#Talking Threads Store

[desbvndar]

LOCATION : red creek hardware store TIME : 6 p.m. WITH : OPEN ( capping at 4 / 4 replies )

jihoon  flicks  his  lighter  ,  the  flame  trembling  against  the  bitter  cold  as  he  lights  the  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lips  with  a  hand  stuffed  in  his  coat  pocket  .  he  hates  the  sharp  burn  of  smoke  in  his  lungs  almost  as  much  as  he  hates  the  winter  air  biting  at  his  face  ,  but  it’s  either  this  or  stew  inside  the  hardware  store  ,  staring  at  a  selection  of  couches  so  tasteless  they  feel  like  a  personal  affront  .  he  exhales  a  thin  stream  of  smoke  ,  watching  it  curl  and  disappear  before  his  gaze  shifts  to  someone  walking  toward  the  entrance.  he  watches  them  hesitate  ,  hand  hovering  near  the  door  handle  .  “  don’t  bother  ,  ”  he  says  with  a  light  snort  .  “  unless  you’re  in  the  market  for  buyer’s  remorse  .  ”

[misslisamiray]

Yesterday started off pretty shitty. First off, I didn't bring my Rick Bear with me to the blood center because it looked like it was going to rain more & I didn't want to risk him getting damaged. Adding insult to injury (or rather, the other way around judging by my sunburn 😅) the rain stopped & the sun came out in full force. So I could have definitely brought him.

Then the blood center was... not successful. More about that later maybe. At least the bruising is super minimal, & since they weren't able to get anything out of me, there's no deferral time.

But my day started to get better with the news there's FINALLY a release date for the RaM anime. I'm so excited for that, and it's just over a month away now! Then I decided to take a walk to the Goodwill about a mile away, and look!

After having zero luck finding anything at two Savers near me, I now have the start of my Rick cosplay!!! Yes, I got both shirts, but the first is the one I'll be using.

[moreaujeans]

oh boy

[subjectsix]

I don't know I'm not done talking about it. It's insane that I can't just uninstall Edge or Copilot. That websites require my phone number to sign up. That people share their contacts to find their friends on social media.

I wouldn't use an adblocker if ads were just banners on the side funding a website I enjoy using and want to support. Ads pop up invasively and fill my whole screen, I misclick and get warped away to another page just for trying to read an article or get a recipe.

Every app shouldn't be like every other app. Instagram didn't need reels and a shop. TikTok doesn't need a store. Instagram doesn't need to be connected to Facebook. I don't want my apps to do everything, I want a hub for a specific thing, and I'll go to that place accordingly.

I love discord, but so much information gets lost to it. I don't want to join to view things. I want to lurk on forums. I want to be a user who can log in and join a conversation by replying to a thread, even if that conversation was two days ago. I know discord has threads, it's not the same. I don't want to have to verify my account with a phone number. I understand safety and digital concerns, but I'm concerned about information like that with leaks everywhere, even with password managers.

I shouldn't have to pay subscriptions to use services and get locked out of old versions. My old disk copy of photoshop should work. I should want to upgrade eventually because I like photoshop and supporting the business. Adobe is a whole other can of worms here.

Streaming is so splintered across everything. Shows release so fast. Things don't get physical releases. I can't stream a movie I own digitally to friends because the share-screen blocks it, even though I own two digital copies, even though I own a physical copy.

I have an iPod, and I had to install a third party OS to easily put my music on it without having to tangle with iTunes. Spotify bricked hardware I purchased because they were unwillingly to upkeep it. They don't pay their artists. iTunes isn't even iTunes anymore and Apple struggles to upkeep it.

My TV shows me ads on the home screen. My dad lost access to eBook he purchased because they were digital and got revoked by the company distributing them. Hitman 1-3 only runs online most of the time. Flash died and is staying alive because people love it and made efforts to keep it up.

I have to click "not now" and can't click "no". I don't just get emails, they want to text me to purchase things online too. My windows start search bar searches online, not just my computer. Everything is blindly called an app now. Everything wants me to upload to the cloud. These are good tools! But why am I forced to use them! Why am I not allowed to own or control them?

No more!!!!! I love my iPod with so much storage and FLAC files. I love having all my fics on my harddrive. I love having USBs and backups. I love running scripts to gut suck stuff out of my Windows computer I don't want that spies on me. I love having forums. I love sending letters. I love neocities and webpages and webrings. I will not be scanning QR codes. Please hand me a physical menu. If I didn't need a smartphone for work I'd get a "dumb" phone so fast. I want things to have buttons. I want to use a mouse. I want replaceable batteries. I want the right to repair. I grew up online and I won't forget how it was!

[saintfrenetic]

somehow gardening autism is not a garden-variety autism and, i for one, am frutrated by this

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[robinsgrl]

Rafe with weird girl is a bit more nonchalant and tame compared to JJ with weird girl. he WILL match your freak and that’s a threat and yeah you might be weird but he’s much weirder he makes you shy. YOU.

weird girl masterlist

MDNI 18+

you’re talkative. You’re never not talking someone’s ear off. Most people can’t handle it. Sometimes your own friends need a moment of silence. But never JJ.

you’re laid back on your bed, legs spread open as his face hides between you. “deb deserves so much better. her boyfriend is such an asshole.” you breathe out shakily as he laps at your cunt.

he hums into you, nodding. “she does, mama. much better.” he dives right back in, your fingers threading through his hair.

“yeah, and the weird thing is she doesn’t think she does,” a small moan leaves your lips but you continue. “we tell her all the time. oh! I forgot the worst part! when they were on a break, he came to the store and-and bought condoms. at her register.”

this makes him pull his face from your heat, eyes wide as he looks down at you. “no fucking way.”

You nod, just as exasperated. “yeah, i know, it was fucking crazy” you tell him as you push his head back down

you’ve gone fishing with him and you’re so damn bored. you came to tan but the suns slowly going down and you're sure you’re as tan as you can be. he adds bait one last time and throws it far into the water. your eyes trail on his strong arms that are flexing under the soft hue of the sunset.

you dont even question your thought. you lean over and chomp down onto his bicep. he’s not even phased. “what’s my sunscreen taste like?” he asks as he glances over at you with a pretty smile. it makes your cheeks flush.

“delicious. wanna try mine?” it’s a joke. but you should know better than to joke like that with him. he doesn’t hesitate to drop his rod and rush to you.

a loud laugh leaves you as he tackles you in a hug, making you land on him as he falls to his back on the boat. he’s nipping at your neck, biting and sucking on you. “jj!” you can’t stop the happy laughs that leave you.

“you taste so good, mama!” he trails his lips down to your chest and bites the side of your boob that’s pressing out of your bikini. it doesn’t take long for him to fully take your tit out and bite your pebbled nipple.

“JJ!”

you’re in bed with jj when you realize something. he’s butt naked. “bro, where are your pants?”

“bro, i like letting my balls get air”

“bro, are you clenching your cheeks right now?” You ask with a laugh as you smack his ass. He lets out a fake moan and pushes his ass to you.

“Bro, i loved that. Do it again.” He’s laying on top of you now, feeling his everything against you. Your hands fall to his butt and you easily squish his cheek. “Bro, im getting a boner.”

“Your bro is giving you a boner? Bro, that’s fruity.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck as you keep smacking his naked butt. “Your little butt is so cute” you comment.

“My butt is NOT small”

“Yes, it’s a tiny lil bubble butt”

“There’s nothing tiny about me, mama” you laugh as he rolls his hips into you.

“JJ! Oh my god!” You laugh and try and push him off of you.

Yeah, no one can ever truly grasp JJ’s freak— he leaves you miles behind. Moral of the story…… he wins.

[luveline]

Hi Jade! (I’ve sent this before so ignore if you aren’t into it) just thinking about a bau!reader (maybe shy!reader??) who’s dating post-prison Spencer but didn’t know him before prison and she sees some footage of season one Spencer (maybe they need to refer to a recording of a previous case?) and she’s just dying at how cute he is 🥹

You’ve barely woken up with your face in a solid shoulder when Spencer’s turning around.

“Don’t,” he says when you whine, slipping a familiar hand over your hip. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Too early to make fun of me.” 

“Do you think I’m making fun of you?” 

His talking warms your nose where his head is angled down. Your skin smarts with goosebumps as he trails his hand lightly up your back, down again, the slowest, tumbling touch. You shiver, and Spencer, ever so slightly devious in love, says, “Oh, you’re cold?” with great pity as he pulls you closer. 

You rub your face against his shoulder. “Sorry.” 

“Why?”

“I smell.” 

He hums. “Sort of. Not like sweat, though. You smell like sleep.” His lips touch your cheek.

He lets you ‘warm up’ in his arms for a few minutes, then however long you doze for, lost and too comfortable to bother even trying to wake up properly. Your phone pings a couple of times after it comes out of sleep mode, a sure sign you’ve overslept, but Spencer doesn’t make you move until your stomach growls. 

“Come on,” he says, kissing your nose and slipping you back onto your side of the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.” 

“It’s nearly twelve.” 

“You just woke up, and it’s the first thing you’re gonna eat. You are breaking your fast. Breakfast.” He looks pretty even through achy, tired eyes, all the sleep crusted in your lashes no match for Spencer Reid. How you went so long without knowing him is a mystery. 

You get up only because he told you to and because he looked quite lovely when he did it, not because you want to. The bed is warm, that pit of his arms calling your name, but Spencer’s already rolling out of bed with an eager hand scratching through his hair. Sweat has made them tight and a little darker in the back. You’ll both have to shower at some point, preferably after he’s made you breakfast in bed. 

He can see your expectations on your face, and he laughs as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. “Get up! I’m not bringing it up here, do you know how badly your sleep cycle is affected when you start doing the wrong things in bed?” 

“What counts as the wrong thing?” 

Spencer laughs again, softer now, and for a moment he traces your face with his eyes without speaking. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand at you as he makes for the bedroom door, “stay there. But only ‘cos you look so pretty!” 

“Thank you!” you call back. 

This time with Spencer isn’t enough. You need ten more years of this, thirty, fifty, you need to wake up in his arms and have him touch you and tickle your cheek with his breath. He’s too far to have him come back, so you resign to hugging him when he returns. 

Your phone pings again, drawing your attention finally. The first notification is a reminder to buy toothpaste today at the grocery store. The second is a text from a friend, the third an email. It’s one from last night that piques your interest, another friend, full capital letters: HELP. 

Her use of a laughing emoji defers any urgency. You click on the text thread and scroll up, puzzled by her previous messages, a link, and a caption: oh my god he was so dorky??? 

You open the video and feel your breath catch in surprise. 

Is that Spencer?

You're not stupid, you’ve seen photos of him and his friends together dotted around the apartment from over the years, and every time you come across that photo of him and Diana at a spelling bee with his huge black-framed glasses you have to laugh, but it’s different seeing him to hearing him. 

He’s so nervous. You can’t understand what it is he’s saying, something about mathematical components to profiling criminals. Jason Gideon stands in the background watching him closely. 

“There’s actually a good joke that–”

“Spencer,” Gideon reprimands. 

You watch in awe as Spencer stammers an apology, his cheeks a little pink. You’ve seen Spencer blush, but this feels different. He looks so young. His hair is straight as a pin. 

“Spencer, did you used to straighten your hair?” you call, hoping he can hear you over the sound of a frying pan popping in the kitchen. “Or do you have a perm now, or what?” 

“What!” 

“I’m confused on the logistics of your hair!” You feel something weird in your chest as on screen Spencer tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a mixture of wanting to eat him and wanting to reach through the screen to stroke his cheek with your thumb. 

Spencer treks back into the bedroom with his pink and white pinstripe apron over his shirt and sweatpants. He smells like cinnamon sugar already. “What are you talking about?” 

“My friend found a video of you and Jason at one of those lectures you did.” 

Spencer presses his lips together. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “I didn’t do any lectures.”

“Uh, yes you did, liar, and you looked so cute.” You turn your phone to him. “So sweet.” 

He marches to the bed. Before you can stop him, he’s taking the phone from your hand, giving you the world's silliest, tiniest shove when you try to get it back. 

“Cruel,” you quip. 

Spencer stares at the phone screen, then you, “Sorry,” he says, turning pink, “I don’t know why I did that, just– I just–” He frowns deeply. “Can you stop smiling like that?” 

You climb onto your knees, a morning disaster, but when you wrap your arms around Spencer’s waist he looks at you like you’re perfect. His eyes soften, brows relaxing, his irises like dark dimes that slowly dilate as he looks you over. Your phone presses into your back, his arm wrapping around you. 

“You were adorable,” you say sincerely. 

“Not anymore?” 

You rub your cheek against his apron. “No, you still are. Let me watch the video again.” 

“Not a chance.” 

[solxamber]

Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

You, an overworked S-Class esper with the survival instincts of a damp sock, catch the eye of SSS-Class guide Vil Schoenheit. He decides you’re his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

The world was already hanging on by a thread — economic collapse, melting ice caps, influencers starting cults via TikTok. It was a mess. You’d think that would be enough. You’d hope that would be enough. But no. Some ancient cosmic being — probably named something dramatic like Thar’zul the Chronovore — looked down at Earth and said, “You know what this needs? Fun.”

And by fun, it meant Gates.

Gates are like if cursed portals, radioactive sinkholes, and a haunted Etsy store had a baby. They pop up anywhere and everywhere: in libraries, parking garages, yoga studios, even in the middle of someone’s wedding ceremony. (“Do you take this—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?!”)

These glowing tears in the fabric of reality are basically open invitations to every monster, demon, and unholy abomination in the neighborhood. And if left unchecked, they break, releasing those nightmares into your already-taxed existence like a hellish game of whack-a-mole.

But don't worry! Humanity, against all odds, did not die out immediately.

Because the universe, in its infinite chaos, also gave rise to Espers. Special little guys. Think emotional time bombs with telekinetic temper tantrums and the ability to level buildings if they stub their toe too hard. Espers are the only ones who can suppress Gates and fight back the monsters. They're strong, fast, powerful—and also dangerously dramatic.

Like, “cries during dog food commercials” dramatic. “Blew up a vending machine because it ate their dollar” dramatic. If they don’t have someone helping them regulate their powers (and by extension, their feelings), they’re a walking nuclear disaster waiting to happen.

Which brings us to Guides.

Guides are born with the power to soothe, ground, and stabilize Espers before they turn into emotional IEDs. They go through rigorous training. They meditate. They are the human equivalent of “have you tried deep breathing?”—except instead of calming down toddlers, they’re keeping an Esper from melting the freeway with their grief-powered fireballs.

This entire survival system hinges on compatibility between Espers and Guides. Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. It’s mostly screaming, paperwork, and sometimes unspoken sexual tension.

So, to recap:

Gates = Bad.

Espers = Powerful but emotionally unstable.

Guides = The only thing standing between civilization and utter monster-induced ruin.

Together, Espers and Guides form the first — and only — line of defense between humanity and total monster-induced annihilation.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, this system hinges entirely on two people getting along.

Which, as anyone who's ever been in a group project can tell you, is a complete joke.

The Gate had been rough. You were bleeding, caked in monster goop, and running on exactly one granola bar, four energy drinks, and pure spite. Monsters just kept coming—one after another like it was a clearance sale on eldritch horror—and now your knees were shaking, your head was pounding, and you were 99% sure you were hallucinating the talking goat that told you to “go into the light.”

You stumbled out of the Gate zone, vision blurry. There were Guides waiting beyond the perimeter, crisp in their uniforms, radiant with that “I got 8 hours of sleep and drink water” glow. Unfortunately, most of them had already been snagged by the other Espers, who were quicker, cleaner, and not currently dripping ectoplasm from their sleeve.

You blinked. The only one left was… well, no. That couldn’t be right.

