#all I really have to actually do is clean it up

[woollypoison]

Pearl Necklaces

IVE wonyoung x reader (but also all of IVE is in this so...) a/n: I've had this idea of starting a fic with a terrible blowjob for a really long time already. I woke up really horny with tons of free time on my hands and with the puzzle pieces clicking in my head. Thank you, wisdom teeth removal surgery. Anyways, I KNOW I promised full focus on itzy miniseries next AND YOU'LL GET IT!!! I'm working really hard on it, just accept this little out of control dribble as a free gift. Shout out to @valentinedrifter and @kwilquib for the beta read, much love amigos <3333 Word count: 2.2k

This is, by far, the worst blowjob you’ve ever had.

Wait, does this even count as a blowjob? Wonyoung’s just sitting there, knees on the floor, legs spread apart. Her tongue’s out, sure, and the tip of it is touching the underside of your cockhead. The eye contact is making it work, and the way she’s jackhammering her own cunt is a sight to behold, but can you really call it a blowjob if the only thing rubbing your cock is your own hand?

Isn’t this more like an assisted hand job?

“Can you hurry the fuck up? I have to be out—on fucking stage—in 10 minutes in front of a crowd full of horny college students,” Wonyoung barks at you, retracting her tongue, causing you to whimper for losing the only source of contact you still had. “And you know I orgasm a lot faster with a load on my face.”

“I’m sorry Wony, but this is my fourth time already today. I’m not some endless fountain of sperm,” you say. “It would go a lot faster if you helped out some more.”

“What the fuck do you mean, fourth time today?! You should be saving up for me, you dog!”

“It’s not my fault,” is the weakest form of an excuse you could come up with. You’re IVE’s manager. It’s all your fault. “First was this morning… You know how ridiculous Gauel’s been lately.”

And of course she knows. Gaeul’s been playing the part of a bratty sleeping beauty.

“I can’t believe that bitch is still saying she refuses to wake up unless you cum on her face,” she spits back, and it really does sound ridiculous when she says it out loud.

“What about the other two?”

“Well,” you start, but you already know you’re going to get chewed out. “I was having trouble getting everything ready to wake Gaeul up—”

“Just like you are now, right.”

“Right. And I accidentally left the door open, and when Yujin saw me struggling, she came to help out.”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes with a sharp flick, finally sticks her tongue out again but still too far to touch, and twitches her eyebrows to let you know to continue.

“She helped jerk me off onto Gaeul’s face. Said it was her responsibility as a leader as well.”

“That still makes just one load blown, right?” Wonyoung intervenes.

“Yeah, I’m getting there,” you continue, seeing the way her eyes refuse to let you know she’s really enjoying your retelling of the defiling of her members, but doing a terrible job at keeping it hidden.

“After I came on Gaeul, Yujin dragged me out towards her room. Said she was expecting a ‘give and take’ for her help.”

“What kind of ‘give and take’?”

You sigh. She pretends to want to chastise you, but with the way her hand is pounding into her sloppy cunt beneath you and how she’s dripping on the floor, it’s obvious to see. She’s just getting off on this. “I ate her out until she came and then she jerked me off onto her face. Load two.”

“That slut,” Wonyoung murmurs with a smirk. “What about the last one?”

“Okay, I admit, this one might be my fault,” you meekly let out. Wonyoung raises one eyebrow, like she can’t wait to find out what kind of dumb shit you did. “I was helping Rei and Liz clean up the breakfast table, and they were talking about what kind of snack they could still have.”

“Okay?”

“So I jokingly said I had a delicious snack tucked away in my pants for them.”

Wonyoung looks at you like you’re an actual idiot. Look. You might be. “You’re serious?” she asks, almost in disbelief.

“I didn’t expect them to jump me like that. It only took a couple of seconds before they had my dick sandwiched in between their lips,” you explain, getting lost in the thought of how great they felt.

“You’re a pervert,” she snidely remarks.

“God they looked good, licking my seed off of each other’s faces. IVE really is the best…”

Your reminiscing and your pace get interrupted as the door behind you opens, and Leeseo pops her face in with a loud message. “Wonyoung-unnie, it’s 5 minutes till showtime,” she cheers gleefully before opening her eyes, and taking in the sight. You, towering over Wonyoung with your cock out, her on her knees with her mouth open.

“Get the fuck out, can’t you see we’re busy? I’ll be right there,” Wonyoung snaps at Leeseo.

Leeseo just holds her hand in front of her mouth in mock surprise. She giggles a small melody to your ears, before taking her leave, but not without a final remark. “Okay, but don’t forget I finally get manager tonight. Don’t wear him out too hard for my first time, please!”

Wonyoung rolls her eyes again, and looks towards you as you slowly start pumping your cock again. “So, where were we? You were telling me about how you already came three times today, and making excuses for why I’m still waiting for my share.”

“It’s a lot faster if you help, Wonyoung…”

She gasps in shock, looking at you like you’re not only an idiot, but actually insane now. “There’s no fucking way I’m touching your filthy cock. Not after everywhere it’s been today.”

“I don’t think I can finish in time if it’s by myself,” you plead, and it’s not even a lie. If anything, you’re more scared of how upset Wonyoung will be if she has to go on stage without relieving her usual tension.

“Ugh, fine! But only if you ditch Leeseo tonight for me,” she argues back, and it’s a grin that tells you everything. You have no real choice when it comes to Wonyoung’s tantrums.

“What? I can’t! She’s been looking forward to this for months,” you try to argue nevertheless.

She negotiates a better deal back, the desperation of having to go out on stage any moment getting to her. “No condom this time. So what will it be? Paint our maknae’s face, or get me to touch your dick and fill my insides up as much as you want?”

“Deal, but I’m not letting you off the hook for that,” you reply in an instant, so eager your cock twitches at the mere thought of it. The glint in her eye says enough, her two hands balling into little fists as she shakes them, heralding her victory.

She forms a circle with her left thumb and index finger, wrapping it around the base of your cock and presses tightly against you. Her other hand is still occupied with her own needs. Her mouth opens up, hot breath heralding your end. You wish it took more, but the moment she plants a kiss on your cock, you burst.

It’s a full-body, shuddering embarrassment of an orgasm, the kind that makes your knees buckle and your face hot with shameful delight. Wonyoung doesn’t break eye contact—not once.

Your cum splashes out in a blinding, white arc, catching Wonyoung square on the tongue, painting her lips, her nose, even a bit on her lashes. Wonyoung squeals at the sheer volume, and then, with a balletic flick of her wrist, jerks you out for the last spurt, milking every drop onto her own eager face. She scoops up a glob with her pinky, pops it in her mouth like it’s frosting, and lets out a theatrical moan.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” she says, but she drags her hand down to her slit and starts furiously rubbing, as if her own orgasm is right there, like a red button she can’t stop slamming. You’re still dizzy, your vision swimming, when she shoves her face against your softening cock and lets out a high, tight whine. She cums like a disaster: messy and loud, bucking her hips so hard she nearly topples backwards, her legs kicking out and slamming the top of her head against your thigh, making you nearly collapse on top of her. She’s painted and panting, mouth slack, chest flushed scarlet. You’ve never seen her look so proud, so utterly victorious. “I’m going to look so hot on stage,” she says, but she’s smiling now, the kind of mischievous, post-orgasmic smile that could start wars. Then, she wipes the semen off her cheek with her thumb. “Is this look too much for university boys?” She chuckles, then licks her thumb with a showy little curl of her tongue in front of you, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to disagree. You manage a shaky breath, still not recovered, and watch her collect herself with the efficiency of an idol who’s both a world-class diva and a world-class pervert.

She’s in full glam: lashes thick enough to sweep the floor, cheeks rouged to cartoonish perfection, and now this decadent pearl necklace of your making as her accessory.

“You can’t go out there like that,” you manage, voice hoarse and a little too loud.

Wonyoung’s standing, one foot in her heel, blouse still wide open, neck and chin and cheek freckled with the evidence. She stares at herself in the mirror, cocks her head, and lifts her phone. 

Snap. Snap. Snap. 

She’s taking selfies, for fuck’s sake. Her tongue pokes out, cute and obscene above her ruined makeup. “Why not?” she purrs, not even pretending to button up. “It’s a good look. Besides, the fans would fucking die.”

The front-facing camera captures the whole tableau: your deflated cock wilting against her cheek, the ropes of cum criss-crossing her face, and her absolute, shameless delight at the mess. And just like that, you’re incriminated.

“I’ll die if you get in trouble for this,” you hiss, glancing at the door as if Leeseo might be waiting with a live feed. “Please, just clean up.”

She’s not even listening. “Oh, don’t be a prude, manager. I’m doing this for you,” She winks, then switches to video mode, recording a quick little snippet of her slurping a glob of cum off her own chin, then blowing a kiss to the camera. “If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll let you watch it later.”

You’re about to protest, but then she’s shoving the phone in your hands, angling her face for you to get the best shot. “Take one for me. I want to remember how you love me the most.”

You do as you’re told, because you always do, and she’s right: this is her at her best, her most dangerous. The flash goes off, and she shivers at the sound. “God, you’re lucky,” she purrs and you know it.

“Here, let me—” you start, reaching for the tissues on the table.

