left him and his expression is left in the void again. You can guess from his tone he is trying to lighten the mood with a joke. With a puffed-out chest, he bows down slightly. “Tonight, I’ll be your loyal knight.”

The lights and people blur into one mass. Since he’s taller and broader, you follow Ajax’s lead as he paves a way through the crowd, helping you avoid bumping into distracted or drunk clubbers.

When he opens the doors and you step outside, the harsh Snezhnayan breeze hits your face, making your mind clearer within a moment.

“Huh, it seems like most people have already left.” Ajax lets the door fall behind him as he looks around the area. “There are hardly any people left.”

Clinging onto your jacket, you resist a shiver from the cold. “Compared to the club, even Our Majesty’s palace can be considered empty.”

He turns around. “Let’s go to the side. We wouldn’t want to block the exit for any drunk people.”

Compared to the space you have just left, the abandoned streets in Snezhnaya are as silent as a graveyard. Only a few people linger around; either sitting in the snow against the buildings or smoking in a group.

Snowflakes from the night sky dance down, falling on your head and melting against your skin. Tonight’s clouds are broken apart and far from each other. When you look up, you can see the stars in the sky.

“What happened?” Childe asks as he guides you through the snow.

“With my friends?” He nods. “I think they misunderstood the situation. Jumped to conclusions and decided they knew what was fact before I could respond.”

“I can’t defend them, but I know they must be good people if they’re your friends.” Childe kicks the snow in front of his feet. His hands are in his pocket and a puff of air escapes his lips. “Try to stay calm. I’m sure they’re waiting for your call.”

You stop at the corner of the club. On your phone, you click open the group app’s information to reveal the contacts of everyone. Without much hesitation, you open the number of your designated driver—and supposedly the only one sober.

When you push the call button, Ajax takes a few steps back to give you privacy.

After a few long moments, you reach voicemail.

“You good over there?” When you look at Childe, he also has a phone in hand. His lower back is leaning onto the side of the building, watching you pace back and forth on the pavement.

“Yeah, but it went to voicemail.” You focus on your phone again. “I’ll try someone else.”

With haste, you dial the next friend. They’re not sober but knowing how often they look on their phone, they’re likely to pick up.

Unfortunately, again; voicemail.

You frown and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach grows bigger. The last text message had been 30 minutes ago. They should be home by now.

“Nothing?”

You look up at Ajax. Once again, you shake your head.

“Hey, it’s okay. If you want we can go back inside and wait till they call back?” Ajax puts his phone in his pocket and walks up to you. When he’s at your side he puts a hand on the small of your back, rubbing it back and forth to bring you warmth.

You put your hands in your hair and walk away from him, only to pace back. “I’m just worried something has happened. This sucks, but it’s so unlike them. I can’t imagine them leaving me behind in a club like this.”

“I…” He hesitates, “I might not have a car to drive you home, but if you’re comfortable enough, I live nearby. You can send my address to your friends and crash there until they call. Only if you want to, of course. I can wait with you in the club if you'd rather.”

Your first instinct is to reject him and to continue calling, trusting your friends will pick up eventually. Then, you realise you’re too drunk to find help elsewhere, lest you’d want to trust the bartenders who have their hands full and will have you crash in the back of the club without surveillance.

And on your face, these thoughts must come through, because Ajax shakes his hands before him. “Just an offering. A stupid one, maybe. But a genuine one. Again, if you’d prefer, I can wait with you here. I thought you might consider something else because you’ve been swaying for a while now.”

Through his rushed words, you realise your options are narrowing down. Could you walk home? Are you drunk to the point where you’re unable to stand? A warm home to wait in does sound nice…

Plus, Ajax is nice, right?

The headache that’s been looming over you intensifies.

“Okay, but let me message your address to my friends first. So, they know where to pick me up, ”

Snowflakes from the sky twirl down until they land on the ground.

Patiently, he watches you open the location app. Then, when you ask for it, he tells you his address—which is close to the club as promised. The soles of his shoes tap against the pavement as he watches the brightness of your screen flash. —You’ve sent it to your friends.

You turn off your phone and drop it in your pocket once you’re done.

“I just wanted to say this out loud so you can’t say I’m leading you on, but I’m only joining you to wait until my friends can pick me up. That’s alright, right?”

Childe doesn’t miss the hesitation in your eyes when you look at him.

Deep inside, hidden in an abyss, he wants to tear away all your doubts and carve his name for you to trust. Deep inside, he hopes you know he’d conquer the world in your name—if only you’d let him.

Then, as soon as it comes, it leaves. Ajax gives you a boyish grin. “Of course. It’d hardly be justified if I were to leave you abandoned here, so it’s the least I can do.”

The sound of his carefree voice is enough to make that warm feeling return, and for a split second, you believe you saw the stars reflected in his eyes. Though, it must’ve been the lighting, because when the shadows fall upon him again, it fades away.

Before you walk out of the street, Childe puts one of his arms out with a playful wink.

You intertwine yours around it.

The streets are empty and dark, but silence does not fill them in Ajax’s presence.

Noticing your stress early on, he asks silly questions to bring your mind away from negative thoughts, returning you to the start of the night; enjoying his presence, and feeling light.

Innocent questions; ‘Hey, what’s your favourite colour?’, teasing ones; ‘Got an eye on anyone at the moment?’, and serious follow;

“You should get better friends. What would’ve happened if you were all alone? It’s concerning no one called back.”

The streetlights set for a sober mood. Empty streets, dark homes and a dimly lit sidewalk.

You frown at the pavement below your feet.

“They didn’t abandon me. They assumed I went home with you and then decided to leave themselves.”

A chuckle leaves his lips and he turns his head to you with a tilt. “You didn’t strike me as someone who’d go home with some guy from the club.”

“I don’t,” You trip over your words, not wanting to offend Ajax. “Well, not normally.”

“If you want, we can always return to the club. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You had walked a while with the world swaying from side to side. A few more houses and you’d be at his home, yet he offers to take return if you feel uncomfortable.

He is almost too nice.

“No, I’m alright.” You smile before frowning. “I guess I’m a bit worried though.”

“About your friends?”

You nod. “The situation feels off.”

You’re unsure why it does.

On your side, Ajax stares straight ahead. He gestures forward. “My home is at the end of this street. I don’t have a car, but I can call a friend in the morning to drive you home. It’s only a few more hours till sunrise. Think you can hold out for a bit longer?”

You smile when you turn to face him. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that. And—” You shake your hands in front of you and an awkward laugh escapes your lips. “I’m sorry about this mess.”

He shrugs. “I had no reason to stay in the club, at least, until I saw you. Once you were stranded, I knew I could offer help, so I did. There is nothing more to it.”

“Were you not with friends though?” You raise an eyebrow at the thought of someone coming to the club alone. Though, perhaps, that’s your prejudices talking.

“I know the owner of the club. He sometimes bartends himself, though—lucky for you, he didn’t have a shift today, so I was fortunate to have spotted you.”

He cuts himself off and turns his hand towards a house towards the right, stopping in front of it with a smile. If this is his home, it’s surprisingly ordinary. Hidden amongst other houses, it goes unnoticed. There are no decorations in front of the windows, nothing at all.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Childe says dramatically while he jokingly bows. “It’s nothing big—, but we all have to start somewhere, right?”

He grabs a single key from his pockets. There’s no charm attached, no other keys.

As weird as it looks, you don’t comment on it.

With a twist of his wrist, Ajax opens the door, holding it and gesturing for you to come in.

“Feel free to leave your jacket anywhere, shoes too if they bother you.” He throws you a smile over his shoulder as he walks further into the house. You hear him exclaim, “Mi casa, es tu casa.”

Before you enter the place, you check your phone once more.

No new messages or missed calls. Angrily you send a message, updating and explaining you’ll get a ride from one of his friends if yours keeps ignoring you.

In another one, you send a few crying emojis, followed by a single angry one.

Once some of your embarrassment is thrown at your friends, you put the phone in your pocket and close the door when you walk in.

The hallway leading up further into the house is dimly lit. On the side, a set of stairs goes up, indicating another level, as you assumed from the height outside. The walls are painted a cream colour and are devoid of any hanging decorations. You see a set of formal shoes tucked underneath a chest of drawers.

When you walk along the hallway, you notice under the stairs another door—possibly leading up to an attic, although, that’s speculation. Then, at the end of the hallway, a bright light shines through the cracks of the door Ajax had entered.

When you enter the living room you see him fly around in the kitchen. It’s nothing grand and fairly empty compared to your living arrangement, although in theme with the bland hallway.

You realise he must spend the majority of his time away from home—using the house only to sleep and eat in.

“Here,” Tartaglia turns around with a glass of water, followed by a white pill in his other hand. “You mentioned you were feeling unwell so I thought a painkiller would help you settle down.”

With a smile and a thank you, you accept the offer; downing the pill and water nearly instantly. After you place the empty glass on the kitchen table, you feel drowsiness kick in. You shrug it off to exhaustion.

“Feel free to look around.” Childe walks by you. “It’s past midnight so all the good TV programs are gone, but if you’re interested in commercials, feel free to turn it on.”

“You’re still on cable?” You look at the bulky television which contradicts his brand-new still-sparkling phone.

Childe looks at the bulky box with you. “What? Not standard?”

“No way.”

Your eyes move to the other things in the living room. Closer to the window and facing the television, two small sofas stand coated in dust. A small rounded table divides them, giving enough room to walk in front of the television to reach the window, and possibly, the thick curtains.

Gently, you place your jacket over one of the sofas before wandering further.

Placed against the wall is a single bookshelf. It’s filled with many books, related to classical literature or military topics—something you didn’t expect but don’t judge upon. Further, you notice the thin layer of dust, making the clean picture frames stand out.

“Are these your siblings?”

You grab the picture in your hands and lift it closer. A young boy, with the same ginger-coloured hair, smiles into the lens. His eyes are open and noticeably brighter than Ajax’s. Next to him is a girl with similar features, longer hair, and the same smile—although her eyes are closed instead.

Behind the two children stands Ajax wearing formal clothes.

Military? No, different.

Childe hums as he approaches you. “Yes, Teucer and Tonia. Though, they’ve both grown significantly since this picture was taken. I have a few older siblings as well.”

He reaches for another picture frame, set higher. After brushing his finger against the glass he shows it to you. “Here are the others.”

With slow movements, you take the picture frame from his hands. Your fingers move across the picture. He’s much smaller here, but it’s still undoubtedly Ajax.

“You seem so… happy.”

“I was much younger then. Teucer was still a baby so should’ve been, what, twelve?”

After committing the picture to memory, you place them in their original spots.

When you move to place the higher picture, your head spins. Fortunately, you quickly rebalance yourself.

With a few harsh blinks, you’re able to ease the spinning. You quickly take another picture frame to distract yourself.

After a quick look, you realise this picture seems different.

“Who’s this? Teucer?”

Ajax shakes his head. “No. That’s me.”

The ginger in the picture has the same spread of freckles Ajax does. His hair is in the same wild style as he wears it now, but he misses the streak of white.

Another thing you can’t help but notice is the difference in his smile.

There is no doubt that Ajax had fun tonight, but his smile never lit up to the smile of this smaller boy.

In the picture, at his side, you see a child of the same age.

Even from this picture, it is safe to assume that Ajax was social, if not sometimes obnoxious, when younger. In comparison, this child seems more shy and reclusive. Their head is turned away and you can’t make out their appearance, except for their hair colour.

You point your finger towards the figure. “And this?”

While brushing your finger over the glass, you wonder how the two met. Were they no longer friends? Is this the only picture he has of them?

Ajax is silent.

He mumbles something under his breath.

When you hum in confusion, he speaks louder.

“You don’t remember?”

You turn your gaze up to him. Your mind remains unsteady and you feel your vision blur again. Like last time, you try to force it away. However, this time you fail and lose your balance.

When you try to break your fall by stepping backwards, you lose all your strength in your legs. You feel them shake as the world spins back, your vision turning from the books on the shelves to the stained ceiling.

With a loud crash, the frame falls to the ground, breaking beyond repair by the sounds of it.

Your crash, however, does not happen.

“▓re yo▒ alr▓▒ht?”

When your eyes flutter open, you are met with Ajax’s blue eyes. His arms are around you, one supporting your back, and the other wrapped around you to keep you steady on your weak limbs.

“...what?”

His voice blurs in and out.

You’re only able to make out mumbles.

You barely register moving to the sofa.

You do however clearly hear your ringtone.

Gathering any strength you have left, you reach for your pocket, instinctively moving to accept the call.

With a slurred voice you answer, “Hello?”

“Y/░. Li▒▒▓n, y░u ne▓d to ▓et aw░y Rig▓t. ▓ow.”

You blink a few times. “...what?”

“▒e’s o▒▓ of the H▓rbi▒gers, the Fatui—“

Th▒ phone call ends ▓bruptly.

The phone ▓s taken fr▒m your hands.

You friends—

Thoughts r▒ce into your m▒nd.

D▓d you hear it c▓rrectly? Fat▒i? ▓re your fri▓nds in d▓ng▓r? Did you h░t yo░r he▓d? W░y is ▒v▒ryt▓▓ng f▓d▒ng?

Y▓u se▓ ▓ sp▓t of ░r░nge-br▒wn, bl▓░, ░nd g▓▓y m▓v▓ int░ y▒ur v░s▓▒n, ▓nd th░▒—

“Goodnight.”

You wake up surrounded by blankets and pillows. The bed you wake in is foreign. So is the harsh light that peaks out from between the cracks of the curtains. Your head continues to hurt, but after remembering the loud music from last night, you don’t blame it.

Once the initial fear of an unknown place fades away, you can deduct what has happened.

This must be Ajax’s room…

The king-sized pencil post bed is filled with blankets and warmth. On each side is a nightstand with a lamp. The closest to you has a glass of water. The other is empty.

When you step out of bed, you notice a sudden drop in temperature, although it’s not unexpected. Without any other sounds, the breeze coming in from the window is quite loud. Since there is no sign of Ajax in this room, you assume he must’ve slept on the couch, forgetting to close the window during the night as a result.

A chill falls over you, but there is no harm in it.

You’re grateful for Ajax allowing you to sleep in his bed.

With your arms wrapped around you, you approach the window—feeling like closing the windows now might help Ajax later. But, when you open the curtains to close it for him, you’re met with something… astonishing.

An abundance of white stretches in front of the house. It is undisturbed by footsteps from passing strangers or animals, creating a serene picture with the help of the treeline made from tall pines. Unlike what you remember, it seems as if you’re on the ground floor of the building, on an equal level to the world outside.

If you didn’t know better, you’d believe you were in the middle of a forest.

But… you aren’t.

You turn around, moving to the window on the other side of the room. When you open the curtains, you’re met with the same sight. Snow and trees. Your eyes confirm this is real, but your mind can’t grasp how it could be. You move your head around, seeing if you can catch any clues in the corner of your vision.

There are no forests anywhere near the club. Not within walking distance, and only miles outside of the capital.

Where are you?

Snowflakes catch on the outside of the window, and you decide to close it.

Further in the room, you notice a set of wardrobes. Like the other furniture, the room seems divided into two. Two nightstands, two wardrobes, two windows…

After a few helpless spins and trying to grasp your mind around the current situation, you decide to test your luck by searching around.

First, you try to open the wardrobe to the right.

You twist the round door handle, but it doesn’t bulge. When you try the other, it opens.

The inside seems normal. Ajax’s clothes are all neatly folded or hung. You see a variety of outfits for different occasions. Some are more casual, though you see suits as well.

You lift a few piles of shirts, finding nothing out of the ordinary.

With a sigh, you close the door.

A wardrobe full of clothes. So much for answers.

You turn back around and try the same for the nightstands. You find a single toothbrush, an unused brush, and a small mirror inside the nightstand on the right—the side you woke up from.

The other nightstand is more peculiar.

Inside the drawer, you find a letter addressed to “Ajax”. The handwriting is clumsy as if a child had written it. When you turn it around, you see signs of ageing despite it being preserved well.

Without any words, you deduct that this item is of great importance to him.

With a hint of guilt, you put it back amongst the handful of other letters.

Then, the only door left is the one leading outside.

You cross the room, and once opened, you are met by a short hallway. The walls and floors are made from sturdy wood, like the bedroom you exited. The thought of being inside a cabin crosses your mind for a second.

Quietly, you close the door behind you before continuing.

Unlike what you remember, this house appears to be a one-floor building. There are no stairways leading down, and the place has many windows allowing you to see the forest surrounding you and bringing in natural light.

When the hallway ends and connects to a large living room, you see Ajax on the couch asleep.

And given your lack of knowledge on how you ended up here, you decide it’s lucky that your presence goes unnoticed.

Your eyes graze over the living room. It is cosy—homey in many ways. Unlike the bookshelves you remember, these are filled with novels and stories from your childhood; fairytales, romance novels, fantasies, and nearly every other genre you can imagine.

A large square carpet muffles your footsteps as you walk closer to the large table in the middle of the room. Thrown over the back of one of the chairs is your jacket, at its feet; your shoes, and in front of it on the table…

Your phone.

You turn your head to Ajax. He hasn’t moved since you walked into the room. He is still asleep.

Carefully you walk closer.

Unlike what the situation makes you expect to have happened, your phone remains as you remember. It has a low battery percentage but can survive for at least a few more hours if you turn on saving mode.

You open your messages.

○ Has anyone heard from Y/n? ○ Not since last night. I heard someone had a run-in with the Fatui, what was that about? ○ Yeah, I heard that too. Can everyone reply ASAP?? ○ I told you to keep an eye out for each other. How do 4 people go missing in one night? ○ Do we file a report? Like, for missing people? ○ File a report??? To whom? The Fatui??

You scroll down, reaching the most recent message in the early morning. When you type a short sos, it goes undelivered. When you try again, you’re met with the same outcome.

There is no available internet.

It seems you’re too far from civilisation to have access to a network.

And finally, you try to call.

The entire service has been cut.

This makes you panic. Rightfully so. With a quick look out of the windows, you’re met with the sight of the forest taunting you. You’re in an unfamiliar place and your memories do not add up to the current situation.

You turn around to check up on Ajax.

“Your phone won’t work here.”

He sits upright on the couch. A strand of hair sticks out. He really had been asleep, and somehow, you had woken him up.

He adds, “I’ve got cable TV, though.”

His voice isn’t laced with much of anything. There are no signs of exhaustion or sleep, no emotions either.

He is clear of mind; as if everything is normal—expected.

You narrow your eyes and your mouth gapes open. A whisper falls out of you. “...what?”

Ajax lets his head hang. A troubled sigh escapes his lips before he stands up.

In response, you take a step back.

He stops for a moment. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The snappy tone in his voice puts you on edge.

In turn, you react similarly.

“Then what is going on? Where are we?”

“I suppose you weren’t lying.” He circles the couch, coming into full view to face you. “You did forget me.”

You furrow your eyebrows.

“Sit with me, please.” Ajax sits back down, patting the place next to him as he looks back at you.

You move your eyes from him to the couch. There is no malice in his words. With no one to call out to, you feel as if the best move is to be compliant for as long as he remains kind.

You sit on the place furthest away from him.

“Do you know how hard it is to find someone without a name or information? Ever since I grew strong enough to search, for years… I’ve been trying to find you.”

A broken picture frame lies on the low table near the couch. On top of it, is a picture you vaguely remember from last night.

Childe lets a chuckle escape his lips. He is desperate, clinging onto hope for you to believe him. “You can’t remember?”

“Ajax…” You shake your head, and he tries to cut you off. “I do not know you. I don’t know where I am or how I got here, but I would appreciate it if you’d bring me back, now.”

Childe scooches closer, leaning forward and reaching for you. “It’s fine, I’m not upset. I’m sure you’ll remember me if we talk a bit more. After all, last night was like all those years ago. Surely you remember how much fun we had as kids? During the winters when my family would visit your town, you’d always seek me out.”

You pull away, and a serious expression falls upon his face, something that’s unlike him—something foul.

“Stop that. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Can you promise that?” You narrow your eyes at him before diverting your eyes. His eyes are too empty. Ajax has nothing to give, nothing but a mask made of lies. “I don’t know where I am or what happened, you refuse to tell me what’s going on, and I don’t trust you.”

“But you should.”

A cold silence falls into the room.

“I missed you. And I know you don’t, but you will.”

He says it in such a gentle voice, you’re unsure what to make of it.

Inch by inch, he comes closer until you’re sitting side by side.

Ajax wraps his arms around you, and you let him.

He’s unable to bring any comfort when tears escape your eyes.

Confused.

Scared.

ㅤ

A broken picture frame lies on the low table near the couch.

On top of it, is a picture of a young Ajax and a child with the same hair colour as you.

©dottiro. Do not copy, repost, translate, feed to AI, or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thank you for reading ♡

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estrellami-1 · 1 year ago

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If I Should Stay

Y��all are the best. Seriously. I love y’all. One quick note: if y’all reblog, please include the tag “#if I should stay” (mind the capital i) so people can find the rest of the parts! Thanks so much!!! ❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Eddie does end up following Robin because he does not, in fact, have a death wish.

Even if, apparently, he dies in the future. Go figure.

She instructs him to grab his guitar. “Why in the fuck,” he starts, then reconsiders when Robin whips around to stare at him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re terrifying?”

Robin shrugs a shoulder. “Not as much as they should.”

She stashes her bike in the back of his van and directs him to the Harrington residence, where Steve’s waiting, arms crossed, wondering smile on his face. “Miracle worker,” he calls, and Robin laughs as she grabs her bike from the back.

“Hate to break it to ya, Dingus, but you’re just not scary.”

“I’m plenty scary. I’ve got a nail bat.”

“Right, because that would beat Nance’s sawed-off in a fight.”

“Hey, it could! You never know! They’ve got different ranges!”

Robin rolls her eyes at Eddie, like she’s asking if he can believe it, which. No. No he can’t.

“Sorry,” he says, regretting everything when they both look at him. “What the actual fuck is happening?”

“Come inside,” Steve says, suddenly all business. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.” His eyes find Robin’s. “One of ‘em took Barb last night.”

“Fuck,” Robin whispers.

“Yup. Will’s been missing for two days. Maybe, if we get down there soon enough…”

“Let’s hope so. Which one of the rugrats found El?”

“I think they all did? But Mike’s the one who took her in.” He shakes his head, mouth a grim line. “I saw Dustin today. They’re kids, Robs.”

“So are we,” she reminds him, heaving a tired-sounding sigh. “A buncha kids fighting real-life monsters.”

“Monsters?” Eddie parrots.