Standing a few feet away, untouched and oddly pristine, was a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a high-end fashion magazine shoot titled "War-Torn But Make It Couture."

Tall, composed, and stunning in a way that made your brain short-circuit, he was clearly someone Important™. The other S-Ranks had actively avoided him, which should’ve been a clue. But your frontal lobe was melting. You didn’t have the bandwidth to care.

You wobbled forward like a dying Roomba, grabbed a handful of his sleek uniform, and mumbled, “Guide. That’s you, right?”

And then you slumped forward and face-planted directly onto his collarbone.

There was a pause.

“…Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked, incredulously.

You groaned. “Yeah. You’re a Guide. You’ve got the badge.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

He sounded… offended. And faintly intrigued.

“…You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?” you mumbled into his neck.

You didn’t see the expression on his face, but if your ears weren’t lying, he audibly gasped. Like someone had just told him dry shampoo was canceled. Like the very idea of not being recognized was a personal attack.

But instead of pushing you off, he slowly brought a hand up, fingers grazing your temple. You felt a wave of warmth radiate through your skull like a breath of fresh air had crawled into your ribcage.

It was… good. Too good.

A jolt of relief punched through your nervous system. Your heart rate settled. The Gate static stopped screaming in your ears. Your whole body sagged, weightless and calm, and you barely had time to mutter “holy shit you’re good at this” before your knees gave out completely.

You passed out in his arms.

And Vil Schoenheit—SSS-Rank Guide, national treasure, and walking perfection—stood there holding your limp, grime-covered, unconscious form with a complicated look on his face.

You came back to consciousness the way a phone boots up after being thrown into a wall. Slow, glitchy, and confused.

Something was warm under you. Something was very firm. You blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the strange sensation of not being in pain anymore. The Gate headache was gone. Your soul no longer felt like it had been sandpapered. You were, inexplicably, comfortable.

That’s when you realized: you were still wrapped around the fancy Guide like a human backpack.

Face: mashed against his shoulder. Legs: around his waist. Arms: locked in a desperate hug like a koala going through a rough breakup. And he… was just sitting there. On a recovery bench. Completely calm. Holding you like this was something that happened to him all the time.

“Oh,” you mumbled, sleep-dazed. “My bad.”

He tilted his head, glossy hair catching the light like it had a sponsorship deal with a shampoo brand. “Are you done?” he asked, voice sharp. “Or shall I assume you’ve permanently relocated to my clavicle?”

You peeled yourself off him with all the grace of wet laundry sliding off a countertop. “Thanks for, uh, not letting me die,” you offered, scratching your head.

He stared at you for a long moment. “Do you know who I am?”

You blinked. “…A Guide?”

He inhaled. Visibly. Offended on a spiritual level. The look on his face could’ve soured milk. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Are you actively trying to offend me?”

“What? You’ve got the badge! That’s all I need, right?”

Vil Schoenheit—as he introduced himself—flicked you on the forehead. It was somehow both dismissive and full of judgment. “Recover. Properly.” he snapped, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. “You’re lucky I’m magnanimous.”

He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.

You blinked after him, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell was that about?”

A nurse walked in and immediately gasped like she'd just witnessed a royal birth. “Oh my Seven—was that Vil?!”

“Vil… who?” you asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.

She turned to you so fast her clipboard flew off the counter. “Vil Schoenheit. SSS Guide. He’s a legend. Do you have any idea how many Espers have tried to bond with him and been turned away in tears?”

You stared at the door where he’d just vanished. “No? He just kinda… guided me.”

The nurse screeched. “YOU JUST KINDA GOT GUIDED—are you INSANE? That man once made a Grade-SS Esper cry because they wore Crocs to an informal debriefing!”

You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.

“…I told him ‘oops sorry lol.’”

You were still internally combusting about the whole “Oops sorry lol” situation when you finally worked up the nerve to go to Vil’s office. Not to bond—you weren’t delusional—but at the very least, to apologize. Maybe offer him a thank-you fruit basket. Or one of those luxury hair masks. Something.

Espers were better paid than Guides. That wasn’t a flex—it was just how the system worked. You’d always thought it was kind of unfair, but now, standing outside his office, you suddenly felt even worse. Because if Vil was being underpaid to deal with Espers, plural, like you? He deserved hazard pay.

You raised a shaky fist and knocked on the door before pushing it open.

The door opened, and you were hit with the distinct scent of wealth, vintage cologne, and spiritual intimidation. The office looked like it belonged in a magazine titled Power & Passive Aggression: Interiors for the Elite. It had velvet chairs. A chandelier. And on the floor, sobbing, was an SS-ranked Esper.

“Please,” she was whispering, clutching Vil’s coat like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Please, just once. I know I’m not SSS, but my compatibility score is so close—”

“I don’t guide based on some arbitrary number,” Vil said coolly, extracting himself with the same disdain you'd use to avoid stepping in gum. “I guide based on worth.”

You were already edging away when his eyes snapped up—and softened.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, voice shifting so drastically in tone it gave you whiplash.

“I—uh. I just wanted to apologize. For, you know. The slumping. And the drool. And the calling you ‘a Guide’ like you’re not the Guide.” You laughed nervously. “Also. Uh. I can repay you?”

He stared at you like you’d offered to give him pocket lint.

Then, without even glancing at the SS Esper still on the floor, he waved a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Leave.”

She looked up, stunned. “W-what?”

“I said leave.” His voice sharpened like glass under velvet. “Now.”

You watched her scramble out in silence. Then Vil turned to you, posture relaxing like you were an entirely different species of Esper.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the velvet chair.

You obeyed. Of course you did. Your legs moved like they belonged to someone else.

“I didn’t come here to be guided,” you said quickly. “I just thought I’d offer some compensation since you took care of me back at the Gate, and—”

“Hush.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t guide you for compensation,” Vil said, moving closer, “and I certainly don’t require repayment.”

“But I—”

“Do not interrupt me,” he said smoothly, placing his hand just under your jaw and tilting your head with two fingers. “Close your eyes.”

You did.

And just like before, the storm in your chest went still.

He hadn’t even made full contact yet, and already your frayed nerves calmed, your aching muscles relaxed, and that hollow echo left by the Gate quieted.

You opened your mouth to speak again—because, honestly, who wouldn’t panic under that much raw focus—but his voice cut in before a single syllable escaped:

“Did I say you could talk?”

You shut your mouth.

Vil smiled. Like he’d just won something important, and wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet.

“Good. You learn quickly.”

You staggered out of the Gate like a soldier crawling back from the front lines of a war no one believed in. Your clothes were singed, your limbs were shaking, your skin was buzzing with leftover energy that had nowhere to go, and your brain was running the Windows 95 shutdown noise on loop. You had fought monsters for the past hour with all the grace of a dying blender.

Everything hurt. Your body felt like it had been used as a battering ram. Your soul felt like it had been microwaved.

So when you saw the sweet, merciful glow of a Guide badge ahead in the crowd, your instincts took over. You staggered forward like a half-dead Roomba on its last cycle, locked onto the nearest beacon of safety.

The Guide in question had orange hair and the smug look of someone who thought they were God’s gift to humanity despite the fact they were clearly holding a vape pen and a clipboard.

You didn’t care.

You lurched toward him, arms outstretched like a cryptid emerging from the woods.

“BRO NO,” he yelped. “DUDE, I’M NOT CERTIFIED FOR THIS LEVEL OF TRAUMA—DON’T PUKE ON ME—”

But before your forehead could connect with his very punchable shoulder, a blur of movement swept in.

You were yanked back by the collar like an untrained dog trying to bolt into traffic.

“Absolutely not,” a cool, smooth voice said with the unmistakable tone of expensive disdain. “You are not grounding with him.”

You turned sluggishly to your new captor and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Vil. Hair perfect despite the apocalyptic weather conditions of a gate zone. Wearing a coat that probably cost more than your entire existence and looking at you like you were a particularly unfortunate stain on said coat.

You blinked at him. “Am I in trouble?” you mumbled.

Vil arched a brow. “You’re seconds away from slumping onto a Guide who once tried to ground an Esper by playing lo-fi beats through his AirPods. Yes, you’re in trouble.”

You were too tired to be offended.

He sighed, took your hand, and suddenly, bliss.

Like every nerve in your body was dunked in lavender oil and told to shut up. Your breathing evened out. Your vision cleared. Your bones climbed back into their sockets like, “Our bad, we’ll behave now.”

You let him guide you to a nearby bench, too dazed to do anything but follow the magical angel who had just saved you from the worst decision of your life.

Vil sat gracefully. You slumped next to him like a dying cactus in a thunderstorm.

“Post-gate recovery is non-negotiable,” he said, like he hadn’t just watched you nearly expire in public.

You closed your eyes and focused on the cool, steady rhythm of his guidance, and then—

A crinkle.

You opened one eye to see him pull a juice box from his bag. With a bendy straw.

He inserted the straw and handed it to you like you were a toddler who’d just had a very bad day at daycare.

You stared at the juice. Then at him. “Is this for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “It’s for the other S-class Esper currently drooling on my coat.”

You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.

It was… heavenly.

You made a soft noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.

And then—your eyes stung.

“No,” Vil said immediately, without looking at you. “Whatever emotional reaction you’re about to have—don’t.”

You sniffled. “But you brought me juice. Nobody’s brought me juice since I got classified. Everyone just shoves me into Gates and tells me not to die.”

He flicked your forehead. “If you die, I have to find another Esper whose personality doesn’t give me hives. That sounds exhausting.”

“Are you… saying you like me?”

“I’m saying your emotional resilience is marginally less pathetic than average,” he said, adjusting your posture so your head leaned more comfortably on his shoulder. “And I don’t hate your voice.”

You sipped your juice box, trembling like a Victorian child given a warm meal for the first time.

No one had treated you like this since you joined the system. You’d been weaponized, categorized, and told to sit still and kill things on command. You were a tool. A number. A sharp object.

But Vil wasn’t afraid of your sharp edges. He looked you in the eye and said, “That’s a guide badge you’re drooling on, potato. Not a chew toy.”

And then gave you juice.

You sniffled again.

“If you sob, I will end you,” he muttered, but his hand never let go of yours.

And you knew, deep in your wrecked little Esper heart, that you would fight a thousand more gates just to be guided by him again.

Even if he bullied you the entire time.

So apparently, post-gate recovery hadn’t just been juice boxes and emotionally confusing hand-holding.

No. It turned out you had to take something called a Routine Compatibility Check for “guidance efficiency optimization.”

You hadn’t known what any of that meant, but someone had shoved a clipboard at you and told you to “go sit in the glow room and don’t touch anything,” so there you were. Sitting in a sterile white room that smelled like hand sanitizer and despair. Waiting to meet your newly assigned “guidance match.”

A door creaked open.

You turned around—and in walked a guy who looked like he hadn’t seen direct sunlight since the invention of the lightbulb. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie too big, blue glowing hair all mussed like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer. He had eyebags for days and the posture of a raccoon caught mid-fridge-raid.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

He looked at you harder—and visibly recoiled like you’d just bit him.

“…Uhhh,” he said, voice high and trembling. “You’re the S-class?”

“Yup,” you replied.

“Oh no.”

This man looked like he was seconds from writing “HELP” on the window with a dry erase marker. His hand was already twitching toward the panic button. He was mentally Googling “what to do when assigned a battle demon.”

You opened your mouth to say something reassuring—like, “Hey, I only explode on some guides,” or “I’ve never actually flattened a building during a meltdown”—

—but the door slammed open behind you.

“Absolutely not.”

You turned around.

Vil Schoenheit stood in the doorway like the wrath of God dressed in Gucci. Impeccable coat. Sunglasses indoors. Holding a coffee cup that you knew wasn’t from the office vending machine.

He eyed the situation—your tentative shuffle toward your new guide, the way the poor guy was gripping his ID badge like a rosary—and his lip curled like someone had just handed him expired tofu.

“I’m taking them,” Vil said flatly to the Guidance Office rep standing nearby. “This is non-negotiable.”

The rep blinked. “But, Mr. Schoenheit, the match—”

“—was laughable. They’re mine.”

Your poor assigned guide looked so relieved it was almost insulting.

“Thank the stars,” he mumbled, already gathering his things like you were a bomb that’d just been safely disarmed. “No offense, but I really don’t do well with… uh… physical contact or eye contact or conflict or—”

You were too stunned to reply as Vil grabbed you by the wrist, effortlessly pivoted on his heel, and strode out of the room with you in tow like a high fashion tornado.

You stumbled after him. “Okay, hi, hello? What was that?”

“I saw your assignment,” Vil said coolly. “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that continue.”

“But—I thought you weren’t accepting new matches?”

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “So…?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, slow and deliberate, like you weren’t quite connecting the dots fast enough.

“I didn’t consider you ‘new'.”

You shut your mouth because your brain was full of static. Something about the way he said that made your knees consider filing for divorce from the rest of your body.

He guided you all the way to the elevator, in silence, while you tried to process what had just happened.

You, apparently, had been claimed.

And worst of all?

You thought you might have liked it.

It all started with a noble quest. A simple dream.

You just wanted a hoodie.

Not a fancy one. Not a designer one. Not a limited edition “inspired by the blood of fashion victims” collection. No, no. You wanted one of those oversized, marshmallow-soft hoodies that whispered “lay down and give up, my liege” every time you put it on. The kind of hoodie that could absorb emotional damage.

So there you were. Financially stable (thanks, murder gates), emotionally unstable (thanks, murder gates), and elbows-deep in a display bin labeled “3 for 2: Emotional Support Wear”, when fate struck.

Or rather, sashayed past in four-inch heels and an aura of contempt.

Vil.

You froze. He looked like he’d just walked out of a fashion spread. Every strand of hair in place. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life. Cheekbones that could slice open a space-time rift. And where was he going?

Straight into a boutique so fancy it looked like it would ask you for a résumé just to step inside.

Naturally, you turned the other way. This was not your world. You were not dressed for it. You were wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with a questionable graphic of a goose wielding a knife. You were simply a humble raccoon-person in search of softness.

But then—

“You.”

Oh no. Oh god. Oh no god.

You turned around slowly, hoodie clutched to your chest like a shield. Vil stood there with shopping bags and the expression of someone who’d just discovered a stray in his favorite restaurant.

“Come. I need hands.”

“Sorry,” you said. “I left mine at home. Can’t help you.”

He blinked. Then, with all the confidence of someone who didn’t hear nonsense, he handed you his bags and turned around, fully expecting you to follow.

And you did. Because unfortunately, curiosity was stronger than shame.

The next hour? Was… actually kind of amazing.

Vil didn’t shop. He conquered. He moved through stores like a well-dressed storm, flinging judgment at poor fabric choices and muttering dark things about asymmetrical hemlines. Store staff parted for him like he was royalty. Other customers wilted under the weight of his gaze.

You, meanwhile, trailed after him like a high-end goblin, carrying his many, many bags, dressed like a sleep-deprived college student who had just lost a fight with a laundry machine.

It was great.

You watched him try on outfits with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. He was graceful. Efficient. Disgustingly photogenic. You felt like you were witnessing a documentary: “The Endangered Fashion Icon in His Natural Habitat.”

And then, miraculously, he let you live.

He suggested a coffee break and even let you pay—probably out of pity. You made a mental note to deduct it as a business expense under “accidental deity encounter.”

Sitting across from him, sipping overpriced lattes, you made a joke. Something dumb. Something about a pair of jeans you'd seen that looked like they'd been personally attacked by a cheese grater.

Vil laughed.

You were not prepared.

It was real. Warm. Shockingly cute. Like, “I’ve been guiding murder monsters all week and now suddenly I believe in joy again” kind of cute.

You stared. He looked at you. You looked away, sipping your drink very intently, trying not to say “please laugh again, it heals my soul.”