But Wonyoung’s already got her own solution. “No, no, no. If you really want me cleaned up, you have to do it.” She tilts her chin up, eyes fluttering closed. “With your tongue. Or I’ll tell everyone in the company you’re a chronic masturbator who can’t keep his hands off his own dick around us.”

She grabs your chin and pulls you into a kiss, her tongue pushing past your lips, and you can taste yourself, bitter and astringent, and her, sweet and sharp. She bites your lip, hard enough to sting, then breaks away and wipes the rest off with a practiced hand. “You’re such a pushover,” she says, patting your cheek with the now-ruined tissue.

You just watch as she stands, legs shaky as she fixes her hair, retwists her ponytail, and tugs her miniskirt down over her thighs, still glistening from her own mess. She checks herself in the mirror, then gives you a once-over, eyes lingering on your still-exposed, still-leaking cock.

She’s devilish, a forbidden fruit, the kind of ice cold beauty typically reserved for fairy tales. “Now, here’s your job,” she says, wagging her finger at you. “Go to the green room, watch my performance, and edge yourself until I get back. I want you leaking for me all night, so when I get back, you can fill me up for real. If you cum before I’m done, I’ll make you eat it off Yujin’s shoes.”

You sputter, “What?”

She grins, all dimples and devilry. “You heard me. And don’t even think about cheating. I’ll know.”

She blows you a kiss and flounces out, heels clacking, leaving you dazed and semi-hard in the aftermath.

You could’ve been a manager in any group, for any label in Seoul, but fate delivered you into the hands of the most terminally horny, irrepressible, and power-mad girl group in the country. You can’t even process it. You just sit there, cock in hand, trying to figure out how your life turned into a kpop bukkake sitcom. You ponder briefly if this is a privilege or a curse, and then, as your thumb scrolls aimlessly through the photo log on her phone (she left it behind by “accident”), you realize you don’t even care anymore.

The latest shot is still her, tongue out, glazing herself like a goddamn donut, winking at you through the digital shrapnel of your own undoing. Your cock jumps, traitorously.

Whatever Wonyoung wants, she gets.

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Thirteen

CW: NONE WC: 3.9k Notes: This chapter is short because the next one is longgggg. and also next one is the last chapter.... I'm kinda sad? anyway lmk what y'all think Abt this

Las Vegas didn’t know how to shut up. Even at nine in the morning, it was all lights and sounds and manufactured chaos. Helicopters overhead. Music bleeding out of closed rooftop bars. Cameras already stationed in every direction like the whole city had been built for a race week that hadn’t even started.

Paige stood in front of the mirror in the women’s bathroom on the top floor of the paddock building, twisting her hair up with a tie. She liked this bathroom. It was quiet. Private. No one ever really came in here except for the occasional PR assistant or logistics manager, and even then, they were in and out in thirty seconds. No fans. No media. Just space to breathe.

Azzi was leaning against the counter behind her, phone in hand, one foot crossed over the other like she owned the building.

“She’s driving FP1 for Alpine,” Azzi said, eyes still on her phone. “Abbi Pulling. Twenty-two. British. Mostly F1 Academy, a couple tests.”

Paige raised her brows in the mirror. “Oh?”

“Yep. First time an F1 Academy girl gets an official session this season. Media’s already losing it.”

Paige tied off her hair, then turned. “We should talk to her. Just…y’know. Let her know someone’s in her corner.”

Azzi looked up, smiled. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”

They didn’t know Abbi personally. Hadn’t crossed paths much. Paige and Azzi had done the traditional route—F3, F2, then straight to F1—before F1 Academy was even a real pipeline. But they paid attention. Especially to the women. Especially the ones still climbing.

Paige hopped up onto the counter beside Azzi, hoodie sleeves shoved up her arms, legs swinging lazily. “I just remember how brutal FP1 felt that first time. Like…everything’s heavier, faster, more eyes watching.”

Azzi nodded. “And less margin for anything. She’s gonna feel that.”

Paige was about to say something else when the bathroom door creaked open.

A girl walked in, paused when she saw them.

Oh.

It was her. Abbi.

Her eyes went wide. Like she hadn’t expected them to be here. She had one AirPod in, a water bottle half-drunk in one hand, and that look of cautious excitement that Paige remembered having once. The quiet panic of knowing you’re about to do something really, really big.

“Sorry,” Abbi said quickly, half backing up. “I can—I’ll come back—”

“No, no,” Azzi said, voice easy. She slid her phone into her back pocket. “You’re good.”

Paige smiled, raising a hand. “You’re Abbi, right?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Paige hopped off the counter. “I’m Paige.” She waited, let it land.

Abbi let out a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Azzi stepped forward. “We heard you’ve got an Alpine for FP1.”

Abbi nodded, still looking stunned. “I—I do. Yeah.”

“Cool,” Paige said. “That’s a big deal. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” She looked between them, still hesitant, like maybe this was a dream or a prank. “You two are kind of the blueprint, so…”

Azzi leaned against the sink again. “No pressure or anything.”

Abbi laughed again, more naturally this time.

Paige tilted her head. “You nervous?”

“Insanely.”

“Good,” Azzi said. “Means you care.”

Paige crossed her arms. “It’s gonna be weird. The car feels huge at first. Heavier in places you don’t expect. The mirrors are mostly lies, the brakes are stupid sensitive, and the tires don’t trust you until lap five.”

Abbi gave a small, wide-eyed nod.

Azzi added, “Don’t overdrive it. Everyone does. Just hit your marks. Make it boring and clean.”

“You won’t set purple sectors,” Paige said. “And no one expects you to. That’s not what FP1 is for. Keep the car clean and make them want you back.”

“Okay,” Abbi said. Her voice was steadier now. “That’s really good advice, actually.”

Paige smiled. “It’s what we wish someone told us.”

Abbi looked at them again, like she was memorizing the moment. “Thank you.”

Azzi shrugged. “You’re one of us now. Even if you never did F2.”

“Or F3,” Paige added, mockingly scandalized.

Abbi grinned. “I’ll try not to make you look bad.”

Paige winked. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

Azzi pulled a protein bar from her jacket pocket, tossed it to her. “Eat that before you get in the car. Trust me.”

Abbi caught it, nodded, and disappeared back out the door, posture already a little taller than when she’d walked in.

Paige turned to Azzi after a second. “We’re old.”

Azzi smirked. “You’re older.”

“Twenty-three is not that old.”

“Tell that to the nineteen-year-olds in the Red Bull junior program.”

Paige sighed dramatically and bumped her shoulder into Azzi’s. “Let’s go win another race.”

Azzi slung her arm around her shoulders. “Let’s.”

And they walked out together, quiet and smiling, ready for Vegas to get even louder.

–

Paige was already twelve laps into FP1 and barely breaking a sweat.

Vegas wasn’t hard. The circuit was fun, flashy, smooth. She could drive this place with one hand, blindfolded, and maybe even win. There weren’t many turns that punished you, and the long straights just felt like extended opportunities to breathe. Even now, as the car hit nearly 240 mph down the strip, she barely blinked. Vegas was built for the show. The cars, the cameras, the afterparties. And Paige, truthfully, was a fan.

Still, after twelve laps of pace setting and balance checks, boredom was setting in.

She clicked the radio. “Luka,” she said, drawing out the name in a fake whine. “I’m bored.”

Her race engineer’s voice came back, dry and amused. “That’s not in the telemetry.”

Paige grinned behind her visor. “Should be. I’m registering a ninety on the boredom index.”

“Copy. Ninety on boredom, zero on tire grip.”

She chuckled, flicking through her settings. “Yeah, these hards suck, by the way. Remind me why we’re even using them?”

“Because Pirelli said so.”

“Well, Pirelli also said they fixed the deg issue in Spain. And we all saw how that turned out.”

A small laugh came through the line.

She sailed through the long right-hander with one hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other adjusting brake bias. Her eyes flicked to the big screens perched around the circuit. She could just barely make out herself flying past, the red and white Ferrari livery glinting under the city lights like a bullet dipped in glitter.

“Track temps still climbing?” she asked.

“Yeah. Bit over 31 degrees. Air temp’s stable.”

“Copy. So, let’s do everyone a favor and burn through the hard sets now, save the mediums for Sunday. I’m thinking we need two fresh sets for the race minimum. If not, we’re screwed.”

“Noted,” Luka replied. “Strategy will love that.”

Paige smirked. “Tell them I’m in my ‘legacy drive’ era. Gotta look cool on the podium, not drag my ass across the line on bald tires.”

Another small pause. “That’s… not how strategy works.”

Paige laughed again, taking the inside line through turn twelve like it was muscle memory. It kind of was. Vegas was so smooth it practically drove itself.

“I like this track,” she said aloud after a beat. “Like… the lights, the layout. It’s stupid, but in a good way.”

“Stupid is expensive,” Luka quipped.

“And expensive is fun,” Paige said, swinging through the final corner. “You should come to the afterparty.”

“I have a family.”

“I’ll send them a postcard.”

The car ate through the straight without complaint. Her Ferrari was purring. They hadn’t even pushed full deployment yet. Just laps. Clean, light, boring laps.