Somehow they end up inside while Steve goes to pick up the Party. Who the party is, Eddie doesn’t know. Just like he doesn’t know why he’s in Steve’s Harrington’s house with someone who isn’t Steve Harrington.

“Who’s the Party?” He asks Robin. “And why am I here again? If I die, doesn’t that mean I shouldn’t be here? Should be somewhere far, far away instead?”

“The Party’s a group of kids Steve babysits. They’re the first ones to go through this whole mess. And admittedly, you’re here partially because you can help, and partially for selfish reasons.” She offers him a lopsided grin. “Believe it or not, watching you die was kinda traumatic.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “And you and Steve? How do you know each other? He and Nancy Wheeler are the talk of the town, and if he’s stepping out-”

“He wouldn’t,” she says harshly. “Ever.” She takes a breath. “Two years from now, or a year ago, he and I work together in a mall. Long story short, we get captured and tortured by Russians. High on truth serum, I tell him I’m a lesbian in the bathroom, we help take down the big bad, and boom. Instant platonic soulmates.”

Eddie gapes at her. “What the fuck.”

“Just about,” she nods. “Oh, and the kids love D&D, so you’ll have plenty to talk about. They’re little shits but they’re also kinda great once you get to know them.”

Eddie stares at her. The front door opens, and Steve walks in, followed by a gaggle of preteens and Nancy Wheeler.

“Robs,” Steve says, not slowing his stride as he begins taking the stairs two at a time. “Bathroom. Now.”

Robin grimaces. “Breakdown time,” she murmurs to Eddie, then follows Steve, leaving everyone else staring at each other.

“So,” Eddie says. “I heard you like D&D?”

A dark-haired kid who looks suspiciously like Nancy narrows his eyes. “You play?”

“Play!” Eddie repeats. “I don’t just play, my young friend, I am the greatest Dungeon Master this side of the Mississippi.”

A curly-haired kid begins to grin. “I think we should put that to the test.”

Permanent Taglist: @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @local-writers-corner @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

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Fic Taglist: @blondlanfear @do-you-want-something-more @little-gae-shit

#if I should stay #eventual steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #dustin henderson #he’s the curly-haired boy at the end #in case it wasn’t obvious lmao #time travel au #fix it fic #starambles

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

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has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder.

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich.

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface.

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

—

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft.

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead.

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast.

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance.

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle.

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time.

��

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.”

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.”

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink.

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why.

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you.

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober?

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look.

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking.

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows.

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment.

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly.

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing.

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger.

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

“Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air.

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his. “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

“Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him.

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness.

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily.

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn.

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it.

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader

3K notes · View notes

scoonsalicious · 5 months ago

Text

Unsatisfied, Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky FINALLY come back together.

Warnings: Language, adult themes, Explicit Sexual Content: Minors: GTFO; I don’t serve your kind here (PIV), some brief Cunthage.

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: IT'S PORN!

“If she won’t finish for you, Jamie,” Jade purred, sliding herself onto Bucky’s lap, “then I will.”

You watched your phone screen in disgust and heartbreak as Bucky leaned forward and took Jade’s mouth with his own, moaning at the taste of her lips. “I missed you, Vix,” he said as he began to grind his hips into hers. “You’re everything I ever wanted.”

You tried to disconnect from the FaceTime call, but the button was frozen, the scene continuing to play out in front of you against your will. You dropped the phone and refused to look at it, but you could still hear the sounds of their moans as they moved against one another.

“Jamie,” Jade panted as she came up for breath in between kisses, “I have a surprise for you.” Suddenly, you were in the room with them, no longer watching through the phone.

“Yeah, doll?” Bucky asked her, stroking a hand through her long black tresses. “What’s that?”

Jade smiled and took Bucky’s hand, placing it lovingly against her now swollen, rounded belly. “I’m pregnant, Jamie, and it’s yours!”

Bucky’s eyes lit up in delight; you had never seen him look so happy before. “Oh, doll!” he exclaimed, capturing Jade’s mouth in another kiss. “You’re having my baby? I’m gonna be a daddy? This is the happiest moment of my life!”

You tried to scream at him, to remind him that no, it was you that had been pregnant with his child. You who had been going to make him a father, but the words were stuck, frozen in your throat. You could only watch as Jade’s belly continued to grow before your eyes, Bucky cradling the incubating life as though it were the most precious thing in existence.

“She’s having my baby, Pocket!” he said, eventually turning to you and acknowledging your presence for the first time. “Isn’t that wonderful? I’m going to be a dad!”

“But I was going to give you a baby!” you cried to him. “I was the one who was pregnant! Not her!”

The look Bucky gave you was withering in its pity. “Yeah, but look what happened, Pocket. You can’t seriously expect another chance, after all that. Don’t ruin this for me. All I’ve ever wanted was to be a father.” He turned his focus back to Jade, cupping her face in his hands. “And now my sweet Vix is gonna give me that.” He kissed her once again, soft and gentle. “The mother of my child,” he cooed. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved another woman.”

You awoke with a start, panting as you tried to catch your breath. A nightmare, you told yourself. Just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. Jade was never pregnant. Bucky loved you. Jade was never pregnant. Jade was dead.

You repeated the mantras over and over to yourself until you felt your heart slow. With a sigh, you turned over and stared at Bucky’s empty side of the bed. The last you’d heard from him, the team was going to have to engage with the terrorists threatening Shanghai, and he might be radio-silent for a few days.

You couldn’t help it– the lack of communication had made you think of the Russia mission. Which was probably what brought on the nightmare. No, not probably. It was definitely what had brought on the nightmare, because you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he’d gone no-contact. You should probably call your therapist in the morning, you thought. Schedule an emergency appointment to talk this out before your thoughts got out of hand.

You were about to put a reminder in your phone, in case you forgot when you woke up in the morning, when you heard a sound– the low hum of the private elevator reaching your penthouse apartment. Your entire body froze as your eyes glanced at the clock. 1:54am. The only person you knew who had access to that elevator at this time of night was on the opposite side of the world.

Unless.

Hope dared to bloom in your chest as you threw yourself out of the bed, not even bothering with a robe to cover the fact that all you were wearing was a pair of panties and one of Bucky’s shirts. On bare feet, you ran through the polished hardwood hallways, making it to the foyer just as the lock on the front door disengaged. Someone had entered the code.

You held your breath as the door slowly opened. He was bathed in silhouette by the light in the exterior entryway, but you’d know the shape of him anywhere.

“Buck!” you cried, running toward your super soldier. He barely had time to drop his go-bag to the floor before you leapt at him, and he was holding you in his arms, kissing you as though his very life depended on it, and dear god, it felt so good, so right, to have him pressed against you, to be holding you like this again, after all this time.

“Doll,” he groaned, drawing your lips to his again, as though you were oxygen, itself. “Fuck, baby. Missed you so much.”

You thought to ask him how the mission went, if the team had been successful, but all of that could wait. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the feeling of his lips on yours, the sweep of his tongue into your mouth, the pull of his hands on your ass, the way his back muscles tightened beneath your grip. You had craved this for so long, only to be denied; you’d be damned if you let anything interrupt you this time.

“Bed,” you managed to get out in between kisses. “Now.”

You felt the beautiful, familiar rumble of Bucky’s laugh in his chest as he kissed you. “‘M filthy, sweets. Got blood all over me. Don’t you want me to wash up first?”

You pulled back so you could study his face in the dim light; you could make out the teasing glint in his eyes as he looked back at you, and it drove you wild. “Fuck now,” you panted, your hands reaching down to start working the buttons of his vest. “Shower sex later,” you added.

Bucky chuckled and brought his lips to your ear. “There’s my dirty girl,” he whispered before taking your earlobe into his mouth and biting it. “Can’t tell you how much I missed that mouth.”

Oh, that was it. Forget the bed. You’d have him take you right here on the floor. Dropping your legs from around his waist, you helped him take off his vest, than his tac-shirt. Bucky sucked in a breath as your hands roamed the achingly familiar lines of his chest, committing every muscle and divet of flesh back to memory.

“My turn,” he murmured darkly as his hands slipped to the hem of your shirt. You raised your hands so he could slide the offending garment over your head with ease, and it was soon flung off into the darkness, leaving you in nothing but a pair of panties before him, chest heaving.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Bringing his flesh hand up, he traced the contour of your left breast with a featherlight touch, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re so fucking perfect, Pocket.”

The thought of your bullet scar entered your mind briefly, but was instantly driven out by the sensation of Bucky’s mouth latching onto your nipple and sucking at the tender flesh. His tongue lapped over the nub, biting and pulling while you threaded your hands through his hair and yanked him closer.

“Forgot how good you taste,” he murmured, moving to your other breast. You slid your hands from his hair and began working on unzipping his pants. “Gonna get my tongue on every inch of you.”

“Off,” you whined, a desperate beg as you began tugging the material down his legs. “Please, baby.”

“Gimme just a second, love.” Bucky grunted as he kicked off his boots and began working his pants down his legs. You shifted anxiously from foot to foot while you watched him, before deciding to roll your panties down your own hips. When you eventually stepped out of them, you looked back up to find Bucky’s ravenous gaze transfixed on your body. There was not an ounce of revulsion or disappointment in his eyes– just lust and hunger.

“Come ‘ere, sweets,” he growled, opening his arms to you. You jumped back into his arms, groaning at the way his hard cock pressed perfectly into the crevice of your thighs. He bucked his hips once, twice, all the while kissing down your neck to your collarbone and back up again.

“Lemme open you up,” he panted, his lips just a hare’s breath from yours as you felt one of his hands snake down toward your clit. “It’s been so long– I don’t wanna hurt you, doll.”

But you’d waited long enough. “Now’s not the time for foreplay, baby. If I don’t have your cock inside of me in the next ten seconds, I might actually die.”

Bucky chuckled darkly at your desperation, but turned so he could brace your back against the front door. “I wanna make sure you’re ready,” he cautioned.

Oh, but you were ready. You were so ready, you were dripping, could feel the gush of your arousal as you ground yourself down over his erection, coating him in your juices. He was so close, and you needed to have him closer.

“No more waiting,” you begged. Taking your hand and sliding it between your bodies, you grabbed a hold of his thickness, your hand nearly shaking as it became reacquainted with his girth. After giving it two long strokes, you aligned him with your weeping entrance and slammed your hips down, impaling yourself on his cock.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you cried, the sensation blistering somewhere between agony and ecstasy. He was so big, the feel of him stretching you out consuming you, setting every nerve ending on fire, and it was like the first time, all over again, but so much better. You wanted so badly for him to move, but Bucky held annoyingly still. You looked up at him to find his eyes scrunched shut, his jaw clenched. “Bucky?” you asked cautiously.

“Fuck, Pocket,” he managed to get out through his gritted teeth. “Forgot… forgot how fucking tight you are, sweets. Fuck. Feel… so… hng… so fucking good. Need a minute, or ‘m gonna blow right now.”

A minute. He was already seated so fully inside of you, you could give him a minute. “One minute, Barnes,” you teased, nipping at his jaw, “and then I am going to need you to ruin me, just like you promised.”

“Shit,” Bucky hissed, and you felt his hips unconsciously press up into you. “You’re so good to me, pretty girl. Love you so fucking much.” He slammed his lips back against yours, the kiss possessive, needy, and you kissed him back with abandon, trying to make up for all your lost time. All you wanted was to be connected to him, like this, for the rest of your life.

“Minute’s over, Buck; need you to move,” you moaned, aching for friction between your legs. “Fuck me, baby. Please.”

You weren’t going to have to tell him twice. With a feral roar, Bucky began slamming in and out of you, rutting like an animal as he pounded you against the front door of the apartment. And it was… It was everything, even better than you’d remembered, even better than you had imagined. A tiny part of you had feared you’d hyped the sensations in your memory, that there was no way he could have lived up to the ecstasy you had remembered, but nothing could hold a candle to the way it felt to have him slide his cock in and out of you in this very moment.

It was the lack of barriers, you realized as you threw your head back, allowing him access to kiss and suck at the delicate flesh of your neck. There was no Carthage between you, no walls, no miscommunications or omissions, no lies or decits. There was just pure, unadulterated love and need, and that made the entire thing so much better.

Without warning, Bucky pulled out and smoothly twisted you so that he was entering you again from behind, allowing him to hit deeper. You could feel him broach that spot deep inside, just above your cervix, and you knew you weren’t going to last.

“B-B-Bucky,” you stuttered, trying to get his name out. “Gonna cum.”

“I know, baby,” he cooed as he kept thrusting, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass in a beautiful, erotic rhythym. “I got you. Cum all over my cock, sweets. Wanna feel you squeeze me.” He snaked a hand around your waist and his thumb found your clit, pressing down on it and circling the bundle of nerves.

You leaned back and gripped his forearms for support as he continued to massage your A-spot with the tip of his dick, and in moments, you were coming completely undone. Every nerve in your body was alight, and you were shaking, gasping for breath as the pleasure washed over you in endless waves. Your knees gave out, but Bucky held you up, kept you from falling as aftershocks rolled through you. “I got you, sweets,” he murmured, nuzzling his lips into the side of your head to kiss your temple. Not a single part of your body felt like it was under your own control in that moment– it all belonged to him, and to him alone.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bucky held you as you came down from your high, sliding himself out slowly once you had stopped convulsing, and you noticed he was still rock hard.

You raised a questioning eyebrow at your boyfriend– he hadn’t allowed himself to cum.

“Do me a favor, sweets,” he began as he picked you up and carried you into the living room. You nodded dumbly as he bent you over the arm of the couch before positioning himself behind you, gently rubbing his hands up and down your sides.

“Anything, Buck,” you promised.

“Remind me again, how many guys you fucked in Atlantic City?”

You spun your head around to look at him, suddenly concerned. Why would he bring that up? Why now?

“Um… I don’t remember?” you tried unconvincingly.

“Come on, doll,” he purred, running his cool vibranium hand up and down the length of your spine. “I know that’s not true. If I recall correctly, it was twenty-eight, wasn’t it?”

You tried to stand up, worried about the direction this conversation was taking, but Bucky had draped his body over yours. “Yeah,” you said eventually. “But… what does that matter now, Buck? I thought…”

You could feel the still-hard length of him move against your slit. “Because, sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft and loving, yet laced with a hint of posessiveness, “tonight, I’m gonna make you cum for every single one of them. Gonna fuck the memory of ‘em right outta you. Remind you that you’re my girl, and I’m your guy. Forever.”

Your entire body shivered at his words, and his promise. If he wanted to make you cum twenty eight times in one night, well, you certainly weren’t going to tell him ‘no.’

“I am your girl, Buck,” you assured him. “But if you wanna remind the fuck outta me, by all means, feel free.”

You felt Bucky chuckle as he leaned down to press a sweet kiss to the divot in your spine right above your ass. “Hold on to something, doll. It’s gonna be a long night.”

The foyer. The couch. The kitchen counter. The lounge chair on the terrace. Your desk. His desk. The dining room table. The shower. The ladder in the library. If there was a surface in your apartment even remotely suitable for fucking, Bucky took you on it that night.

You’d had to tap out of penetration after orgasm number twenty– you were pretty sure you’d started to chafe, and now it was just after dawn and he was bringing you to a tortrously slow number twenty eight with his head firmly fixed between your thighs. God, you’d missed the magic that tongue could do.

“Last one, baby,” he panted as he pulled back for air with a smirk. “For now.” Your hands went to your breasts, tugging at your peaked nipples as he sucked your clit between his lips, driving you to the brink one final time. He’d edged you for this one, pulling you to the precipice before yanking you back, again and again, without letting you fall, so when the time finally came, you were a wreck, tears streaming down your face in relief as he climbed back up to kiss your face.

“You alright, doll?” he asked, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him as you shook with the aftershocks. He planted a chaste kiss to the crown of your head, holding you so sweetly.

You were so sensitive– overstimulated. Not just your body, but your heart, as well, and though it might have been the cheesiest thought you’d ever had, that didn’t make it any less true.

“I missed you so much,” you told him as you held him to you, the sweat cooling on your bodies and making you shiver.

“I’m back now,” he said, running his fingers up and down your arm. “Never meant for the mission to last as long as it did.”

“Not just from being in China,” you clarified. “I missed all of this, us, so much.”

He squeezed you tighter, and you got the distinct impression that, if he could pull you to live inside of his skin with him, he would. “Me, too, doll. Maybe I’ll talk to Stark about taking me off the roster for a little bit. See about the two of us spending some uninterrupted time together.”

“I’d like that,” you said, trying to fight off a yawn. You’d now been awake for almost twenty-four hours; you knew you were both probably exhausted, but you were terrified that if you fell asleep, you’d wake up to discover that last night was a dream, and you were alone again. “Why don’t we try to get some sleep, sweets,” Bucky suggested.

“‘M afraid, if I close my eyes, you’ll vanish on me,” you admitted. “Like, poof! You’ll turn to dust.”

Bucky laughed and shifted, so that you were now laying with your head on his chest. “I worry about the same thing,” he said. “So, tell you what: How ‘bout we both promise not to disappear into dust, and in a few hours we can wake up and do this all over again?”

You smiled sleepily, a sensation of warmth spreading out from your belly. You had the rest of your lives to spend together, and nothing was going to get in the way of that now. You should have known– Bucky Barnes would never leave you unsatisfied.

<- Part 2

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes #bucky barnes smut

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bysaber · 11 months ago

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Breaking up ft. Satoru Gojo

Day 13 of 31 Days of Ficmas!

summary — you break up with your partner a few weeks prior christmas.

word count — 1.2k

content — hurt/comfort, gojo is emotionally constipated but he’s trying ok, lowercase intended

notes — today was supposed to be obito’s fic but i wrote this one first because im kinda… going thru the same thing lol. enjoy <3

everything feels out of place as you lay in bed trying to place together pieces of an unfinished puzzle.

two weeks have passed since the last time you and gojo spoke to each other. two weeks since you broke up with him, leaving a part of your heart behind.

you know you have to move on, but it’s hard when you have years of friendship and a one-year-long relationship weighing on your back. you look back to all the efforts you put into it and, foremost, you can’t completely let him go.

you always knew about gojo’s personality, in fact, you fell in love with it. but it became unsustainable when you were the one doing everything while he sat back and watched.

you used to say to him, “you are a good person. you are the best person I’ve fallen for, like a window of light in the dark.” and never once you regretted those words. you made sure to repeat them to him during the breakup.

you truly believe satoru’s a good person, and he never intended to hurt you. what defined the fate of your relationship was his inconstancy, his fear of emotions.

gojo could shower you with kisses and “i love you”s for days, but they were always half-hearted and, whenever the conversation between the two of you took a deeper turn, he would instantly shut down.

become cold, even.

he also didn’t care much about life in general, talking about several topics and simply forgetting to ask simple questions like “how was your day?”

you knew he cared, but it didn’t feel like he did.

it killed you every time he’d disappear for an entire day, especially on days you weren’t okay, not even bothering to reply to your texts, and then replying with a mere “i was busy” – you knew it already, but a text would be nice.

and to match his emotionless self, you were the embodiment of intensity.

you tried to crack up his shell, always paying attention to what he said and remembering it. you dove head first into every interest he had, and supported him in every choice he made.

you cared, you asked and, mostly, you talked.

multiple times, you tried to express how you felt, how you wish he could open up more and maybe just regard you a little more – a few texts not to worry you wouldn’t hurt. gojo said he was like that, but that he would try to be better.

what mined your relationship was that lie.

because he never even tried.

and after another month of dealing with all of that, with not feeling wanted enough, cared enough, you decided to end everything.

you can’t lie a little part of you hoped he would fight for you, ask for you to stay. but as you watched distress filling his eyes, all he could muster was, “i’m really sorry i couldn’t be better.”

and you lost everything you thought you had.

you blink away your tears, trying to escape from your painful thoughts, and get up from the bed – it’s past seven now and you need to start getting ready for a christmas party at one of your friends’ house.

you need to move on.

after taking a quick shower, you put on the red dress you’ve decided to wear – a dress that gojo bought for you months before – before starting to do your makeup.

this is when your doorbell rings.

you frown, “who is it?” you yell as you make your way toward the door, but there’s no time for an answer before you open it.

you almost close it again when you see your ex-boyfriend standing there, but you don’t. you know you need to be mature about this situation, even if seeing him makes all the walls you’ve been building crumble down.

it hurts.

“gojo.”

you don’t look him in the eye, focusing on his christmas sweater instead. funnily, the one you gave him a year ago.

“can i come in? it’s freezing outside.”

if you looked into his eyes, though, you would see the big blue bag under them. you would see how faded his blue irises are, and how fucking anxious satoru is.

you don’t ask further questions, letting him into the house he knows all too well before you close the door. he follows you like a lost puppy, and keeps standing when you sit on the couch.

“you look gorgeous,” he compliments meekly.

“thank you. what do you want?” it takes all of you to not start crying right then and there, but you know you have to be firm.

“i want you back.”

satoru doesn’t beat around the bush, and the silence that follows is so loud it can be heard. you feel your heart beating in an insane rhythm, and your head spins.

“gojo, you can’t–”

“you were right. you are right. about everything,” he interrupts you. “i was a boy, and for that i’m sorry. i acted like you had to keep up with my shit, like you would always be there, and i’m sorry for that too,” gojo speaks so fast you can barely keep up with him, like he’s going to die if he doesn’t say those words. “i thought i couldn’t change, i thought i didn’t have to. because it is easier to live the way i live, but… it is much harder to live without you.”

“gojo–”

again, he doesn’t let you speak, “don’t call me that. please, don’t call me that,” gojo drops on his knees in front of you and grabs your hand. “call me satoru, toru, baby, love for all i care. just not gojo. i’ve been miserable without you, i never thought a person could get so miserable,” his voice cracks, pulling your hand towards his face in a desperate attempt to be comforted. “i promise you i will do better, i will pay attention, text you all the time, tell you all about my past and what made me who i am, scream through my pain for what’s worth. just take me back, please.”

you are so deeply in shock that it takes you a while to register the tears falling down his face, his eyes closed as he expects the worst.

all it takes is for your thumb to caress his cheek softly, and satoru sobs. you grab his face with both of your hands, cleaning his teardrops as your own fall, and you gently kiss his forehead.

it kills you to see him like that, but at the same time it gives you a reason to live to know that he’s willing to try. for you.

you kiss his nose, his cheeks, and then his lips.

satoru whimpers, pulling you into an embrace so strong you’re afraid he’ll never let go.

“toru,” you say when you part your lips and bury your face in his neck, feeling his scent. “everything’s okay now. i’m here, i’ll take care of you.”