You didn't say it out loud.

But you thought it really hard.

You walked into Vil's office like a responsible little murder gremlin, fully prepared for your weekly check-up guidance session.

What you were not prepared for was the sheer atmospheric rage brewing inside.

Vil was pacing like a cat who'd just realized its favorite toy was in the hands of a toddler—absolutely done with life. He was muttering to himself under his breath, phrases like, “Espers with zero gratitude... how dare they ask for guidance without a thank-you,” and, “I swear if one more person thinks my time is free like it's some kind of community resource—

He saw you, exhaled the deepest sigh known to man, and pointed at the couch like he was casting a curse. Not a word of greeting. Just The Finger of Sit.

So you sat. For about three seconds.

Then, something in your little gremlin heart said: No. He is cranky. He is suffering. This is a job for Emotional Support Esper.

You got up, walked behind him, and—without a word—started massaging his shoulders.

Vil tensed like a cat about to fight god. Then slowly—slowly—melted into it.

“This isn’t part of your session,” he grumbled, but it lacked bite. His head tilted forward, giving you better access. “You’re not guiding me, you know.”

“I’m aware,” you said, digging your thumbs in just right. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t reply. Just… breathed. It was weirdly serene. You, massaging one of the most powerful and terrifying guides in the country. Him, finally looking like he wasn’t five seconds away from incinerating someone with nothing but his glare.

Eventually, you sat back down on the couch. And then—shock of all shocks—Vil slumped down next to you.

No dramatic speech. No biting commentary. Just one very exhausted, very overworked guide leaning on your shoulder like gravity had personally betrayed him.

“…Don’t say a word about this,” he murmured, eyes already closed. He reached for your hand, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and held it tight.

You stayed there for a long time.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You just sat with him in silence, wondering how the hell you’d gone from emotional demolition expert to comfort pillow. And, weirdly, feeling kind of honored.

You weren’t sure how you got home, but judging by the trail of blood, sludge, and crushed energy drink cans leading up the stairs, you had clearly made the journey using sheer spite and possibly a small miracle. Your legs moved on autopilot, powered by rage, trauma, and about four remaining brain cells—none of which were cooperating.

You’d just come back from a gate that had gone so poorly, it might as well have been cursed by the gods, the devs, and your second-grade math teacher. Breach. Casualties. Screaming.

There was definitely a moment where you almost flung a monster into a building and then screamed louder when you realized it was the emergency response building. Whoops.

It wasn’t even your assigned gate. It was a last-minute scramble. You and a handful of other S-rank espers were yanked in because the gate was behaving badly. Like, “snarling, vomiting monsters that defied physics” badly. And you—foolish, heroic, caffeine-soaked gremlin that you were—ran in first like someone had dared you.

You fought. You fought so hard you forgot your own name for about two hours. And still, people died. People always died. But this time, it felt like too many. You saw a little kid’s shoe and had a breakdown mid-punch. You tried to do everything, and your body just… stopped cooperating.

You didn’t even get guided afterward.

Vil wasn't at this gate. The other guides were all assigned or recovering themselves. Some were crying. A few had fainted from strain.

And you? You looked around, felt your knees give out a little, then just muttered “okay cool” and left like a ghost clocking out after a double shift at a haunted Wendy’s.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were so dissociated you forgot how doors worked. You stood outside yours for a full minute before realizing the knob turned left. You walked in, left your boots and weapon where they fell, and didn’t even consider locking the door behind you.

Let fate come. Let a gate burst into your living room. Let some criminal wander in and steal your furniture. That was Future You’s problem. Current You was Busy.

You peeled yourself out of your battle gear like a sad, oversized fruit roll-up, leaving it in a heap that would absolutely start growing mold by tomorrow. You wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside for three solid minutes, and then closed it again. There was nothing in there but expired yogurt, an empty ketchup bottle, and the overwhelming sense of despair. Just like your soul.

Your eyes landed on the couch. You made eye contact. It made eye contact back.

You didn’t go to your bed. The bed had too much hope. The couch? The couch knew. The couch had seen things. It was your emotional support furniture, and it beckoned you with lumpy cushions and the faint scent of Febreze and failure.

You collapsed into it with the grace of a dying walrus, grabbed the nearest throw blanket like a life raft, and curled up.

Your muscles throbbed. Your eyes were dry, too tired to cry. Your heart was heavy and hollow, a contradiction wrapped in fatigue.

You didn’t call the Guidance Office.

You didn’t reach for your communicator.

You didn’t even consider getting guided.

Because why would you?

You hadn’t earned it.

Guidance was for espers who did good. Who came back whole. Who saved people and feel okay about it.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Least of all Vil—the most terrifyingly elegant guide in existence, whose soothing voice could calm a charging bull but whose judgmental stare could reduce you to ash on the spot. You could already imagine it:

“Potato, why didn’t you call?” And you’d go, “Because I sucked. And also I was busy eating my weight in sadness on my couch.”

So no. No guidance. No messages. No crying. Just you, your depression blanket, and your ever-growing collection of trauma under a mountain of emotional avoidance.

You passed out like that, too. Face-down, limbs sprawled, snoring gently, still wearing one sock and gripping the couch cushion like it owed you rent.

And in the hallway, your door remained unlocked.

Because honestly?

Let the monsters come.

You’d either sleep through it or invite them in for leftover yogurt and mutual despair.

You woke up feeling like a truck had hit you, reversed, parked on your spine, and left its high beams on just to be petty. Every bone in your body creaked like an abandoned haunted house. Your mouth tasted like regret and half a protein bar. Your blanket was half off the couch, half on the floor, and a mysterious corn chip was stuck to your elbow.

You blinked at the ceiling in confusion. Then your phone screamed.

100 missed calls.

37 texts.

All from: Vil Schoenheit.

Each message angrier than the last.

The final one simply said: “Pick. Up. Now.”

You did.

The moment the line connected, there was a beat of silence—then his voice, sharp and low like the edge of a knife:

“Address. Now.”

You mumbled something barely coherent, possibly your zip code, possibly the ingredients of a burrito. Either way, you texted him your location, dropped the phone on your chest, and passed out again like a Sims character who ignored every need bar until they collapsed.

The next time you woke up, it was to someone violently shaking you like they were trying to exorcise a demon.

“The door was wide open. Wide. Open. Are you out of your mind?! What if someone broke in?! What if something followed you?! What if—”

You cracked one eye open. Vil was kneeling beside your couch in full luxury casuals, flawless hair tied back in a silk ribbon, eyes blazing with a fury usually reserved for war crimes or off-season fashion.

“Why didn’t you call me?!” he snapped, voice wobbling between fury and panic.

You sat up slowly. Your limbs felt like wet noodles. You looked at him—actually looked at him—and saw the edges of worry in his perfect posture. You didn’t think. You just leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, clinging to his surprisingly warm, cologne-scented form like a soggy baby koala.

He froze.

Then he hugged you back, one arm sliding firmly around your waist, the other hand smoothing over your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten.

“You didn’t respond,” he murmured, voice much softer now, like he’d deflated the moment you touched him. “I was at a gate, and you—you should’ve called me. You idiot.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you croaked, still clinging. “I couldn’t save everyone. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t—”

THWACK.

He flicked you so hard on the forehead you saw colors. You yelped and recoiled, holding your skull like he’d smacked you with a frying pan.

“OW—what the hell, Vil?!”

“Use your brain,” he snapped. “You don’t have to earn guidance. You lived. You fought. You made it back. That’s enough.”

You stared at him, stunned and blinking. Your brain, which had been curled in a ball screaming failure failure failure, screeched to a halt. It didn’t know what to do with this information. It flailed.

“...but—”

“No.” He pressed two fingers to your temple. “Quiet.”

And just like that, warmth bloomed across your skin. Calm, grounding, steady. His presence wrapped around your rattled mind like a weighted blanket.

You hadn’t realized how loud your thoughts had been until everything went quiet.

You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.

“…thank you,” you whispered.

He made a soft, exasperated noise and squeezed your hand.

“Next time,” he muttered, “if you don’t call me, I will drag you to a spa against your will and lock you in a bathhouse for six hours.”

Honestly?

That sounded kind of nice.

You nodded into his shoulder and let the warmth pull you under again.

It wasn’t a thunderbolt moment. There was no dramatic gasp, no heart-skipping beat, no rom-com soundtrack swelling in the background.

No. It happened while Vil was in the middle of passionately criticizing your instant ramen consumption.

“You don’t even check the sodium levels, do you? Of course not. Why would you? That would require basic self-preservation instincts, which you clearly lack,—are you even listening to me?”

You were, actually. Kind of. Mostly you were just watching the way his eyes flashed when he got worked up, how his voice lilted, how his hair caught the light like he had a personal filter on at all times. His hands moved a lot when he was mad—elegant, precise little gestures like he was conducting an orchestra of outrage.

And somewhere in the middle of him saying something about how your body was “not a landfill for factory-processed poison,” you thought:

Wow. He’s perfect.

There was a pause.

A silence that felt loud in your own brain.

Not because he noticed—no, he was still going. But you did. You noticed. And you felt your entire emotional infrastructure collapse like a badly built IKEA table.

You sat there, nodding along, eyes wide and empty like a man realizing he’d dropped his phone into lava. Because you knew exactly what this meant.

You were so, so screwed.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You were too tired for that. Too experienced in emotional disasters to think, “maybe it’s just a crush!”

Nah. You liked him. For real. In the "I’d wear sunscreen just to impress him" kind of way. In the "he could tell me I look homeless and I’d say thank you" kind of way.

So, you just accepted your fate.

You nodded solemnly while Vil insulted your meal plan and thought:

Well. I guess this is my life now. Time to emotionally implode in private.

You weren’t going to tell him. Absolutely not. The man had standards higher than Mount Everest. You were a gremlin in sweatpants. He guided you out of what had to be some misplaced sense of moral responsibility, not because he liked you.

So, your plan was simple: keep it quiet. Let the crush rot in your chest. Maybe it would fade. Maybe Vil would never find out. Maybe you’d survive.

…Maybe.

“Are you even paying attention?” Vil snapped, snapping his fingers in your face.

You jolted back to reality. “Yes! Yes. Sodium bad. Body temple. I got it.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I’m always weird,” you said quickly. “That’s my brand. Very consistent.”

He sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hopeless.”

You watched him for a second longer and thought, God, I’m doomed.

And then you smiled and said, “Yeah. But at least I’m charming about it.”

He rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t deny it.

You were just trying to survive. That’s all.

Because being around Vil Schoenheit every other day, breathing the same air as him while he guided you while scolding you, was no longer tenable. Your heart was staging a full-blown coup against your sanity.

Every smirk he threw your way shaved years off your life. Every time he flicked your forehead for being “reckless” or “insufferable” or “a walking cautionary tale,” you internally swooned like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch.

So, you did what any emotionally fragile raccoon-person would do when faced with unattainable love and regular exposure to flawless cheekbones: you fled.

To the Guidance Office.

You kept your voice steady when you asked for your previous guide’s contact. The poor intern looked like he’d rather explode than question you, especially once he realized who your current guide was.

Still, he handed over the transfer form and you sat down, heart racing, tapping your pen like a death drum. You were halfway through scribbling your tragic little freedom request when—

A shadow loomed.

Perfume wafted.

And the temperature dropped ten degrees.

You didn’t even have time to look up before the form was snatched from your hands with all the grace of a man committing a stylish crime.

“Up. Now.”

Vil’s voice was frost and fury and every hair on your body stood up like soldiers called to war.

You stumbled after him, too stunned to protest, as he marched you through the hallways with terrifying grace. You passed several people who were clearly wondering if they were witnessing a kidnapping, but no one dared interfere.

His office door slammed shut behind you, and he turned on you like a beautifully irate weather phenomenon.

Then—rip.

Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.

“OUT,” he snapped, voice tight, angry. “If you’re going to be a complete and utter fool, then get out of my sight.”

You blinked. “What—why are you mad? I’m doing you a favor!”

“A favor?” he repeated, like you’d just spat in a glass of Château Margaux.

You held your ground, though you were 97% sure he could kill you with a single sigh. “You didn’t want to guide me in the first place! I’m—look, I’m making it easier for both of us. No more clingy potato energy. No more… emotional spirals. You can guide someone who isn’t a complete mess.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and then he—kissed you.

No warning. No build-up. Just lips crashing against yours like your poor little romantic delusions had summoned it from the abyss. His hands cupped your face, tilting it just right, and you—froze.

You opened your mouth to say something.

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Angrier. Like he was trying to shove every word you weren’t letting him say directly into your bloodstream.

“I love you,” he hissed when he finally pulled away, chest heaving. “You stupid, overthinking potato.”

You blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Oh, now you’re speechless?” he snapped, pacing. “You think I guide you because it’s convenient? You think I chose to rip you away from that quivering ball of social anxiety just to be charitable? I don’t have to guide anyone. I chose you.”

You were still stuck on the part where he said “I love you” and hadn’t immediately revoked it.

He pointed at you. “Sit down.”

You sat. Immediately.

He sat next to you, crossed one leg over the other, and glared. “We’re going to talk about this. Then you’re going to delete the idea of transferring from your thick, tragically underutilized brain. Understood?”

“…Yes?”

“Good. And drink some water. You look like you’re about to combust.”

You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.

“You’re serious?” you asked, voice a little cracked around the edges, sitting on his plush office chair like you were squatting in a throne you had absolutely no right to. “You love me?”

Vil stared at you with the exhausted patience of a man who had been in love with a rock for three years. “Yes. I’ve loved you for a while, and you—” he poked you in the forehead again, harder this time, “—have been blissfully, astoundingly oblivious.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, already sweating. “You’re very hard to read!”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “You’re just emotionally illiterate.”

“Give me one example.”

“Oh, one?” He tilted his head and actually laughed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Let’s start small, then. Remember the time I brought you a silk-lined weighted blanket because you said you liked ‘being squished by fabric’ and your apartment ‘felt like a haunted fridge?’”

You blinked. “I thought that was just you mocking me with luxury.”

“I custom-ordered it in your favorite color and personally dropped it off.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

“And what about the emergency juice box I carry around exclusively for you, because you tend to spiral into a puddle after difficult gates and refuse to ask for help?”

“…You said that was because I’m ‘emotionally six.’”

“That was a joke.” He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed at you again. “What about when I held your hand during guidance and you told me, ‘This is wildly intimate,’ and I said, ‘That’s the idea, darling,’ and you laughed and said, ‘Ha ha good one,’ and proceeded to talk about raccoons for twenty minutes?”

Your face was hot. Like boiling kettle hot. You were being roasted over the open flames of your own idiocy.

Vil, now fully in his villain origin arc, stood up, arms crossed. “Or the time I made you lunch because you skipped breakfast three days in a row and you cried a little, and I wiped your tears, and you said, ‘You’d make such a good husband, wow,’ and then called me bro.”

“I was tired that day,” you whispered.

He paced. “I took a personal day to guide you after that one breach because you refused post-gate care. I showed up at your house! You were curled up like a soggy blanket and told me you didn’t deserve comfort, and I guided you anyway! I even brought snacks!”

You were holding your head in your hands now, processing. “Oh my god. I’m the clown. I’m the whole circus.”

Vil sighed and came to kneel beside you again, gentler now. He pulled your hands from your face and took them in his, lacing your fingers together like it was second nature. “I assumed you didn't like me. But this?” He smiled a little. “This is honestly worse.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“I love you,” he repeated, quieter now, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I don’t want you to change guides. I want you to stay.”

You looked down at your joined hands. Then up at his face, soft and real and so, so stupidly beautiful.

“...Can I kiss you again?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

And he did. And this time, when he kissed you, you didn’t freeze or black out or say anything about raccoons. You just held him closer and kissed him back, trying very hard not to think about how many brain cells you’d wasted missing the obvious.