She settled in for a few more, mind already half in the post-session briefing, half on what shoes she was going to wear to dinner. Azzi had probably already decided hers. She always did. Maybe Paige would just steal a pair and play dumb.

“Time on the board’s still purple,” Luka said in her ear. “You’re good, Paige.”

She smiled again. “Always am.”

And she dove into turn one like the lap wasn’t even happening.

–

The Vegas skyline blinked outside Paige’s hotel window, warm neon pulsing through the sheer curtains like some distant heartbeat. Inside the room, though, it was quiet, save for the low volume of a bad reality show they weren’t really watching.

The sheets were a tangle. Paige lay on her back, one leg slightly bent, hair still a little damp from her post-dinner shower. Azzi was curled into her side, head resting just under her shoulder, one arm slung across Paige’s middle like she was anchoring her there. The whole room smelled faintly of clean skin, strawberries, and hotel soap.

It had been a soft night.

They’d talked a little. About the weekend, about strategy, about how ridiculous FP3 was probably going to be. Ferrari looked unstoppable around Vegas. Every single time they touched the track, they found more time. Even the engineers had relaxed, almost suspiciously so. Paige could feel it, too. The balance was good. The pace was there. She didn’t even hate the tires this week (except for the hards). Everything was flowing.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Azzi had gone quiet, her fingers idly tracing the seams on Paige’s tank top, her breathing slow and even. Paige thought she might be half-asleep.

Then came a soft voice. Quiet, but clear.

“P?”

Paige hummed. “Mhm?”

A pause.

“I love you.”

Paige blinked. She didn’t move right away, didn’t even breathe for a second. Her heart jumped, did something weird in her chest, like a misfire or a short circuit, and for once, she didn’t know what her face looked like. Didn’t know what her body language was doing. She turned her head slowly, eyes finding Azzi’s in the dim room.

Azzi was serious.

Not scared. Not tentative. Just sure.

Paige stared at her for a long second, her brain somehow full and empty at once. She’d said those words before. To people. To girls. She’d meant them in her own ways. But this felt different… like the whole moment had cracked open something inside her she didn’t know she’d kept locked up.

“Oh,” she said, stupidly. Her voice was hoarse.

Azzi didn’t flinch. “It’s okay,” she said, brushing her thumb lightly over Paige’s side. “You don’t have to say it back.”

“No—no, I do. I just—” Paige sat up slightly, shifting so she could look down at her. “I love you too. I really do.”

And it wasn’t just a reflex. It hit her as she said it. A wave, unsteady and honest. Paige didn’t do this kind of thing easily. She could talk to anyone, joke with anyone, flirt her way out of trouble or into the driver’s lounge. But love was a different track. One she hadn’t raced before, not like this.

It wasn’t about comfort or chemistry or even the fact that they shared a bed and a championship fight and half their wardrobes. It was Azzi. The way she held her. The way she knew when to speak and when not to. The way she asked questions Paige didn’t know how to answer, and then stayed anyway.

“I love you,” Paige said again, softer this time.

Azzi smiled, a real one, and tucked her head into the crook of Paige’s neck again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Paige didn’t speak after that. Didn’t need to. Her arm wrapped tighter around Azzi’s back, her fingers gently stroking along her spine. She closed her eyes, breathing in the moment, letting it settle in her chest.

–

Paige had been lights out from the start.

Clean launch, tight first corner, and she never looked back. It wasn’t just a win. It was a statement. Vegas under the lights, a Red Bull behind her in the early laps, Azzi shadowing her for most of it, but no one could touch her today. Not with how the car felt. Not with how focused she was. Everything clicked.

Azzi had pace too, but a mid-race sensor glitch forced her to adjust her entire power unit strategy. Enough to lose a few tenths a lap, just enough to stay out of DRS range and never quite challenge for the lead. She still came home comfortably in second, clear of third by almost ten seconds. But Paige? Paige was untouchable.

And now Paige was back on top. 363 points, three ahead of Azzi with 360. It was the narrowest margin imaginable, but in a season like this, even that felt massive.

Still, none of it compared to the after party.

Vegas didn’t disappoint. Ferrari had rented out an entire rooftop lounge, red lights, white marble bars, slick glass walls that looked out over the Strip, which glowed like a fever dream below them. Music pulsed through the floor, drinks were already flowing, and the DJ had some remixed version of a song Paige hadn’t heard before playing as they walked in.

Paige remembered to wear something real: white button-up left half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, black slacks hanging just right, rings on both hands, and her chain tucked beneath the collar. Hair slicked and sharp. She didn’t dress up often, but when she did, it had an effect.

Azzi noticed. Azzi always noticed.

Azzi also remembered to dress up. Blood-red mini dress that matched the Ferrari branding better than anything in the paddock, silver heels, and hair down in perfect curls. Every time she turned her head, Paige forgot how to stand still. It was that serious.

They made the rounds—pictures, handshakes, congratulations, a few quick interviews with press. But once the formalities were over and the champagne had been popped and Paige had danced with at least four of their mechanics, she found her way back to Azzi, who was laughing at something Luka said near the edge of the pool.

“You’re so fucking hot tonight,” Paige said, voice low enough for Azzi’s ears only.

Azzi blinked at her, slow, amused. “You’re just realizing that now?”

“No, I’m just brave enough to say it now.”

Azzi kissed her in full view of whoever was watching. Just a quick, not-so-innocent thing that landed perfectly on Paige’s smirk. Luka pretended to be horrified and excused himself with a dramatic spin. Azzi leaned into Paige’s side afterward, hand resting gently at the waistline of those black pants that hung too low anyway.

“Back in the lead,” Azzi murmured. “How’s it feel?”

Paige looked out over the skyline, then down at her drink. “Honestly? I kinda forgot for a second.”

Azzi arched a brow.

“’Cause I’m standing here with you, and that’s better than any trophy.”

Azzi groaned. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“True though,” Paige said. “Look at you. You’d forget about trophies too.”

They danced later. Slow, despite the beat. Azzi was tipsy but glowing. Paige, more relaxed than she’d been in weeks, spun her once just to show off, then pulled her back in. The Strip lit them from behind like a giant movie set, and for the first time in a long time, Paige felt like she wasn’t just performing. She was just… here. With Azzi. Breathing. Living.

At one point, Azzi whispered something into her ear—something soft, maybe a promise, maybe a tease—and Paige laughed so hard she almost dropped her drink. Her arm never left Azzi’s waist the whole night. Not even once.

They slipped out of the party around 2 a.m., tipsy and grinning, heels in hand, tie undone. Neither of them said a word about the championship standings. That could wait. The world could wait.

–

Qatar was a different kind of pressure. Dry heat clung to everything. Suits, visors, rubber, lungs, and despite the championship being down to a three-point margin, neither Paige nor Azzi felt particularly fast.

The Ferrari felt stiff here. Heavy in corners. Quick on the straights, sure, but not responsive in the windier sectors, and tire degradation hit hard and early in the session. They both said it in different words over the radio, “slidey” from Paige, “lazy on throttle” from Azzi, but they knew what it meant: this wasn’t going to be an easy weekend.

Then came FP2.

Azzi had been pushing, running a medium-tire long stint, trying to simulate race conditions with a heavier fuel load. She was riding the edge of grip through Turn 7 when the rear snapped. It was a slow-motion spin—not violent, not dangerous by racing standards—but it sent a jolt through Paige’s whole chest when she saw it happen on the monitors. The car slid sideways through the runoff, flicked a cloud of sand and gravel into the sky, and hit the barrier.

Paige stood up in the Ferrari garage before the engineers even said anything. Not out of panic, just instinct. Azzi’s voice came through the radio a second later, calm but winded: “I’m okay. Lost the rear, sorry. That one’s on me.”

She passed the concussion check. Of course she did. Helmet hadn’t hit anything hard, her data was stable, no sudden g-forces or system failures. But that didn’t mean Paige relaxed. Not really.

Later that night, the lights in their hotel room stayed off.

Not dimmed. Off.

The blackout curtains were pulled shut, and the A/C hummed soft white noise into the air. Paige sat cross-legged on the bed, her back against the headboard, one arm wrapped around Azzi’s shoulders and the other draped loosely across her stomach. Azzi’s head was in her lap. She’d showered after getting back, left her hair damp and messy, her skin warm beneath the thin blanket.

“You still dizzy?” Paige murmured into the dark.

“No,” Azzi whispered. “Promise.”

Paige’s fingers kept moving through her curls anyway.

“I don’t like when you spin,” she added, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Azzi huffed out a tired laugh. “I don’t like when I spin either. Really inconvenient.”

“Don’t joke.”

“Sorry.”

Paige’s hand paused. “It’s not that I didn’t think you were okay. It’s just… You didn’t sound like you. Right after.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away. She shifted, just a little, nuzzling into Paige’s thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“I scared myself.”

That made Paige close her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I had it, and then I didn’t. Like, I swear I had it through the first part of the corner. And then it just—” She snapped her fingers faintly. “Gone.”

“I know.” Paige reached for her hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay to say it was scary.”

“It was.”

They sat in silence after that. The kind only hotel rooms in faraway places offer. Quiet, but never completely still. Paige listened to Azzi’s breathing. She counted seconds between it, noted how deep it got. She felt Azzi’s pulse slow where their wrists overlapped. She brushed a thumb over the back of her hand, not for any reason except that she could.