“missed you so much, i’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“i missed you, too,” you confess, finally looking into his eyes and frowning when you notice he hasn't slept. “what’s past is past, we’ll be okay. but i guess we should just sleep a bit, hm? it was one hell of a ride.”

“sleep together, right?”

he sounds so clingy, you chuckle lightly.

“yes, toru. together.”

#s23ficmas #wbysaber #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojou #x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #fanfic #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort

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togrowoldinv · 1 year ago

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Everything Has Changed

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

You’re vying for the Avengers to choose you as one of the Shield agents to go on a mission with them. Nat performs her own evaluation and you grow closer

Note: Some soft Nat! It was going to come out yesterday but my nephew was born lol. Enjoy this one!

Natasha Masterlist 1, Natasha Masterlist 2, Natasha Masterlist 3, Main Masterlist

“Agents, we will have a very special guest for training today,” Maria Hill’s voice sounds from the entrance of the gym.

You and all of the other agents stand up straighter in her presence. Soon, she’ll be choosing the best agents to go on a mission with some of the Avengers.

You have been working extremely hard to make sure that one of those agents is you.

Agent Hill walks to the center of the room. You keep your attention on her as she instructs everyone to warm up. It’s hard to pretend not to notice when the special guest arrives. Her steps are light, but her presence is undoubtable.

Still, you keep your focus on warming up with the other agents. Some simple stretches and laps to get your blood flowing.

“Okay, focus up,” Maria says, bringing everyone together.

Chatter erupts at the sight of her standing next to Maria. The Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. You were all expecting the usual special guests, like Steve Rogers or Agent Coulson.

“For training today, I’ve asked Agent Romanoff to join us. As she will be on the upcoming mission, she has some say in what agents will come along,” Maria explains. “Agent Romanoff, is there anything you’d like to share?”

Natasha takes her time before she answers. You wonder what is running through her head as she looks at each and every agent in the room. You swear her eyes linger on you for the longest amount of time.

“I’m not one for speeches,” Natasha finally speaks. “That’s more Cap’s area of expertise, as I’m sure you all have had to deal with.” A few chuckles fill the room. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Agent Hill gives everyone assignments for the next hour of training. She and Natasha walk around and observe. You never hear Natasha say as much as two words as she watches. At the end of the hour, the agents circle up again.

“I will choose a few of you to spar with me,” Natasha explains. She says a few agent’s names before she says yours at the very end. Your heart drops to your stomach.

“The rest of you can be dismissed,” Maria Hill adds. The five agents that were chosen, including you, remain in the room.

Natasha goes in order that she called the names out, so you are the last to spar with her. Everyone else lasts under a few minutes with her.

“You ready?” She asks you, a smirk on her face.

“Yes ma’am,” you reply, trying your best to sound confident.

Nat swings first, not pulling her punches at all. She lands a blow on your ribcage. You respond by taking a lunge at her, but she blocks your attempts at hitting her. You try not to let it rattle you.

“Try again,” she says. “Follow my eyes. Try to see what I’m going to do next.”

You nod and reset your feet. This time you manage to block her first swing, but the second one lands hard on your abdomen. You fall back a bit but regain your balance. This process repeats for a few minutes before Nat calls it.

You sigh and fall back in line. Maria dismisses you all for the day after explaining that the five of you are to attend a Stark event tonight. There is more to the job than just fighting, she says.

The rest of the day is spent with you preparing for the next day and getting ready for the party. Stark events are notoriously good opportunities to network, so you prepare yourself for being socially burnt out by the end of the night.

Once you arrive at the party, you find the other agents and get a drink together. There is a lot of laughing and cutting up. Someone brings up Natasha and things get a little more interesting.

“I’m just saying someone that beautiful cannot be as good as they say she is,” one agent says.

“I don’t know, man. I’ve heard she has more kills than anyone else here combined,” another adds.

“Guys, come on she’s just a pretty face,” someone says.

“No,” you jump in, your voice a little too loud. “She’s a hero. You guys know that. She is not just a pretty face,” you say.

You storm off and don’t notice that Natasha was standing near you. She heard everything. Nat walks by the agents and they all look away sheepishly. The bartender hands her the drinks she asks for and she leaves the room.

Standing on the roof of the building, you look out onto the city. You don’t know why it got under your skin so bad that the other agents were calling Nat’s abilities into question. Maybe you just don’t like bullies.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of heels on the concrete. You turn around to assess the threat.

“Sorry if I startled you,” Natasha says.

“No, that’s okay.”

“Mind if I join you?” Natasha asks, offering you a smile. You nod. She walks your side and holds out a glass to you. “I wasn’t sure what you were drinking.”

“Thank you, Agent Romanoff,” you say, accepting the drink.

“Natasha is fine,” she says. “Or Nat.”

“Y/n,” you offer her your first name.

“I know who you are, y/n,” Nat says.

“Oh.”

Nat takes a breath and rests her arms on the edge of the building. You don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t feel awkward.

“Maria will tell you tomorrow, but you were selected for the mission,” Natasha says.

You can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. It’s what you’ve been working for for so long now. You take a sip of your drink and look out at the city again.

“Are you excited?” Natasha asks, taking note of your body language.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Thank you for choosing me.”

“It was a group decision. You’ve earned it, y/n. You went toe to toe with everyone, including me,” Natasha says.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t go toe to toe with you,” you say with a light comedic tone to hide your frustration.

“You did,” Nat argues. “Well, more than anyone else did. Seems to them I'm just a pretty face."

"You heard that?" You ask her, turning to face her. She nods. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Nat says. "I'm used to it. I also heard you defending me."

"Oh, yeah."

"You don't think I'm pretty?" Natasha asks, a hint of teasing in her tone.

You're sure your face cannot hide your reaction to her words. A heat creeps up your neck.

"Oh, no. You're so beautiful, Natasha," you say.

"You're beautiful, too. Very much so," Nat replies.

You smile shyly. Natasha feels herself falling for you. You realize how late it is when your phone dings in your purse.

"I should probably get some sleep so I can be ready for the mission," you say.

"Right," Nat agrees. "Maybe after the mission, we can see each other more often."

"I would love that," you reply.

"Goodnight, y/n."

"Goodnight, Natasha," you reply.

Before you step away from her, she leans close and drops a kiss on your cheek. It's soft, and delicate but perfect.

You can't wait to get to know her better.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort

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villain-crown · 8 months ago

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cheat | @jegulus-microfic | words: 520

critical care, part 1 | (part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9)

a Jegulus nurse!AU

“Potter, I’ve got shit news for you.”

James snorted, finishing the last few letters of a name on the large dry erase board that announced the day shift nurses’ assignments on the medical-surgical intensive care unit. Their ward’s nickname, coined by its wealthy donor, was written at the top in half-erased red letters: Go Gryffindor! “No thanks, Marlene, I’ve got enough shit news already.”

“Peter’s cheating on us. He’s been floated to take patients in the recovery room. They took on three extra cases this morning.”

Jerking his head around, he stared at her.

No.

Peter could not do this to him. James had twenty-two sick as shit patients tripping over themselves to dive into body bags and just enough nurses to stop them from doing so. The acuity of their unit was through the roof. He would not be tested today.

“Pete wouldn't do that.” James shoved his hand into his scrubs to fish his phone out. On the home screen was the preview of an apologetic text from ✨🐀Wormtail🐀✨, reporting his marching orders to the post-anesthesia care unit. “Wow. I thought he loved me. What am I supposed to do? We’re about to start the bloody shift!”

“Well don’t worry boss, because I have slightly less shit news. They’ve sent us a nurse to replace him.” She paused. “From Slytherin.”

“I thought you said less shit news,” James grumbled, using the side of his hand to rub Peter’s name from the board. Slytherin, with its name derived from the benefactor who had funded its building, was the cardiovascular intensive care unit two floors below them. Their nurses were notoriously nightmares to get along with. “The last time they floated someone from there to here it was Snape, remember?”

“Oh yeah!” Marlene snapped her fingers. “Didn’t Sirius almost trick him into drinking nitroglycerin? It’s a good thing you stopped him. He could have actually died.”

“Yeah. Anyway, who are they sending us?”

Marlene consulted her phone. “It’s going to be… Oh! Regulus Black!”

“Black?” James repeated distractedly, writing it down.

“It’s Sirius’s little brother. Have you met him?”

“No.” James capped his marker and stepped back. “Have you?”

“Once.” She paused, then qualified that. “Sort of. I got to watch Sirius threaten one of the doctors for flirting with him. Does that count?”

That got his attention. “What? Why? Sirius has slept with half the staff in this hospital!”

“Yeah, but he’d put Regulus in a monastery if he could. No dating allowed for Baby Black.” Marlene handed over the charge nurse phone. “It’s too bad. Dorcas says Regulus is… sweet.”

James smirked. “Dorcas says, huh? I guess Pete’s not the only one cheating on us Gryffindors by consorting with the enemy units.”

“Fuck off, Potter. And I’ll give you a bit of free advice. When Regulus comes up here, you’d best try very hard not to stare. Sirius hates when people do that.”

James’s expression turned serious. “I won’t. Is there something physically… did something happen to him?”

Oddly, Marlene just smirked. “No, nothing like that. But if you know what’s good for you, don’t let Sirius catch you looking.”

#regulus black #james potter #jegulus #protective sirius black #marauders nurse!au #sirius and regulus #sirius black #starchaser #james loves regulus #jegulus microfic

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defectivevillain · 2 months ago

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those who fall

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: “What’s your name?” You ask your companion. “Hannibal,” he responds. The man doesn’t look the slightest bit malnourished, despite your predicament. Either he’s new here, or he’s been able to keep his hunger satiated. “Hannibal,” you repeat, taking note of his vaguely European accent. “That’s a strange name.” Hannibal just blinks. The man looks almost expressionless, but you can see a hint of irritation at the edges of his faux smile.

word count: 3k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical blood and violence, death, suicide, cannibalism, gore, suicidal ideation/self-harm. Emphasis on the cannibalism — both willing and non-consensual cannibalism. Mentions of throwing up/vomiting.

author's notes: Happy spooky pride! (I'm being told it's also called Halloween...? Weird.) Here’s a really fucked up fic. :3

If y’all haven’t watched The Platform, here’s the trailer, which should explain things. I’ve also attempted to write an explanation, but it’s long and bad. Here it is anyways, in case you don’t want to watch the trailer:

There is a vertical prison system that stretches more than 300 levels down. Each floor houses two people, and there’s a large hole in the middle to accommodate a table. Each day, a single table starts at Floor 0 and makes a stop at each floor. The table is loaded with a ton of dishes for a large and extravagant meal. Floor 1 gets the table for a short time before it drops to Floor 2. So on and so forth. People aren’t allowed to take things from the table to save for later, so it’s a scramble to eat enough to keep them nourished until the next day. They’re all eating from the same table, so as the floors get lower, there’s less and less food left. Inhabitants stay on their floor for one month, before they’re exposed to gas and moved to a different floor for another month. Basically, the lower the floor, the less likely you’ll be to get any food. In theory, if each person ate only their own ration, the food might last. But some people are greedy, wasteful, etc... A floor below 100 is virtually a death sentence, because that means 200 people pick at the food before you get to.

heed the warnings listed above before reading!

You wake up, blinking away the traces of a gas-induced sleep. It’s the beginning of the month, which means you’ve been transported to another floor in the facility. Groaning, you blink blearily, only to find someone staring down at you. You flinch and get up, hoping he’ll move away. But he continues looming over you, looking at you with a scrutinizing gaze.

“You must be my new roommate,” he says emotionlessly.

“How’d you wake up so fast?” You respond, squinting at the daylight seeping through the room. Typically, the gas is strong enough to leave you knocked out for at least twelve hours. But this man is already awake, and there’s no telling how long he’s been standing before you, watching you. The thought unnerves you.

He just shrugs in lieu of a response to your question. You take a deep breath and turn towards the far wall, dread coiling in your chest as your eyes find the number of the floor you’re on: 139. Fuck. You’ve never been this low before. You had the 76th floor last month and the 23rd the month before that, then 87, 6, and 53. You had no idea the floors went down past 100; all you knew was that you’d be getting a new roommate this month, in light of your past roommate’s death.

Floor 139 is practically a death sentence. You’d normally be able to fast thirty days, but you spent all of last month fasting at Floor 76. (You didn’t have much of a choice, as the food never made it down to you in the first place.) You push yourself to your feet and walk near the center of the space, glancing down only to find more floors stretching down as far as the eye can see. There are dozens—maybe hundreds—of people beneath you. You want to throw up.

“You look frightened,” your new roommate remarks, breaking you out of your spiraling thoughts. You glance at him, unable to hide your irritation.

“Of course I am,” you snap, beginning to pace around the edge of the hole in the floor. “The food will never make it down this far.”

“How do you know?” He hums. There’s a knowing smile on his face, as if he wants you to concede and utter the words aloud.

“The food didn’t even make it down to level 87,” you recall, shaking your head as you try to fight off memories of an aching stomach and a debilitating weakness anchoring you to your bed. “And we’re fifty-two levels beneath that.”

Silence. You swallow hard and try to maintain your composure. Panicking won’t do you any good. And you definitely don’t trust this stranger enough to show him any sort of emotional vulnerability. You bite the inside of your cheek and think for several minutes. “What’s your name?” You later ask your companion.

“Hannibal,” he responds. He takes another step backwards and light falls on his face, revealing a chiseled facial structure, brown-grey hair, and glimmering brown eyes. The man doesn’t look the slightest bit malnourished, despite your predicament. Either he’s new here, or he’s been able to keep his hunger satiated.

“Hannibal,” you repeat, taking note of his vaguely European accent. “That’s a strange name.” Hannibal just blinks. The man looks almost expressionless, but you can see a hint of irritation at the edges of his faux smile.

“How’d you lose your roommate?” You continue determinedly, desperate for some information on this guy. Something about him unsettles you. It must be the unbothered way with which he analyzes your surroundings, as if you hadn’t both just been given a finite expiration date.

Hannibal studies you for a long moment. “You don’t want the answer to that question.” He eventually answers. A shiver rolls down your spine.

“You killed them,” you realize aloud.

“And ate them,” he confirms casually. Your heart starts thudding quickly in your chest. You pretend not to be affected by his confession. Internally, you’re scared for your life. To think that you’d survived months of starvation, only to die at the hands of another human? “What happened to your roommate?” Hannibal continues, before you can truly collect your thoughts.

“They jumped.” You remember to say, the taste of bile climbing up your throat. There’s no need for further explanation.

“Ah.” A tense quiet descends on the air once more, and the two of you spend the seemingly countless hours before the table’s arrival in silence.

When you finally hear the telltale whirring of the table above, your stomach growls. You need food rather desperately—especially after not receiving any legitimate nutrition last month. Your hands are shaky; your vision is blurry; and your legs feel as if they’ll cave in at any moment.

The glassware rattles and the table sinks down to your floor. Hannibal and you both look at the remnants of the meal from above, only to find plates licked clean and glasses entirely empty. As you expected, there is nothing left for you to eat: not even a crumb or bone.

There is, however, a man crouched on the table. He stares ahead with blank eyes, as if he doesn’t even see either of you. You look at him for a few moments, immediately promising yourself not to get any closer. In this place, vulnerability is weakness. You’ve seen it happen before: someone will extend a helpful hand to another person, only to be stabbed through the back in the same breath. There is no saving anyone here. You are all destined for death, regardless of when it may come.

Hannibal regards the new arrival for several seconds, before quickly reaching out and grabbing his collar, yanking him off the table and onto the pavement. You watch in disbelief as Hannibal brandishes a knife—when in the hell did he get that?—and stabs him several times. Your roommate’s ferocity ensures the man’s death. Calmly, Hannibal drags the corpse by the ankles until it’s closer to the walls.

Then, he sinks his knife into the body’s skin. The victim, unsurprisingly, doesn’t so much as flinch. The knife pierces the skin of his chest and Hannibal sinks his hand into the cavity, gripping the entrails and pulling them out with practiced precision. He gets to his feet, holding the liver in his hand. You watch in silent horror as his head turns and his gaze finds you, his eyes trained on you even as he raises the organ to his mouth and begins eating.

Your stomach turns in disgust and revulsion. You’ve survived months of fasting—you never ate another human, despite the earsplitting screams from above and below indicating that several other inhabitants did. Even though you know you need to eat, the thought of tearing into that corpse is enough to make your appetite disappear. You quickly turn your head and clamp a hand over your mouth, before raising it to cover both your nose and mouth. The scent is enough to make you nearly hurl. You close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else—anywhere else, but trapped on this floor with a cannibal.

Your ears are ringing at the confirmation that Hannibal is a seasoned killer. This was not his first kill, and it likely won’t be his last. There is a very good chance you’ll be his next meal. Fear pulsing through your veins, you manage to pull your knees close to your chest and close your eyes. The cool metal of your lighter grounds you to this horrible moment, this stiff and unfeeling air.

If you had known just what horrors you would be subjected to, you would’ve chosen a different object to bring. Maybe you would’ve even chosen a weapon to protect yourself or a form of entertainment. But your naive self chose a lighter—not even for smoking, but just to watch the flickering flame. Your finger now twitches to bring the flame to your skin, but you resist the urge. There is enough pain and suffering here without your own self-inflicted torture.

It is hard to sleep that night. Your thoughts are buzzing too loudly. It takes a while for your eyelids to slip shut, and once the table comes rocketing by, you shudder awake and have to fall asleep once more. When you finally succumb to slumber, your dreams are distorted and cryptic.

The weird sensation of something in your mouth pulls you from slumber. You open your eyes to find Hannibal standing over you, the crimson light casting shadows across his face. You instinctively want to belch at the foreign material, but Hannibal’s hand is secured firmly over your mouth. You immediately catch on to what he’s doing: he’s feeding you some of the corpse’s meat.

You try to fight back—attempting to shove him off—but his grip is too strong and you’re weakened by hunger and lack of sleep. You’re forced to chew, unless you want to choke and die. A shudder runs through your entire body as you chew, disgusted with the texture. The taste of iron and copper runs through your mouth; the smell alone is enough to make you gag. After what feels like far too long, you manage to swallow.

Satisfied, Hannibal steps away—and you immediately fall off your bed and to the floor, stumbling to the sink to drink some water and flush the organ down. “Fuck you,” you spit at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. It comes back bloody, and you take extra effort to scrub your face clean. Hannibal doesn’t seem to be affected by the insult. Rather, he’s wearing an understanding smile on his face—and you’re growing more and more overtaken with the urge to punch that look off his face. You clench the faucet with an increasingly tight grip, until there are bolts of pain sliding through your fingers.

“You will thank me soon,” Hannibal remarks, staring at you. You can see his heated gaze in the cracked mirror before you. It’s clear what he’s trying to say: if you don’t eat, you will die.

“I won’t,” you say numbly, your heart roaring in your ears. “You should’ve left me alone.” Your voice breaks at the end of that sentence; if Hannibal notices, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he only looks at you imploringly.

“You need proper nourishment.” Hannibal maintains.

You hiss and walk back to your bed, turning to the side so you don’t have to look at him. You’re not foolish enough to turn your back on him—not when you know just what he can do. You don’t want to indulge his murderous sensibilities. You spend the rest of the day split between seething and suppressing the urge to throw up.

When night falls, Hannibal goes to sleep. You only pretend. When you hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, you push yourself up quietly and sit on your bed. You will not fall asleep tonight. You don’t want a repeat of last night.

Despite your quiet movements, it doesn’t take Hannibal long to notice that you’ve shifted. “You’re not sleeping,” he says aloud, admittedly startling you as the uneasy silence across the space is broken. When you comprehend his remark, you can’t stop the wry laugh that falls from your lips.

“I don’t trust you,” you respond candidly. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

Hannibal lets out a strange noise. It takes you a few moments to realize that he’s just laughing. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already,” he then says. “You are… the least insufferable of my companions so far.”

You blink in the near darkness. “Thanks.” You say dryly. That statement isn’t reassuring in the slightest. You don’t want to wake up to find him forcing organs down your throat again. The thought sends a renewed wave of nausea through you, and it takes you several moments of measured breathing to fight it off.

Eventually, you fall asleep. You can only fight off the exhaustion for so long, and if you’re not eating, then you definitely need to be resting to conserve energy.

You wake the next morning breathing hard, expecting to see Hannibal looming over you. But he’s only sitting on his bed, regarding you with a blandly amused look. It appears he won’t be forcing you to consume human entrails again.

But little do you know, Hannibal doesn’t have to force you next time.

It’s been sixteen days since that horrible night. Sixteen days without food. Your body has grown incredibly weak. You can barely push yourself up to get to the faucet across the room. Speaking takes too much energy. Most of the time, you just lie on your bed and stare at some point in the distance, losing yourself in memories long gone.

You can’t find the energy to waste on getting angry. Instead, you’re just… empty. The movement of the table is the only thing that helps you discern the time. The corpse Hannibal took all those days ago has since become a rotted pile. Neither of you have seen anything resembling food on the table. The people above are merciless. They eat the rations of several people; they spit on everything in reach.

You don’t bother to look up at the table’s arrival today. There will be nothing for you to eat. And indeed, when you finally drag your eyes over, there is only glassware and silverware… scattered around a person in the center. They sit cross-legged and stare ahead with that similar unseeing expression from the man all those days ago.

You don’t need to watch to know what happens next: Hannibal drags them onto the pavement, brandishes his knife, and kills them. He dissects them with the mercy of a disinterested scientist, before sparing you a simple look. There’s a single drop of blood carving a path down his lips. Hannibal wipes it away.

You extend a hand wordlessly.

Hannibal stares at you, a complex emotion passing over his face as quick as lightning. He places a bloodied chunk in your palm. The crimson stain spreads across your skin. You look down at it and feel… nothing. There’s an echo of disgust and horror, perhaps. But beyond that, you’re an empty shell. This place has changed you. Emotions do not survive here—instinct does. And your instincts tell you that you need food.

Minutes later, the gnawing pain in your stomach has subsided and there’s the horrifically familiar taste of iron settling on your tongue. You swallow hard and slowly push yourself to your feet, mechanically walking over to the sink and getting some water to wash it all down. Your hands are shaking but you manage to satisfy your thirst. Turning the faucet off with shaking hands, you lean against the wall and sink down into a sitting position.

There’s dried blood on your hands. It doesn’t matter that you washed it away—you can still see it. It haunts you, even when the night arrives and the floor is drenched in crimson light. You’ve since migrated to your bed, but you can’t get yourself to move from your sitting position and lie down. You can’t give yourself comfort. You don’t deserve it—not after what you’ve done.