(But you did apologize to him later. After the third kiss. And after asking if he’d consider writing a “Vil Schoenheit’s Guide to Realizing Your Guide is Flirting” manual for future dumbasses like yourself.)

The first time Vil met you was… unfortunate.

You'd collapsed on him like a sandbag flung from the heavens by a god with no taste.

He'd been called in to assist after a gate breach—nothing unusual, really, just a high-stress emergency with far too many untrained espers and not enough functioning brain cells among them. His job was to stabilize, guide, and keep anyone from combusting mentally or emotionally, preferably both. It was clinical, routine, and efficient.

Until you.

You stumbled out of the smoke and screaming with wild eyes and your uniform half-burnt, looking like you’d just gone twelve rounds with the concept of mortality. You locked eyes with him—briefly, like a bird recognizing glass mid-flight—and then passed out straight into his arms.

Correction: onto him.

He wasn’t sure how you managed to fall with such inconvenient geometry, but one moment he was standing, perfectly composed, and the next he had an unconscious stranger face-planting onto him, limbs sprawled like a freshly felled tree.

His first thought was: Excuse you?

His second: Do they not know who I am?

Honestly, the offense was justified. People didn’t usually touch Vil without permission, let alone treat him like a fainting couch. And yet when the medics arrived to assist, he waved them off with a sigh, brushing soot out of your hair and stabilizing your exhausted psyche with the practiced ease of someone too annoyed to be fazed. You were just another Esper, he told himself. Another mess to be cleaned up.

Then you woke up.

You blinked at him. Groggy. Confused. Soft in the eyes in a way that caught him off guard. “Oh,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Sorry. My bad.”

No recognition. No fawning. No demands for priority guidance.

Just that—thanks—like he was your local neighborhood guide and not one of the most in-demand SSS-ranks in the country.

And that was when it happened: the first crack.

A hairline fracture in his perfectly sculpted composure. Something warm and startlingly gentle wedged itself in his chest. The faint, whispering thought: They’re not like the others.

He'd left soon after and that should've been the end of it.

But the next day, you came to his office. Not to request a partnership. Not to ask for more guidance sessions. Not even to praise his skill, as most did when they finally found out who he was.

No.

You walked in with a slightly bent energy drink and said, “Hi. Just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And, like, if you want anything—coffee, or uh, a meal, or maybe a really good nap on my couch—I can return the favor.”

He blinked. “You're offering me compensation?”

“Yeah,” you said, like it was obvious. “I didn’t mean to fall on you. Also, you helped me not die. That deserves at least a smoothie.”

He stared at you. You stared back, unbothered and vaguely hopeful, like someone trying to barter with a raccoon they’d wronged in a past life.

And that’s when the thought struck him:

I wish more Espers were like this.

Earnest. Direct. Not wrapped in ego or desperation. You treated him like a person and not a tool or a celebrity. Like someone who deserved appreciation, not worship.

He didn’t say yes to your offer.

And later that evening, sipping the mango smoothie you left on his desk with a sticky note that said “Thanks again, Your Highness,” Vil caught himself smiling.

Disaster or not, you had… made an impression.

And for better or worse, that impression was starting to stick.

Soon, he found himself buying your favorite juice on the way to work.

He told himself it was to bribe you into being less reckless. That he just “happened” to know your favorite. That it was a coincidence.

He also started carrying headache meds. And bandaids. And snacks. And spare gloves because you kept losing yours and pretending you didn’t need them.

A week later, he spotted you in the hallway again. You were coming out of a gate looking like you’d been mugged by gravity and a brick. But what truly horrified Vil was not your appearance (which was a hate crime against fashion), but the fact that you were about to be guided by someone else.

Some junior Guide with too much gel in his hair and the audacity to step away from you.

Vil's soul left his body.

He didn’t even think. He stomped across the hallway, yanked you away like a cat stealing laundry, and declared, “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

���Guiding you. Sit down. Shut up.”

“...Okay?”

He’d never been so professionally compromised. He gave you the most aggressive, possessive, emotionally repressed guiding session in history. It was like channeling affection through gritted teeth.

He was doomed.

Vil Schoenheit was a man of control. Precision. Elegance. He kept his calendar color-coded, his wardrobe steamed, and his guiding sessions timed to the minute.

So when he heard through the grapevine that you were about to be reassigned to another Guide—because of some nonsense about “compatibility tests” and “emotional interference” (rude)—he did not react well.

No, he did not pout.

He did not sulk.

He marched directly to the Guidance Office, pulled rank in that way that only Vil could—part charm, part cold-blooded menace—and made it very clear that you were off the market.

“This Esper is mine,” he said, crisp and cool like a glacier in a fur coat. “Officially. Put it in writing.”

The poor intern at the desk blinked up at him, then at the screen.

“Um… you mean, you want to—?”

“Yes. I want to take full responsibility for their guiding.”

“Sir, do you mean romantically—?”

“Professionally.” A beat. “For now.”

Vil was shopping for seasonal essentials, which of course required strategic planning, multiple fitting rooms, and approximately seventeen judgmental head tilts. He saw you wandering out of a soft-clothes store with a hoodie that looked like a blanket and a dream.

You saw him.

You tried to leave.

He grabbed your wrist.

“I need hands,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

And then he handed you a bag and moved on like a model on a mission.

You carried his bags for hours. You offered no complaints, just commentary like, “That color makes your cheekbones illegal,” and “If I try that on I’ll look like a deflated beanbag.” You actually enjoyed yourself.

And then—then—when you ended up in a café and he reluctantly allowed you to buy his coffee, you sat there, sipping from your little cup, and made some stupid joke about luxury couture and cheese graters.

He laughed.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t polite or dismissive. It was the kind of laugh that knocked loose something in his ribcage. The kind that made him stare at you over the rim of his drink and realize, with full-body horror:

I’m doomed.

Because he liked you.

He really, really liked you.

Not in the “you’re tolerable and I guess I won’t smite you” way. In the “I want to wring your neck for not wearing gloves but also maybe hold your hand” way. The “I will destroy that junior Guide if he even looks at you again” way. The “please stop getting injured or I will cry and then deny it until the sun explodes” way.

And you had no idea.

You were still out here calling yourself “emotionally bulletproof” and stealing his granola bars like it was normal. Still calling him “Vilbo Baggins” and poking his forehead like you weren’t holding the shreds of his dignity in your little chaos-stained hands.

So yes. Vil was doomed.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

Because of all the Espers in the world, it had to be you—you with your messy hair and shiny eyes and stupid brave heart.

Fast-forward to a Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Vil had lost track. It had been a day full of Espers with no manners, no boundaries, and one who tried to touch his hair mid-guiding.

By the time you wandered into his office, he was one broken string away from full violin villainy.

And for once, you didn’t joke.

No "What’s up, Guidezilla?"

No "Did your skincare try to abandon you too?"

You just took one look at him, walked over, and—gently—placed your hands on his shoulders.

Vil froze.

You kneaded the tight muscles there with surprising skill. Still no words. Just the quiet press of your thumbs, the steady warmth of your touch. And when he exhaled—shaky, involuntary—you didn’t tease him for it.

You just said, softly, “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know.”

And that was when he broke a little.

Not obviously. But his posture slumped just slightly. His head tilted just enough to rest against your shoulder. Not even for a minute—maybe twenty seconds.

But it was enough.

Enough to make him realize: This is the safest I’ve felt all day.

And the fact that it was you—you, with your chaos and your grin and your glitter stickers stuck to your ID badge—that was terrifying. And comforting. And utterly, stupidly addicting.

He didn’t say thank you. Not out loud.

But later, when you weren’t looking, he moved your next few guiding sessions to the prime slot on his calendar. The one reserved for important things.

And in his fridge?

There was already more of your favorite juice.

He told himself it was just being thorough.

He was a liar.

It had started like any other deployment day. You and he had both been assigned to different gates, which wasn’t uncommon anymore. It was annoying—yes, he preferred to keep you in arm’s reach like a chaotic, overly affectionate pet raccoon—but manageable. You hadn’t called, hadn’t messaged, so he assumed it was fine. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you’d just fallen asleep.

But then he heard the reports.

Talk around the guidance center was that your gate had gone bad. A breach. Casualties. They'd barely managed to contain it. The kind of mission that rattled even the seasoned Espers.

Vil had frozen mid-conversation, a pen slipping from his hand and clattering onto his desk.

“Did they get guided after?” he asked, voice sharp.

The other Guide had shrugged. “Apparently not. Took off the moment debrief ended.”

And that was when the spiral started.

He called you. Once. Twice. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

Pacing his office like a man possessed, he left increasingly deranged voicemails.

—"Pick up your phone, I swear to the God, if you are ghosting me because you’re feeling ‘emotionally crunchy’ again—"

—“If you're hurt, I need to know. If you're not hurt, I'm going to kill you myself.”

—“Potato, I’m serious. Answer the phone.”

When you finally picked up, sounding groggy and like someone had drop-kicked your soul, all you said was:

“…Vil?”

And that was enough.

“Address. Now.”

You sent him a dropped pin and then promptly passed out again.

He’d never gotten to your place so fast in his life. Nearly crashed into two pedestrians, scared a delivery driver into a full existential crisis, and parked in a tow zone without blinking.

The front door was unlocked.

He burst in like divine judgment, only to find you curled up on your couch like a sad, emotionally fried ferret.

“You left the door open. What if someone had—?! You didn’t even—! I called you a hundred times! Why didn’t you—!?”

You blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented. “Vil?”

He was kneeling next to the couch before he realized it, shaking you like an overcaffeinated nurse trying to keep a patient conscious. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

Something in Vil's chest cracked with a soundless, incandescent rage. Not at you. Never at you.

At the situation. At himself. At the idiocy of a world where someone like you—who put yourself on the line for people who didn’t know your name—could think for one second you didn’t deserve comfort.

You sat up and hugged him before he could speak. And Vil, for all his pride and poise, let you.

He guided you right there on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around you like he could anchor all your scattered pieces back into place with sheer force of will. His fingers were steady against your temple, his voice low and soothing.

You didn't fight it this time. Not really. You were too tired. Too raw.

But later, when you were dozing against him and he felt the weight of your breathing even out, he looked at you and thought:

If I ever lose them, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

And he realized, with an unflinching kind of horror, that this wasn’t just fondness anymore.

This was love. Stupid, all-consuming, feral love.

Oh, when Vil saw the transfer form in your hands—his potato, his utterly chaotic, absurdly self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated Esper—filling out a request to switch Guides?

He saw red. No, scratch that. He saw every shade of fury on the spectrum. He didn’t even remember walking; one moment he was across the hallway, the next he had the form in his fist and you in his office, the door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the entire floor.

“What. Is. This.”

You blinked at him like a cat caught stealing food, caught between guilt and indifference. “A transfer form? I—uh. It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a—” Vil looked genuinely scandalized. If he wore pearls, he would’ve clutched them. “Do you think I’m running a halfway house for wayward Espers?! I have been guiding you, carrying juice boxes for you, putting up with your ridiculous snacks, and you think this isn’t a big deal?!”

You stared at him, flustered and slightly confused. “I—I just thought maybe it’d be easier for both of us if I wasn’t—like—around all the time, you know? I’m not exactly low maintenance—”

Vil’s brain short-circuited.

He kissed you.

No thought. Just lips. Panic. Longing. Rage. Chapstick.

Your sentence died like a bug on a windshield.

Vil pulled back just long enough to snarl, “I love you, you stupid overthinking potato.”

You blinked.

“I—what—”

He kissed you again. You weren’t going to ruin this with words. Not today.

When he finally let you breathe, you looked dizzy. In love. Slightly offended. Vil understood.

“You’ve been in love with me?” you asked, voice very much in the ‘I missed every single sign like a blind NPC in a dating sim’ zone.

“Oh finally,” Vil groaned. “Yes. For ages. Do you think I just carry juice boxes for anyone? I had to go to a wholesaler to find your weird imported apple-lychee thing. I do not do that for strangers.”

You looked like the Earth had tilted sideways. “Oh my god. I thought you were just—like that.”

“‘Like that?!’” he cried. “I forced you to carry my shopping bags through an entire mall and called it a bonding experience! I let you pay for my coffee! I let you touch me when I was emotionally unbalanced! Me!”

“Oh my god,” you said again, very softly. “I am Stupid.”

Vil sighed like he was asking the universe for strength. “Yes. But you’re mine now. So unless you want to see what a real tantrum looks like, stop trying to fill out transfer forms like we’re in some tragic rom-com and just stay.”

You looked at him for a moment, soft and stunned and still processing the part where he said “I love you” more than once.

Then you reached for him, and he let you pull him into a hug, and despite everything—despite the rage, the confusion, the two destroyed pens on his desk and the emotional whiplash—you smiled into his shoulder like you couldn’t quite believe your luck.

Vil closed his eyes.

And all he could think was:

If I have to live in this ridiculous, broken world... let it be with you.

You didn’t expect it to come up like this.

You were lying on Vil’s fancy designer couch, head on his lap, while he scrolled through his tablet like he wasn’t also playing with your hair and ruining your heart. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind you didn’t get often, the kind you didn’t want to jinx.

Which is exactly why he jinxed it.

“I want to permanently bond,” he said, tone casual in the way a gun cocking across the room is casual.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked down at you like you were the idiot for not reading his mind faster.

“I don’t want to guide anyone else,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Your heart made a sound like a microwave short-circuiting.

“You’re sure?” you asked, because you had to—because you needed him to say it again, to look you in the eye and confirm this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment emotion, or drama, or guilt, or—

Vil gave you a glare so sharp it could slice through reinforced glass. You didn’t even need to hear him speak. The look alone said: If you ask that again I will end you and then raise you from the ashes just to scold you properly.

So naturally, you pulled him closer.

He kissed you like you’d insulted him and he was trying to forgive you with his entire mouth. And then he pushed you down onto the couch with all the grace and pent-up need of someone who’d waited far too long to do this.

There was nothing dramatic about the bond itself—it was warmth, deep and golden, spreading between your minds like a whispered promise. Familiar, grounding, and so right it made you dizzy. You felt him in a way that no one else could ever match—his feelings humming beneath your skin, threaded through your heartbeat, echoing in your thoughts.

It felt like falling and landing and being caught all at once.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just pressed his forehead against yours and held you close, letting the bond settle between your chests like a vow.

Then, quietly:

“Finally.”

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah,” you said, hugging him tighter. “Finally.”

Life was still mildly cursed. You weren’t about to tempt fate by saying otherwise. The gates still opened at the worst times, your body still ached in places that didn’t make sense, and someone still managed to microwave metal in the guidance office kitchen every single week.

But—

You had Vil. And that made it survivable.

He had finally, finally reprogrammed you out of your self-destructive nonsense, though it had been a war. You were talking metaphorical trench warfare. It took a thousand forehead flicks, an aggressively color-coded sleep schedule, and a terrifying PowerPoint presentation titled “If You Die, I Will Be Very Upset (And Also Kill You) – A Visual Threat.”

And in return, you had managed to make Vil Schoenheit loosen up. The man who once flinched at the idea of touching door handles with his bare hands now shared hoodies with you and let you kiss him with gate-dust still in your hair.

It was progress.

So when the door to your shared home clicked shut behind you both after another long day, you let out a sigh and slumped like a corpse released from its mortal coil. Vil caught you by the collar before you hit the floor like “absolutely not, we are not breaking furniture today.”

You peeled off your jacket, dropped your bag, and turned to him, still stuck in your boots. “Is it bad I want to sleep on the floor?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Go shower, you reeking gremlin. I’ll order dinner.”

You blinked. “Will it be salad?”