“You’ll tell me if you feel weird again?” Paige asked finally.

“I will.”

“Even if it’s small?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it. I’d pull you from the car myself.”

Azzi turned her head a little, looking up at Paige through the dark. “You’d fight the entire Ferrari pit wall to protect me?”

Paige smiled faintly. “I’d win.”

“You wouldn’t. But it’s sweet.”

“You’re my person,” Paige said, and her voice cracked just a little. “I don’t care about qualifying or race strategy or whatever else if you’re not okay.”

Azzi let out a long breath and shifted again, wrapping her arms around Paige’s waist from where she lay in her lap.

“You’re getting soft on me,” she teased, but her voice was warm. Grateful.

“Nuh uh. You’re just imagining it,” Paige whispered, resting her cheek on Azzi’s forehead.

The two of them stayed like that. Tangled up, breathing slow, the day sinking into silence around them. Outside, the heat of Qatar pressed against the windows, and the championship chase loomed large as ever.

But in that room, under those sheets, none of that mattered.

Just this. Just them. And the dark.

–

There was a phrase Luka used sometimes—usually when everything was going to hell—where he’d lean into the radio and say, “Chaos breeds opportunity.”

And if Qatar was anything, it was chaos.

The race start was already weird. Staggered tire strategies, sudden gusts of desert wind throwing dust across corners, and everyone brake-checking everyone like it was go-karts instead of Formula One. Paige had launched fine, clean, actually, but the car didn’t feel right in the early laps. Rear grip was fragile. Tire temps were dancing above the sweet spot. Azzi, somehow, had the same issues but managed to hold track position better.

By Lap 14, everything was overheating, engines, brakes, even the radio comms. Paige was getting constant static from Luka. Azzi’s updates from Mateo sounded clipped and sharp, like he was multitasking three disasters at once.

The weirdest part? Nothing catastrophic ever happened.

There were no crashes. No retirements. No red flags. Just an endless stream of almost incidents. Cars losing traction in the heat. Midfielders lunging into corners like it was a sprint. Warnings for track limits, warnings for unsafe releases, warnings for team radio behavior. It felt like they were all one step from the whole thing imploding.

And then, out of nowhere… pace.

Not for everyone. Just them. Just Ferrari.

It hit sometime around Lap 40. Suddenly, Azzi’s lap delta dropped four tenths. Paige followed two corners later. Tire life looked strong. Temperatures leveled. And like someone had thrown a switch, both red cars started carving up the field like it was Monza.

Azzi passed the Alpine. Paige cleared the McLaren.

Azzi took second with a DRS move that made every onboard replay.

Paige slotted behind her like a knife through butter.

Neither of them could reach the race leader—a Mercedes was already too far up the road—but Ferrari finished second and third. A result that, three laps earlier, had seemed impossible.

Azzi crossed the line first, fists pumping in the cockpit, voice giddy as it crackled into Mateo’s ear.

Paige came in less than two seconds later. “Tell her that was hot,” she joked into the radio as the checkered flag waved. Luka snorted in her ear and promised to pass it along.

There was no podium fanfare this time. Just exhaustion and relief and the knowledge that, somehow, they’d pulled it off again. Ferrari had made it through the fire.

But when Paige stepped into the back of the Ferrari garage to cool down, she found Azzi already staring at the championship whiteboard. Someone had updated it quickly, too quickly, and the numbers were written in thick black marker.

T1: Paige Bueckers – 378 pts

T1: Azzi Fudd – 378 pts

Paige blinked. Then blinked again.

Azzi didn’t look at her, just kept her eyes on the board and said, without turning, “Tied. Going into Abu Dhabi.”

Paige opened her mouth to say something. Nothing came out.

Azzi finally looked back over her shoulder. “Winner takes all.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not tense. Not scared.

Just real.

“Yeah,” Paige said eventually. “Guess it does.”

They stared at each other for a moment across the floor of the garage, sweat still drying on their foreheads, hearts slowing back down to human levels. There was no gloating. No teasing.

Just mutual respect. And something deeper Paige couldn’t quite name.

Azzi crossed the space first. She bumped Paige lightly with her elbow as she passed. “Don’t forget to hydrate.”

Paige rolled her eyes, smirked. “Don’t forget to brake before Turn One.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And just like that, it was on.

Abu Dhabi loomed on the horizon—sunlit, perfect, merciless.

One more race.

One final Sunday.

[ghostedgwen]

heyy miko!! how are u? hope you're doing well <3 so, i got this one idea that i think that'd be incredible in your writing!

James x Slytherin!Reader - she hates him, but he’s been obsessed with her since they first met. he makes a deal: if Gryffindor wins the next match against Slytherin, she has to go on a date with him. gryffindor wins (obviously), and he asks her out in the most embarrassing, James Potter way: performing for her on the pitch in front of the whole school. i had Did I Mention scene from descendants in mind lol.

did I mention | j.potter

note : Hello, anon! I've been well, thanks for asking! Thank you so much for trusting me with this request! I really enjoyed this one, I was laughing as I wrote it. Also, I decided to use the lyrics from the actual song instead of cooking up my own cringey verse hope that's ok

warning : embarrassing if you look too deeply into it, enemies to lovers ? maybe, james is a very endearing idiot, house rivalry, banter, Gryffindor reckless behavior x Slytherin "wtf are u doing" dynamic

You lose a bet with James Potter, and he decides to marvel in your defeat with a song performance at the Quidditch Pitch to officially ask you out on a date.

There are a few constants in your life: the Slytherin common room always smells faintly of old parchment and ambition. The Black Lake is most beautiful just before dawn. And James Potter is insufferable.

You’d like to think you’re immune to Gryffindor nonsense. You don’t rise to their provocations, don’t flinch at their theatrics, don’t care for their sweeping speeches about bravery and justice and all that rot. You’re clever enough to win a duel with logic and cool-headed strategy, not brute force or reckless wand waving.

And yet, James bloody Potter never seems to get the hint.

He spots you from across the corridor like a Snitch mid-game - target locked - and you swear his hair ruffles itself in anticipation. One blink and he’s there, sliding up beside you with all the subtlety of a howler.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, as if it’s normal. As if he didn’t nearly trip over a third-year trying to reach you.

You don’t stop walking, your voice levelled as you speak without looking at him. “Potter.”

“You dream of me last night?”

“Only if it was a nightmare.”

“Oof. She’s got teeth.”

“She’s got standards.”

It goes like this every day. He flashes a grin like it’s weaponized, and you swat it away like a fly. You’re not sure when it started - second year, maybe, when he tried to show off in Charms and accidentally levitated your entire desk into the ceiling. Or third year, when you finally snapped and hexed his eyebrows clean off after one too many loud declarations of love.

He was smitten ever since. The idiot.

You're not impressed. Gryffindor’s golden boy, adored by half the school, Quidditch captain, grades that aren't as bad as you'd hoped - he's got everything handed to him and still acts like the castle is his personal playground. You're not interested in golden retrievers. You like sharp minds and sharper wit. Potter is all chaos and confidence, never still long enough to think.

Unfortunately, he’s made it his life’s mission to orbit yours.

“You’d look fantastic in red, by the way,” he calls out as you disappear into Potions. “I mean, green’s nice, but red would really bring out the scowl.”

You don’t dignify it with a response.

In Slytherin, you’re a known quantity. Smart, strategic, and poised. You walk the line between aloof and approachable so perfectly it’s practically studied. You’re respected because you’ve never needed to demand it. You don’t court attention, and that’s exactly why people look.

That includes James Potter, unfortunately.

And now, with the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match looming, the rivalry has reached a fever pitch. The pitch is practically buzzing with tension. You have nothing to do with it, no position on the team, no behind-the-scenes strategy, but house pride runs in your blood, and the Slytherin common room’s been buzzing for weeks.

You’re outside the Great Hall the morning of the match, a book in hand and a scowl ready for whoever dares interrupt, when the scent of grass and ego drifts toward you.

Potter.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, jogging up with his broom over his shoulder, hair a mess that you’re almost convinced he cultivates with spellwork. “Don’t tell me you’re hiding.”

“I don’t need to hide when my house is going to wipe the pitch with yours,” you reply dryly, not looking up. “Shouldn’t you be stretching or something?”

“I stretch before bed. Want to watch sometime?”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Only the best bits.”

He grins like he’s already won, and you have to force yourself not to sigh. The castle is already buzzing with match-day energy. You’d planned to watch the game in the stands with your Slytherin scarf wrapped around you on top of a green jumper.

But today, something makes you pause.

“Let’s make it interesting,” you say, snapping your book closed.

His eyes spark. “Oh?”

“If Slytherin wins,” you say, voice cool, crisp, practiced, “you stop talking to me. Forever. No winks in the corridor. No howlers disguised as singing Valentines. Nothing.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’d really deprive the world of this banter?”

“World? No. Me? Gladly.”

He narrows his eyes, smirks. “Alright then. If Gryffindor wins…”

You cross your arms. “Let me guess. I have to wear a Gryffindor scarf for a week.”

“Tempting,” he says. “But no. If we win - you go on a date with me.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.”