You’re not sure how long you sit silently, watching the darkness settle and fade into a dusky light. There’s a persistent pain in your back and your cuticles are picked open, yet these sensations fade to obscurity when you remember the meal you just willingly consumed. You had no choice seventeen days ago. You can’t say the same for yesterday.

There’s an uncomfortable wetness clinging to your cheeks and eyelashes. You’re crying, you realize. It’s been a while since you’ve cried, even with all the horrors you’ve witnessed here. You shakily wipe at your tears, but they keep falling. Falling prey to the burning in your throat, you bury your head in your bent knees and struggle for breath.

At some point, there’s a hand on your back. You’re so exhausted that you don’t even flinch, because you can’t seem to muster up the energy. Your body is wracked with chills and phantom shivers as you try to comprehend just who is offering you comfort. The same person who kills others with ease and feasts on their remains… is wrapping an arm around your shoulders and sitting on your bed next to you.

You don’t have the strength to push Hannibal away. You lack the strength and fortitude to do so. Hannibal is the only human contact you will have, if you continue living. You don’t have a choice—if you want to maintain your sanity, you’re forced to cave into the loneliness screaming behind the confines of your rib cage. That’s what you tell yourself as you reluctantly begin to relax in his hold. You cling to him with increasing desperation. Hannibal’s hand rises to the nape of your neck, cradling your head in what feels like an intimate gesture.

You can’t stop the sobs crawling out of your throat.

You want to assign Hannibal the blame. But you know it’s not that simple. He didn’t put you in this prison system; he is nothing more than another participant: one with the courage to keep themself alive, at any cost. Perhaps you should be more like him.

…It’s a chilling thought.

You have never been so desperate for answers, inside bleak cement walls that give you nothing except more questions. The sparkling silverware; the gleaming glassware; the callous cruelty of those above; the painful plight of those below. There is no solidarity or community amongst the people in these walls: only the concepts of superior and inferior… and the fallen. Those who have been above, have savored without suffering… only fall from grace and stumble into starvation’s relentless grip once more.

Your tongue recognizes the taste of copper; your hands the crimson stain that becomes a murky brown as time passes. You have fallen. And of one thing, you are certain: you will never rise again.

thanks for reading! <3

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save-the-villainous-cat · 10 months ago

Note

villain comforting a VERY beaten hero, platonic cuddling and lots of tears pls

have a nice day <3

“I’m not dead,” the hero whispered.

And yet they were hooked to an IV. And yet they hadn’t been able to breathe on their own for hours. The villain took in a deep breath. Of course, they were angry. Of course, the villain had been losing their mind in this hospital.

Quiet panic attacks in bathroom stalls, litres of coffee, endless questions for the nurses — this day had been way too long for their liking.

“I’m not dead,” the hero repeated a little louder this time. They sat up in bed and their face made horrible grimaces. As they looked around in excruciating pain, they saw the IV and reached for it.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The villain grabbed their wrist before the hero could rip it out.

The villain was sure they didn’t look much better than the hero; they hadn’t slept in forever.

“Lay back,” the villain said gently. They put a hand on the hero’s shoulder and pressed them back into the hospital bed. “It’s a miracle that you’re alright. Thank god you hit the gym. Your fitness basically saved you. Your heart was strong enough to keep you alive.”

The hero sighed and took the villain’s hand. They didn’t seem to be fully aware of it, so the villain just let it happen.

“I’m fine. It’s not a big deal,” the hero said. They closed their eyes. “I’m not dead, I’m okay.”

“You may not care what happens to you but I do. Do you think it was easy to call the ambulance and then disappear into thin air? Only to rush to the hospital as a civilian? Do you think it was easy to watch you bleed out? Do you think it was easy—”

“Shh.” The hero’s thumb rubbed over the villain’s knuckles a few times. They opened their eyes. “Please don’t cry.”

The villain swallowed. They had spent a lot of time with their conflicted feelings throughout the night. Mostly, they had tried to bury them but now that the hero was talking to them, they couldn’t help but splinter a little.

They wiped tears out of their eyes but it didn’t matter: they kept dropping anyways.

“Please…” the villain whispered. “Please don’t send me away like that ever again.”

Not even the hero’s hand in theirs felt strong. The hero was weak, too frail to function properly. All the villain could do was fall to their knees and pray for the hero’s health until their knees bled.

“I’m not going to the gym anymore,” the hero said. “I just fight with you a lot. So, I guess you saved me after all.”

They paused and closed their eyes again. The villain could see a sparkling tear roll down the hero’s cheek. Probably overwhelmed and tired, they leaned back.

Although they didn’t want to admit it, the villain felt responsible for everything. They had always had a special gift of blaming themselves. The hero looked at them through half-lidded eyes.

“I’ve never had any visitors in the hospital before. Thank you.” Their voice was soft, yet raspy. “And I’m sorry for sending you away. I thought I’d be fine.”

The hero had told the villain it was their last wish: for the villain to go home.

“I was scared and I didn’t want you to watch me die,” they said.

“You’re not gonna leave the bed for quite a while. I’ll chain you to it if I have to.” The villain stood up from their chair and sat down on the bed. “Let’s take a break from all this. You’ve suffered enough for several lifetimes.”

The hero smiled softly and then, they squeezed the villain’s hand.

#I hate them #they make me sick #I didn’t make them cuddle cuz I thought it would hurt the hero #and the villain wouldn’t wanna hurt em yknow #hope that’s alright #writing snippet #heroxvillain snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request #h/c

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miraclewoozi · 8 months ago

Text

HIGH FIDELITY, PT 2. -c.hs

getting back on the horse is hard, and failing to hit it off with the cute gamer guy you went for a drink with last night has the potential to be your love life’s last straw. but when up and coming rockstar VERNON unexpectedly canters into your life, you find yourself asking one very important question: do you have it in you to saddle up, one more time?

( PART ONE )

pair ; vernon x fem!reader. content ; strangers to lovers. up-and-coming musician!vernon x record store owner!reader. fluff, angst, smut. (MINORS DNI). warnings ; drinking + alcohol is a big theme pretty much throughout. mentions of past relationship breakdowns. reader experiences a lot of stress, anxiety and feelings of doubt, reflected in self sabotage. mentions of sickness (acute). wc ; 12.2k ( ~38k total. ) disclaimer ; this fic was inspired by rob + liam in the series high fidelity and is therefore pretty influenced by the show. if you’ve watched it, you’ll probably see a lot of similarities! i just felt so drawn to vernon in this kind of role that i really wanted to try and put a spin on it. i do not claim that every idea behind this is original. notes ; been working on this one for a while. hope you enjoy it.<3

smut tags : making out. some groping. some 'first time together' shenanigans. oral (m rec) & ball sucking hehe. he has a big cock because i have an agenda to push. implied f rec oral. implied multiple rounds. PLEASE let me know if i’ve forgotten anything.

The clock on your bedside table reads somewhere between 4:00 and 5:00 in the morning when you resign from trying to fall asleep and force yourself to sit upright, fed up of tossing and turning between your now too-creased sheets, brain stuck in a foggy, hellish limbo. Your mind won’t shut down. Your body won’t rest. Birds are starting to chirp outside and you can hear them clear as whistles through the cheap window that doesn’t quite seal shut to your left. Your eyes squint in preparation as you reach for your lamp and flood the room in yellowish light, drawing your knees up to your chest.

You’ve spent so much time in your own thoughts that you’ve begun to feel systemically unwell. Your stomach twists and aches, your eyes are so dry it hurts to even blink and there’s an ache behind them that started as an annoying throb, but has grown over the hours into a roaring flame. From the hairs on your head all the way down to your toes, you feel like you could burst.

You wish you had it in you to cry. To let it out. Keeping this pent up is no doubt making you feel a hundred times worse, and you think it would be nice to feel something other than the endless swooping of the spiral you’re well and truly making your way down. Your alarms are going to go off in a few hours. I can’t let anyone see me like this, you think. I can’t work in this state.

You throw ideas around in your head for a little while, thumbs tweaking over your phone as messages get typed, edited, deleted, and repeat. Part of you thinks maybe you could manage. Just tough it out and put on a brave face, because actually, what right do you have to be hiding away when you’re the one who ran out one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met? But you just know something will go wrong, even if you tell the boys that you need to camp out in the office for the day. When you need peace and quiet, you can never find it behind that creaky old door. When was the last time you got a full admin day without being called through to help with a problem or deal with a drama? And truly, the idea of facing the world right now makes you feel like you could be sick.

Sick…

Could you—?

You’ve never enjoyed taking sick days, even on occasions where you’ve really needed them, when you’ve woken up feeling like you’re knocking at death’s door. Sometimes, you swear the guilt that it brings ends up making you feel ten times worse than whatever your ailment is doing to you in the first place. But your exhaustion lets impulse take hold and you’re already sending a message into your group chat with the boys before you can talk yourself out of it, biting the inside of your cheek as the little indicator pops up on your screen. Delivered.

Well. You’re committed now, whether you like it or not.

Not feeling so hot. I won’t be in today. Take it easy, I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Sorry.

You pick your comforter up off the bed and wrap it around your shoulders like an extravagant, well-padded cape, trudging your way through the apartment until you’re stood, barefoot and cold, staring into the bright light of your refrigerator. Somehow in the seconds between pulling the handle and now, you’ve managed to forget what is what that you were hoping to find. More out of spite for how the bulbs are currently bleaching your retinas than because you want it, you pull the milk from its home in the cradle of the door and fix yourself a glass to take with you and put it on the coffee table back in your living room.

Without an ounce of grace, you throw yourself onto your couch: your head rests against the arm of the seat like you’re in the apartment of a sketchy therapist, and you’re wrapped up in your duvet as if it’s a sleeping bag, treating yourself to the luxury of a slightly different ceiling pattern to stare up at. And it could be the change of the room that finally manages to drag you under, or it could be the total fatigue of the emotional rollercoaster that has been your last twenty four hours…

But your glass of milk goes completely untouched as you eventually drift off, either way.

Of course, it’s not for nearly long enough. Barely an hour after finally managing to fall asleep, your phone starts to vibrate harshly against your chest. You tap at the screen blindly, hoping to shut off what you assume is your alarm; when it’s still buzzing a few seconds later, you reluctantly open your eyes, fighting back a sob. It’s not your alarm – it’s an incoming call. Why would it be anything else?

“Hello?” You grumble, putting the phone on speaker and resting it on the couch cushion next to your head. The energy expenditure of holding the device up to your ear feels mammoth.

“Ohh, you sound terrible.” Seungkwan’s voice sounds more taunting than it does concerned, but you pin that down to a symptom of his over-familiarity. “You’re sick?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“I heard there was something going around,” Seungkwan tells you. Great, you think. Good to know. Now go away. “Yeah – one of my cousins… ah, what did she say…”

“Hey, man, I really-...”

“That’s it. She said she was love sick.”

You sigh so hard you think it’s a miracle you don’t pass out.

“Don’t–”

“You better make sure Vernon gives you plenty of Vitamin D, today,” he harps on. “It’s quite the disease. I heard it can really–”

“Seungkwan!” You snap, finally, grabbing your phone and barking straight into the microphone. He doesn’t need to know that you’re stretching the truth to its absolute limit, but you certainly won’t let him keep believing that you’re calling out just to get laid. “Knock it off, okay? I’ve been awake all night.”

(You suppose you should be glad that that much really is true.)

He falls silent, and you don’t know if he totally believes you, but a few breaths later, you hear his voice through the speaker again. He’s softer, this time. Quieter.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, hesitating a moment before he goes on. “Try to get some rest, all right? I’ll swing by after work and check in with some food, and… if you need anything, just text me?”

You’re immediately overcome with guilt at the sharp change in his demeanour, and it does nothing to settle the way your insides are writhing inside you. You clear your throat and pull your duvet up to cover your face, squeezing your eyes tightly shut.

“I will,” you mumble. “I’m sorry – thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. You can hear the front door to his own apartment slam shut and his breaths pick up as he starts to rush down the stairwell of his building. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.”

“Hey–” he rushes, before you can hang up the call. “Rest up. Run a bath, drink plenty. Love you.”

You cringe a little, but not enough to stop you from saying it back. Sort of.

“Yeah. You too.”

Nobody could ever accuse Seungkwan of not being a man of his word. As irritating as he can sometimes be, as determined as he is to get on your every last nerve, you’ve never known him fail to come through on a promise.

Not long after 6:30pm, you hear a series of knocks at the front door of your apartment. You’ve managed to squeeze in odd shifts of sleep throughout the day and though your head is still in a mess, you feel significantly less irritable than you were this morning. Cleaner, as well. One of your (several) naps took place in the bath, where you laid there and let the hot water draw some of the anxieties clean out of you to float towards the ceiling amongst the lavender-scented steam.

In the knowledge that Seungkwan’s expectations of you are quite literally zero, you don’t bother to fix the one leg of your sweatpants that’s rolled up before you heave yourself off the couch and go to let him inside. He stands in the doorway with a bag of takeout food in each hand, all wind-flushed cheeks and that brilliant smile, and you feel like your stomach settles almost straight away when you see him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, toeing off his shoes as he comes inside and lets the door close behind him. He sets the bags down on top of the small table by your front door and cups your face in both of his hands, squeezing your cheeks and frowning down at you. “You look awful.”

“Wow, thanks,” you huff, squirming to get out of his grip. “I was going to say I feel a little better, but…”

“You look exhausted,” Seungkwan clarifies, picking up the bags once more and following you through to your living room as you start to walk away from him. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t realise you were actually… this bad…”

“This is doing wonders for my ego,” you grumble. “Keep it coming. Really.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“No, no. By all means, continue to kick a girl while she’s down. Super classy.”

Your best friend flops down onto your couch with an exaggerated huff at your petulance. You curl up in the armchair instead, bringing your knees up beneath you.

“Do you think it was something you ate?” He asks, refusing to give into your bickering and changing the subject matter instead.

You shrug your shoulders at him. “I don’t-... I mean, it was more of a head… thing?”

He sucks his front teeth. “What, like a migraine?”

“Sort of?”

“What do you mean, ‘sort of’?” He asks. “You’ve had a migraine before. Was it that or not?”

“Well, it’s difficult to-... It wasn’t exactly…”

“Okay.”

Seungkwan interrupts you as you hesitate again, swinging his legs off the couch and resting his elbows on his thighs, leaning as far towards you as he can while still remaining seated. He wrings his hands, plays with his fingers, lips drawn forward in a stern-looking pout.

“I thought something was up this morning on the phone, but I didn’t wanna push it because you sounded mad. Now I know something’s wrong with you. What’s going on?”

You swallow hard and cross your arms over your chest, dropping your gaze away from Seungkwan’s very intense one.

“Nothing,” you lie.

“Bullshit.”

“Seungkwan!”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, tipping his head forward and running his hands through his hair. He’s never been a coddler, always one to prefer the tough-love approach: it’s no surprise that he doesn’t appear any softer when he looks back at you. “But we both know that’s crap.”

You can feel your pulse starting to quicken the longer he stares you down. It’s as if he’s burning two great big holes into your head, laser-beams where his pupils ought to be. He’s the master of the hard stare, and you know he won’t move until he hears the truth.

Maybe I should just tell him. Maybe it’ll help…

“Look, I don’t care how famous he thinks he’s gonna be, if Vernon upset you last night, I’ll kick his ass myself.”

And there are the alarm bells. In hindsight, maybe you should’ve seen this coming; it’s not that far of a reach, and given the few facts that he actually knows, you can’t blame Seungkwan for jumping to this conclusion. It’s quite effective in triggering you to speak up, too. (You think that maybe, this was on purpose. Attack where you’re likely to defend. He knows you like the back of his hand.) In an instant you’re sitting upright with your feet firmly on the floor and you’re shaking your head at him like a dog trying to get itself dry.

“No, no, no, back it up,” you rush. “It’s nothing like that. He hasn’t done anyth-... God, it’s not him.”

“It better not be,” Seungkwan tells you. His voice still has that dark edge to it, and you’re not sure how exactly to stamp it out. “I’m serious. If he’s done anything-...”

“He hasn’t,” you say more firmly. After a couple slow breaths, you clasp your hands together, swallowing your pride. “The food’s gonna go cold. Go grab a couple glasses and-... whatever else from the kitchen—”

“Only if you tell me what’s happening,” he says, slowly pushing himself up to stand.

You don’t assent with words, but you don’t have to. You look up at him and nod a couple of times and that’s all he needs. Seungkwan strides off through the doorway, leaving you to shakily exhale away the stress that is once again squeezing at your lungs.

Once the containers are laid out on the table, food is divided up, utensils are handed over and he’s poured you each out a glass of soda, Seungkwan sits back on the couch. He doesn’t prod you, or ask you again – he doesn’t need to. You know what he’s waiting for. Even so, he allows you a few mouthfuls of your dinner first: seeing as this is the first substantial thing you’ve eaten all day, you silently thank him for the generosity.

“All right,” you say, gulping down a few mouthfuls of your drink to re-lubricate your throat. “Okay. Fuck – you’re gonna wanna make yourself comfy for this.”

The only way he moves is to pick up one of the food cartons and settle it on his thigh. Oh, how you wish you were joking. But if he really doesn’t want to heed your warning…

“You know I went on that date the other week?” You ask, biting the inside of your cheek. Seungkwan nods at you, lifting a helping of noodles out of the carton.

“With the hitter and quitter,” he confirms. “I remember.”

“Right,” you say. “Well – okay, wait, no. That’s a bad start. He didn’t do anything either.”

“I mean…”

“Not the time.”

He lifts his free hand up in surrender and gestures for you to continue as he slurps his food into his mouth. You clear your throat, bouncing one leg so rapidly that the decorative candle holder on your mantelpiece starts to rattle.

“So… it was before the date. I was on my way to the bar, walking down past-... that convenient store. You know the one Chan keeps going into ‘cause he’s got the hots for the person who works there on a Friday night? Yeah, I was walking down that way. Actually running on time for once, and-...”

You falter, sucking a breath deep into your lungs. It causes your next words to come out more strained than they ought to.

“I ran into Jaehyun...”

Seungkwan swallows just in time to prevent himself from choking on his mouthful of food, but his eyes still shoot wide and you think his chest convulses a little bit anyway. His is a name you haven’t mentioned in a while, but he clearly hasn’t forgotten who it belongs to.

Because, well… how could he ever forget?

Your ex-partner. Jaehyun.

The ex-love-of-your-life, Jaehyun.

The man who asked you to marry him after three and a half years of dating only to leave you, heartbroken and alone, six months later because he wanted to travel the world and there was too much that you couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind, Jaehyun.

How could Seungkwan forget when he had been one of the people who helped drag you through what was not only the worst break-up, but one of the worst times of your entire life?

Aside from the other week, it’s been… nearly eighteen months since you saw him last. Almost a year since you let yourself talk about him. Even sitting in your own apartment with a box full of your favourite food in your hands, a sense of dread chills you from head to toe just going so far as to say his name. But you’ve started, now, so you might as well finish.

“…right outside that stupid fucking store.”

Your voice cracks when you say it and you hurry to set your dinner down on the floor to free up your shaking hands. You cup them over your mouth, closing your eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. It helps enough for you to be able to continue, even if you still feel a bit like you’re drowning.

“I thought he…” Seungkwan starts, putting his own food down and slipping off the couch. He comes to sit on the arm of your chair and puts a hand around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “When did-...?”

“Yeah, uh… apparently he moved back a couple weeks ago,” you swallow, leaning into your friend’s embrace.

Seungkwan looks down at you and you look up at him, all misty-eyed and drained. There’s more. He knows there is, but now he waits for you patiently, giving you all the time in the world to get through this and to let it out and to lean on him. He doesn’t butt in. The quiet feels worse than the talking.

“He’s with someone now. They, uh— they met in Paris. Just over a year ago.”

Seungkwan finally dares to make a noise and breathes out heavily, so loud that it’s almost a groan.

“Y/n,” he sighs, tightening his hold around you. “Shit – I’m so sorry,”

You shrug, staring across the room to where your record player sits on top of a low cabinet, lid open, table collecting dust.

“For months, I sat here feeling… fucking, sorry for myself,” you say, barely above a whisper. You swallow around the lump in your throat and shake your head. “This whole time, refusing to get back on the horse ‘cause I thought maybe-... but he was-…”

The room goes quiet again as you lose the words you want to say and Seungkwan just rubs small circles against your arm. The problem is that you know this doesn’t explain why you called out of work today. It doesn’t explain what happened last night, and you’re not sure where to begin with that either. Especially seeing as the last time your best friends saw you and Vernon, the sparks flying between you were nigh-on visible.

“I thought I was handling it, you know?” You sigh, leaning harder into Seungkwan’s soft sweatshirt. “Like… yeah — it hurt… but I was okay? I guess. And then Vernon fucking… kissed me last night—“

“He— what?”

“Hang on — no, he… I wanted him to.” You fumble with a thread hanging off the sleeve of your t-shirt as you talk. Why is this all so difficult? At the same time, why does it feel so juvenile to say out loud? “I just… I don’t know…”

Your wall clock tick, tick, ticks away in yet another painful fall of silence.

“How bad was he?” Seungkwan asks when you struggle to elaborate.

You assume this is an attempt to shatter the gloomy atmosphere and lighten your mood a tiny bit; it works, you suppose, because despite yourself, you laugh drily. Not without nudging your shoulder into his ribs, though. He deserves it, and you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that it does make you feel a little better.

“He wasn’t,” you groan. “Don’t—… you’re such an ass.”

He pulls himself away from you at the sound of your laughter and moves to sit on the edge of your coffee table instead, careful not to disrupt any of your food while keeping himself close enough to you that he can hold both of your hands in his and soothe his thumbs over your palms.

“You freaked out on him, didn’t you?”

He sees straight through you and truthfully, no part of you is surprised. No part of you tries to fight it, or reject his assumption, or even question why that’s the first explanation he leapt to. You just nod, looking to where your best friend’s fingers are currently the only things holding you together.

“Ran out his apartment like the building was gonna burn down,” you sigh, still laughing but harshly now. He squeezes your hands gently, urging you to look up at him. You do, slowly. “It’s ruined everything.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Seungkwan tries, narrowing his eyes at you when you scoff your obvious disagreement. “No, seriously. Anyone can see the poor guy’s got it bad for you.”

“Even if that’s right, you didn’t see his face,” you say. “God, he isn’t gonna wanna look at me ever again.”