“No. I’m ordering dumplings.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving nutrient-balanced microgreens–”

Vil shoved you gently toward the bathroom. “Shoo. I’ll be waiting here with your emotional support carbs when you’re done.”

And that was it.

You went to shower, and he ordered dinner. And maybe life was cursed and weird and exhausting—but it had given you Vil. And now, the worst thing he threatened you with was hydration reminders and forehead kisses.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[anonf1writer]

like you always did. like he always did. — LN4

summary: lando is going through something and he pushes you away. written. 8,8k words. content: angst to hurt to comfort. warning: suggestive language. mental health struggles. based on this request

note:¹ sorry lando I used a few real moments from your races to write about something that says more about me than about you lolll but I was in the mood and this is what I came up to.

note²: this was supposed to be 500 words 🤪

──────────────────

April 13th.

The Bahrain Grand Prix.

That’s when things started shifting.

It had taken you a while to see it, but now, if anyone were to ask, you’d be able to not only find the exact date on the calendar but also prepare a PowerPoint presentation of all the little things that had been piling on since then. The missed call at the airport, the distracted answer when he got home. The extra silence on your way to the grocery store. The way he reached for your hand and unconsciously brushed your knuckles with his thumb, but his mind wasn’t really there.

Back then, you told yourself he was taking his last weekend harder than usual. Qualifying sixth, finishing third, getting a five-second penalty and dropping to 14th. It all weighed on him. Of course it did. You didn’t need to be a genius, or his girlfriend, to know that. Not if you had seen his interviews, right after the race. If you had heard the disappointment in his voice. In his words.

The self-blaming had been there, not just between the lines, but laid open for everyone to see. For everyone to judge. For everyone to share an opinion on.

So you didn’t take it personally. The quietness, the unhappiness, the overthinking. The shifting. Because it didn’t feel about you. It felt about him.

Instead, you gave him some space and made sure to be there for him in any way you could be. You asked him about it, of course. About his feelings. About his well-being. But you didn’t push when he deflected the topic. Neither entertained him when he wrapped his arms around your waist and apologized for not answering your call.

“It’s fine,” you said, threading your fingers in his curls while he hid his face on your neck. “Are you okay? Wanna talk about it?”

Lando shook his head and nuzzled further into you. And so, you respected that. You didn’t insist. You cooked some dinner, chose some random and superficial sit-com for you to watch together. You tried to make him laugh. You tried to cheer him up. At night, you spooned him in bed, pressed your lips right between his shoulder blades, and expressed how proud you were. From his overtaking, to his fairness, to his ability to stay true to himself. And then when he sighed and leaned into your touch, you kept smothering his back with kisses. You reminded him how impressive he was. And how despite everything, he still had managed to make his way up and get a spot on the podium for himself. And you were proud—so, so proud.

Lando still didn’t talk, still didn’t share, but he did roll over and kissed you. He tangled his legs with yours, sneaked his hands under the fabric of your old t-shirt, and made sure to fill you with affection. He murmured how much he had missed you, how good it was to be back. How much he loved you. How beautiful you were. He proved how thankful he was to you. Proved with his actions, with his determination to make you feel good. To have you gasping for air, sighing his name, and biting your lip after cursing in ecstasy over and over again.

The next morning, things seemed better. Not perfect, but better. As if he was on his way of getting himself back out there. He joked more. He laughed from the heart. He snuggled with you on the couch, and he absently thread his fingers in your hair before falling asleep. There was a lot of kissing involved, too. A lot of distraction. All the time. A lot of making the most of your time together, before he had to leave again.

By Thursday night, after you had helped him pack, you were both in the shower, breathing out each other’s names, saying goodbye in that intense, filthy and yet loving way you always did before a race.

So, yes, things had seemed better.

Despite the sadness.

Despite the frustration.

Despite everything.

Lando had seemed better.

Things between you two had seemed better.

Normal.

Or, at least, that’s what you thought.

Because then, on Friday morning, before the sun had risen and when he left again, he didn’t leave you a note. He kissed your forehead in your sleep, you vaguely remembered that, but he didn’t leave a cheeky post it on the fridge. Something he always did. Even when you were there, watching him scribble down the words right in front of you. From Bahrain to Bahrain. Including Australia. China. Japan.

Just a reminder that I love you. And I’ll miss you. x

I love you. And I’m gonna miss your head… I mean your brain, naughty girl! ;)

Just so you know, last night I let you win at Mario Kart. Please forgive me. I love you.

Damn you look hot sleeping all naked in bed. Gonna miss that sight. See you soon! Love you.

Please wear my clothes while I’m away. Wanna be all over you even when I’m not. x (ps: I love you)

That morning, uneasiness quivered in your belly. You looked around the kitchen, once and twice, just to make sure a new note hadn’t fallen on the floor. You checked the bed. You checked the nightstands on each side of the bed. When you didn’t find anything, you frowned.

Had something happened?

It was silly, though. You knew that. It wasn’t his obligation to write something down. He didn’t have to do it. Still, the bell rang inside your mind. An invisible red flag waved right in front of your eyes. Because it was odd. And because it felt out of place for him. It felt distant. It felt worrying. It felt like a sign of something. Like a breach in your already stablished routine.

And yet, it was just a post it.

Just a note.

Something that felt really—really—silly to mention. After all, Lando had never given you any reasons to overthink things. He had never made you feel anything less than the most important person in his life. He had never treated you with anything but love, kindness, and respect. Not even during that past week, when his mind had been clearly swamped by thoughts and pressures he hadn’t been ready to name. He still kissed your forehead every morning, even before he left for the next grand prix. Still made your tea exactly how you liked it, without even asking. Still pulled you close at night like you were the only solid thing anchoring him to the world. So you didn’t want to be the kind of person that made a big deal out of such a small detail. Out of nothing. Especially when his mind seemed to be already so full of guilt.

And therefore, you didn’t say it.

You didn’t bring it up.

You made yourself coffee, texted him good morning, and asked him to let you know when he had landed in Jeddah. You also joked about already missing him in bed, how cold it already felt without him. You kept it light-hearted. Kept it simple. Kept it normal. And you moved on from it. You got yourself ready for work. Checked social media. Texted some friends. Stepped out into the outside world.

Hoping to bring some normalcy to yourself.

Eventually, he replied. As soon as he landed. Casual. Simple. Affectionate. Just like usual. Proving a tiny slip up in your routine didn’t necessarily mean a thing.

So, you convinced yourself everything was normal. Because there was no reason to think otherwise.

Later in the afternoon, you texted him a picture of you watching the first practice session. Like you always did. From your living room, wearing one of his older McLaren hoodies. Adding a random comment here and there. Just to let him know you were paying attention. That you were there for him, even when you weren’t. Then, as soon as it ended, you congratulated him on finishing second. You told him those 0.007 seconds were nothing, and that you believed he could finish at the top of the list next time. After that, you put your phone aside. You did some laundry. You went through some emails. And you waited for him to text back. Like he always did.

Except this time, he didn’t.

Hours went by, the second free practice session was about to start, and you had to double-check your phone to make sure it had actually happened. That he really hadn’t replied. Even though he always did. No matter what. Just to let you know he was there. That he was thinking of you, too.

You swallowed, opening his chat. Sitting on your couch, still wearing his clothes. Peeking at his beautiful face on the big screen as he got ready in his car, surrounded by his team. Only to find out your texts had gone from delivered to seen, and yet never replied. And with that, you frowned at your screen.

Because for the first time since you’d started dating, Lando had read your text messages, and hadn’t acknowledged them. At all. Not even after the hour went by and the live transmission ended. Nor, at least, after you swallowed your pride and tried reaching out again. And again. Congratulating him on finishing first, reminding him how you knew he could do it. How much you believed in him.

As if you hadn’t noticed his absence.

As if you hadn’t noticed the shift.

As if you weren’t feeling it now.

The fear.

The doubt.

The agitation.

The heat on your chest.

The heaviness in your belly.

The skipping beats of your heart.

That Friday night, you laid awake in bed longer than usual. Rereading your texts. Scrolling down his Instagram posts. Checking fan accounts if only to make sure he was okay. That nothing bad had happened to him.

It was ridiculous, though. To stress like that.

To overthink without reaching out.

So you tried again, because you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Hey, you sent to him, feels weird not to hear from you all day. Is everything ok?

His reply, and apology, came only after midnight. It woke you up, of course. You were waiting for it. For the moment your phone would buzz in your hand. For the moment he would show up.

Sorry, he texted. Just got back to the hotel.

He explained himself, then. Apologized again. Told you how exhausted he was. What a long day with the team it had been. Going over strategies, through details, all the mistakes. Trying to make little changes, trying to help him win. Now, he just needed to catch some sleep, he needed to be rested for practice, and then for qualifying. He needed to focus. He needed to do better. So again, he apologized, then promised to call the next morning. As soon as he woke up.

And you took that.

Half-relieved, half-even-worse-than-before. Pretending not to be hurting, not to be confused. Saying not to worry about it, saying that you understood. Because you did. At least part of it.

You told him you’d be waiting for his call. That you loved him. And wished him a good night.

Lando replied right away after that. He told you he loved you as well. So much. That he missed you. And that he hoped he would dream about you.

His sweet words brought a smile to your face, and you hold onto that. You fell asleep hoping it would get better, praying things wouldn’t fall apart. Because why would they?

On Saturday morning, true to his words, Lando called. It was brief, too busy around him, a lil distracting. But he called. He asked how you were, he whispered how much he missed you, he repeated he loved you more than a few times. He sounded off, but not at yourself. More like tired. More like worried. More like afraid. So when you asked about the race and he changed the subject, you bit back your honest answer. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried not to think too much of it. You played along. And you didn’t let him know how constantly nervous he was suddenly making you feel.

Before he hung up, he promised you he would text after the third practice session, like he always did. And once again he didn’t let you down, he stayed true to his words. He texted a picture from the car, an excited “donnnneeee” with a funny face underneath his helmet. You smiled at that. You congratulated him. Texted a random selfie yourself. Let him know how hot you thought he looked driving like that. Flirted a little bit. Then blushed and giggled when he flirted back. Naturally, when he announced he had to go, you wished him good luck. You told him you’d be watching him. Cheering for him. Like you always did.

When you thought about it, you couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if qualifying that day had been different. If he hadn’t crashed. If he hadn’t missed the opportunity to start on pole. Because you could tell that, even though things had started shifting in Bahrain, it had been Saudi Arabia that had officially blown everything up.

You were watching, when his car hit the wall. Of course you were. And even though you could tell he was fine, your heart might’ve as well been in that car with him and smashed into tiny pieces, wanting to absorb his frustration and swallow the million thoughts that were probably swirling in his mind. Because you heard it in his voice, when he called himself a “fucking idiot” to his team.

Lando wasn’t okay.

He wasn’t okay at all.

Aware of that, you didn’t wait for him to call.

You called him.

Once.

And twice.

And thrice.

By the fifth time, he answered.

“Hey,” he said, low and exhausted, carrying heartbreak in every letter. “Can’t really talk right now, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Not a scratch. Text you later, ok? Love you.”

And then he hung up. Before you could even open your mouth to reply.

You frowned and stared at your phone for a few minutes before understanding what had happened. Before making sense of the many voices in the background, the calling of his name, the rushing that could only come from the paddock. You had to force yourself to imagine being in his position, and then to accept he couldn’t control everything around him. That there were commitments he couldn’t run away from. So you couldn’t take it personally. You couldn’t make it about you. About the relationship. About how worried, weird and confused you were feeling right now.

You had to force yourself to let him be.

So, you didn’t text him. Not like you wanted to, at least. Because you did send an ‘I love you’, followed by a red heart emoji, and you did tell him to please call you as soon as he could. But you didn’t mention how much it stung not hearing from him, not being the first and only thing in his mind. And you didn’t let the petty side of you snap at him when he finally showed up. Because he did show up. Later than you wished. From the darkness of his quiet hotel room. Shirtless, lying in bed. Symbolically sharing a pillow with you while staring at your face through the screen of his phone—a position you were mirroring from your side, as well.

“It is what it is,” he said, voice low and emotionless. “Gotta make sure to sleep well tonight and overtake as many cars as possible tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, comfy and tucked in, just like him.

“Why? I’m the one who drove into the wall.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed. Searched for words inside your brain and tried to comfort him. Tried to cheer him up. But you knew there was no point to it. You could feel it, in his voice, in his breathing, in his silence.

So, eventually, you asked, just as carefully as the topic felt, “Is there something else going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “Something feels… Off.”

Lando sighed. He moved his head, snuggled his face into the pillow, and looked at the hand holding his phone. Or his wrist. Or his fingers. Or just whatever there was in front of him. Anything, but your face.

“I’m starting p10 tomorrow,” he said. “That pole could’ve been mine, but I crashed into a fucking wall, so…”

You furrowed your brows.

“And I get that, I just—”

“Can we please… Can we just not talk about it?”

You closed your mouth and blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t necessarily attacking you, but it made it clear that he wasn’t too far off from exploding. And if there was one thing you knew, is that you didn’t want to be the one lighting up the match the night before a race.

“Okay.” You nodded, your cheek brushing the fabric of your pillowcase—his pillowcase. “Yeah. Of course.”

Lando rolled over, then. Lying on his back and staring at the ceiling while keeping his arm stuck in place. While holding his phone—holding you—away from him.

You blinked again. And again, and again. Your chest tightened, and your stomach clenched tight.

“Hey,” you murmured, words getting out of your mouth before you could even think of them, “I love you, you know that, right?”

A beat of silence went by.

Faint streetlights outlined him just enough for you to notice the way he breathed in slowly, filling his lungs before letting it all out at once.

And then, he rolled back to his side, his cheek hitting his pillow and his eyes landing on you.

“I know,” he murmured, and a smile twitched at his mouth. Just barely. “Yeah. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You don’t—”

“I need to get some sleep.”  

You pressed your lips together, then swallowed the lump in your throat.

Chest tightening.

Heartbeat speeding up.

“I can’t…” He shook his head, then rubbed one hand down his face. “Fuck. I love you. And I’m sorry. I really am. But I just… I can’t do this right now. I really can’t.”

He hung up, then, and the thud of your heart pulsing in your chest made it hard for you to comprehend things. You darted your eyes across the apps on the screen, around the dark bedroom, back to the phone. As if somehow you would find him there. Or maybe find some answers, at least.

Once again, you tried to understand him. See it from his point of view. The traveling, the racing. The pressure. The loneliness. The frustration. It made sense. Of course it did. It wasn’t easy. You knew it wasn’t. And yet…

Your breath hitched, and your eyes glistened.

You put your phone away and blinked rapidly, although not fast enough to stop the first tear from slipping out. Still stunned, still confused, you covered your face with both hands and cried quietly. All alone. Your chest aching with the weight of whatever was happening to him.

Because no matter how much you understood, it hurt. The fact that he wouldn’t lean into you when he clearly needed the most. The fact that instead of seeking your presence, he was pushing you away. So suddenly, so unexpectedly. So easily.

It hurt you so much that you barely slept that night.

And it hurt you so much that when Sunday morning arrived, you didn’t text him. At all. You stared at your phone, you laid in bed, you tried to do something useful. But you mostly just watched time go by. How the clock ticked, how race time became closer and closer each hour, and minute, and second.

How he never reached out.

It hurt you so much, and it confused you so much, that you didn’t text him good luck. Nor praised him every time he overtook. Nor celebrated the fact that he started tenth yet managed to finish four. It wasn’t easy, but you didn’t know how to behave. For the first time in so long, you didn’t know what to say to him. How to make it better. How to fix it.

How could you even fix something you didn't know it had broken in the first place?