You study him for a moment. There’s that sparkle in his eyes that you recognize from every reckless stunt he’s ever pulled - a challenge. He lives for this. And for some twisted reason, you find yourself holding out your hand.

“If we win,” you repeat, “you stop talking to me.”

“If we win,” he counters, taking your hand, “you give me a shot.”

The handshake is electric. The corridor, quiet a moment before, erupts with students who apparently had been listening in from both ends.

“Oh my god,” someone squeals.

“You’re mad,” someone else gasps.

“Finally,” mutters another.

You barely hear them. You’re locked on Potter’s grin, and the smug tilt of his brow. He thinks he’s got this in the bag.

You think he’s going to eat dirt.

The match is chaos. That was the only way you could describe it in all honesty, majority of it was red and green blurs zooming across the pitch.

With the chaos of green and red ensuing under the bright and clear sky, the crowd screams itself hoarse. You’re seated in the Slytherin stands with your arms crossed and your heart in your throat. You’re not invested in the tactics, but house pride simmers hot in your chest.

James Potter is impossible to ignore. He flies like he was born in the air, reckless and brilliant and infuriatingly good.

Slytherin’s Seeker almost catches the Snitch - twice. But Gryffindor’s Keeper pulls off a save that should’ve been impossible, and suddenly, they’re up by ten, then thirty.

Your hands are clenched. You don’t care, not really, and yet -

Potter executes a loop-the-loop feint so absurd it draws gasps from the stands, drawing Slytherin’s Beaters out of position, and Gryffindor’s Seeker snatches the Snitch right from under their nose.

Final score: Gryffindor wins by sixty.

The stadium erupts.

You sit back, winded, heart thudding.

He won.

Shit.

The Quidditch match ended in an explosion of red and gold. Gryffindor had won.

Naturally, the entire school was buzzing.

It had been a close game - fierce, fast, and even brutal. Even you had felt a tiny sliver of adrenaline watching it, arms crossed and brows lifted from your usual corner of the Slytherin stands. But now, with the game over, you had one very specific goal in mind: disappear before James Potter finds you.

Because a deal was a deal.

And Potter would never let you forget a deal.

You slipped away before the final whistle stopped echoing, weaving through crowds of shouting Gryffindors and grumbling Slytherins, down the back steps of the stands, heart thudding like you’d just run laps around the pitch. If you were lucky, he’d be too busy being celebrated to come looking for you. If you were lucky, he’d gloat about the match and forget the bet.

If you were really lucky, he’d get struck by a stray Bludger still on the loose.

You didn’t get far.

Halfway across the pitch, the grass beneath your boots still dewy and soft, you heard it.

A sudden, magically-enhanced echo of a microphone crackling to life.

You stopped walking.

Oh no.

“Oh, ladies and gentlemen,” James Potter’s voice rang out, smug and all too familiar, “I hope you haven’t left just yet.”

A groan escaped you. You turned slowly, already seeing the crowd of students stalling at the gates, everyone turning back toward the pitch.

There he was. Front and centre on the grass, under the setting sun, in his wrinkled Gryffindor jersey, broom tossed aside. He held a charmed microphone in one hand and wore that smile - the one that always preceded something catastrophic.

How he even got a microphone is beyond you - and why you knew what it is was besides the point.

Sirius stood behind him, looking like a backup for some performance being cooked up. You started walking faster.

James cleared his throat. “Now, I know we’re all reeling from that win - thank you, thank you - but before you head off to celebrate, I have one teeny, tiny thing to take care of.”

You were nearly at the exit.

“Oi! _____!”

The crowd parted like the sea, and suddenly every head was turning your way. Every face. Every expression lit with delighted horror and secondhand embarrassment. You stopped dead on your tracks, like a snake caught in headlights.

James grinned wider. “This one’s for you.”

And then - music.

Fucking music was the last thing you expected to cue in the moment he flashed a grin so wide it could’ve ripped his cheeks.

You didn’t know who had enchanted what, or where the band had come from, but suddenly James Potter was launching into a full, ridiculous, very real musical number.

“♪ I met this girl who rocked my world ♪”

You blinked.

“♪ Like it's never been rocked ♪”

He spun. He spun. Sirius groaned and joined in on backup vocals.

“♪ And now I'm living just for her ♪”

Someone behind you gasped. A fourth-year clutched her heart. The Hufflepuff girls were screaming.

You pressed your fingers against your mouth, determined not to laugh. Not to give him the satisfaction - despite yourself, you were struggling not to contort your face to laugh.

“♪ And I won't ever stop ♪”

(“I beg Merlin every day that you will,” you muttered under your breath.)

“♪ I never thought that it could happen to a guy like me. ♪”

He was closing in now, slowly making his way towards you as he sang those embarrassing lyrics. How Potter keeps his pride intact after this is beyond you, how you keep yours is also beyond you.

“♪ But now look at what you've done ♪”

You scoffed in offence at that, his lyrics implied you did something to him which you did not. You were not at fault for whatever is going on with him, you shot him a look through the field while he remains undeterred.

“♪ You got me, down on my knee ♪”

He winked at you through the chaos. You tried - Merlin, you tried - not to break. But your mouth twitched. Just barely. Your lips parted.

James saw it.

He let out a delighted yell and dropped to his knees on the pitch. The music slowed to a dramatic ballad tempo.

He extended a hand to you.

“_____,” he said, theatrically breathless. “So. What do you say? A deal’s a deal.”

Your cheeks burned from the sheer shame and your ears rang from the silence of everyone's anticipation, the crowd watched in a collection of bathed breaths.

The entire school was watching. You could say no. You could hex him. You wanted to hex him. You should hex him.

Instead, you stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, letting him sweat a little more.

“I didn’t realize you had a death wish,” you said dryly. “This is next-level idiocy, even for you.”

He grinned up at you. “I thought it was quite inspired.”

“You got down on your knees.”

“Uh huh.”

You sighed. And finally - finally - let a small laugh escape. You couldn’t keep it in any more, the whole thing was absurd, like some fever dream (or rather, a nightmare) you could only cook up during quiet nights.

His eyes lit up like the sun coming through stained-glass.

The crowd roared.

You looked down at him, this golden-retriever idiot of a boy, who had just serenaded you in front of hundreds of people like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you took his hand.

“Fine,” you said, letting him pull you gently toward him. “One date.”

He beamed like he’d just caught the Snitch.

“One date,” you repeated. “And if you ever sing in public again, I will hex you.”

“No promises.”

Sirius whooped, you could already hear the teasing from your house mates over the whole affair. You had lost a bet and got a very public performance at that. The entire pitch was screaming like they’d just witnessed a marriage proposal.

James bowed with an absurd flourish and kissed your hand like some chivalrous knight. You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother stopping him, you knew how to admit defeat. Albeit how embarrassing this one was.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never,” he said with a grin. “But just in case - next song’s already written.”

You didn’t punch him. But it was a very near thing.

end. masterlist

[annaswrites00]

Damage Control

OP81 x mediamanager!reader

(3.7k)

Summary - Oscar’s still wired from the chaos of Monaco, and she knows just how to push his buttons… warnings - smut, explicit content, public setting, language. 18+ ONLY!!!!!

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The applause faded behind the press barricades, but Oscar could still feel it crawling under his skin.

He’d smiled on the podium, sure. Said the right words. Let the champagne spray across his fireproofs. Even laughed when Lando poured the sticky liquid down his neck.

But it wasn’t real.

Not today.

P3 should have felt like something. It should have meant something.

But all he could feel was heat.

Heat at the base of his neck, prickling under the collar of his suit. Heat rising behind his ribs. A low burn of resentment he couldn’t shake.

Stupid mistakes.

That was all standing between him and something more.

He tugged at the Velcro near his neck as he stalked down the paddock corridor, jaw locked, mouth set in a tight line. The noise of the crowds, the calls of crew and media, the subtle roar of the harbour still pulsing with celebration—it all blurred into a kind of pressure behind his eyes.

He needed space. Silence. Cold water. Anything but—

“There you are.”

He stopped.

She was standing just past the media tent, iPad tucked under one arm, headset hanging around her neck. No clipboard this time. Just her, in the McLaren black polo that was one size too big and didn’t quite hide the nerves in her posture.

“Media starts in ten,” she said, softer than usual. Not a command. Almost… a question.

Oscar stared at her for a second.

The last few weeks had made her too familiar—a constant shadow in the garage, in the hallways, in his periphery. She was always hovering, always coordinating. Efficient. Polite. Unshakable, until now.

Now she looked almost unsure.

He didn’t answer.

Just tugged at the top of his suit and wiped at the sweat behind his ears. The scent of champagne still clung to him. He hated it. Hated that it meant celebration when all he felt was disappointment.

“I can—” she started, adjusting the tablet against her chest, “—I can see if they’ll push the first interview back a few minutes if you want. If you need a breather.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “That's your call now?”

She hesitated. “No. But—”

“Then don’t offer things you can’t deliver.”

The words came out sharper than intended.

Her lips parted, like she might argue—but she didn’t. Just swallowed once, visibly, and nodded.

“Sorry.”

The silence that followed made it worse.