“Have you spoken to him today?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Maybe if you explain what happened–”

“Oh, sure,” you snort. “‘Hey, Vernon. Sorry for running out on you like a lunatic yesterday. I ran into my ex recently and when you kissed me, it reminded me of being with him and I got freaked out and had to dash. Hope you don’t mind.’ God.”

You try to draw your hands back but Seungkwan just holds onto you tighter. “We’ll workshop it,” he says firmly. “Do you like him, or not?”

“Seungkwan–”

“That wasn’t an option.”

You scowl at him. “It’s not that easy.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“Yes,” you stress finally, groaning through it. “Yes – I do.”

Seungkwan’s face lights up for a second, his eyes sparkling, lips lifting. You’re half expecting him to say ‘I knew it’. Half expecting him to try and be all deep and philosophical and a little bit motherly, as he sometimes does, especially when you’re upset. He’s always been a sucker for a happy ending. But this isn’t a happy ending, you remind yourself, squaring your jaw. It’s past that, already. It isn’t going to happen, you just know it.

“Stop being so fucking hard on yourself,” he tells you, squeezing your hands one last time before he lets go and moves back over to the couch so he can finish eating before his food goes cold. “If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”

You’re not sure what’s in the air right now, but this has been one of the busiest weekends that you can remember. Both yesterday and today, almost as soon as the store opened, your first handful of customers came through. Apart from about an hour around lunchtime, you don’t think there have been any periods of time where you’ve not had someone milling around the shelves. It makes a nice change, really, from some of your weekend shifts – hours at a time where the dust starts to settle and hardly anyone disturbs the bell above the front door. But this means you’ve been in full customer-service mode basically all day, and you’re starting to feel exhausted from keeping up the persona.

Still. There’s only an hour or so left — you can push through, and when you get home, there’ll be a nice, hot bubble bath with your name written all over it.

The bell chimes again just as you finish serving a group of teenage girls. You watch them scurry away, excitedly giggling about their new albums and you look towards the door with a smile already plastered on, all ready to greet the new customer until your eyes lock with theirs.

A ‘hey, how’s it going?’ stops somewhere midway up your throat, a pathetic little ‘huh?’ sound escaping you in its place. You’re frozen all of a sudden; you and the man who just came in both stand perfectly still, staring at each other like a pair of bunnies in headlights. It takes you forever to register the strap wrapped around his fist, the purse that hangs just below his grip. My bag, you think to yourself, but the voice that narrates your thoughts is hushed for the first time ever, too. Everything in your head gets sucked away into a little vacuum. The only thing left is him.

“I-… thought you might want this back.” Vernon breaks the quiet first. Your throat runs dry. In a flash, the noise in your brain is as loud as it’s ever been and in amongst all the chaos of thoughts and questions and apologies, you can’t pick out the words you actually want to say.

He slowly unravels the strap from around his hand and takes a few steps closer to you, inching towards the counter.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he hurries to assure you. Your heart aches for how reserved and nervous he looks. It doesn’t suit him. You hate it. “It’s okay. I’m… really sorry, about the other night. I didn’t mean to—” A deep breath. “I’ll see you around.”

Vernon lays your bag so delicately on the wooden surface that you could be forgiven for thinking he was handling an explosive. Then, he takes one, two, three steps back, before turning and heading to the exit.

“Wait—” you call out to him, finding your voice at the most critical time, right as his fingers curl around the door handle. “Wait—, please.”

He spins back around to face you as you slip out from behind the desk. His left brow lifts higher than the right but otherwise, he gives nothing away. He doesn’t even say anything as he stands there, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

You swallow around the golf ball sized lump taking residence in your throat and clasp your hands together in front of you, wringing and twisting and accidentally popping one of your knuckles in the process. “I shouldn’t have run out on you like that. It wasn’t fair.”

Vernon chews this over in his mind but ultimately just shrugs his shoulders at you. What is there to say? He surely agrees, but he seems so adamant to ensure you don’t feel bad about it happening that he just… says nothing. Again. It’s kind of maddening, even if you fully get why.

“No, I mean it,” you try again. “It wasn’t you. It’s nothing you did.”

“We really don’t have to do the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing,” Vernon offers, his cardboard-like posture softening. There’s even a little bit of a smile on his face, you think — but it’s not the kind of smile you’ve grown used to seeing on him. It doesn’t reach his eyes; he looks kind of like someone who has read their cards and accepted their fate. “Seriously. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” you stress, stepping closer to him again. You sigh deeply. There’s something almost relieving about the position you find yourself in. You suppose this really is crunch time; it’s now or never. “Can we… talk? About everything?”

“What? Here?” Vernon asks.

You glance around the store, at the few people doing a very poor job of pretending to be minding their own business, and frown. He’s right. This isn’t the time, or the place. The problem is, you have a feeling that if you send him away, he may not decide to come back and listen to you. In his defence, why should he? He’s already done more than the decent thing and brought you back that which you abandoned in his apartment; several of your previous conquests would have shoved the bag and its contents either in the trash or the back of a closet somewhere. This is more than you could have hoped for.

You hold a finger up to him and ask him to stay where he is, and though he looks a little bewildered at the gesture, he ultimately doesn’t move. You rush off out the back to the storeroom where you banished Chan an hour ago, on account of his raging hangover and your low tolerance for his whining about it; you’re genuinely surprised to find him working, and actually alphabetising the records you got in a few days ago like you asked him to.

“Hey. Can you do me a huge favour?” You ask, not announcing your arrival and subsequently scaring Chan out of his skin. He jolts as he hears your voice and claps a hand to his chest, exhaling hard. You don’t entertain his dramatics, though. There’s no time. “I need you to close today.”

“Huh?” He asks, still acting as if he’s trying to catch his breath. “I thought–”

“Please.” You wave him off, knowing he’s about to ask about the task you gave him. “We can look at this together tomorrow. You did great. It’s just an hour – is that okay?”

He chews the inside of his lip, almost looking disappointed. To be fair to him, he did look like he was in a groove when you appeared, but he doesn’t argue with you as he puts down the record in his hand and picks his phone up off the table to his right, silencing the catchy tune that was playing while he organised.

“Of course it is,” he says, holding his hand out for your keys and starting to walk towards you. “Everything okay?”

“It-...” you start, faltering as you place the store keys in his waiting palm. Your default response was about to be ‘it’s fine’, but you’re trying harder these days to stop pretending, especially around him. So you swallow, nodding your head, flashing him a tight lipped smile. “I’m about to find out.”

“Oh? Is it…?”

A brief pause later, not before cringing at how predictable you’ve apparently become, you say, “yeah.”

Chan claps you on the shoulder as he skirts his way around you, leaning in to give you a sort of side-along hug on his way. You stretch your arm across his waist and pull him closer for a moment, trying to drive home how much you appreciate this. He doesn’t comment on the uncharacteristic display of affection, and you want to find out why, but Vernon isn’t going to wait around for you forever.

“Go get him, tiger,” Chan whispers.

“I owe you, big time,” you promise.

He winks at you before he disappears through the door and you follow him briefly, but as he does a round of checking in with your customers and making sure they don’t need any help, you hurry off to grab your jacket from the office.

Vernon is exactly where you left him when you come back out into the storefront, hands unmoved from where he stuffed them into his pockets earlier, rocking back and forth on his toes and looking around from wall to wall. You think perhaps he took your request slightly too literally and the fact that even his feet are in the same position as before you left is reminiscent of a puppy commanded to stay, but if anyone here is at liberty to start poking fun, you think that it certainly isn’t you. Instead of trying your luck, you lock the office door and walk up to him, returning his polite, yet slightly awkward smile.

“You’re not, like, super busy right now or anything, are you?” You ask him.

His brows crease and his eyes shift side-to-side before they land back at you. He shakes his head.

“Did you maybe wanna… take a walk?”

Vernon nods this time, still not moving or even pulling his hands out of his jeans. His elbows are locked out and the length of his arms means his shoulders are raised quite some way. He could not be more uncomfortable looking if he tried, but he doesn’t say no and nothing on his face gives away that he wants to reject your proposition, either, so you’re the one to take that tentative first step towards the door. When you do, he follows.

You left the store at least ninety seconds ago and still, neither of you have said anything yet. Honestly, it’s taking all you’ve got not to just burst and let it all out; it’s building and building and your stomach feels tight, but it’s less of a knot and more like a tightly-coiled spring. His eyes are dipped to the ground, incredibly aware of every step he takes, in what you realise now are a gorgeous pair of platform boots tucked up beneath his baggy jeans. He’s at least an inch and a half taller than the last time you saw him.

“Your friend,” Vernon starts finally, pausing before he continues. “Is he always so… you know?”

“What did he say?” You ask, peeking over to him. Trust Chan to start getting —

He hurries to shake his head. “Nothing. He just… kept looking at me. In a weird way, like…”

“Like he knows something you don’t, and he’s not gonna tell you, but he wants you to know that he knows it anyway?” You supply.

“Yeah— exactly like that.”

“Mm. That’s just… Chan.”

“Huh.”

“It’s worse when they’re together,” you say. He breathes out a chuckle and you feel his elbow bump into your upper arm. The distance he put between you when you fell into step outside the store has reduced, you realise now; you’re not sure when, or if it was on purpose. Did he move closer once you started speaking? Was it just so he could hear you better? Or…

Either way, despite being side-by-side, he still feels a hundred miles away from you. This isn’t enough.

“You get used to them, though,” you add, trying to stay on track. “I swear.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Jokes aside, he still won’t look at you for longer than a few seconds, which tugs at something deep in your chest. Discomfort clings to you, and even if it does seem like you’re making some progress, you can still feel unease radiating off him. A cheap laugh at the expense of your friends who aren’t here to defend themselves won’t fix that which you took a wrecking ball to a few nights ago. This needs to be heartfelt and genuine, and more importantly it needs to come out right.

But when you open your mouth to speak, still searching your brain for the right way to explain why you acted the way you did, there’s nothing.

How wonderful would it be for the perfect explanation to just tumble from your lips calmly and evenly, and for it to make everything okay? But the reality is that your throat runs dry as petrol fumes make their way through your parted lips. You hold your tongue again just a second later, sighing quietly.

You’re starting to feel like a lost cause when Vernon breaks the silence for you, again. He slows his steps to a halt when he eventually says, “so.”

“So,” you repeat, freezing mid-stride as you go completely tense. It’s like you’re staring into oblivion’s wide open mouth. “I-… don’t really know where to start. I’m sorry.”

“The beginning’s usually pretty good?” He offers.

You nod. “How much did you want to know?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with telling me.”

If anyone on this Earth deserves a medal for their patience, it’s Vernon. You still haven’t turned to face him yet, your eyes fixated on the traffic signal some fifty yards away from you and you’re pretty sure if someone poked you too hard, you’d shatter into a million tiny pieces. But, as impossible as it seems all the while you try to get your thoughts in a reasonable order, you manage to swallow your nerves.

It’s crunch time. It’s now or never.

The explanation you give him is messy. Disjointed. But once you start, it becomes difficult to stop: you end up sparing very little detail and circle back on yourself no less than three times. You tell him about how you were engaged and about the breakup, the run-in, your shitty date, gesturing with your hands to emphasise the most important parts. When you start to move again, Vernon makes his steps bigger until he’s walking alongside you. He never interrupts you. He acknowledges every sentence when you pause for breath. Encourages you to keep going when you fall over your words.

“… and—... I guess I just lost my head. But it wasn’t your fault.” You swallow hard before you continue, “I’m… really sorry.”

He nods slowly, taking his time to digest everything.

“Don’t be,” he says, lightly bumping into your side. It’s a very small reassurance that he’s not going to walk away, but it means much more to you than you’re sure he meant it to. “I get it.”

“I—”

“No, like. I get it.”

“Yeah?” You ask, only understanding when you catch the very pointed look in his eyes.

“For sure.”

Of course, it makes sense. Vernon’s young. Attractive. Nice. Talented. He must have been with people before. Hell, you think he surely leaves a trail of broken hearts everywhere he goes. He gets it.

“We dated for like… five? Years. Her name was Nari,” he tells you.

A few seconds later, you watch him start to shrug off his jacket on one side and expose one of his toned arms to you. You’re about to tell him he doesn’t need to air his dirty laundry out if he doesn’t want to when he twists at his elbow; you catch sight of a tattoo you remember having seen the night he wore that black singlet on stage. Two lily flowers blooming up the inside of his bicep.

It’s so pretty. Intricate. The line work is beautiful, the petals shaded with hundreds of little dots. You wanted to ask about it that night, but you never found the right chance, and now—

Lily?

It takes you longer than you’re willing to admit to join the dots, but when the penny finally drops, so does your jaw. Vernon slides back into his sleeve with a big, entertained smile and a little shrug.

“Mhm.”

“Oh my God?”

“I know.”

It’s not that you’re laughing, per se. This isn’t your baggage to laugh at, no matter how unbothered Vernon seems to be by what he’s just revealed. But you do rub your hand over your face and cover your lips, shaking your head in disbelief as a breath that contains the edges of a bemused chuckle escapes you. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind; if anything, it appears to give him a boost to keep talking.

“I got that on our third anniversary,” he goes on to explain. “A couple years later… She called it quits. Turns out there was another guy. I thought about lasering it, but… apparently that hurts worse than getting the tattoo in the first place, so…”

“That’s…”

“It’s whatever,” Vernon says, shaking his head. “They’re my mom’s favourite flowers too. That’s what almost everyone else thinks it’s for.”

You haven’t looked back up at his face since the unveiling, not until now. When your eyes meet again, Vernon tilts his head in the direction you’re walking and continues down the street, spinning now so he’s walking backwards but still facing you. “I just mean... It’s okay. I get it.”

The moment you’ve caught up to him and you’re back by his side, he turns to face front, just in time to avoid a collision with a streetlamp. The lingering awkwardness starts to fade to nothing; you can see it in the way he holds himself, and you can feel it in the way you do, too. Everything relaxes. Your neck, your shoulders, your fists. It all ebbs away.

“It really wasn’t anything you did,” you clarify once more.

“So you keep telling me,” Vernon quips, tips of his ears turning pinker by the moment. “It’s okay, I swear. Do you want me to walk you home?”

You accept his offer and lead him down a side-street, picking up a completely unrelated conversation now to purify the air. Before you really know it (what was that everyone always said about time flying?), you come to a stop outside your building. Vernon’s sentence fades away when you stop moving; instead he stills, glancing sideways, and you nod confirmation at him with a lopsided smile.

“This is me,” you say, reaching into your back pocket for your keys. “So…”

“So,” Vernon echoes, glancing around again. “Can I like, lay my cards out, real quick?”

You nod.

“I like you.” He shrugs, now toying with the leather bracelet around his wrist. “Like, a lot. But…”

But. You feel like you should have seen this coming. But. But. Of course there’s a—

“I’ve got some shows coming up out of town and I need to see some family, I’m not gonna be here from tomorrow for like, three weeks...”

Oh.

Well. On one hand, it’s not what you thought. It’s not a flat-out rejection. It’s not a shut down. On the other? You bite the inside of your cheek and look at your hands, playing with your keys to keep them busy. Under any other lens, three weeks isn’t really a very long time at all. You’re pretty sure that the milk you bought yesterday is going to last longer than that. But three weeks… this early into things?

That’s longer than you’ve even known him.

“… and I thought, if you wanted — I could… take you out. When I get back. For real. Maybe.”

Oh.

“Like…?”

“Like… on a date,” he confirms, rubbing the back of his neck. “One where I’m not like… fresh off stage and all gross and shit.”

Relief replaces anxiety on both his face and yours when you let out a quiet laugh.

“I’d really like that,” you say, twitching fingers suddenly still. “Yeah.”

“I’m not asking you to like, wait around, or anything,” he says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, fumbles with it, and just barely manages to soften the fall with the toe of his boot before it lands screen-up on the concrete. “We’ll just see how it goes. And it gives you some time to… deal with things. Whatever you’ve gotta do.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest as he bends low to pick his phone back up, smoothing his thumb over the small scuff on the protective case. It seems remarkably undamaged otherwise.

“And if you’re still interested, then…”

“Interested?” You ask with a small grin.

“Aren’t you?” Vernon asks.

“I—...” You think about playing coy, but when he’s been so open with you about where his head’s at, it feels so silly and childish to bother pretending. That playful ‘I might be’ gets swallowed back. Instead – “Yeah. I am.”

“Cool. Then we’ll figure it out. At your pace, okay?”

“Okay.”

He grabs his earphones out of his other pocket, slides one in, and is about to step back away from you when you do something you don’t really expect yourself to. Something you’ve never done to a man you can barely even say you’re ‘seeing’. You close the space between you and, as if to lock in your words, push forward onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you say when you fall back down to your heels. If he wasn’t so dumbstruck, you feel like he’d be about to ask what you were thanking him for; as it stands though, he’s frozen, blushing, and the only reason you can tell he’s still alive is because he can’t stop blinking at you. “For… giving me another chance.”

He still can’t quite find his voice, so Vernon just shakes his head, clearing his throat. (No need, he wants to say.) Alas, his lips just open and close soundlessly.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” you supply for him. He takes in a deep, mind-clearing breath and nods his head.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

You see the apples of his cheeks lift as he presses his thumb against his phone screen and restarts whatever song he was listening to when he walked into your store. A brilliant smile consumes his face. It only grows as he turns away from you and walks off down the street.

For a second, you think it’s all very smooth. Movie-like, even.

Then, he stumbles over a crack in the pavement. When he glances back to pray you didn’t watch it happen, he catches you snickering into your fist. He shakes his head and continues on, leaving you to fumble with your key in the lock before you finally let yourself inside.

You overslept.

Sort of. You heard your alarm go off straight away but you might have snoozed it, and when you heard it sound for a second time, you turned it off completely, telling yourself that you just needed one more minute. You just wanted to rest your eyes for a few more seconds. There wasn’t any danger of you going back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, you practically fell off your mattress in a panic when you realised that there had, in fact, been a big fucking danger.

You were still able to wash up well and make it to work on time, but you had to sacrifice your morning coffee stop after seeing that the queue at the register was going to take too long. For years, you’ve refused to consider yourself to be the kind of person who relies heavily on a caffeine kick first thing in the morning, but today? It’s barely ten thirty and you’re seriously flagging: like you’ve never known what energy is, like you’ll never feel it again.

(You blame the fact that when you first looked at your phone today before rolling back over, there was no ‘good morning :)’ text to entice you out of bed. But you’re trying really hard not to think about why that is, nor why it was such a deciding factor.)

So, when the bell above your shop door jingles and you’re forced to stand upright (a change your back doesn’t thank you for when it has to readjust from the previous hunched position you had adopted over the countertop), you groan quietly. Nonetheless, your tired eyes crease at the corners as you smile at whoever it is that’s come across the threshold.

After a second, your eyes refocus; when you can finally make out their features, it’s as if someone gives you a shot of adrenaline.

“Oh my God,” You say breathlessly, brushing your hair back and moving to stand up fully unsupported. “I thought you weren’t back until Friday?”

“Change of plans,” Vernon grins, scratching the back of his neck. “We drove through the night. I got home like… an hour ago.”

This is the first time you’ve ever seen him dressed down, and hell, does he look incredible. Gone are the ripped jeans, scuffed boots, the leather jackets and chunky rings. Grey sweatpants and an oversized white hoodie (alternatively: the brightest outfit you’ve witnessed him in thus far) drown him, blurring out his usually so distinct frame. You pin both of these things as the reasons you hardly recognised him when your eyes were refusing to cooperate. Paired with what Seungkwan would call ‘dad-sneakers’ and completed by messy hair and tired, soft eyes?

If you could jump his bones right here, right now… God, you would.

“But hey, it’s nice to see you, too,” he adds facetiously.

“Quiet down,” you groan, fighting the urge to run over and envelop him in a hug. You’re not sure that he’d mind if you did, but you also don’t quite know if you’re ‘there’, yet. “Obviously it’s good to-...”

His arms, both of which have been stuck behind his back since he arrived, now move around to the front, revealing to you a takeout cup and a little brown box from the coffee shop down the street.

“Oh, shit. It is so good to see you.”

Vernon laughs, coming closer until he can set them both down on the counter. “If it’s wrong, Seungkwan gave me your order, so.”

You start to wonder how on Earth your employee and your… Vernon managed to have this conversation without you knowing. Does Seungkwan have his number? Did they happen across each other on one of their socials? Did Vernon call into the store while you were out in the bathroom a little while ago and ask? But whatever happened, you quickly stop caring to find out: popping the lid off your cup, the aroma of your favourite coffee immediately fills your senses. It’s so overwhelming that you think you might start to cry.

“Oh my God. You’re the best,” you sigh, wrapping your fingers around the cup and taking a long sip, eyes rolling back into your head. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Vernon laughs, rolling up his sleeves before folding his toned forearms over his chest. “I got you a-... okay, they only had those gluten free brownies in, and I’ll be honest, I don’t know if they taste the same as the normal ones but… like, he said you hadn’t eaten today and I know you said you liked brownies before, — if you don’t like those ones, it’s okay! I can go back, it’s–”

He trails off, cheeks turning pink when you tilt your head to one side and feel your brow go soft. He asks, “why… are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re so cute,” you say, putting the cup down gently so as not to splash your drink all over the counter.

“Huh?”

“You really didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” Vernon says, shaking his head.

You almost definitely hear a floorboard creak and quiet shushing sound from just around the corner towards the back room. You don’t call out your eavesdropping friends for trying to listen in on your conversation, though: it barely even crosses your mind. Besides... you can’t take your eyes off Vernon, even if you wanted to. He looks so soft. Like he needs to sleep for a whole twenty four hours, and he must feel like it too, but he came here first.

“So,” he starts, tapping his right thumb against the inside of his left elbow. (The reason why he came so quickly starts to become evident. He just couldn’t wait to ask.) “You don’t have to commit to anything right now…” The silver of one of his rings glints with every tiny movement. “…but, I was just wondering–”

Smiling at him over the top of your coffee cup, it feels like your heart could burst.

“I was just… wondering… if you’d thought any more about letting me take you out?”

You’ve been texting him almost every day since he left. He’s sent you a hundred and one pictures of statues and cool buildings and nice looking food and the sky, and far more animals than you think you’ve ever actually seen in real life. You’ve spoken to him about your strange customers. What’s going on with your friends. Sent him recommendations for songs that you discovered on obscure albums that you pulled out to play over the speakers.

One night after one of his shows, he called you. He was a little bit drunk at the time, chilling in his hotel room with a pizza as he informed you that he’d snuck out of an after-party super early but couldn’t get to sleep. With an audible pout, he went on to confess that he was feeling kind of lonely, that he just wanted to hear your voice: one thing led to another and you stayed up talking to him until he passed out at nearly 4 o’clock in the morning.