Unable to keep watching him, to keep feeling like that, you turned off the TV and got up from the couch. You didn’t need to hear his voice during post-race interview. You didn’t need to see his life moving forward while you felt paralysed in time, just waiting for him to show up.

And so, Sunday went by, and you got no word from him. At all. And you cried. A lot. Because you had no idea why. And because he didn’t seem to need you. Because he didn’t seem to want you.

Then it was Monday morning.

And Monday afternoon.

And a lot of pacing was done.

Sadness slowly turned into anger.

Disbelief.

Self-love.

Awareness that, no matter what, you didn’t deserve that.

Finally, when nighttime arrived, and before emotions took fully over, you texted him again.

Thought you’d be home by now, you said, did you fly yet?

Surprisingly, he typed a response right away.

Yeah. Changed my flight to London, he said.

Mid-way to the kitchen, you stopped on your track. Heat flushing through your body and ears ringing as you read and re-read his words. Nostrils flaring as you breathed in. And out. Deeply. Heavily. Loudly.

Are you being serious right now? you typed back.

Yeah. Going to Surrey tomorrow morning and flying straight to Miami on Wednesday.

And then, alone in the apartment, you laughed.

Mostly because you didn’t know what else you could do.

Because your hands were shaking, and your heart was racing, and your boyfriend was trying so hard to stay away from you that he wasn’t coming back home anymore. And he hadn’t fucking let you know.

 Well thanks for the heads up, you found a way to text. Good to know that’s where I stand in your life.

Sorry, he said.

Are you? Really?

Unsurprisingly, this time he didn’t reply.

He read. He typed. He gave up. And then he left the app, a loud and clear last seen underneath his name indicating he wasn’t even trying to reach out. Not anymore.

Things were a blur after that. Tuesday sucked, stepping out into the world and having to live your normal life sucked. Being awake sucked. All you wanted was your bed, to cry yourself to sleep, to wake up from whatever nightmare you had been stuck in.

Then his friend texted you, asked if he could give you a call. And you frowned, but said yes, of course, and answered even before the phone could fully buzz in your hand.

“Have you talked to Lando today?” he asked.

You gave a bitterly laugh at that, closed your eyes and pinched the tip of your nose.

“I haven’t, no.”

“Figured,” his friend said. “I’m worried.”

And that got to you. Not because you hadn’t been worried up until then, but because it proved this—whatever this was—was bigger than you.

So you sighed, dropped your body on the couch, and stared at the wall across from you.

“Yeah, me too,” you admitted. “He was supposed to come home, but… Did he tell you? He was going to London?”

“Not really. He just showed up on my door.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

Silence.

“We were supposed to fly with him tomorrow,” his friend added.

“And you’re not anymore?”

“No. He said we shouldn’t.”

“Shit.”

You texted Lando that night. After you and his friend realized you didn’t know what to do. That something was up, but Lando wasn’t sharing it with anyone. You told his friend you had never seen him like this, that he had never shut you out like this, so you didn’t know what to do. His friend, on the other hand, told you it wasn’t his first time experiencing it, although it had been so long ago he had even forgotten about it. He shared a few stories about Lando’s struggles, being careful not to expose him too much, but also trusting you needed to know. Because, according to him, Lando needed you right now, he was just too afraid to ask.

So, of course, you caved in and reached out.

Can we talk? , you texted. I’m worried.

But he didn’t reply.

He also didn’t answer your call.

And then, before you knew it, Lando was flying back to Miami. Adding oceans and thousands of miles to the already stablished distance between you. Sharing with strangers the excitement over the one-year anniversary of his first win. Posting pictures on Instagram as if things weren’t falling apart.

The following weekend, the aching feeling in your gut didn’t only get worse, but it lingered. It settled. Because by then, it was official. Lando had fully stopped talking to you. He had stopped calling. He had stopped texting good morning. He had stopped sending silly photos from the garage. He had simply stopped sharing the little updates he always used to. The ones that didn’t matter to anyone but you.

He also never texted after practice. Or after sprint qualifying. Or even after winning the sprint race.

Friday.

Saturday.

Sunday.

Nothing.

Not even once.

This time, you couldn’t watch the Grand Prix. So you didn’t. You got the news from social media, you heard it from his friends, from his family. People who apparently had no idea of what was happening to him.

Just like you.

Then again, you didn’t congratulate him for finishing second. You also didn’t have the strength to worry about him finishing second.

Because it wasn’t fair.

And because you really couldn’t understand.

Not anymore.

It hurt, and you still didn’t even know where it was coming from.

You didn’t see it coming.

Because things had changed after Bahrain, yes. But had they really changed that much? To the point of him going radio silent for two, three, four, five days? A week? To the point of him changing flights and not coming back home? To the point of him running away from you?

Was it really supposed to be like this?

Wondering when he would be coming back?

If he would come back?

Once again, you cried yourself to sleep.

You screamed at your pillow.

You stared at his social media way longer than you should’ve.

And then, you saw it.

The story on his sister’s close friends. A picture of him sitting on the floor with his niece, apparently hanging out at his brother’s house.

It was the last drop of water before emotions fully flooded inside you.

Before you finally understood you had to do something about it. You had to say something. You had to speak up. You had to be strong, determined, and firm. And you had to let him know you couldn’t do this anymore, because you truly couldn’t. Not like this.

And so, you texted him.

One last time.

One last try.

When you put your phone away, your brain and your heart battled against each other. Part of you wanted to run away and never look back, part of you wanted to wait to see what would happen next. You knew people would tell you to gather your things and get out of his place. You knew people would tell you he didn’t deserve a second chance. You knew people would tell you the mere idea of forgiving him was ridiculous.

But these people didn’t know him like you did. These people didn’t live the relationship like you did. They didn’t understand long commitment came with patience, and listening, and growing. They spoke with the mind, they told you what they read about, they shared what perfection was supposed to be like. But they didn’t stop to hear your side. Or any side. They didn’t stop to analyse the many times you had messed up. The many times Lando hadn’t judged. The many times Lando had been there for you. They didn’t stop to see it from your point-of-view. From your perspective. The perspective of someone who couldn’t let go of him just like that. Not without hearing him first. Not without trying to understand him first.

That is…

If he wanted to be understood.

If he wanted to be forgiven.

If he wanted to be heard.

And when you thought about it, you weren’t so sure he did.

Especially as time went by, and by.

And he didn’t text.

He didn’t call.

Even though he read.

Even though he knew.

Eventually, crying and wondering consumed you.

Wearing the same old McLaren hoodie of his, curled up on the couch, staring at the window. With a long-forgotten cup of tea sitting on the coffee table, a random TV show running non-stop on the opposite wall. Volume so low you couldn’t even make up their words.

You fell asleep.

Somehow, at some point.

And then, you heard it. The soft clicking of keys hitting the bowl by the door.

You jumped slightly and blinked a couple times, neck hurting from the awkward position you’ve been in. In the darkness of the living room, with nothing but the telly still on, you felt the tension in the air before you looked to your side and over your shoulder. Before you found him. Lando. Standing across from you, outlined by nothing but the restless flashes of whatever episode Netflix had made it through.

You froze, then. Felt the air get stuck in your lungs. Felt his own pain. His own fear. His own nervousness. Staring all right back at you.

“I got your texts,” he said. Or murmured. Voice low and tired.

You blinked, unwillingly ignoring his words as you took his presence in. Noticing how the flickering screen casted shadows that carved deep lines under his eyes, exaggerating the already intense amount of tiredness and sadness he didn’t even try to hide. Noticing how his curls looked messier than usual, how he hadn’t shaved, and how his hoodie and joggers looked all wrinkled, as if he had been wearing them for days.

 He didn’t look any better than you. If anything, he looked worse. Focusing on you with his hands stuffed in his pockets, holding himself back as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there in the first place.

“I thought…” he tried, he paused. He breathed in and out, he cleared his throat. “Was afraid I wouldn’t find you here anymore.”

You held your breath at that. Looked away from him, sat straight on the couch, rubbed your eyes. Then answered with the same energy as him. “You could’ve texted back. I would’ve told you.”

From the corner of your eyes, you caught the way he nodded. How he looked away just to take his hand off his pocket and place his phone and car keys next to the bowl. Next to where he had already placed his apartment keys. Like he always did.

“I fucked up,” he said.

Silence settled, and the distant laughter from the audience vibrated from the TV, filling the room.

You snorted, then. You shook your head. You placed your feet on the carpeted floor and stood up from the couch.

“You did way more than that,” you said.

Lando didn’t move, but he glanced at you. Watched you turn on your feet and meet the aching green of his eyes, then cross your arms across your chest and shrug.

“You ignored me. You pushed me out. You woke up one day and decided to lash out on me for whatever frustrations you were feeling on the track. You left me wondering what the hell I could’ve done to you. You made me cry night after night. You made me feel like shit. And for reasons that I have yet to understand.”

He blinked. Then looked down to your feet.

A beat of silence settled between you.

And then another one.

And another one.

“And I’ve been so worried, Lando. So fucking worried. Because I can see that something’s up with you. That you’re being weird because you are going through something. But then I’m just so… Confused. Because why are you punishing me, and only me? Why are you going to your friend’s, taking pictures with fans, smiling at everyone at the paddock, spending time with your family, but ignoring me? Honestly, why only me? What have I done? Why can’t I be the person you run to?”

“I’m… Fuck, I’m sorry.” With a sigh, he closed his eyes and placed the heels of his palms on top of them, growling with frustration. “You’re right, I know you are. I just, I didn’t want you to… Fuck.”

He breathed in, and out. Slowly, heavily. As if trying to calm himself down.

“Not again, not again,” he whispered, right before a light sob punched its way out of his throat. “Fuck.”

You flinched, taking in another chocking sound as he shook his head and failed to contain the tears in his eyes. His body shuddering as he finally exploded. Right in front of you.  

In all these months together, you had never seen him fall apart like this. You had seen him get emotional, you had seen cry from so much laughing, you had comforted his sad days. But you had never seen him like this. As if something had fully broken inside him. As if he genuinely felt past way and beyond repair.

Instincts touched your heart. They woke you up. They had you taking a step forward and dropping your arms to your sides, before freezing you on the spot again.

But then he took a step backward and hit his back against the door, dropping down to the floor while sobbing and gasping for air. And that was more than enough to push you forward. To have you sprinting across the living room and kneeling next to him.

“Lan…” you murmured, hands already reaching for him.

“Fuck,” he cried into his hands, shaking his head and pulling his knees to his chest as if he was trying to make himself disappear. “Fuck, f-fuck… Fu-ck…”

You fought his resistance and found the strength inside you to force him into you. To grab his shoulders and pull him firmly enough until he was falling against your chest and crying on you. With you.

“I… I can’t…”

“Shh…” you whispered, kissing the top of his head and then nuzzling your cheek onto his curls. “It’s okay… Just let it out… Just let it all out…”

He sobbed again, but didn’t fight it anymore. He let you hug his shoulders and hold him close to you, and in return you let him pour everything out. Both sitting on the floor, still under the flickering of the TV. Your back half-against the door, half-against the wall. Legs sprawled while he leaned into you. As awkwardly and as uncomfortably as you could possibly be.

The way he cried and gasped for air hit you with a knife in your chest. You remembered his friend’s words, how this wasn’t the first time it happened to him, how in the past it hadn’t been a one-time thing. And the thought of it scared you. It broke your heart. Imagining him going through this all by himself, in his hotel room. Away from home. Away from you.

Eventually, you lost track of time. You could feel the overall tension of your body. The scratchiness of your own throat after you’d stopped holding back your own tears. The heaviness of his body breathing against you. Then, there was silence. His shakiness slowly turned into weakness, his arms found its way around your waist, and his face nuzzled onto your neck. Gently. Carefully. So vulnerable and so shattered that part of you was afraid of what would come next. Of how he would react to it.

Until he sniffed. And you sniffed.

And then he kissed your shoulder, pressed his lips on top of your—his—hoodie, and pulled back. Sniffing a couple more times, sitting upright, trying to gather himself.

“Thank you,” he said, then cleared his throat. Voice raspy, husky.

You didn’t move from against the wall, just sat a little bit straighter and searched for his eyes. And for his hand. Linking your fingers with his and not letting him pull away. Not again.

“Of course,” you whispered, as if any startling noise could scare him away. “Are you okay? I mean… Not okay, but… Y’know… Okayish? Better than a minute ago?”

Lando’s mouth twitched, as if your words amused him.

“I am, yeah. Better than this whole week, actually.”

You nodded. Slowly. Knowing what the next question would be.

“Have this been happening a lot?”

Lando shrugged. He looked down at your linked hands, brushed his thumb on your knuckles, then rubbed the back of his other hand under his nose and sniffed again.

“Not a lot but… I guess so, yeah… I don’t know.”

“Lan… Babe… Why didn’t you—”

“Don’t.” He closed his eyes. “Please. I hate that you saw me like this. This wasn’t… I didn’t want you to see this.”

“Then what am I here for? Hm? If not to be there for you when you need it?”

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, finally glancing back at you.

With red, puffy, exhausted eyes.

Eyes that searched all over your face.

Eyes that seemed to get softer and softer as they examined you.  

“God, you’re just so… Fuck,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t want to push you away, I just… I didn’t know how to be around you when I’m like this… I didn’t know how to talk about it… I didn’t want it to happen in front of you… And I just… Fuck I don’t know. I made it all worse. Pushing you away made it even worse. I wanted to talk to you so many times… Wanted to get you on a plane and have you right next to me… And when you stopped texting and I realized what I was doing I panicked even worse… I couldn’t stop it anymore, and I didn’t know how to take it back, and I just… Fuck I don’t know, I don’t know. But I’m sorry babe, I’m really sorry.”

You swallowed the new lump in your throat and nodded, blinking away a few tears, then wiping away the one that found a way to fall down your cheek.

“I know,” you said. “I really wish you had told me, tho. I would’ve jumped on that plane in a heartbeat, and I wouldn’t have judged you. Just like I’m not judging you now.”

Lando nodded, looked down at your still connected hands, shuffled on the carpeted floor. “I wasn’t afraid of how you’d react,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t judge me. I was just… Embarrassed, I guess. I don’t… God this is so hard. I hate that I’m failing like this. And I hate that it’s everywhere. I hate that I fucked things with you, I hate that I let you down. I hate that I’m letting everyone down. I hate that I haven’t been driving like I know I can. I hate that—”

“Hey.” You squeezed his hand and leaned forward, closer to him, noticing the way he was working himself up again. “You didn’t let me down.”

“C’mon.” He scoffed, but still glanced at you. “Of course I did. You were right before, about everything you said. How I treated you the last few weeks.”

“I mean, yeah…” You moved closer, your thighs pressing against his as you sat right by his side. Facing him. “I don’t agree with the way you handled things so far, but you didn’t let me down, Lan. I was just… Worried. Because I could tell you weren’t doing okay, and I wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”

He dropped his shoulders, as if leaning into you, too.

“I wished you were there, too,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret that was only for you to hear. “So many times.”

“Well, I’m here now.” You placed your hand on the back of his neck, the one that wasn’t still attached to his fingers, and watched him close his eyes at your touch. Your mouth curled up. “And I’m not going anywhere. Unless you kick me out, of course.”

He sighed, and even if his eyes were still closed, his lips twitched up. Just like yours. “I could never.”

“Good.”

A moment went by. A moment in which you just sat there on the floor, with the TV flickering around you as you scratched the back of his neck and watched him relax under your touch.

“Should we go to bed now?” you asked. “Put things on pause for a bit, get some sleep, and wait until tomorrow to talk about what’s been going on?”

“Fuck, yes.” He dropped his head back with a sigh, as if that was the best idea he’d ever heard. “Please. I haven’t slept properly for so long.”

You smiled and dropped your hand from his neck. “That’s because I wasn’t in bed with you.”