He wasn’t trying to be a dick. Not really. He just… couldn’t do this right now. Couldn’t fake the right sound bites when his blood was still boiling from a race that felt like settling.

She took a step back. “You’ve got a few minutes if you want to clean up. Water’s just inside. I’ll wait here.”

Oscar didn’t answer. Didn’t thank her.

He pushed through the side door of his driver’s room without looking back.

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When he returned, his suit was tied at the waist, sleeves hanging limp. He’d splashed his face and rubbed a towel through his hair, but the tension hadn’t eased. If anything, it was worse now—trapped under his skin like static.

She was still waiting.

“You don’t have to follow me around, you know,” he muttered as he passed her.

“Actually. I do.”

She fell in step beside him.

They didn’t speak as they walked. The corridor toward the media pen narrowed, the buzz of voices growing louder. Crew, reporters, photographers—all gathered like sharks that could smell blood.

She glanced sideways at him once. “I can brief the first two outlets to keep it short.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it with a sigh.

And when they reached the edge of the media tent, he finally stopped.

“I don’t want to do this.”

It wasn’t loud. Just kept between them.

But it was the first honest thing he’d said since the podium.

She looked up at him, eyes soft, uncertain. “I know.”

He should’ve hated the way she said it. Gently. Like she saw something he didn’t want her to.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched loosely at his sides.

Something flickered between them—an imbalance shifting. She wasn’t giving orders now. Wasn’t pushing. Just waiting. Letting him decide.

And maybe that was what made him speak again.

“It was just silly mistakes. I could’ve had it. I can do so much better than this.”

“I know,” she said again.

Oscar’s breath caught. He looked at her—really looked.

No headset now. Just her. Her mouth pressed tight, like she didn’t trust herself to say more. She was younger than most of the team. New. Still finding her place. And yet, somehow, she’d found him.

Found the part of him that wasn’t polished or press-ready. The part that cracked.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered.

“I might,” she said, voice quiet.

That made him pause.

He stared at her for a beat too long, jaw working like he was chewing down something bitter. Then he glanced past her toward the growing swarm of cameras and flashing lights.

And he shook his head.

“No,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Not doing it.”

He turned away, started back toward the corridor—toward escape.

“Oscar—” she started, catching up, voice sharper this time.

He didn’t stop walking.

“You have to—”

He did stop at that. Pivoted with a quickness that startled her into stillness, his eyes dark with heat. The kind of heat that came from pressure.

“No,” he said again, firmer now. “I don’t have to stand in front of ten different microphones and act like I’m happy to settle for third.”

Her mouth opened, closed.

He waited.

“Look,” she tried, a bit breathless now. “It’s not about pretending. It’s just a part of the job. It’s about showing up—for the team, for the sponsors—”

“For the cameras,” he cut in, stepping in closer. “For the show. For the headlines. I know.”

Something about the way he said it—like a weight around his neck—made her temper pull back, just slightly. But she held her ground.

“This isn’t personal,” she said, quieter. “It’s just the media schedule. You know that.”

His jaw ticked. “You think I don’t give enough already?”

“No,” she said immediately, which surprised him. “That’s not what I’m saying. I get it. You’re pissed about the race, this weekend. Ok. That doesn’t mean you get to skip out on the rest of your job.”

Oscar looked at her, gaze flicking down for just a second—at her hands clutching the tablet again, knuckles tight with strain. She was flustered. She didn’t hide it well.

“You’re new,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You’re still trying to prove yourself.”

That landed somewhere deep. She shifted her stance. A slight defensive tilt to her chin.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replied, quick, sharper than she meant to. Then her voice dipped. “I’m just trying to do my job, Oscar. Same as you.”

The silence between them was taut, wound tight like a snapped cord.

Somewhere behind them, a camera flash popped. Someone was shouting a name—his name—but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and jerked his head sideways.

“Come on.”

She blinked. “Where—”

“Driver’s room,” he said, already walking. “Unless you want to argue in front of a dozen journalists.”

She hesitated. Then followed.

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The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the outside noise like a switch had been flipped. The air inside Oscar’s driver’s room was chilled—almost aggressively so—but it didn’t do anything to cool the heat tightening his shoulders.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just threw the towel from earlier onto the bench and paced once across the room like he was too wound up to sit still.

She hovered by the door, hands at her sides now, iPad forgotten. Only a half-step into his space.

He turned on her.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said, voice low and sharp, “to have a car capable of a win and then spend the whole weekend trying and failing to execute?”

She swallowed.

“No, of course you don’t.”

“That’s not fair. That's your job. not mine."

“I know it’s not fair,” he bit out. “But neither is a weekend where I know I should’ve been better, and instead of getting to deal with it, I’m being pulled in a dozen directions to smile for cameras and say how great it is to come in behind my teammate. How great the weekend was for the team.”

Her brow furrowed, her tone finally defensive again. “I never said you had to smile.”

Oscar let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “You don’t have to. Everyone expects it anyway. Because I’m always a class act after the race, right?”

She opened her mouth—then closed it. There was a flush in her cheeks now, subtle, but rising. She wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to him like this.

He knew he was pushing. Knew he was being unfair. But it felt good, in a twisted way, to finally let some of the pressure bleed out. And she was here, in the target zone. Because she hadn’t backed off.

Because she’d followed him.

“I’m not your enemy,” she said finally, voice low. Steady, but with an edge of vulnerability under it.

He blinked. Something in him paused at that.

“No,” he muttered. “But you’re always there.”

“Because it’s my job, Oscar. I don’t know why we're wasting time arguing over media. You have to go back out there. You know that.”

Oscar stared at her.

There it was again—that tension. That tether pulled taut between them.

She was right.

She was always right in these moments. Level. Composed. Doing her job while he cracked under the weight of his own perfectionism.

But tonight… he couldn’t do level. Couldn’t do composed. Couldn’t take the neat little box she kept placing him in—the driver, the brand, the polished professional. He was more than that tonight. He was tired. Raw. Burning.

“You say that like I’m some kid who doesn’t know how this works,” he said, stepping toward her. Just one step. Close enough for her breath to catch.

She stood straighter. Didn’t back down. “I say it because you need reminding.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be reminded tonight.”

His voice dipped lower.

She should have backed down, let him stew in his own frustration. But instead, she stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

“You don’t get to take this out on me,” she said, voice low but steady. “I’m not the one who cost you the race.”

Oscar’s gaze snapped to hers, like a whip.

For a second, just one, she thought maybe she’d gone too far.

But then he laughed. A short, bitter sound.

“No,” he said, “you’re just the one standing in front of me acting like you get it. Like you know what it feels like to be this close and then have to walk away smiling like it doesn’t hurt.”

She opened her mouth to fire back, but he was already moving.

His hand found the door handle behind her, clicking it locked before she could take a step back.

Her breath hitched.

Oscar’s voice softened, but not kindly.

“You don’t get to act like you know how this feels. You don’t get to stand there and tell me what I have to do when you don’t even…” His jaw clenched. “You don’t even know me.”

Her throat was tight. She could feel it.

But she forced her chin up. Forced the words out.

“Then let me.”

That made him stop.

“Let me know you,” she said, barely a whisper now, but steady enough to hold his attention. “Not the headlines. Not the driver the team parades around. Just you. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re pissed and tired and—”

She didn’t finish.

Because he’d stepped closer again.

Close enough that the tension snapped like a live wire between them.

Close enough that she could feel the faintest brush of his breath against her cheek when he spoke.

“You’re playing a risky game.”

Her pulse jumped, but her voice didn’t shake. “Maybe I don’t want to play safe anymore.”

Oscar’s lips twitched like he almost wanted to smile, but it was too bitter to surface. His hand came up, fingers brushing the curve of her jaw, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

When she didn’t pull away, he let his thumb trace lightly along her skin.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

His hand dropped from her face to her waist like the tether between them finally snapped.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her voice dropped with him. “Then tell me to leave.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say it.

His fingers tightened slightly at her waist. His other hand braced against the door behind her, caging her in without ever touching her fully.

“You’re going to make this complicated.”

“It already is," she spit out. Chest tight.

His head dipped, forehead brushing against hers like he was still deciding whether or not he should cross the last inch.

“Oscar—” 

His mouth was on hers before she could finish.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was all heat and static, frustration blooming into something that felt like collapse.

His hand slipped from her collar to the nape of her neck, threading through her hair as he tipped her head back, kissing her harder—like he was chasing quiet, or trying to press something out of himself.

And she let him.

She kissed him like she’d been waiting. Like she had nowhere else to put the slow-burning ache she’d been carrying for weeks.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t neat. His fingers dragged rough along the line of her waist, catching the edge of her polo, tugging it up without finesse. Her skin buzzed under his touch—bare fingertips skating over ribs, tracing the curve of her breast through the lace of her bra.

She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.

“Still want to send me back out there?” he asked against her lips, voice syrupy, slow, dripping with something like amusement.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have the air.

His mouth ghosted over hers once more before he dropped to his knees in one fluid, unhurried motion, tugging her skirt down her legs with the kind of carelessness that made her dizzy. One hand braced at her waist, holding her steady, the other brushed the fabric of her underwear aside with a lazy slide of his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, like he wasn’t speaking to her, like it just slipped out. “You like being told off?”