To put it simply…

“I’d still really like that,” you say. It’s incredible to you that you can see every one of his features brighten up.

“Okay,” he breathes, unwinding his arms and pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants now instead. “Okay, cool. I’ll… text you later? We’ll figure something out?”

“All right,” you agree. “Now go rest up, okay?”

He laughs as he swears that he’ll go back home and get some sleep, and with that, Vernon takes his leave. You’re once again alone, but this time you have a drink that could only hope to make you feel as energised as he does, and a treat nowhere near as sweet as him.

You aren’t complaining, though, and neither are the two men that miraculously reappear the moment the door closes again.

The smile Vernon leaves on your face doesn’t falter for the rest of your day.

You suppose a big part of the reason you haven’t dated anyone in a while is because you can’t stand the ‘talking stage’. That weird little limbo where you’re never sure if it’s too early to make certain jokes, where you’re checking and second-guessing all your texts, where you can’t figure out if someone’s really into you or if they’re just blowing up your phone to pass the time. The awkward small talk. The ‘getting to know each other’ part. The ‘why haven’t they replied yet — was it something I said?’ anxiety.

Thankfully, with Vernon, that’s not really something you have to worry about.

While he was away, you learned that he’s the kind of guy who just spews random facts at you in the middle of his day and then forgets to check his messages for three hours. Sometimes those facts are interesting things about himself. Other times, you’ve known him to shoot you a text just to announce [ just found out tigers have striped skin as well as fur. wild ].

(On one such occasion, Chan caught you giggling at your phone in the middle of a quiet Thursday afternoon, zooming in on a picture of Vernon’s heart shaped birthmark. This put a swift end to checking your messages while you’re at work.)

[ btw, im allergic to peanuts ], he told you one evening. Completely unprompted, just after dinner time. You spilled half of your glass of juice down your front in panic when you put two and two together and scrambled to ask him if he was okay. [ near miss, dw about it! just felt important haha ], he replied, and your response was just a picture of your newly stained t-shirt and a request for him to never do that to you again.

He can drive — at least, he has his licence — but he doesn’t have a car. He chooses public transport, and he tells you that it’s because he likes not having to worry about fuel prices and it’s ‘healing’ to zone out of reality on the train until he reaches his stop. He tells you that he came up with the melody and two verses of one of his favourite original songs on the bus to his parents house, and one time, he dropped a giant cockroach on a class field trip to the zoo because it tickled when it crawled over his palm and he didn’t like it.

(You later discovered that this piece of information was triggered by the appearance of a large bug in his shower.)

Last night, as you settled into bed after a whole evening of back and forth, he told you that he has all five of the top scores at the piano game in the arcade downtown, and that he has an approximate 75% success rate on claw machines. When you replied saying you hadn’t been to an arcade in about two years, he was horrified. Enough to send 7 broken heart emojis back to back, as individual messages. [ shakespeare himself couldnt write a tragedy that sad ], he said.

But, harrowed as he was by your admission, it did give him an idea.

That idea is exactly how you end up standing side-by-side at a basketball shootout game on Friday night. It’s how he ends up winning one of those cute reversible octopuses — true enough, on a claw machine — which he gives to you immediately. It’s how you watch him hunch over a pinball machine for twenty five minutes before he loses his ball, how you end up tied after four games of air hockey, at which point he calls it quits while citing a ‘cramping hand’.

It’s also how you deliver his ass to him in not one, but two rounds of bowling.

“All right — all right,” Vernon laughs, holding both his hands up in defeat as your final ball takes out all ten pins at the end of the alley. “You made your point. Damn.”

You shrug your shoulders as you walk back in his direction, picking up your glass from the table and sipping your soda through your straw.

(Though the arcade has an entire menu of cocktails, some of which you’ve never even heard of, the thought of navigating an evening alone with him under the influence of alcohol was totally unappealing after last time. Thankfully, Vernon agreed. You quietly think that being stone cold sober has made tonight even more enjoyable.)

“I told you,” you say when you finally sit down. He puts an arm around your shoulders straight away. Naturally, like it’s instinct. Like it’s a position he’s adopted a few hundred times before. “I’m undefeated.”

“We’ll see,” he says, tapping out a rhythm on the ball of your shoulder. “I still think you just got lucky.”

“So,” Vernon says once your leisurely stroll back lands you outside his place, kicking the toe of his left sneaker into the concrete. “What… are the chances that I get a do-over?”

You blink at him a few times, tilting your head. “What do you mean, a do-over?”

Does he not think this went well? Gods, it’s probably the best first date you’ve ever had, but what on Earth else could he mean by that? Did you say something earlier, and not realise? Has he not had fun? What does he m–

“I got these new coffee beans,” he says. “While I was away — and I figured something out with the-… the machine? So— ”

Ah. There he is.

You smirk at him, patting the outside of his bicep and rolling your eyes. When you glance down, Vernon is pulling out his key, thumbing over the ridges down the one side. He reaches for the door, happy to take your teasing as confirmation that yes, you’ll come up. Yes, he gets his ‘do-over’...

…but leave it to you to fall for the world’s dorkiest rockstar.

As he slips the key into his apartment door, there’s a steady pressure against the small of your back: the same one that’s been there ever since he gestured for you to step out of the elevator before him. One of his palms rests over the fabric of your t-shirt and you feel weirdly tingly because of it. He gently guides you inside once the door falls open and doesn’t move away when it’s locked again behind him.

With an anticipatory shiver, you turn around to face him. You make a point to leave just a matter of inches between your chests. To have your eyes soft, patiently waiting.

Vernon’s hands are - for the first time ever - cold when his fingers hesitantly come up to either side of your face, tilting your head up so that he can see you better, unobstructed by any shadows. You gasp at the contrast between them and your flushed, warm cheeks. He swallows thickly at the sound.

“Is this… okay?” he asks, gaze darting between the space separating your eyes from your lips. “We can slow it down, if you want. I just—...”

Your own hands find home against his chest in response, fingers curling into the muscle beneath them. Not harshly, definitely not so much that it could hurt — just enough that it makes him puff himself up a little bigger. Enough to make him square his shoulders as he drags a thumb over the corner of your mouth.

“Vernon,” you say quietly, pressing him backwards. Balling his t-shirt into your fists, you send him stumbling over his own feet before his shoulders find the wood of the front door. A quiet grunt escapes him on impact, but he just holds you closer. “Shut up ‘n’ kiss me. Please.”

Clumsiness aside, the moment he obediently ducks his head and presses his smiling mouth to yours, you feel weightless. Even when you tilt forward onto your toes to meet him halfway, it’s as if you’re not even touching the ground anymore: clouds beneath your feet have you floating. Everything about it is so very different from the last time.

It’s so much easier. Not just for you, either – you can feel it from him as well. Your collective baggage has been left out in the hall, barricading the door, shutting out the hesitation and nervousness and leaving you together, wholly alone, to just… be.

Vernon gets increasingly more brave as the seconds tick by. When you separate for air, his head tilts the other way, lips a little parted, hot breaths fanning over your skin as he meets you again, and again, and again. It’s the perfect give and take. Firm one second, waiting for you to chase him the next. The soft sounds he starts to make are amplified as his tongue presses against your bottom lip: he tests the waters, groaning into the heat of your mouth when you so happily invite him into it. He drinks you up for all you’re worth.

One of your hands uncurls from his chest and moves up to his head instead, threading into his hair at the top of his neck. It feels just as soft as it’s always looked, sliding through your fingers. A gentle pull makes him whine. He draws away from you. His lips are pink and shine with the gloss you touched up in the elevator’s mirror, his lids are heavy, his pupils blown, and looking up at him feels like staring into the sun; you physically can’t keep your eyes open, but it’s so hard to look away.

You tuck yourself into his neck as a compromise, laying gentle pecks everywhere you can reach. His aftershave leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as you touch the tip to a stretch of skin just beneath the harsh cut of his jawline, but the way he shudders and drops his hold down to your waist makes the sting in the back of your mouth all worth it. You only stop when one of his hands sinks lower still and he squeezes at your ass, making your eyes roll back.

He mistakes your surprise for hesitation, though.

“Is this… okay?” he asks, tipping his head back and pressing his crown into the door. Though he doesn’t withdraw his palm from your backside, he also doesn’t pinch at you again. You press your hips backwards, pushing into his touch to encourage him, with this green light he starts to knead at your cheek over the top of your skirt.

“You have no idea how hard it is to keep my hands to myself around you, do you?” You say, slipping one up the hem of his t-shirt as if to prove your point, splaying your fingers out over his stomach.

He takes a shallow breath, hovering with it in his lungs, holding back from saying something. You get there before he can.

“I want you,” you say certainly, pulling back from where you’ve been nestled into his shoulder so that you can look him in the eyes again. He releases that breath and his face flushes when his eyes find yours, moving both of his hands back up to your waist, tightly gripping at you as if his life depends on it as he nods.

“I just… I really don’t wanna mess this up,” he adds quietly. “I—”

When you kiss him again, hoping to further assure that you’re just as into this as he is, he reciprocates, sure. You can tell straight away that there’s a little less bite though — a stiffness to him. He doesn’t relax into you the same way he did a few minutes ago.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, falling back onto your heels. Is this because of the way things went last time, or are you going too fast for him? Selfishly, you hadn’t considered that could be a barrier. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want, you know that right? It’s okay.”

You make to step away from Vernon, unwinding your arms from around him to give him some space but he refuses to let you go too far. His hold on you is just as firm as ever.

“Trust me, I want to,” he says. “It’s just–...”

You stay silent, waiting for him to finish. He chews at his bottom lip, his blush deepening right in front of your eyes. To try and steady him, you lay one of your palms over each of his biceps, saying, “Whatever it is – it’s all right.”

“I just… haven’t been with anyone since…”

And when you laugh, it’s not at him (at least, not for the reason a fly on the wall might initially assume). You drop your forehead down onto the muscle of his chest, feeling his heart’s erratic rhythm underneath his clothes as you loop one arm back up around his neck.

“I thought you were about to tell me something awful,” you chide him through your giggles, lightly swatting at his shoulder. He starts to loosen up beneath you, his own body beginning to shake with laughter too. Those strong arms pull you flush against him, the gentle shift of his weight from one foot to another rocking you both side-to-side. “Like– like you were secretly married or you realised you didn’t actually like me, or something. Jesus.”

He stays quiet for another few seconds, but even without speaking, you can feel how he shakes his head above you. You look back up at his face and brush his hair out of his eyes, fingers lingering on his brow when you’re done.

“It’s okay,” you tell him for the third time. The last wisps of anxiety start to fade from his eyes, replaced with the same look he’s been wearing since he showed up at your apartment door earlier this evening. “I don’t care — I promise, I’ll go easy on you.”

The kiss that follows lands hard and with it, Vernon succeeds in wiping your brain empty. You can barely remember what you were even giggling about a few seconds later.

“Don’t want you to go easy,” he insists against your lips. Then, he’s wallowing up your breathy sighs as he licks into your mouth again, pressing your tongue with his own, reminding you that he’s absolutely not incompetent, just rusty.

When you make it into his bedroom, confessions and various articles of your clothing forgotten out in the hallway, you separate from each other long enough for you to be able to to lay one hand on his bare chest and push him down onto the mattress. He bounces on the foam and pushes up on one elbow, watching as you sink down to your knees and press kisses down his stomach while your hands deftly take care of the button on his jeans.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” You say to him as he lifts his hips up and lets you pull both his jeans and his boxers down in one sharp movement.

“M’not gonna want you to,” he laughs breathlessly, pushing a hand through his hair as he kicks the remainder of his clothes all the way off and nudges them away to the side. “But yeah. Okay.”

He looks so pretty like this and you can’t help but think he’s even prettier when the first time you curl your fingers around his length, his jaw falls slack and his fingers curl into the bedding underneath him. You drink him in and he watches you do it; your mouth is watering, desperate to feel him press down on your tongue, and you feel a pull towards him that you’ve never felt towards anyone before.

“God,” you whisper, shuffling on your knees to get a little closer.

“Okay?” Vernon asks. He tilts his head to the side and you nod up at him.

“Just… had a feeling you’d be…” you trail off, tugging a few times to feel its thickness in your fingers. Why are you mesmerised by it, a little? What the hell has gotten into you? “But it’s actually bigger, and—”

He laughs quietly and falls back onto the bed, crossing an arm over his eyes. “Shut up,” he groans.

“Yes, sir.”

You lean towards him and gather saliva on your tongue, dragging it from base to tip before closing your lips around the head. He gasps softly and holds onto his next breath, angling his head back further; you give a satisfied hum and slide a little further down.

The glide is made smoother by the spit your tongue left behind and that which mixes with his pre-cum in your mouth. As you start to bob up and down, some dribbles out past your lips so you start to move your hand, too, smearing the mess all over his cock. When it bumps the back of your throat — and on assessment, you realise there’s daylight between your lips and your fist — you squeeze your eyes closed and whimper softly, holding him in place while you adjust before you can take him deeper.

“Fuck— just like that,” he gasps out in a shattered groan when you start to move a little more fluidly, no longer too intimidated by your gag reflex preventing him from slipping down your throat. Your hand and your mouth work in tandem to get him riled. Every sound he makes feels like someone injects lust straight into your veins. When you look up at him from between your dewy lashes, you ponder that you’d watch him fall apart from this angle a hundred times a night forever and still not get bored.

Your jaw starts to ache from the thickness of having him in your mouth and the way he’s restraining himself from fucking his hips up to meet you tells you that he’s too polite to ask you for more. You suck harshly one last time before pulling away with a ‘pop’, using only your hand to pump his length as you shift down to gently suck one of his balls into your mouth.

The sound he makes is so fucking melodic. You think he’s made a similar one before when he lifts into a falsetto, and you’ve never felt more powerful than you do right now. Knowing you have someone with such a commanding presence eating out of your palm could really do something dangerous to your ego. It’s a bit of a miracle, therefore, that you recognise his desperate tapping at your shoulder, but the second you feel it you settle back from him, looking up at his impossibly tense abs and his blissed-out face.

You catch on quickly and feel your features split into a grin at the realisation. When it takes him a second, you know it’s because he’s still trying to remember the mechanisms it takes to breathe. Bless his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pushing himself to sit upright and running a hand through his hair. “It-… fuck, that was so…”

“What happened to ‘I don’t want you to go easy’ huh?” you tease, resting your chin on the top of his left thigh, grinning up at him.

“I’m gonna come if you keep going like that,” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief at himself. “And trust me — I want to, but…” He swallows hard. “Not yet.”

You nod slowly up at him, starting to get up off the floor. You stop in your tracks when he says, “I’ve gotta taste you first. Please.”

Maybe it speaks too much to the quality of some of your previous lovers, but his desperation takes you a bit by surprise. You blink at him, ignoring how your thighs burn with the position you’ve frozen in.

“If— that’s okay?” He adds. “I’ve… been thinking about it? A lot. Especially since-”

“Shut up,” you breathe, finally standing all the way up. He shuffles back further onto the bed and you quickly move to straddle across his hips, one hand coming up to hold his jaw in place when you’re in place. “Of course it’s okay.”

You lean in for an impossibly needy kiss, only breaking away when you physically can’t breathe anymore. Vernon’s eyes flutter open at the same time as yours do and as you reach behind yourself with one hand to unclasp your bra, he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

(He tells you that you are no fewer than three times before you fall asleep a few hours later.)

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! as always, likes, reblogs, comments & feedback are so so appreciated. there's approx a scene and a half left for part 3 and then we're all done with this baby! stay tuned for that, coming soon.<3 p.s. no i will not apologise to jaehyun, this is what he gets for making me feel insane. thanks !

#vernon fanfic #vernon imagines #vernon x you #vernon fluff #vernon angst #vernon x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #kpop fanfic #vernon smut #seventeen smut #j writes.#svt smut #re. high fidelity.#*

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hihello-pinky · 1 year ago

Text

Sight (3)

Suna Rintarou x F! Reader

Sometimes, it takes losing someone to finally see them. He wished he knew this before, but Rintarou had to learn this the hard way.

WARNINGS: mentions of abortion, mentions of suicide, smut (fingering, oral [f receiving], lack of protection, rough sex, creampie) please let me know if I missed any!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This in no way represents my views of the original anime/manga characters.

WC: 6.3k Genre: Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort Other Tags: Forced Marriage, Developing Relationship, Denial of Feelings, Emotionally Repressed, References to Illness, Angst with a Happy Ending, + more to be added.

Here’s the long-awaited part 3!. Thank you all for waiting and for the love and support!!! Kindly reblog and comment if you liked it! ALSO, I’m not sure how many parts are left.

part one part two part three part ?????

leave me love?

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

“I don’t know what game you’re playing with you agreeing to my parents’ crazy demands but just so we’re clear, there’s only one ending to this fucking marriage: divorce.”

Suna watched as you squirmed in your wedding dress. The two of you had just arrived at the new house, and he already hated it. First, he hated how he had just been forced into marrying a girl he barely knew. Second, he hated how you’re acting as if you’re the victim of the whole ordeal when this wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you just agreed to get an abortion.

And lastly, he despised how you looked so damn beautiful in that wedding dress.

The fidgety and nervous girl during his wedding night is nowhere to be seen as you’re standing in that very same room, your eyes looking straightly at him and your voice firm as you repeat, “I want to file for divorce.”

“I heard you the first time,” he responds as he clicks his tongue. “But I won’t do it.” He’s trying to be careful, unsure of where you’re actually getting at. A few nights ago, you just confessed about being in love with him and now you want to divorce?

A small laughter leaves your lips, regaining his attention. “Rin,” you call his name and as usual, hearing that one syllable from you stirs something inside him. “You don’t have to worry about anything. We’ll talk to your mom and dad, and I’ve already spoken with the family lawyer. We can always co-parent.”

“No.” Maybe if he’s not busy getting annoyed about your mind game, he’d have noticed how your eyes are squinting, how your fingertips are slowly rubbing against your temple. “There will be no divorce unless you explain to me everything about this sudden shit you’re pulling.”

“Rintarou, -”

“I’m so damn tired, Y/N!” What surprises Suna is not his sudden outburst. It’s the quick realization that for the first time in five years, he’s addressing you by your name. “Are you playing with me? You confess, you make me feel guilty, you make me want to apologize, but now you want to divorce!”

You shake your head, hoping that the action will also help in easing your headache. “Why are you reacting like this, Rin? Isn’t this something that you’ve wanted since day one?”

It’s the same question he has for himself. Sure, he entered the room ready to apologize for the past years and maybe try for any way to salvage the relationship you both have, but here you were, offering him the easy way out and yet he doesn’t want to accept it.

Instead of answering you, he takes a deep breath to calm himself down. “Listen, I don’t know what shit you’re pulling but I’m serious when I say I’m not signing any papers unless you talk to me and explain what the hell’s going on.”

“Rin, I’m tired,” you say as you sit on the bed dejectedly. “I’m so, so tired.” Your voice breaks at the last word as you bring your knees to your chest, hugging it before beginning to sob. This isn’t the first time that he’s witnessing you cry but the way the sobs come out of you as if they physically hurt and how your body is shaking... it’s a sight that he does not want to see.

Other times he would have chosen to leave you alone and his mind is currently shouting at him to go back towards the door and leave the room but his body is doing the exact opposite – his feet bringing him closer to you. The next thing he knows, he’s crouching down in front of you at the bed, hands hovering over you but not touching. “What is it?”

As soon as the question leaves him, he feels silly. How were you supposed to answer him when the sobs wracking out of your body barely stop? Suna rakes a hand through his hair, unsure of what to do. He looks up at the ceiling in frustration. “Fuck, Y/N, tell me what’s the matter. Why the hell are you asking for a divorce out of the blue? Is this because of what happened a few nights ago?”

“I’m scared.” Your small voice surprises him. “I’m scared, Rintarou.”

He diverts his eyes back on you but your face is still buried behind your knees. “Look at me.”

He watches as you slowly acquiesce and the broken look on your face tugs at his heart. Your eyes resemble shattered glass and it’s as if all the broken shards are piercing through his chest at the moment. “I’m scared.” A hiccup. “I’m so damn scared.”

Suna shakes his head as he gazes at you, seemingly unable to break the eye contact despite the feelings it’s currently bringing him. “I don’t understand.”

Tears well in your eyes again as you begin to explain with a shaky breath. “I went to the hospital a few days ago to get checked about my recurring headaches and blackouts. I received the test results yesterday and they don’t look good. I’m so scared, Rintarou.”

Every word that escapes from your mouth makes his heart feel heavy. “Then why are you asking for divorce?”

You’re silent for a while as you break eye contact and he can tell that you’re carefully deliberating your words. The suspense is making him feel uneasy but he also knows he can’t force and rush you. “I’ve always known there’s a possibility that it would happen to me too. But then, Doctor Hirai said that its progression is mainly stress-induced. I need to be in an environment which will be better for my mental and subsequently, my physical health. More importantly, I’m scared that what I will go through will hurt the children in the long run.”

“So, you prefer that you’d suffer alone?” He asks without thinking.

At that, you turn to face him again and smile sadly. “I’d still suffer alone even if we remain married, right? At least once we separate, I’ll be in a much healthier environment. We won’t have to pretend in front of the children anymore. You’ll have your freedom and I’ll have my peace.”

Suna can feel himself frowning, knowing how there’s truth in what you just said. He sighs deeply before speaking, choosing his words carefully. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, his attempt frustrating him. In the end, he settles for three words instead. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

--- *** ---

Hearing those words from your husband makes your heart clench. You bite your trembling lower lip and close your eyes, finally letting the tears fall once again. You hated this. You hate having Rintarou see you cry.

What happens next surprises you. You feel gentle fingers wiping away your tears, the touch soft and delicate. You crack your eyes open and convince yourself you must be dreaming.

“I know this is long overdue and it can’t undo all the things I’ve put you through in the last few years, but I’m really, really sorry. For being a horrible person, for being a terrible husband, for being a bad dad... I’m sorry for what I did a few nights ago.”

You hear the unspoken truth from his last sentence: I’m sorry I can’t reciprocate your feelings. Instead of dwelling on it too much, you try to wipe your tears. “You weren’t much of a bad father,” you say and see how his eyes slightly widen in surprise. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate how you’re trying to be a good dad to the kids.”

A frown makes its way to your husband’s handsome features before he scoffs bitterly. It makes your heart clench. “Why do you have to be so kind?” He asks quietly and then looks at your face as if searching for something. “I’ve been such a horrible person to you and here you are, telling me that I wasn’t a bad father to our children.”