“Oh, I have no doubts of that.” He chuckled and stood up from the floor, then helped you out to do the same. “You actually have no idea how badly I want to hold you right now.”

“I think I do, actually.”

Standing across from each other, you and Lando shared a look, a knowing one. And then you tilted your head towards the bedroom, murmured a c’mon, and moved around him to turn off the TV. Sticking to your words and putting everything on pause. Cursing and chuckling when you realized it was suddenly too dark to see where you were going, then thanking him when he walked ahead and turned on the lights down the hallway.

It felt easy, to find your way back to him. It felt natural. The routine. The little details. As if despite everything, nothing had changed. Not really. You still walked into the bathroom together, then brushed your teeth with the door open. Then, when you walked to the closet and changed into a clean, old t-shirt, Lando stayed behind for a quick shower. Like he always did after a flight. You got into bed first, scrolled down your phone just for a bit, then snuggled under the covers. Facing the wall, the windows, like you always did. Allowing the streetlights and the brightness from the bathroom to be the only things illuminating the room.

A few minutes later, you heard the water from the shower slow down to an end. You heard him move around. You heard him turn off the lights, then step outside and drag his feet to bed. Finally joining you in. Wearing nothing but boxer briefs, smelling like soap, deodorant and shampoo. Wriggling his body closer to yours.

“Fuck this feels good,” he murmured. Breathed out. As if all the tension had finally, finally, left his body.

You smiled. Absorbed the darkness of the night. Felt his hand land timidly on your waist while the warmth from his body made its way to yours.

“Um… It this… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Can I?”

You frowned at the windows. “Can you what?”

“Y’know…” he trailed off, then tapped his fingers on your side.

“Seriously? Are you asking permission to touch me?”

“I mean, yeah…” He chuckled, a little bit shy. “I’m trying to be respectful. After what happened, I just… I don’t know. Don’t want to assume.”

You rolled your eyes, but let your lips curve into a smile anyway. And then you grabbed his hand and pulled it forward, bringing his arm around you as you kissed his fingers and then pressed them against your chest.

“Don’t you dare stop touching me.”

He sighed, loudly, another chuckle of relief shaking off his chest. Pressing his chest to your back and sneaking his other arm under your neck. Fully spooning you. Tangling legs with you. Kissing the back of your shoulder once, and then twice.

You closed your eyes, but you could tell how much was still happening inside him. How many conflicted emotions were still battling for attention. How much apprehension kept holding back his actions. And you knew you couldn’t change that in one night. You knew half-conversation wouldn’t suddenly fix whatever had cracked between you in the last fifteen days.  But you also knew you were ready to stay anyway. You were ready to listen. You were ready to understand. Or at least try. Because that’s what you always did. Because that’s the kind of person you were.

And then Lando sighed. Just barely. Half-held in his throat. His knee brushed the back of yours. Then pulled away, then touched again. His fingertips moved around your hand, his arm against your chest loosened, then tightened, then stilled again. His other arm, under your neck, twitched. You kept your eyes shut, pretending you weren’t noticing, but keeping track of his tiny movements. How his nose brushed your hair once, then again, like he was turning his face. Finding a spot. How his breath tiredly hit the back of your neck, how his foot tickled yours.

And that’s when you finally whispered, “You’re tossing.”

“Sorry.”

Silence.

Except for his breathing, never settling into a slow rhythm. Never slowing down.

You blinked your eyes open and rolled over, shuffling on the mattress until you were lying face to face and both of your hands were resting on his chest.

He adjusted instantly, eyes meeting yours in the darkness, hand now on your back and sneaking underneath your t-shirt.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he murmured, his breath hitting your chin.

You leaned in just enough to press your forehead against his. Voice lowering to a delicate whisper when you spoke again. “Liar. What’s on your mind? Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I do. I definitely do.”

He smiled. Tip of his nose gently brushing yours.

“I missed you,” he said.

And that got a smile out of you, too.

“I missed you too. But am I supposed to believe that’s what’s keeping you awake?”

“I mean…” Lando chuckled, then shrugged.

Through blurry sight, you watched his eyes shift the attention to your mouth, then the way he parted his lips and slid his tongue between them, getting them wet. Those puffy, sweet, tender lips you had missed so much.

Your belly fluttered. Your heartbeat expanded all through your chest.

Taking a deep breath, you moved one hand to his neck, spreading your fingers open until your thumb was running across his mouth.

Lando closed his eyes and pursed his lips, laying one gentle kiss. And then another one. As if he was getting your fingerprint.

You knew where you were getting to. You knew what your next move would be. And yet you didn’t rush it. It was only when Lando pressed his hand on your back and pulled you the tiniest bit closer that you finally caved in. That you moved your hand to his cheek and finally kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. Not at first, at least. Not while you both curled around each other with tenderness and carefulness. Him enveloping your bottom lip, while you took care of his upper one. And then switching so you could both get a taste of all of it.

Lando sighed, as if the last piece of the puzzle had been placed, and you felt yourself smiling at him. So you pulled away, just enough to take a breath and drag your tongue on your own lips, as if savouring him. Or maybe just getting you wet and ready for more. And that seemed to be enough to shift something inside him, because he launched himself forward and covered your mouth with hunger. Taking control over the kiss and demanding a more urgent pace.

It was your turn to sigh. Hand moving to the back of his head and leg hopping around his hips. Mouth parting wider to let his tongue slip in and search for yours.

Lando pushed you onto your back, pressing half of his body on top of yours while one arm remained under your neck and the other wandered down your side.

“Bloody fuck I missed you,” he murmured, kissing you deeper. Louder.

You whined just softly enough for him to hear you, both arms wrapping around his neck, then both hands threading through his still wet hair.

Lando pulled back, then. Panting. Moving his lips down to your jaw, then to your neck. Palm digging onto your flesh as he moved to your belly, then up your chest.

“I love you,” he said. “So much.”

You closed your eyes to the ceiling and smiled, fingers still brushing and still stroking the back of his head.

When he moved back to your face, he pecked your mouth one, two, three times. Then rested his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

“Yep. Now I’m good to sleep,” he murmured.

And at that, you cackled. Genuine laughter floating up your chest and getting through your mouth louder than you intended it to be.

“You’re such an idiot,” you laughed.

And he smiled. Watched you with nothing but fondness and admiration in the green of his eyes.

“I am, yeah.” He moved his hand back to your waist, gave it a light squeeze, and quickly pecked your lips. “And I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t want to lose you. You make everything better. You make me better. And I just... God, I really fucking love you.”

That softened the smile on your face. Teasing and playfulness fading into seriousness and attention.

 “I thought I’d stay at my brother’s until I had... Things…Under control... But then I...” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I was so bloody stupid for thinking I’d be able to get through this without by my side. Without letting you know what was going on. Because then I’d spiral even more… When I couldn’t call you… When I couldn’t talk to you… And then I read your texts... And you asked if I was trying to break up with you...”

He laughed, but there was no humour in it.  

“Never panicked more.”

You pressed your lips together. Let a sigh out of your nose and tilted your head.

“I would apologize for it, but… If that’s what it took for you to come back to me, then I’m not sorry for anything I said.”

He nodded, rolled back on his side and pulled you along with him.

“I know. You shouldn’t be. No matter what I was going through, it wasn’t fair to you.”

“Glad we agree on that.”

Lando smiled, and you smiled, too.

“We do have to talk about what happened,” you added, “but you’re not losing me. You just gotta let me in. Believe me when I say I love you too, every side of you. Even the chaotic, anxious one.”

“Even the loser one?”

“You’re not a loser.”

“Still...” He pulled back an inch and swallowed, searching for your eyes in the comfort of your own dark room. “Will you love me, even if I lose?”

“Babe, I’ll love you even if you decide to leave Formula 1 and run a farm in the mountains.”

Lando smiled. And then he chuckled.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” he said, leaning back in and encouraging you to roll over until you were facing the windows once again. “Not now, at least.”

He spooned you from behind, just like he always did.

And then he spoke again, just a quiet murmur by your ear.

“Maybe in the future… When we have kids.”

“Kids?” you gasped with amusement, your voice an octave louder than before.

“Yeah. Kids. Family. The whole thing.”

“You’re thinking about having kids?!”

“Not right now, but... Yeah. In the future. Is that ok?”

You bit your lip, staring through the window as you pictured Lando as a dad. As your husband. As your forever partner in life.

And then, you nodded.

“It is, yeah,” you whispered. “In the paddock… In the mountains… Wherever you want. I’d love to grow old with you.”

He hummed and snuggled into you. And you closed your eyes, relief and happiness finding its way back to you. Like it always did when you were next to him.

“Good night, babe,” he said. “I love you.”

Exhaustion, warmth and comfort pulled you into unconsciousness, but not before you could whisper one more time, “I love you, Lan.”

──────────────────

[dollishmehrayan]

WEIRD THINGS BATBOYS DO WHEN THEY LIKE YOU ── .✦

a/n: this is a request + ask so tysm to whoever sent that but it’s (here) but anyways I’m so excited for my birthday on december 7th this year and it’s just so beautiful to see me grow up honestly and find myself. (Tags: batboys x crush!reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Excessive Flexing (Literally): Dick will "accidentally" do pull-ups in front of you. He’s already shirtless and grinning, saying, “Oh, didn’t see you there. Wanna join?”

Compliment Overload: “Is that a new hairstyle? New shoes? You look incredible. Oh, wait, you always look incredible.” He will literally point out your eyelashes looking perfect “wow so nice, your lashes are so long and beautiful.”

The Over-Helper: He suddenly insists on helping you with everything—carrying bags, opening jars, lifting heavy stuff—and does it with the biggest, dorkiest smile. “It’s no big deal, bab- I mean—uh… friend.”

Trips Over Air: He’s graceful in battle, but near you? He’s knocking over coffee cups and walking into doorframes. "I swear, I’m usually coordinated, maybe I’m falling for you?😉”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Overly Cool Persona: He tries to play it cool, acting like he doesn’t care. But then he’ll text you at 3 a.m. with, “U up? I found a meme that reminded me of you.”

Teases You Constantly: Jason’s version of flirting is lightly roasting you. “Did you really think that outfit would work today?” But if anyone else says something, he’s ready to fight.

Surprise Gifts: He’ll give you something like your favorite snack but pretend it’s no big deal. “I just had extra,” he’ll mumble, even though he went to three stores to find it.

Blushes Like Crazy: He’s all tough-guy until you compliment him, and then it’s over. He gets red and stammers, “Shut up,” while smiling like an idiot.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Awkward Genius Mode: He’s smart with everything… except his crush. Suddenly, forming coherent sentences is a challenge. “I-I mean, uh… yeah, computers.”

Googles 'How to Flirt': You’ll catch him peeking at his phone mid-conversation because he’s literally reading “Flirting 101” or reading Reddit threads on flirting gone wrong.

Coffee Delivery: He’ll bring you coffee with your exact order memorized and pretend it’s casual. “Oh, you like this too? Weird coincidence.” It’s not. He asked around for hours.

Accidentally Compliments You: He’ll blurt out, “You smell nice.” Pause. “I mean, not that I’m sniffing you or anything!” Cue him turning bright red and hiding behind his laptop.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Pretends He Doesn’t Care: He’ll act indifferent but secretly monitors everything you do. “I don’t care what you do,” he says while glaring at someone standing too close to you.

Suddenly Overly Polite: Damian, the king of sass, becomes weirdly respectful. “Would you like me to carry that for you? No? Okay. Are you sure?”

Gives You Fancy Gifts: He gifts you rare, expensive things like hand-picked flowers from the Wayne estate garden. “It’s not a big deal. Just take it.”

Random Acts of Bravery: He’ll jump in front of a moving bicycle or push you out of the way of a puddle, then act like it was nothing. “It was instinct. Don’t be dramatic.”

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Becomes an Awkward flirt: He’s smooth in public but completely loses it around his crush. “Do you need anything? No? Water? A chair?” He’s offering things you don’t need.

Over-Explains Everything: Bruce will start talking about something mundane and give a full TED Talk. “Well, you see, the Batmobile’s engine is unique because…” You just wanted to know if it had cup holders.

Subtle Touches: He’ll brush your hand “accidentally” or adjust your coat collar, lingering just a second too long. But if you call him out, he’ll stammer, “I thought you were cold.”

Silent Protector: He’ll stand silently in the background, watching like a brooding guardian angel. If anyone flirts with you, his jaw clenches like it’s personal.

Bonus: Dumb Things They ALL Do ── .✦

Group Text Fiascos: They’ll text each other for advice, and it always goes wrong.

Jason: “Should I call her pretty or hot?”

Tim: “Say she’s breathtaking. It’s classier.”

Dick: “Just tell her you love her.”

Damian: “You’re all fools.”

Bruce (accidentally replying to all): “…Delete this.”

Staring Too Long: Every single one of them will stare at you for too long, only to awkwardly look away when you notice. They’ll try to play it off, but you know they were looking.

Clumsy Idiots: They’ll all try to do something impressive—lift something heavy, show off their fighting skills—and it’ll backfire hilariously. But the effort is adorable.

[angelluvsrafe]

mean rafe with sensitive reader

- request a fic - masterlist -

— ⋆·˚ ༘ * requested! - mean!rafe x sensitive!reader

rafe hears your soft footsteps outside his office door, he sighs and prays you don’t stay long. he’s busy and he needs to focus on his work.

you push the door open, your face lighting up when you see him. you immediately make your way over to his desk. rafe tears his eyes away from the computer screen and glances up at you before returning his gaze.

“what?” he snaps. your happiness immediately melts away at his tone, he’s always so short and sharp with you. it just hurts more when you’re not expecting it.

“i just… i just wanted to sit with you if that’s okay…?” you ask softly, hands anchored behind your back. rafe looks up at you, his cold eyes meeting your soft, glistening ones.

“no, it’s not okay. i’m working.” he tells you harshly. his face is plagued with a deep frown. he scowls and looks back at the computer screen.

“i’ll be quiet… i promise…” you urge, keeping your voice small. he scoffs and shakes his head.

“you can’t stay quiet for the life of you” he shakes his head, his gaze on the screen never wavering. “— you can leave now…”

you nod and walk out of the warm office, your bottom lip trembles and your eyes glaze over with salty tears.

why doesn’t he want to spend time with you?

you walk downstairs, looking for something to do. you wanted to do something to impress him, making him look in your direction even if it’s just for a second.

you come to a halt when you have the amazing idea to make cookies. genius. he can’t ignore cookies.

your small pout curves into a smile as you turn the tap on, washing your hands. you then grab the recipe book and open it to the correct page.

you mix the ingredients together in the pretty pink le creuset mixing bowl with flowers on that rafe had bought you for christmas last year. you’d seen it in a store and didn’t shut up about it, so rafe bought it to stop you talking about it.

you turn around to grab some eggs and before you know it, the bowl is on the floor and smashed. the batter also all over the floor. you immediately kneel down and start picking the cracked pieces of the bowl up.

“what the fuck did you do?” rafe’s voice booms from behind you. your head snaps to look at him and he grabs you, the pieces falling out of your hand.

he drags you upstairs and shoves you into the bedroom before grabbing your face in his hand.

“you can’t do anything without attention seeking, can you?” he snaps, his teeth gritted and lips pursed. your hands subconsciously grab onto his arms at tears flood down your face. “— quit crying and go to sleep before i do something i regret.” he seethes.

“i didn’t do it on purpose…” you splutter out inbetween sobs, his grip tightening on your face. he drags you over to the bed and pushes you onto it.

“i don’t give a shit. go to bed. i’m sick of your bullshit.” he snaps and roughly pulls the covers over you. you turn away and bury your face in his pillow, breathing in his scent.

“i’m sorry…” you sniffle, your voice muffled by the pillow.