She made a noise—half protest, half plea—but before she could spit something sharp back, he slid two fingers into her, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor it.

Her head tipped back, landing softly against the door.

“God—fuck, Oscar—”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

His fingers moved with a rhythm that made her legs shake—cruel in precision, but never rushed. She gripped his hair, unsure whether she was pulling him closer or steadying herself, but his gaze flicked up to her, eyes dark, mouth set in something close to a smirk.

“Look at you.” His voice was a low drag, almost bored. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

Her breath faltered. She dug her nails into his shoulder, but he didn’t stop.

“You play at being difficult, but this is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” His thumb pressed against her just right, coaxing a desperate sound from her throat. “This is what shuts you up.”

Her moan cracked sharp in the air, and still, he didn’t let up. His palm ground against her, his pace merciless, like he was methodically pulling her apart just to see how fast he could do it.

Her hips jolted forward, desperate and messy.

His smile barely touched his mouth.

His lips brushed lazily against the inside of her thigh, breath hot against flushed skin. “Deep down, you want me to ruin you.”

It hit her like a wave—sharp, hot, blinding—and she cried out, thighs tightening around his shoulders as she came, as he worked her through every tremor, every breathless shake of her body.

His hand skimmed her inner thigh, dragging his thumb across tender skin like he was leaving a signature.

“You’re a mess,” he said softly, almost like it amused him.

When he stood, he loomed over her again, catching her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him like she was something to inspect.

Then—without hurry—he slid his fingers past her lips.

“Now,” his voice dropped to steel, molten and heavy. “Get on your knees and show me just how badly you want me to go out there and do my job.”

She sank to her knees in front of him, breath still ragged, body buzzing with the echo of what he’d just done to her.

His fingers slid from her mouth with a slow drag, grazing her bottom lip like he wanted to feel her pulse there.

He murmured, thumb brushing over her jaw, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes.

Her hands were already at his waistband, tugging open the drawstring with shaky fingers.

His smirk deepened, head tipping back as he let her work, as if her urgency was some small entertainment.

“You’re always so mouthy,” he said, looking down at her like he was considering what to do with her now. “Funny, isn’t it?”

She glared up at him through her lashes, half tempted to bite something just to wipe that smugness off his face.

But then she had him in her hand, heavy and hot, and the ache in her throat overrode everything else.

She leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the base of him, slow, deliberate, like she could make him feel the weight of her silence.

He hissed through his teeth, his fingers sliding into her hair again—less to guide her, more to keep himself steady.

“You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?” he muttered, half-laughing, like the patience she was showing now was the cruelest thing she’d ever done to him.

She hummed against him in response, dragging her tongue up the length of him with a kind of lazy precision, keeping her pace maddeningly slow.

“Oscar,” she breathed against him, voice sticky, clinging to the syllables like sugar melting in the heat. “You wanted this.”

He tightened his grip in her hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who started this.

“Don’t get clever.” His voice dropped, frayed around the edges now. “You needed to be put in your place, didn’t you?”

She flicked her tongue over him, then took him deeper, answering without words.

His groan broke the stillness like a crack through glass.

And suddenly his restraint was gone.

He thrust forward, not rough, but decisive—forcing her to take more, forcing her to feel the weight of him, to let him chase his own undoing in the heat of her mouth.

Her hands caught at his hips, nails biting into his skin as she tried to steady herself, breath stolen, eyes watering—but she didn’t pull back.

Didn’t want to.

“Look at you,” he gritted out, watching her, gaze molten and unblinking. “Fucking taking it. So desperate to prove something.”

She hollowed her cheeks around him, dragging another ragged sound from his throat. Drool starting to slide down her chin.

The push and pull of his hips set the rhythm now—sharp, controlled, but relentless—and she let him, let herself unravel around the edges, chasing his pleasure like it was something she could claim for herself.

His grip in her hair tightened, a sharp pull that made her whimper, made her thighs press together.

“God, you’re such a mess for me,” he rasped, chest heaving, pace faltering just enough to let the words slip out. 

Her nails dug harder into his hips in answer.

He groaned, head tipping forward, his free hand cupping the side of her face, thumb brushing over her cheek like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered, voice dissolving into something raw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

She didn’t.

She swallowed him deeper, worked her tongue in ways that made him curse, made his hips stutter, made his control slip just enough for her to feel it in the way his body tensed beneath her hands.

His thumb dragged across her lower lip, slick from her, from him.

“I should’ve made you beg for this,” he said, breath hot and ragged, like the thought alone might undo him. “I should’ve made you fucking crawl.”

Her whimper vibrated against him, pulling another curse from his throat.

But it was too late to be careful now.

His grip tightened—desperate, aching—and his rhythm stuttered as he came, head tipped back, breath caught somewhere between a groan and her name.

She took all of it, swallowed him down like it was a quiet kind of victory, like she wanted to keep him there.

He barely gave her time to catch her breath before he was pulling her up, crashing their mouths together in something messy, something breathless, tasting himself on her tongue and not caring in the slightest.

His hands cupped her jaw, thumbs brushing along her cheeks with a reverence that didn’t match the bruising heat of the kiss.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he whispered against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. “And you know it.”

She smiled, faint but sharp, fingers still curled in the hem of his shirt.

“Still want me to go back out there?” he asked, voice a little hoarse, a little smug now.

His chest rose and fell against hers, the weight of their bodies still tangled, the heat still thick in the air.

“I think I’d rather stay right here for a bit,” she breathed.

And she kissed him again—slow, soft this time—like maybe they both knew this was the part they wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡

Thanks for reading!!!!

[colorsunlikeanythingseen]

.... Made me think of the Silt Verses.

HAYWARD: Rough doesn’t really cover it. It’s a very specific sensation, when your marriage is failing.

I mean, there’s mingled terror and shame and all the rest of it. But also anticipation. fervent, maddening anticipation.

At long last, this thing between the two of us gets to be resolved. Something we set into motion actually gets to end, and we can come out on the other side as something else. Maybe shrunken and saddened. Perhaps something made anew.

It’s like you’re tangled up in barbed wire: draw closer, it’ll be agony.

Pull away, you don’t know what pieces of yourself you’ll leave behind. But you have to pull away, or this person, this gravitational orbit, is going to destroy you.

CARPENTER: (Engaging with the conversation despite herself) There’s an alternative. You could destroy them.

HAYWARD: I mean, yes, but that would cause harm, and when you’re beginning a new life alone, the last thing you want to do is cause any harm. You can’t be reborn with that in your heart.

No escape is truly clean, but at least once you’ve fled you don’t have to look at the mess.

CARPENTER: I don’t think you have any choice in the matter.

When someone’s been that close to you, when you’ve been known so well and you’ve been loved so closely, when every wrinkle of you has picked out and exposed to another’s sight…they can’t be allowed to continue on.

It’d be like losing your faith, but letting the lie of it keep standing.

-Silt Verses. Season one, episode five.

None of the toxic people in Apollos life are like “oh that persons bad for you and hurts you find a way to leave” It’s always “they have blood on their hands and they revel in it they are licking the blood off their hands they will destroy you just as they destroyed the others around them and the only way to leave will leave a mark the same way staying would”

[king-lena]

i just wrote a whole post on how david and roger’s perception of each other ultimately led to their downfall and it started off as like a paragraph of surface level observations and somehow morphed into an essay length analysis that i can’t possibly justify posting 😭 i did kind of cook tho ngl i’m proud of her

[smallestapplin]

I was wondering if you have any ideas or crumbs for TFA ratchet? 👉👈

I'm a gilf fucker enjoyer and I love that mech so much whenever he's in screen time.

TFA my beloved! I went with romance headcanons and gn!human reader if that’s okay!

-

-

- Ratchet is a grumpy old mech, the city it too damn loud and these kids are too damn loud and rowdy. How you managed to woo his spark was beyond anyone of the team, and truly beyond him as well, though the truth is he loved you for so long just keeping it to himself. You’re so good with Sari, so good at getting the others to settle while also fitting in with them like a big family. You’re much calmer than the others and found it easy to slip into his daily routine.

- His days weren’t right if you weren’t there, and nothing lit a fire under him than you getting injured during a decepticon attack, protecting Sari at the cost of yourself. Luckily you managed to recover just fine, but in that moment he felt helpless and weak knowing nothing about human medicine to help you. It’s only then he came clean.

Ratchet was so nervous for once, he’s an older model, outdated, and nowhere close to being as young and full of energy as anyone else on this team, why would you accept him when there were other better choices than this mean old mech? But after that scare…well, it just don’t feel right keeping it all in anymore.

You’re so much smaller than him, small squishy human, yet you manage to have him wrapped around your soft digit. Even when you’re looking up at him with a look offering him patience and love, he just doesn’t get it.

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have been dragged into all this mess and dealin’ with us..” Ratchet sighs, his expression softens just looking at you, “you are certainly somethin’ else, sweetspark.”

It’s just you and him right now, the other long since gone to bed, he can finally be open with you without worrying too much. You make a gesture making him follow in turn, lifting you carefully in his servo just for you to kiss his cheek which swiftly flushes a darker blue.

“Really, and old rust bucket like me?”