Your heart softens a bit at his words as new tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m just speaking the truth, Rin.” He’s still studying your face and you look at his in return. This is the first time you’re both staring at each other like this again; the last being those five months that you two were on good terms. “It gives me comfort, knowing that you’ll continue to be a good dad to Risa and Ryuu once we separate.”

At that, the frown that has dissolved from his face returns, and in a much stronger note. “I still don’t think having a divorce is necessary. It will not do much and that word may even bring trauma to the kids.” It’s amazing how quickly you’re able to understand where Rin was coming from. And almost immediately, you’re brought back to that day.

You watched as Rin was almost done watering the newly-planted seedlings in the backyard. A week prior, you had shyly asked him if it’s okay to have a small garden and without much thought, he agreed. You wanted to do the task yourself but he had insisted he do it instead, saying something along the lines of Jiri scolding him if she ever finds out he let a pregnant woman do a laborious task.

So, there you sat on one of the newly-bought reclining chairs, watching as Rin worked. It’s been a few weeks since the both of you started to be on good terms and the more you got to know him, the more it became harder for you to ignore how handsome your husband truly was. Especially at that moment, with him wearing loose sweats and a thin plain white shirt, arms flexing as he held the watering host.

After more minutes of trying to distract yourself from staring at Rintarou, he turned the water system off and went to join you, taking the vacant recliner beside you. “It’s crazy how my parents didn’t even think of having some work done on the backyard, considering all the efforts that were made in the house’s interior.”

You looked at the backyard and imagined how it would look like once your garden blooms. “Maybe they wanted to at least give you the chance to decorate it as you want?”

He let out a dry laugh and then straightened on his seat. “Then, I want to have a small playground there.” You trailed where his finger was pointing and saw that he was referring to a corner of the yard.

“A playground?” you asked, surprised that he would even suggest one. You both had been careful with the topic about your children and what would happen after they were born, and this was the first time that he was bringing up something related to it.

“Just a slide and a swing set would do, to be honest.” His eyes were still trained on that same spot, as if he’s already picturing the item he’s planning to place there. You hummed in response, savoring the peaceful silence that was beginning to take over.

Rintarou was the one to break it. “Who in your family is a twin?”

You blinked at him in surprise. “Oh, um, my dad.”

He nodded, taking in the information. “And you have siblings?”

“Yes,” you answered softly. “Two step sisters. I’m the middle child.” He turned to you and as expected, there was question in his eyes already. “My mother died shortly after I was born. When I was around ten years old, my dad re-married.” You looked at the corner that Rintarou had pinpointed for the playground. “She was a lovely lady, my step-mom. I just wish my father had met her earlier. It would have been nice to grow up with both parents around.”

The scoff that left Rin’s mouth surprised you. It was your turn to look at him with curiosity. His jaw clenched a little before he spoke. “My parents were mostly absent while I was growing up. I’m an only child and since my parents both settled on a city away from their hometowns, I never got to develop a relationship with my other relatives and children in playgrounds never seemed fond of me.

“You know what the best part is?” He spat the word “best” and it almost made you flinch. “The times they would spend with me would always end up with them threatening each other to just divorce and I would just be there, having a front-row seat in watching their fights.”

He was silent after that as you stared at him. You couldn’t imagine the parents that Rintarou was referring to was the same sweet couple who apologized to you on behalf of their son during the first time you met. But then again, you knew part of the reason they forced the marriage was because they wanted to punish him. You picked your words carefully. “I couldn’t imagine how difficult that was for you. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Rin only shrugged. “Don’t worry. I got accustomed to it quickly. Whenever they would fight, I just had to show them some achievement from school and they’d be all happy and proud and forget that they were just about to rip each other’s heads off a few seconds before. It was an effective study tool, I guess.”

You frowned at his sarcasm, picturing a young Rintarou working hard on his studies, hoping to appease his fighting parents.

You close your eyes as you try to compose yourself. No matter how long it has been, no matter how many times you remember that afternoon, the memory still hurts you. “Rin, I understand your sentiments and I don’t want to invalidate your feelings and experience. But you should know that it’s not the same situation. Weren’t you the one who told me that our marriage is supposed to end in divorce?”

He sighs frustratedly. “You know damn well that that was anger-driven. It’s not the same now. I care for the kids and I don’t want them to get hurt. I don’t want them to have the same relationship I have with my parents.”

You truly do understand your husband and you know he has his reasons. But so do you. And between the two of you, it’s a fact that you’re the one who cares more about your children. So, with a deep breath, you share the part of your explanation that you omitted earlier. “Rin, I’m about to lose my sight.”

--- *** ---

“I don’t understand, aren’t pregnant women only supposed to have cravings for food?” Suna asked as soon as the traffic light turned red. It was eight minutes past ten in the evening and you had just left the mall after completing a buzzer-beater shopping for an item that you swore won’t allow you go to sleep if it weren’t in your hands.

The item in question being a copy of your favorite author’s latest book which you had asked him to pick up for you earlier that day. He had been busy at work and asked Yuto to buy the book instead. When he handed you the package once he got home, the delighted expression he expected on your face was nowhere to be seen and in its place was an irritated look. “This isn’t the correct edition; it’s the first one. What I want is the most recent release – the 10th anniversary edition with a special chapter!”

He was glad his years of playing volleyball in high school gave him good reflexes or else he wouldn’t have caught the book you threw to his face. “Okay, okay, I’ll ask for an exchange tomorrow.”

You had looked at him as if he had grown two heads. “Tomorrow? I won’t be able to sleep at all if I don’t get to read it tonight!”

He inwardly cringed at the sound of your loud voice. You were already in your sixth month of pregnancy and contrary to what Jiri had told him, your mood swings were still a menace to deal with. So, he checked his watch and with a heavy sigh, announced that he would make a quick trip to the bookstore. When you insisted to tag along to make sure he gets the correct edition, he didn’t put up a fight.

“It’s not like you can eat a book,” he mumbles irritably again, looking at the still-red traffic light. “And that saleslady was a bitch.”

Beside him, you just let out a hum as you sniffed the pages of your precious book. “You’re lucky the smell of new books is one of my favorite scents in the world. I’m feeling too happy to entertain your negative ramblings. God, I can’t wait to get under my comforter and begin reading this.”

You continued on with humming a soft melody. Rintarou sneaked a glance at you before the lights turned green. You had returned the book to the paper bag and the image of you hugging it to your chest as you looked out the window was enough to make him smile, something that he had been doing a lot since the two of you began spending a lot of time together.

When you arrived home, he quickly jumped in the shower as he assumed that you changed into night clothes and got under the comfort of what used to be his bed alone. The king-sized bed had become a place for two, ever since you had moved into the room some weeks prior. It didn’t even take him long to shower but by the time he joined you, you were already asleep, barely even able to get the book out of the paper bag.

After a quiet laugh, he carefully plucked it from your hands, placing it on the bedside table. He never enjoyed reading and couldn’t find the appeal in doing so; he’d much rather watch shows or play video games. However, when the two of you got to talking about things you enjoyed, you were so passionate about your love for books. It was your step-mom who had introduced you to it, you said, and it was a special bond between the two of you as your sisters weren’t readers.

Suna’s eyes softened as he recalled what else you had shared to him.

It was your step-mom who read books to your father all day and all night after he went totally blind. Then, it was subsequently you who read him books after she took her own life.

“That can’t be.” Suna is pretty sure that he misheard you. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Maybe you need to get a second opinion.”

He’s quick to hate the look of defeat in your eyes. “I’m sure the results will be the same. I don’t want to get my hopes up only for them to be shortly crushed after. Please don’t make this harder for me anymore.”

When he replies to you, he hopes the frustration can’t be heard in his voice. “Okay, I won’t force you if you don’t want to. But, let me be there for you.” You give him a wide-eyed look, expression full of surprise. “I meant it when I said I’m sorry to you. I want to...” He sighs heavily, wanting to break eye contact but he steels himself to hold it. “I want to try. To actually try for this marriage to work. I know it may be too late and I’ve been such a dick and an asshole to you. And honestly, there are still a lot of things I need to process but let’s not make these big decisions abruptly, okay? I don’t want you nor the kids to suffer a lot.”

Suna figures this must be the most honest he’s been with you since the children were born. He just hopes you’ll give him a chance. However, he won’t even blame you if you decide not to trust his words.

You’re the one who breaks eye contact and don’t respond to him for a second, a minute... and when the silence lingers on, he carefully calls for you. “Y/N?”

He watches you close your eyes, as if preparing yourself for what to say next. When you open them, they’re welling up with tears but you give him a small smile that tugs at his heart. “For what it’s worth,” you say, “Doctor Hirai said that there’s a possibility that it can only be a temporary blindness since it got detected early.”

Suna doesn’t even hold back the sigh of relief that he lets out. He holds your hands and stands up from his position in front of you. You follow suit, making the two of you face each other. He’s so much taller than you that you have to crane your neck up while he looks down at you. There’s a barely noticeable smile on his lips. “We’ll get through this, Y/N.”

--- *** ---

“Hey, Y/N, you didn’t come here the past few weeks.” Hajime greets you as he arrives at where the parents sit in the playground. You both watch as Kenta joins Risa in the sandbox, her face brightening in joy.

“I think my daughter has a crush on your son,” you comment before turning to him. “Nice to see you, Hajime. I was, ah, quite busy in the last weeks.”

He hums in response and looks at all the kids playing. “Is Ryuu not feeling well today? I don’t see him around.”

Before you can respond, your son makes an appearance, and you notice a happy look on his face. This prompts you to look at the person who’s holding his hand only to find that Rintarou is already looking at you with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Oh,” Hajime says as he stands up from where he’s sitting beside you. “Rintarou, right? Risa and Ryuu’s father?”

Rin breaks eye contact with you as he looks at Hajime’s outstretched hand. He shakes it quickly. “Yeah, also Y/N’s husband.”

The awkward moment is shattered when Ryuu groans. “Dad! You’re squeezing my hand tightly!” Rin must have loosened his hold for your son pulls his hand away before looking at you. “Can I play now, Mommy?”

You’re about to nod when you notice something on the corner of his lips. You fight a smile and put on your ‘inquisitive mom’ look. “Why did it take you long to come here, Ryuu?”

His eyes, which looks so similar to his father’s, widen and he bites his lip, quickly shooting a look at Rin who you can tell is trying not to smirk.

“Ryuu?” You ask again.

He pouts and breaks. “We saw an ice cream man on the way from the restroom and Dad bought me a cone.” He bites his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. “I’m sorry.”

You inwardly sigh before leaving the bench to crouch down and match your son’s height. “Isn’t ice cream time after we leave here? What would Risa feel when she finds out you ate ice cream without her?” Ryuu only gives you a guilty look and sensing that he’s about to cry, you ruffle his black hair and kiss his forehead. “Don’t do it again, okay? Now, go and play.”

He nods and mumbles a quick promise before he goes to play with some kids in the rows of see-saws. Once you see him off, you return to sit on the park bench. You see Hajime talking to the other parents a few meters away, not even noticing him leaving.

“He quickly excused himself the moment you bent down to talk to Ryuu,” Rin explains as he takes the place where Hajime had been seating. You’re surprised he even offers an explanation, remembering the venom in his voice the last time the two of you had been talking about your friend.

“I see.” You watch the children play. Ever since that talk in the bedroom three weeks ago, things have been slowly changing between you and your husband. So far, he has kept true to his words and you can see that he’s trying to make things work between you two. And part of it is that he wants to be more involved with your children. The twins had been excited this morning when they found out that their dad is tagging along to the playground.

“I saw Ryuu look longingly at the ice cream vendor but he told me he’s not supposed to get ice cream yet. I bought him a cone anyway and told him to tell you that the line in the restrooms was long.”

You swiftly turn to look at your husband incredulously. “Did you just tell my son to lie?”

He smirks and shrugs. “Don’t worry, it seems like he’s brought up well. He can’t lie at all.”

Still, the scandalized look on your face doesn’t go away. “Rintarou!”

The smirk doesn’t leave his face and does something that surprises you. He laughs. Not the condescending or hateful way he had laughed at you in the past five years, but a genuine laughter. Before you know it, his fingers are softly straightening the lines on your face. “Stop worrying too much, Y/N. The kids will be fine.”

--- *** ---

[ left the hospital already but dropping by osamu’s for some onigiri ]

[ ok. tell me when you’re home ]

[ okay ]

[ actually, don’t. i’ll just pick u up otw home. stay there for a while? ]

[ um, ok ]

[ cool ]

[ also, tell samu to stop being a fucking prick & resume talking to atsumu. i’m not their messenger for fuck’s sake ]

A small giggle leaves your mouth as you read Rintarou’s last message. Osamu looks at you curiously after he bids goodbye to a customer. “Usual order?”

You nod at him. “But can you prepare them for later? Quick change of plans, I’ll have some food for here first.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Waiting for someone?”

You shake your phone at him. “Rin says he’s picking me up.”

The way his eyes widen almost makes you laugh. “Really?” You know he must be confused, after all, you were just here a few weeks ago, looking as stressed as ever because of your husband.

“Yeah,” you suddenly feel like blushing so you look down at your phone instead. “He also says you should talk to Atsumu again because he’s getting tired of being your messenger.”

Osamu then laughs. “I bet you just censored all the curse words in his message.” The way you suppress a smile is telling enough. “I see you two are on some kind of truce? What happened?”

You contemplate for a while. Sacha is the only one you have confided to about the happenings of the past few weeks. But then again, Osamu has been nothing but nice to you and you figured it wouldn’t be a problem if you tell him about Rintarou’s resolve. “Well... Rin said he wants to try to make our relationship work.”

The gray-haired man is quiet for a while. “Did he now?”

“Yeah... Do you think it’s a bad idea, Osamu?”

The man shrugs. “Not at all. I mean, you look a lot better than you did the last time you were here.” His statement makes you smile. “So, I take it things have been different since then?”

You nod. “Yesterday, he tagged along to the kids’ weekly trip to the playground then after that, he took us to lunch in the mall and then went shopping the whole afternoon. Risa and Ryuu were so happy.”

Osamu almost drops the glass he’s been wiping and he sends you a strange look. “Today is Tuesday, no? So that makes yesterday a Monday?”

“Uh huh. Why?”

“And you’re saying Rin spent the day with you and the kids?”

You nod, not knowing where he’s getting at. You look at him quizzically and can tell that he’s trying hard to suppress a smirk. “What’s the matter, Osamu?”

Finally, the man lets out an amused chuckle. “Nothing,” he says as he begins preparing your food. “It’s just that if there’s one thing that Rintarou Suna is constant about ever since he started working, it’s that he never takes a day-off on a Monday.”

--- *** ---

Suna tells himself he’s not keeping track but it’s the fourth Friday in a row that he’s spending home. Usually, he’ll be out in some bar to drink and maybe look for a woman to bring to a close by hotel or to a bathroom, if he couldn’t wait. But ever since he has decided that he wants to try to work things out with you, he’s been skipping the routine.

He goes to your bedroom and sees it empty; you’re probably in the kids’ room. He takes that time to jump into the shower. Suna is a man with needs and missing his week’s end routine means one thing: he’s horny. Many times, he has been tempted to go back to his old way and ring someone for a booty-call. You didn’t need to find out and if you did, surely you would understand, right? Old habits die hard, after all. Whenever the temptation comes, he shakes his head and pushes the thought away, knowing that it’s a terrible idea to pursue.

So, he’s left with doing something that he never thought he would do again – getting himself off in the bathroom with his hands, like a pathetic lonely teenager.

Suna’s not sure how long it takes him in the shower. He’s afraid that his hand might not work for him anymore next time. It’s not helping that he’s spending more time with you, the girl that he has always found attractive, even during the times he hated you.

When he exits the shower, he finds you in bed already, leaning against the headboard as the blanket covers the lower half of your body. You’re wearing a silk set of pajamas and the strap of your top is sliding down on your shoulder. He gulps. He has taken you before, but why is he suddenly nervous?

“Are you okay?” Your voice breaks him out of his inner thoughts. You must have felt him staring at you because your eyes are still trained on your book as you ask him the question.

“Yeah...” He moves to the closet to grab a shirt and pair of shorts. He quickly changes into them and once he pulls the shirt over his head, his eyes meet yours looking at him.

A faint blush colors your cheeks as you return your gaze to your book. He finds himself smirking and decides to call you out. “You know, it’s completely normal for a wife to watch her husband changing.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He doesn’t speak until he’s on the bed beside you, getting a whiff of your sweet scent. He leans closer and tries to peek at your book. “What are you reading?”

He knows his closeness unsettles you for you quickly shut your book close. You turn to him instead and bites your lower lips as soon as you realize that there’s barely any distance between your faces. “Can you move, please?”

“Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

You squirm and Suna has to admit that he’s having too much fun with this. Sure, the past few weeks you’ve been spending a lot together has been good, but this is something different. There’s something about making you so flustered that makes him feel things he does not want to acknowledge yet. “I’ll take your silence as a yes, then.”

He’s about to move back, afraid that he might not be able to stop himself if he continues to tease you any longer, but before he can do so, you softly tug at his shirt. You’re not looking at him, your face turned away from him, but not enough to hide the redness on your face. “Hmm?”

“Rin,” the soft way you say his name almost makes him groan. “C-Can we...”

Fuck. Is this happening? “Yes, Y/N? Can we what?”

If it’s possible, your face reddens even more. “You know what I want to say.”

He chuckles and despite knowing he shouldn’t be taking too much pleasure from this, he does not relent. “I’m not actually sure. I need you to tell me exactly what you want, wife.”

You whimper at the word and finally say with a barely audible voice, “I want you, Rin.”

This time, Suna lets himself groan out loud as he tips your chin up so that you’re meeting eye to eye. “Are you sure, Y/N? I haven’t been with anyone since that day I shared my resolve to you. I’m not sure if I can be gentle at all.”

You nod quickly before speaking, your voice laced with desire. “Just take me, please, Rin.”

That’s all he needs to hear before he’s sucking marks on your neck, his hands quickly removing the covers from you. He ignores the thud of what he assumes to be your book hitting the floor. You’re just as eager as you tug at his shirt. He groans and removes the piece of clothing with the same urgency as you’re undressing yourself.

He maneuvers you so you’re lying completely on your back with him hovering over you, his lips busy alternating between your breasts. A sweet moan leaves your lips as his hand finds your damp center. He makes you come with his fingers alone before his lips are trailing down your body. The moment his tongue enters your pussy, you pull at his hair and the slight sting makes him growl.

“Please, Rin...” he feels you trying to close your legs and he slaps your thigh to keep you from moving. It seems to work as you stop and just continue to pull at his hair. It doesn’t take you long before an orgasm consumes you again and he laps at your release.

Suna pulls back and he watches you try to steady your breathing as he pumps his already hard cock. “Ready?”

The needy look you send him makes him groan. “Yes. Please, Rin. I need you.”

He growls out your name before sheathing himself inside you. “Fuck, your pussy is so fucking tight.” He doesn’t start off slow, his thrusts already intense but it seems like you don’t mind it either as you’re continuously letting out your sweet and addictive moans. Your hands clench on the sheet and he takes them, placing them on his back. He groans at the feeling of your fingers scratching and he finds that he does not mind getting marked by you anymore.

Suna busies his lips on your neck and collarbone as his thrusts become harder and faster, sounds of your skin slapping together echoing in your room. “Feels so fucking good,” he pants against your ear, making you clench around him tighter. He gets ahold of your legs and press them against your chest before his hips move with powerful thrusts against you. You’re moaning endlessly now, but not loud enough to cover the creaking sound of the bed and the headboard meeting the wall.

Sensing that you’re nearing your release, Rintarou sneaks his hand in between your legs and plays with your clit, giving it the last push before you’re moaning out his name and coming around him. It doesn’t take him long to follow after you, his hips stilling as he comes inside you.

You’re both panting and it takes Suna a few moments to compose himself before he’s pulling out, the both of you letting out hisses at the sensitivity. He covers his eyes, chest still heaving, as he says, “Fuck. I really needed that.”

--- *** ---

You can’t help but giggle at Rin’s statement. You weren’t a very sexual person but you knew it must have been hard for him, especially since he told you he hasn’t been with anyone during the past few weeks. You’re still both panting and you half-dreaded for him to leave you alone like he usually does in the past after sex.

However, much like he’s been surprising you with his actions in the past weeks, his hand reaches for his shirt and wipes you down. He’s sitting upright on the bed and you feel his eyes on your still naked body. You see him bite his lip as he watches you, the desire still evident on his face. The way he’s looking at you gives you the confidence to reach down and stroke his half-hard cock. And with an innocent smile that you know he’ll be able to see through, you ask, “One more?”

As it turns out, Rin’s stamina and your neediness leads to two more. You now lay on the bed, already cleaned up and changed, your eyes closed. You know that you’re breathing is soft and Rin must have mistaken it for you already asleep for you feel him carefully leave the bed.

You discreetly watch as he opens the bedside table’s drawer and takes out his cigarette pack and lighter. The soft steps of his bare foot are barely heard as he makes his way to the terrace. As soon as the door slides shut beside him, you close your eyes.

Baby steps, you tell yourself. At least he waited until you fell asleep. And even though he still didn’t kiss your lips tonight, the fact that he gave you aftercare was enough. You know there are a lot of things that Rin has to work on and he had told you himself that it may take a long time before he can be someone that he himself can be proud of. “Baby steps,” you whisper to yourself again.

Unbeknownst to you, it’s the exact same words that the man outside tells himself as he lights up what he decides to be his last stick of cigarette ever.

TO BE CONTINUED.

taglist: @warrior-of-justice @alisa--things @wolffmaiden @kurookinnie @simp-nerd-16 @alex-is-100 @k4g3hika @harukaaaaa172993 @themoonreflectsthesun @lvjycrow @cantbedenied @sweetlikerockcandy @sirimiripetrichor @yamiakari-chi @noideawhothatis @nervouscoffeetaco @lovemyfamily4ever-blog nervouscoffeetaco kamukayakmonyet yuqixidle ieathairs cantbedenied gariben beomeomgyu esmeisdrunk-blog 123j456l iluv-ace semitje @justablogforreblogs

#suna x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #suna rintarou #haikyuu fic #haikyuu fluff #suna smut #haikyuu #haikyuu suna

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beerok23 · 1 year ago

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I am a happy heterosexual female being involved in a healthy (gratefully) relationship with my awesome husband. I've got two kids, the first one is 8 and the second one is 3.

And I simply adore Good Omens. My husband loves it. My first kid Andie, loves it. She’s been watching GO2 on repeat since she found out about it.