“save it. i’ll talk to you later.” he murmurs and he leaves the room, the door slamming shut and his footsteps heavy on the floor.

rafe cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, throwing the bowl out and cleaning up the cookie dough spillage.

he heads up to the bedroom, he does feel bad for the way he reacted but he can’t help but be annoyed. he pushes open the door to the bedroom to see your sleeping form in the middle of the bed.

you look so vulnerable with the tear stains on your face and the red marks on your arms. he sits down and pushes some hair out of your face, wiping away the salty tears. his heart pangs with guilt when he notices the slight bruising on your jaw.

you stir slightly, a small pout contorts your lips. he sighs deeply and threads his fingers through your hair. your eyes open, red and glistening with tears. your body immediately tenses and his heart tightens at your sleepy face.

“hey, sweetheart…” he greets you softly, he caresses your cheek with his free hand and looks at you with a soft expression, a huge contrast to his earlier scowl. you hum in response as he pulls you into his lap. “— i’m sorry for being a dick…” he sighs and buries his face into your neck.

“i just wanted to bake you some cookies…” you mumble and he chuckles softly.

“we can bake them another time… i’m sorry for shouting…” he whispers with a small kiss to your temple. “let me see your arms, honey. do they hurt?” he gently grabs your hand and holds your arm out, inspecting the forming bruises. his heart lurches as his eyes run over the marks.

“only a little… it’s not that bad…” you mumble and he nods, leaving soft kisses up your arm.

“tell me if they hurt more, okay?” he looks you in the eyes to make sure you know he means it.

“yeah…” you nod as he pulls you to lay down with him.

“atta girl… how about a movie night…?” he smiles, his eyes lighter than they looked a few hours ago. you nod and he turns the tv on, his hands rubbing your back softly.

— ·˚ ༘ a/n: i hate the end omg my brain isn’t working sorryyyy :(

[gwenthebard]

I feel like something that doesnt get talked about enough is how fast fashion is coming to hobbies as well. Sure, you can sew, knit, and crochet something better than youd buy in store, but good luck finding quality materials

Want a fabric that doesnt fray from being gently caressed? Want yarn thats not 100% plastic and splits if you touch it wrong? Good luck finding that if you dont have a genuinely good crafts store near you.

Go on any thread where people are trying to figure out where to buy fabric. 50% of it is people saying big stores are servicable, online stores work, or the like, and the other 50% are talking about how bad the quality is or how the quality of a website dropped because it was bought out

Were running into a problem where fast fashiob is so integrated into society that even the ability to make your own, comfortable and long lasting, clothes is being threatened by capitalism

[alpali]

Atsumu stands in the convenience store with pursed lips. Osamu had refused to cook for him so here he is, deciding on what he’s supposed to snack on. He scratches his head in thought.

“That damn jerk.” He mumbles under his breath.

He hears the faint chime of the doors, as they open and close. Then he’s back to concentrating. That is until a girl wraps their arms around his neck. His eyes going wide, as he stumbles a bit.

“What the hell-”

“Baby there you are!” You say a little loud, a waver in your voice.

“Please help me.” You whisper and his ears perk up.

He’s a little weirded out but he can sense the tension in your body. As if on cue a rather sketchy man turns the corner of the isle, staring you down.

His eyes narrow at the man, his arm now circling around your waist. He keeps you tight against him. The man inches a little closer, as if he’s glancing at the products. Atsumu clicks his tongue.

“Ya got a problem?” He calls out to the man.

The man glances up at him. Atsumu towers over him with ease. His unwavering glare and cold demeanor making the man step back. He gently guides you behind him.

“I suggest ya get yer sorry ass outta here. Before I make ya.” He smiles but the man knows better than to believe Atsumu is fucking around.

So with a scoff the man is leaving without another word or glance. You sigh loudly, a breath you hadn’t known you were holding in.

“I’m so sorry!” You shriek, bowing immediately. Atsumu is surprised, quickly trying to get you stop.

“S’fine really.” Atsumu hovers over you, wavering his hands like a mad man.

“Maybe next time be more careful. Don’t go trustin’ people like that.” He lightly scolds and you nod.

“Yer lucky ya got stuck with me though.” He laughs and you feel at ease.

“Please, let me treat you.” You say with a timid smile on your face.

He’s grins at your face. Only then does he really take you in. You’re beautiful and you smelt good too.

“Nah. S’alright.” He smiles, but you’re persistent.

“Please?”

Atsumu blinks and well damn it he can’t say no when you have a pretty face and sweet voice like that. Yet at the last second he pays for the things as you were reaching for your wallet.

You both walk out with different expressions. You’re wearing a pout and he’s staring down at you with a grin. You both stand outside awkwardly for a bit until you ask him a question.

“Sorry but do you know where the station is?”

He blinks.

“Want me to walk ya there?”

“N-No! You’ve already helped me so much.” You laugh nervously and he shakes his head.

“Nuh uh I’m walking ya.” He begins to walk.

“H-Hey!” You yell, falling into step with him. He smiles down at you as you pout.

“Do ya always pout like that?”

“No.” You grumble and he laughs.

You guys make small talk as he walks you to the station, making sure you’re close to him but on the inside of the sidewalk. He introduces himself and you introduce yourself as well.

“Pretty name.” He comments and you flush.

“Thanks.” You mess with your hands and he smiles.

When the station comes into view, he pouts. He didn’t think he’d be this let down at you having to go.

But just letting you go…felt so wrong to him. His heart panged in his chest.

“Well this is my stop.” You smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Right.” He mumbles.

“Thank you Atsumu, you’re very kind.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He waves his hand.

It’s funny.

Two complete strangers, bidding goodbye as if you’d see eachother the next day and the day after that.

A red thread wraps itself around the both of your hearts. And as you both are a distance away.

It tugs.

Causing you both to lock eyes, for what seems to be the last time.

You send him a warming smile and his eyes soften.

With that you’re gone.

Atsumu is left standing there, the bag in hand. He feels rather empty. He walks the rest of the way home with a complete frown on his face.

The next day he’s walking with Osamu through the halls, on there way to volleyball practice. As Atsumu rambles about his sets, his words get caught up in his throat.

And there’s that tug again.

He stops in his tracks.

His eyes scanning everywhere in the hallway. When he looks behind him he finds you there, as if time has stopped.

You both mirror eachother, but Atsumu is quicker.

His eyes sparkle, his smile growing.

And that red thread finally ties its knot.

[flowafairy]

but im not hurt, im tense ✿ bllk multi ’cause i’ll be fine without you babe.

﹒postscript : it’ll never work out. feat. ɞ‎ shidou, rin, sae, kaiser ʚ cw : fem reader, angst ( no comfort )

shidou looks at you with a pout on his face. it’s been millenials since he last saw you—( 2 weeks ). so when he finally found you wandering the local store in your area, he immediately grabbed your wrist.

“you blocked me.” his mouth curls downwards. “am i nothing to you?”

the mocking look on his face only makes your frustrations grow deeper. “yes, i did block you. and that too for a reason so let g—“

“no.” his grip on your hand tightens, as if he was scared to let go. “tell me baby, where did i go wrong?” his tone sounds almost pleading.

“where did you go wrong?” you stare at him in disbelief. “you almost punched my dad at family dinner, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap at him.

“is that what you’re mad about?” shidou scoffs. “he deserved it anyway, was sayin’ some stupid shit.” he dismisses your confrontation.

“ryusei.” your hand finally breaks free from his grip, pushing him away. “this is why we broke up.” you glare at him before hurriedly exiting the store.

shidou clenches his fists, knuckles turning white as he looks down at the floor. he felt his blood boiling, like he was going to burst in an explosion.

it’s only that, he doesn’t like this explosion.

rin’s resolve is crumbling down second by second as he watches your smile break down into a look of confusion and hurt. you’re interfering with his goals? what is he talking about?

“what are you talking about?” you hold onto his hand, as if clutching a thread thats about to break. “i’ve been there for you since we were kids and supported your dream—what’s so annoying about that?” the tention in your words are clear.

“im going to become the world’s best striker.” rin grits his teeth. “and you keep getting in the fucking way.” his words are cold, hitting you like an iceberg.

you do get in his way- in every way possible. he wants to defeat itoshi sae, and yet, every goal he scores seems to be dedicated to you. you’re slowly deprieving his heart of all the hatred and god, he hates it.

he’s made up his mind, he wants to defeat itoshi sae. but with you, the only mental image in his mind is nii-chan, not itoshi sae.

he doesn’t want to destroy his older brother, he wants to destroy itoshi sae.

his heart clenches at the sorrowful look on your face. “are you serious? im getting in the way?” you look like your world has just been broken into a million pieces—it’s so sudden, you almost don’t know how to react.

“you’re lukewarm.” rin stares daggers into you. “just forget about us, you knew we were never meant to be.”

maybe rin imagined a future with you,

but all you are now is a bittersweet childhood sweetheart.

sae doesn’t have time for you.

or thats what he likes telling himself, since he always finds himself cancelling interviews or cutting practice short to come see you.

you mess with his brain—in a good and bad way.

but he know’s you deserve better, better than someone like him. you deserve someone who can be there for you, communicate with you properly, give you the affection you deserve.

but he can’t.

it’s been clear he’s never made you a priority in his life, he know’s you’re getting tired of him canceling dates and replying to your messages every few hours.

he’s just finished practice, taking a long sip from his water bottle as he opens his phone. a message from you pops up.

im breaking up with you. it’s not working out, im sorry.

sae’s expression is neutral, but the way he’s squeezing the life out of the plastic bottle says otherwise, squeezing out the last bit of water as it falls to the ground.

you have all the good reason to break up with him, but something in him wants to plead, to beg, that he’ll be better, to give him one last chance.

sorry for not making time for you. good luck.

”you’re not enough.” kaiser snaps at you, a look of fury in his eyes.

you had arguments with him often. you were tired of him constantly pushing you away whenever you’d try to show him an ounce of affection—simple things would turn into harsh words exchanged between eachother.

“do you not see how much i do for you?” you snap back. “and you’re saying im not enough? when i have to go days without contact because you don’t even bother to call?” you raise your voice at him, making him flinch.

the truth is, you’ve always been enough.

but he’s not enough for you. that’s why he’s building these barriers around himself to hide away—he doesn’t deserve you, nor your touch. you’re like an angel who descended from the gates of heaven, and he’s a lowly devil.

he’s afraid his scars will brush on you, which is why he never gives you the chance to heal them. instead pushing you further and further away.

”schatz.” his eyes waver at the hurt visible in your eyes, and the nickname doesn’t make it any better.

he can’t ask for your forgiveness, he’s not worthy of it.

he can only watch you walk out of his life, an angel deprieved of her feathers.

[ilookattextile]

I got a job at a Ukrainian museum.

On the first day someone asks me if I have any Ukrainian heritage. I say I had ancestors from Odesa, but they were Jewish, so they weren’t considered Ukrainian, and they wouldn’t have considered themselves Ukrainian. My job is every day I go through boxes of Ukrainian textiles and I write a physical description, take measurements, take photographs, and upload everything into the database. I look up “Jewish” in the database and there is no result. 

Some objects have no context at all, some come with handwritten notes or related documents. I look at thick hand-spun, hand-woven linen heavy with embroidery. Embroidery they say can take a year or more. I think of someone dressed for a wedding in their best clothes they made with their own hands. Some shirts were donated with photographs of the original owners dressed in them, for a dance at the Ukrainian Labour Temple, in 1935. I handle the pieces carefully, looking at how they fit the men in the photos, and how they look almost a hundred years later packed in acid-free tissue. One of the men died a few years later, in the war. He was younger than I am now. The military archive has more photographs of him with his mother, his father, his fiancé. I take care in writing the catalogue entry, breathing in the history, getting tearful. 

I imagine people dressed in their best shirts at Easter, going around town in their best shirts burning the houses of Jews, in their best shirts, killing Jews. A shirt with dense embroidery all over the sleeves and chest has a note that says it is from Husiatyn. I look it up and find that it was largely a Jewish town, and Ukrainians lived in the outskirts. There is a fortress synagogue from the Renaissance period, now abandoned. 

When my partner Aaron visits I take him to an event at the museum where a man shows his collection of over fifty musical instruments from Ukraine, and he plays each one. Children are seated on the floor at the front. We’re standing in a corner, the room full of Ukrainians, very aware that we look like Jews, but not sure if anyone recognizes what that looks like anymore. Aaron gets emotional over a song played on the bandura. 

A note with a dress says it came from the Buchach region. I find a story of Jewish life in Buchach in the early twentieth century, preparing to flee as the Nazis take over. I cry over this.

I’m cataloguing a set of commemorative ribbons that were placed on the grave of a Ukrainian Nationalist leader, Yevhen Konovalets, after he was assassinated. The ribbons were collected and stored by another Nationalist, Andriy Melnyk, who took over leadership after Konovalets’ death. The ribbons are painted or embroidered with messages honouring the dead politician. I start to recognize the word for “leader”, the Cyrillic letters which make up the name of the colonel, the letters “OYH” which stand for Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN in English). The OUN played a big part in the Lviv pogroms in 1941, I learn. The Wikipedia article has a black and white image of a woman in her underwear, running in terror from a man and a young boy carrying a stick of wood. The woman’s face is dark, her nose may be bleeding. Her underwear is torn, her breast exposed. I’m measuring, photographing, recording the stains and loose threads in the banners that honour men who would have done this to me. 

Every day I can’t stop looking at my phone, looking up the news from Gaza, tapping through Instagram stories that show what the news won’t. Half my family won’t talk to the other half, after I share an article by a scholar of Holocaust and genocide studies, who says Israel is committing a genocide. My dad makes a comment that compares Gaza to the Warsaw Ghetto. This gets him in trouble. My aunt says I must have learned this antisemitism at university, but there is no excuse for my dad. 

This morning I see images from Israeli attacks in the West Bank, where they are not at war. There are naked bodies on the dusty ground. I’m not sure if they are alive. This is what I think of when I see the image from the Lviv pogrom. If what it means for Jews to be safe from oppression is to become the oppressor, I don’t want safety. I don’t want to speak about Jews as if we are one People, because I have so little in common with those in green uniforms and tanks. I am called a self-hating Jew but I think I am a self-reflecting Jew.

I don’t know how to articulate how it feels to be handling objects which remind me of Jewish traumas I inherited only from history classes and books. Textiles hold evidence of the bodies that made them and used them. I measure the waist of a skirt and notice that it is the same as my waist size. I think of clothing and textiles that were looted from Jewish homes during pogroms. I think of clothing and textiles that were looted from Palestinian homes during the ongoing Nakba. Clothes hold the shape of the body that once dressed in them. Sometimes there are tears, mends, stains. I am rummaging through personal belongings in my nitrile gloves. 

I am hands-on learning about the violence caused by Ukrainian Nationalism while more than nine thousand Palestinians have been killed by the State of Israel in three weeks, not to mention all those who have been killed in the last seventy-five years of occupation, in the name of the Jewish Nation, the Jewish People — me? If we (and I am hesitant to say “we”) learned anything from the centuries of being killed, it was how to kill. This should not have been the lesson learned. Zionism wants us to feel constantly like the victims, like we need to defend ourself, like violence is necessary, inevitable. I need community that believes in freedom for all, not just our own People. I need the half of my family who believes in this necessary “self-defence” to remember our history, and not just the one that ends happily ever after with the creation of the State of Israel. Genocide should not be this controversial. We should not be okay with this. 

Tomorrow I will go to work and keep cataloguing banners that honour the leader of an organization which led pogroms. I will keep checking the news, crying into my phone, coordinating with organizers about our next actions, grappling with how we can be a tiny part in ending this genocide that the world won’t acknowledge, out of guilt over the ones it ignored long ago.