I don’t love GO because I'm a huge The Sandman lover – I only discovered Neil Gaiman's masterpiece in the last few months, after my mother's death. Btw, she was a huge Good Omens fan, too. I’ve watched GO1 a few years ago, and I loved it immensely, but I hadn’t realized the power in it. Not until I watched season 2.

I don’t simply love Good Omens for the funny bits, for the incredibly well written dialogues, for the exquisite scenes from the Bible revisited in the most peculiar way. God, I don’t even love it *just* for the incredible talent of David and Michael (and they became such a light in my life that I felt the need to watch Stage in less than 3 days.)

I feel the need to clarify this: I love this wonderful tv show because the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowly is so pure, so intense and yet so delicate. It makes you believe in true universal love, in soulmates, in trust and compromise – which should be the keywords in every relationship. And David and Michael's acting is so perfect, I mean they are so in tune with each other, they incarnate these two ineffable idiots in such a perfect way that you can't stop picturing Aziraphale and Crowley as them. They simply ARE them, Angel and Demon, in a perfect portrayal full of undeniable chemistry.

I’m so proud to be able to grow my daughter and son in a world where this awesome piece of television exists.

What I want to say is this: when you don’t know what to watch to explain what LOVE is to your kids, and I mean Universal, Inclusive, Unconditonal Love, please remember Good Omens. I’ve never watched anything as capable to move me for such a pure and special form of love.

David and Michael say that Aziraphale and Crowley are like the Yin and the Yang: the one cannot exist without the other. And that’s the kind of energy I want to pass down on to my children. And...nothing, I just felt the need to put this here. Sorry.

#good omens #go2 #go #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #azicrow #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #ineffable partners #ineffable

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gh0stsp1d3r · 10 months ago

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𝒮𝓌𝒶𝓃 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌ℴ

Warnings-Dancer!reader, lots and lots of pining. Sweet academy coryo idgaf if he’s ooc (If you want to be tagged in next part, don’t be scared to ask!!)

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Part 1, part 3, part 4

You were an angel. To him, at least. You had saved him. You could have left him in the dust, you could have let him rot.

But you had saved him. He had woken up just in time to see you dancing across the stage, your eyes closed as you did so.

You pouring your whole heart into it, your sweat and your tears from exhaustion made the performance all the more better.

You would put on one hell of a show if there was a chance of it being the last one. Although you were sure it wasn’t, and you would persevere through everything the games threw at you.

“Record high for the evening! Beautiful performance by y/n, the capitol is definitely watching. See what happens when you do stuff?” Flickerman said, you turned to him, catching your breath for a moment.

“Now I don’t love your odds, but they may be in your favor.” He said to you, you gave him and the crowd a small smile, wiping the tears and sweat away from your face.

“Thank you for being here.” Coriolanus said, finally turning away from the screen and to Tigris and sejanus.

“How great is it that we’re here for someone’s final performance?” Flickerman said, Coriolanus turning his attention back to the screens.

“It won’t be my final.” You said to them, still breathless yet determined. Your hands on your hips.

He smiled at that, “I like your enthusiasm. Thank you. Get a good nights rest, you all have a big day tomorrow."

“Y/n.” He whispered, repeating it three times. When you heard him, you ran over and gripped the bars.

“Coryo. Are you okay?”

It wasn’t Coriolanus this time, it was coryo. He ignored it for now.

“Those bombs, they have changed everything. They blew the walls out. That means you can escape up into the stands. There’s a hole down in the floor. Leads down to some tunnels, I’ve tried it, and you can disappear down there. When you hear that bell ring, ignore the weapons and run as fast as you can for that hole. And you find a place to hide down below. Alone.”

“Alone?”

He nodded. You swallowed, “Jessup-“

“The moment that bell rings, you can’t trust anyone. Not even Jessup. Just lay low down there until it’s safe to come out.”

“Thank you. For… everything..” you said. You knew you wouldn’t listen to him.

“I can’t let you die. You saved me.” You heart raced as he spoke for some odd reason.

“You saved me, y/n.”

You smiled slightly and he smiled back, a tear ran down your face and the smile faltered.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.. hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He grabbed out a handkerchief, wiping your tears away. You both stared into each others eyes, and he spoke again “I am gonna get you out of here. I promise.”

You both silently stared at each other for a while. “Oh. Uhm, here.” You mumbled, interrupting the tension and turning around and handing him the shoes he had given you for your dance. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Once you’re out of here, you can keep these.” He said, holding them with a small smile. You smiled back.

He had gathered some of what he had had been saving for his family for them.

“Here. You take this.” He pulled something out of his pocket, handing it to you.

You looked at it and back at him. “What is it?”

“Rat poison. Don’t touch it, or even breathe it in.”

You looked at him with wide eyes now, you looked fearful almost. You didn’t want to use this. It wasn’t like you.

“I’ve seen what war does to people, there will come a time where you’ll need. When you need to act.” He said, “we all do things we’re not proud of to survive.”

You looked back at him again.

“Hey, we are gonna win this, y/n. We are gonna win this together.”

“Promise?” You said, voice a bit more high pitched than you expected it to come out as.

“Promise. Goodnight.” He said, and began to get up before you whispered again.

“Coryo.”

He turned back to you now.

“Do you have to leave right now?” You asked him quietly. He had a small smile on his face as he came back over to the gates.

“Why?”

“I can’t sleep. How can I, knowing im probably gonna have to kill someone tomorrow?” You said.

He sat down, wordlessly and listened to your words.

“Do you want me to stay for a bit?” He asked, feeling foolish as he said it.

“If you can.” You said, your eyes pleading.

He sighed, and laid down, his arm under his head. You did the same, you both staring into the sky.

“Your performance was amazing, by the way.” He said.

“I’m glad you thought so. I wish I could have met you under better circumstances, coryo.”

“I wish that as well.” He said quietly. It was silent for a while before you spoke again.

“My mom used to tell me stories about all the constellation’s. That one,” you pointed to Ursa Major “was one of her favorites to talk about.” He listened to you ramble on about each one’s stories, and he swore he could listen to the sound of your voice forever.

How he wished that he had been able to fall asleep right here to the sound of it, how he wished to hold you in his arms.

“Goodnight, Coryo.” You told him once he decided it was getting late and he should get back.

“Goodnight.” He said, pulling out another rose and reaching beyond the bars, putting it behind your ear and holding your face for a moment.

“Wake up. On your feet.” They said, you shook Jessup and you both stood up.

They had roughly pushed you inside, you looked behind you at Jessup.

The cameras were on you all, you entered and the little girl next to you reached her hand out. You held your own for her to hold, which you did for a moment before being forced to separate.

You watched everyone else around you, one girl being dragged as she sobbed. The peacekeepers left soon, and you saw Marcus hung up. Your lip quivered, you looked down and then remembered with Coriolanus had said.

You looked at the hole, then for Jessup. The bell rung and everyone started shouting and attacking each other. You ran towardsJessup, who was standing there. You evaded their attacks, and managed to kick one off of you even.

You then focused back to Jessup, grabbing onto his arm and helping him up. You ran underground with him, when the others came from the other way.

You noticed an entrance from the bottom of the door, quickly going down and entering it, Jessup following. You helped him through. One girl tried following, but she was stabbed and dragged out. You and him had just made it.

You were both safe for now, you thought when you heard their footsteps leave. You looked at jessup and he was already fast asleep. You smiled to yourself, forcing your eyes to stay open.

#coriolanus x y/n #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #president coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x female!reader #president snow x reader #coryo snow #snow x reader #snow #snow x you #coriolanus imagine

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sequinsmile-x · 13 days ago

Text

Reprise

Aaron gets a call, and it feels like nothing short of history repeating itself.

-x-

Hi besties,

So, I recently realised all of my hurt comfort lately has been Aaron comforting Emily...so then I wrote this.

As always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: Minor Emily Prentiss whump, pregnancy, minor injuries

Words: 3.3k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

He keeps getting interrupted.

Paperwork was the most boring part of his job, but one of the most important. If they got it wrong, if even the tiniest detail was missed, then it could be used as a technicality by a defence lawyer. An error that could lead to a dangerous individual being back on the streets, which was something Aaron didn’t want to weigh on his or anyone on his team's shoulders. He’d been there. Had felt guilty over mistakes he’d made before, and any assurances that he’s human, that he’s bound to make mistakes occasionally, would always fall flat.

He was reviewing casework, desperate to get the pile of files in front of him finished so he could go home and spend the evening with his wife and kids, but every time he was getting somewhere someone would knock on his door to ask a question. A distraction that could lead to a mistake that meant he found himself reading the same pages again and again, not making any progress as the clock ticked closer and closer towards his little girl’s bedtime.

He’d already sent Emily a text. Had let her know he was running late and to have dinner without him but that he’d be home before the kids went to bed. If he wasn’t away on a case, bath and bedtime were his jobs, now more than ever because of Emily’s pregnancy. Not only was she struggling to kneel on the floor next to the bath these days, but she was exhausted all the time. The four years that had passed since she’d had Mae were enough for her to have forgotten how rough pregnancy was, especially now she’d just tipped over into her third trimester.

He knew if he called her, if he told her he’d be even later than he thought, that she wouldn’t be mad at him. She’d say that she understood and she’d hand the phone over to Mae, would encourage the four-year-old to speak to him over the phone so he could at least say goodnight to her. Then, when he did get home, she’d kiss him hello and offer to make him a drink whilst he went to Mae’s bedroom to kiss her forehead and just watch her for a minute or two. Her face relaxed and her cheek pressed into the pillow as she hugged her favourite toy to her chest. Both she and Jack, and the little boy Emily was currently pregnant with, were a reminder that good things existed. That he had the life he once thought he’d never get a chance at again.

There’s a knock on his office door and he sighs, shaking his head as he calls out for the person to come in, his pen already placed down on his desk.

At this rate, he’d get home to everyone already in bed.

“You could look happier to see me,” Dave says, smirking at him as he leans against the doorframe, “I am your best friend after all.”

“Emily is my best friend,” he corrects, leaning back in his chair.

“She’s your wife.”

Aaron smiles despite his irritation at being interrupted, “She’s my best friend too,” he says, his smile getting wider when Dave furrows his brow, “Have you ever thought this might be why none of your marriages worked out?”

He places his hand on his chest in mock hurt, “You know, you used to be a lot nicer before you married Emily,” he jokes, and they both laugh.

“Is there a reason you’ve interrupted me?” Aaron asks, raising his eyebrow at him, “Or did you just come in to ruin my flow again?”

“I’ve finished last month's budget reports for you,” he says, pulling them from behind his back and placing them on his desk, “All you need to do is sign them.”

Aaron looks up at him, “I’m not going to unknowingly sign off on the department paying for your next book tour am I?”

Dave chuckles and shrugs, “Guess you’re going to have to see how much you trust me,” he jokes, “You should just go home, Aaron. The paperwork will still be here tomorrow.”

He sighs and nods, “I know. I wanted to make more progress than I have. Cruz has been breathing down my neck.”

“You’ve got two kids and a pregnant wife, who happens to head up his Counterterrorism unit, at home. He’s not going to begrudge you going home,” he looks at his watch, “Especially when it’s already an hour past the end of your day.”

Aaron knows he’s right, but old habits died hard. Even now he found himself getting sucked into work, although never as badly as he had when he was married to Haley. In some ways, he found that Emily's understanding of his job in the way she did helped, because if she ever asked him to take a step back it made him question himself, made him do as she asked of him. He wasn’t proud of it, wasn’t proud that Haley asking him had never been enough, but he knew it meant that he’d learnt from his past. That he hadn’t brought the mistakes from his first marriage into his second one.

“You’re right, I’ll-” he’s cut off when he hears his phone ring, the vibration of it against the desk loud in the otherwise quiet office. He frowns at the withheld number and picks it up, sending Dave an apologetic smile as he answers, “Aaron Hotchner.”

“Hi, Mr Hotchner, I’m Lisa, I’m an ER nurse at Stafford Hospital…”

Everything slows down around him, his chest stuttering as time moves like syrup, every second sticking in the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe as he tightens his grip on his phone, surprised he doesn’t crush it as the nurse confirms what he already knows she’s going to say.

“Your wife and children were brought in this evening after being involved in a car accident.”

___

Emily wasn’t answering her phone. It doesn’t even ring.

He calls her. Again and again and again and she doesn’t answer. Each time it goes straight to voicemail the sound of her voice on her personalised message makes him ache, his shoulders so tight as he drives he worries they may pop out of the joints.

He tries again, presses the speed dial in his car but it goes to voicemail again. Her voice ringing out through the speakers around him.

“Hi, you’ve reached Emily Prentiss, please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.”

“Em, call me back, please,” he begs, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him this might be the last time he hears her voice, that this will replace whatever she’d said to him when they left for work that morning in their separate cars, “I’m…please answer the phone. I love you.”

It’s familiar. Too familiar. His hands tight on the steering wheel as he’s desperately trying to get to the woman he loves. Fear greeting him like an old friend as it breathes down his neck, its hand about to reach out for him and grab him by the shoulder. He tries to tell himself that it’s okay, that she and the kids are fine, but he can’t stop thinking that she hasn’t answered her phone.

She would answer if everything was okay. She’d call him if everything was okay.

He doesn’t remember a second of the journey by the time he makes it to the hospital. He flashes his badge at a security guard who tells him he can’t park where he’s pulled up, not caring if it’s an abuse of power. Every single cell in his body vibrating with fear and pre-emptive grief and guilt. He should have been with them. If he’d just gone home when he should have he would have been with them.

He walks up to the desk in the ER, grateful there isn’t a line of people. He’s already speaking to the nurse before she looks up at him, all of the details he had spilling out of him in a second, words tripping themselves as he desperately gets them out.

“I got a call about my wife - Emily Prentiss, she’s pregnant. And my children Jack and Mae Hotchner. I was told they were in a car accident.”

“Okay,” she says, looking at the computer, “Let me just check my system for them…” She drifts off as she types, and he hates how good he is at his job. Hates that he sees the very brief furrowing of her brows before she smiles up at him, “Did you say Prentiss?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice barely recognisable even to himself.

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t see that we have any patients in the ER with that name, and I can’t see your children’s names either.”

He grips the counter, his fingers pressed against cheap wood as he holds himself up, “What do you mean they aren’t on the system?” He demands, shouting at the young woman in front of him even if he doesn’t mean to, his desperation reaching an all time high. He finds himself wishing he’d taken up Dave’s offer of driving him here so that he wouldn’t be alone for this.

“It could mean a couple of things, it could mean they’ve already been discharged,” she swallows thickly, “Or, I’m so sorry but it could mean-”

“Dad?”

He turns around so fast at the sound of his son’s voice that he pulls his neck, but the pain that flares in it barely registers. All the anger and grief floods out of him in an instant the moment he sets eyes on him, on them, standing just a few feet away. Emily is standing next to Jack, her arm around his shoulders and the other arm securing Mae to her hip, the little girl’s face pressed against her neck. The only visible sign of injury is a bandage on Emily’s forehead, the stark white of the material a sight that is a little too familiar for his liking.

“Oh my God,” he breathes out, making it to their sides in a few seconds, pulling them into his arms. His whole world in his embrace before he pulls back, dropping a kiss to Jack’s forehead and then turning to kiss his little girl’s and then finally his wife, “I thought…you didn’t answer your phone.”

“I know,” she says, unwrapping her arm from around Jack’s shoulder to cup Aaron’s cheek, her skin warm against his, “I’m so sorry baby. It was broken in the crash. Couldn’t even get it to turn on,” she looks over at the desk, a flash of irritation in her eyes, “And they wouldn’t let me call you myself.”

“And you’re…” he looks her up and down now he’s closer and then at the kids, looking for cuts and injuries that weren’t there.

“We’re okay. If I’d been in the car alone, if I wasn’t pregnant, I probably wouldn’t have come to the hospital,” she assures him, her hand slipping down to his neck, her thumb tracing back and forth over his jaw, “We all got looked at. We have some bruises from the seatbelts, and I hit my head on the steering wheel. But the doctors were happy to discharge us.”

“You’re okay?” He asks, breathless, as if he’d run all the way here. He places his hand on her bump and the baby moves, the breath Aaron sucks in rattling back and forth between his ribs, “And the baby?”

“He’s okay too,” Emily assures him, adjusting her hold on Mae. She turns to look at her, obvious fear shining in their daughter’s eyes and she tickles her to draw out a laugh, “We saw baby brother on the screen, huh?”

Mae nods, her excitement at being a big sister overtaking everything else, “We saw his peni-”

“They said everything looks good. Told me what to look out for that would mean I had to come back in, and I have to arrange a check up with my OBGYN in a couple of days. We got new pictures,” Emily says, cutting over her toddler, not missing the poorly hidden smiles of amusement from some of the people sitting in the waiting room, and the horror on some of the other faces at a four-year-old knowing the anatomical terms for intimate body parts. She presses her lips together and looks at her husband, “I can show you when we get home?”

“As long as the doctors are sure everyone is okay,” he says, “Maybe I should talk to someone, ask them to look at you all again.”

She smiles, passing over Mae so he has the comfort of their little girl in his arms, and he takes her willingly, stamping his lips against her forehead as he holds her close. She melts into his embrace, exhausted by the stress of what had happened, and he runs his hand soothingly up and down her back.

“Honey,” Emily says, reaching for his hand, linking their fingers together so she can squeeze his palm against hers. “We’ve all been cleared. We’re okay. I promise. Right, kiddo?”

Jack nods, “Right,” he smiles at his Dad, “Can we get pizza?”

Aaron chuckles, the residual panic still simmering in his gut, but he clears his throat and nods, wanting more than anything to just get his family home where he could keep them safe, “Yeah buddy,” he says, ruffling his hair, “We can get pizza.”

___

“I have a feeling we’ll wake up with both of them in our bed,” Emily says as she walks into their bedroom, groaning as she sits down, her body aching in more ways than it usually did these days, “But they are both asleep.” She turns to look at Aaron. He’s sitting on the bed too, an arm's length away, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, “Honey-”

“What happened?”

She sighs and swallows thickly. They hadn’t spoken about it, not whilst the kids were with them. An unspoken agreement that they’d leave it until they went to bed. Neither one of them wanting Jack and Mae to relieve it when they were awake, when it was likely they would in their dreams.

“It was low impact,” she says, shifting towards him until their thighs touch. The guy behind us wasn’t paying attention, he was on his phone,” she reaches for his hand when he tenses and links their fingers together, “He went into the back of us at a red light. He’d already been slowing down because he saw it go yellow, he just missed it going red.”

“He could have killed you.”

“He rear-ended us.”

He all but growls, “He was being careless.”

She makes him look at her, her hand cupping his chin as she forces him to turn his head, “Something that I made very clear with a lot of colourful language Mae might start repeating during breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Aaron sighs and kisses her knuckles, “What were you doing in the car anyway? I didn’t know you were going anywhere.”

She presses her lips together, giving herself a moment before she answers the question she’d been dreading all night, well aware of what his reaction would be, “We were bringing you dinner.”

His eyes go wide, the internalised anger she expected flashing in his eyes, frustration she knows he’s sending inwards for not being home on time written in the tension in his jaw. What she doesn’t expect, what she doesn’t see coming despite knowing him better than she knows herself, is the way he bursts into tears. A sob caught in his chest that sounds like it hurts, cracking his ribs from the inside out, the sharp edges of them catching on scars that were already scattered across his skin. Like he’s tearing himself apart from the inside out in the same places another man once tore him apart from the outside in.

“Aaron,” she breathes out, barely getting a second before he leans forward and presses his face against her neck, his tears burning her skin. She holds him close and turns her head to kiss his forehead. She blows out a shaky breath, seeing him this upset enough to tip her over the edge herself, “We’re okay-”

“I know you’re okay, Em,” he chokes out, tears leaving tracks on her neck, his words muffled against her collarbone as his misplaced anger turns into the grief he couldn’t shake off, “But I keep going back to that moment when I didn’t know that you were. It felt like…” he drifts off and chokes on the rest of his sentence, “It felt like my world was ending. If I lost you…”

She pulls back so she can look at him, and she presses her forehead against his, her hand curled around the back of his head as she holds him in place, “Sweetheart,” she says, the nickname he usually used for her slipping free, “I’m right here,” she says, reaching for his hand to place it on her chest, making a point of breathing in and out deeply so he can feel the rise and fall of it, “I’m okay. The kids are safe and asleep in their beds,” she shifts their joint hands to her bump and she smiles when the baby kicks, “Baby boy is kicking up a storm as always. We’re right here. You didn’t lose any of us. This isn’t like what happened with Haley,” she reaches up and wipes a tear from his cheek, “We’re all right here.”

He chokes on a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He shakes his head, making it knock gently against hers before he pulls back to look at her, “Sometimes I think you know me a little too well.”

She shakes her head and squeezes the hand still pressed against her bump, “I’m your wife. I don’t think it’s possible for me to know you too well.”

“I’m so-”

“I don’t want to hear any apologies,” she says, wiping his cheeks again, “Not for staying at the office late. Or for crying. You have nothing to apologise for, okay?”

He nods, resting his forehead against hers, “Okay.”

They wear a door open just down the hall, and then the thundering of Mae’s tiny feet against the hardwood floor. When she opens their door and pokes her head around it she has tears shining on her cheeks, her lips trembling as she steps into the room.

“Mommy, Daddy, I had a bad dream.”

Emily shifts back from Aaron just enough to make room for the little girl, “Come here, baby. Do you want to sleep in our bed tonight?”

She nods as she climbs onto the bed, settling herself onto Aaron’s lap, “Yes please.”

Aaron smiles and kisses the top of her head, “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Mae looks up at him and frowns when she spots his damn cheeks, “Are you sad Daddy?”

“I’m okay, baby,” He sighs and runs his fingers through her hair, exchanging a quick look with Emily before he returns his attention to his little girl, “I was just scared because you, Jack, Mommy and baby brother could have been hurt.”

She moves so she’s level with his face, all but standing in his lap now, his hands on her waist as he secures her in place. She kisses his forehead, making both him and Emily smile, and then she pulls back, “We’re okay.”

“I know, princess,” he kisses her forehead in return and encourages her to sit back down, “Are you okay to get comfortable in bed whilst Mommy and I get ready?”

She nods and then tilts her head curiously, waiting until both her parents are standing up before she speaks, “Daddy?”

“Yes, Mae?”

“What’s a douche canoe?”

#aaron hotchner #hotchniss fanfic #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotchniss fan fic #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #hotchniss fanfiction #emily prentiss fanfiction #aaron x emily #hotchniss

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