“Keep talking like that and you’re gonna get it all smooched outta ya.”

It’s not a conventual courtship to him, he didn’t bwoop his siren at you or flash his light like he’d want to, but even still he holds you close with a sigh. You really do have a grip over his spark.

- Ratchet is not super lovey dovey in public, but if you start the affection he won’t turn you away, just grumbles under his breathe all flustered.

- If no one can find you you’re usually hanging around Ratchet if not just on his shoulder as he walks around. If anyone asks for you they are getting a stern look from the older bot, while he sets you down so you can see what you’re needed for.

- Arguing is his love language, please understand he’s not arguing cause he’s actually mad he’s arguing because hearing your fake shocked gasp is truly funny to him, especially when you go on a ‘you hate me and want to see me suffer’ rant, all because he said he couldn’t recharge yet.

- Speaking of Ratchet gets on everyone’s case about taking care of themselves this incudes you, however you will need to get on his case abour taking care of himself, he will argue back that he’s the medic here he knows what he’s doing, please just give him either a stern glare or a pitifully sad expression and he caves quickly. Just because it’s you.

- 100% yells at the other autobots messing with you in the same tone of ‘don’t talk to your sire that way!’ It always lands with Optimus and you stepping between and Bee cause the yellow bot sasses you back and Ratchet will not have that respect in this base, ya hear!

- He’s not the best with words but he is always there for you to lean against. It breaks his spark to see you having a low day, he knows not much he could say will fix it but he always lets you know he loves you, while he picks you up and takes you to his habsuite to lay down with you, let you melt into his warm chassis. One servo on your back like a weight blanket, just letting you two bask in each others company.

- Dates are at least once a week though most are very relaxed and more often than noth lead to you stifling a laugh at how he can seemingly pass out anywhere. Ratchet takes his time with you very seriously, but your presence is very comforting to the old bot, it’s relaxing almost too relaxing, pair that with your warm and a warm sun ray on him and he’s having the best nap of his life.

- Ratchet, like a lot of mechs, is very protective over you, he worries too much, he’s seen too much, he doesn’t want you to be caught up in any of it. If there is a con attack you’re swiftly hidden away first and foremost, and if thats not a choice than he will make it one.

- Ratchet also tries to downplay is issues a lot, a lot of bottling up everything adn refusing to even mention if he’s having problems so you are going to have to ready his tones and body language a lot. When he gets very defensive and fast you’ll know you have a problem, one he won’t even think about mentioning until it’s just you and him in his habsuite, and MAYBE if you ask and gently press he will give you some kinda answer. He doesn’t want to stress or burden you, he’s just some washed up medic, what good can he be? Once again smack him lovingly, please. To have your soft hand on his face plate, cooing sweetly at him at how much he means to the team but just how much he means to you, you love him, he softens up.

- Old mech yells and sasses nearly everyone and everything, but you are the voice of reason keeping him tethered, if anyone is having problems getting through to him they just go to you and you can usually get him sorted.

- Overall? Best mech to cuddle with, snooze with, he has his silly moments and his grumpiness is endearing.

-

NSFW BELOW!

-

- Ratchet is not topping, he is much too old for this he is no longer in his prime, in fact he will ask if you really want to do this with him of all mechs. He may not be topping, and he may not be lasting many rounds, but he knows good and well on his to use his glossa and digits, which he happily gives you.

- Loves having you on his face in anyway, let him lick up your sex and make you cum before prepping your greedy hole with his digits just so you might be able to ride his spike.

- Since energon isn’t much of an issue here he mass displaces for you during the rare occasion he feels up for it. He acts angry but he’s honestly so embarrassed and bashful you are drooling for him to open his legs so you can get to his valve.

- Is surpringly loud, Ratchet hasn’t been active in thousands of years, never had the time, patience, or care to, his interfacing drive got lower the older he got so self servicing died down too, that and not much privacy for it. So when you are buried between his thighs, licking his valve, stroking his spike and rubbing his node, his voice will go static he gets so loud.

- Be warned, he is a very adoring lover but he will pass out after at most three overloads, so aftercare likely happen the morning after instead of right after if you don’t play your cards right. But if you let him control the overloads and he is still concious afterwards, he is very adamant on aftercare, cleaning both of you up, kissing you softly and whispering how well you did for him. He loves you so much.

- Not very wild in the berth, probably very vanilla all thinsg considered, but if you have something you want to try he’s usually down for it.

[cheshireliam]

"Me and You, Always" Story Event: Chapter 1

Silvio Ricci

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

<< Silvio's POV >>

Silvio: Hah? Seafood soup?

It was one of those summer nights where the heat still clings to your skin despite the sun having set in the horizon—.

The window was open and the sea breeze drifted into the room, I was enjoying some night time drinks with Emma when she suddenly brought up an unusual topic.

Emma: I read about a kind of soup that the fishermen in Benitoite often make.

Emma: They gather the leftover fish and shellfish from the day’s catch, then simmer it slowly with tomatoes and wine to bring out the flavours. 

Silvio: Ya talkin’ ‘bout Cacciucco?

Emma: That’s the one! 

Silvio: If ya wanna eat it, I can get someone to whip it up for ya.

Emma: I not only want to eat it, I want to make it myself.

Silvio: Then go ahead and make it. I can get ya all the ingredients ya need. 

Emma: No, actually… I want you to teach me how to make it, Prince Silvio. 

Silvio: Ain’t it just chuckin’ all the stuff in a pot and boil it? Got nothing' to teach. 

Emma: I meant the steps before putting the ingredients into the pot. Like how to clean and fillet the fish, and preparing the shellfish. I still don’t really understand even after reading the instructions in the book, so… 

(Ah, it see where this is goin’... never thought there'd be a woman who wants to gut fish with her own hands.)

Emma took a sip of her drink, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. 

Silvio: How ‘bout on the next day off? 

Emma: …! I’d love to. Thank you so much! 

(This woman’s as strange as ever…)

Emma: If I could be a little selfish and ask for one more thing… I want to try making the soup outdoors.

(... Or so I thought. Somethin’ ain’t right.) 

Silvio: Outdoors? Ya plannin’ somethin’ ain’t ya? 

Emma: I promise it’s nothing bad.

Silvio: Then ya can just tell me.

Emma: … I’m keeping it a secret for now.

Silvio: Knew it. Gotta be somethin’ shady. 

Emma: I would never plot anything bad against you, Prince Silvio. 

Silvio: How ‘bout ya think ‘bout all the stuff ya pull on me daily, then try sayin’ that again. 

Emma: That was then, this is now.

Emma: Ah, my glass is empty. 

Trying to dodge the subject, Emma grabbed the bottle and filled her glass.

Her hair swayed in the summer night breeze as she brought the glass that was nearly filled to the brim to her lips. 

Emma: I intend to prepare a proper thank you gift for all this, of course…!

Silvio: Hah, damn right you will. Don’t go forgettin’ that. 

(Been together with Emma for a while now, but even after all this time, I still can’t always read what she’s thinkin’.) 

(Ya never know what she’s gonna say next, but that’s what’s interestin’ ‘bout her I guess…)

(Though, I wonder what on earth’s she plannin’.) 

…

A few days later— with the setting sun on the horizon, we hauled the outdoor cooking gear into place. 

Emma was looking fascinated by all the tools we usually brought on sea voyages. 

Emma: So we just place the pot right on top of this fire stand to do the cooking. 

Emma: I thought we’d have to carry rocks and build a stove from scratch. 

Silvio: Ya tryin’ to start a survival camp or somethin’? 

I loaded the fire stand with the firewood I brought and struck the flint to spark a fire. 

Emma didn’t want to simply sit and watch, so she was already preparing the fish and shellfish we bought at the market. 

(She’s being weirdly motivated. I’ve been tryin’ to figure out all day what she’s up to, but I still don’t get it.) 

(She’s been real into adventure stories lately, so this probably got somethin’ to do with it, but…) 

Emma: Now we’re all set.

Silvio: Ya really gonna gut the fish yerself?

Emma: I want to, Master. 

Silvio: I don’t remember takin’ ya as an apprentice.

Silvio: Don’t be gettin’ yerself hurt, yeah? 

…

Emma: *Sigh*... that was pure bliss…

She placed her empty plate on the makeshift table and gazed up at the sky full of stars. 

The seafood soup we made together wasn’t exactly the most aesthetically pleasing, but watching Emma fumble her way through filleting the fish must’ve been some sort of secret ingredient that made it taste worlds better. 

(Been holed up in the palace too much lately, but havin’ a meal like this every now and then ain’t half bad.)

(... Even though I almost had a heart attack multiple times.)

Silvio: Don’t ya go sneakin’ off to practice on yer own, ya hear me?

Emma: Why not? 

Silvio: ‘Cause yer grip on the knife was damn shaky, that’s why. 

Emma: But I won’t get any better without practice.

Silvio: Then do it when I’m around.

Emma: But you’re busy— 

Silvio: Don’t matter. If it’s for ya, I got all the time in the damn world. 

I said it on impulse, and the moment I realised what I’d just blurted out, a wave of embarrassment hit me right in the face. 

Emma: You really are so kind. 

Silvio: Don’t say stuff that gives me goosebumps. 

Emma: Actually, I have a thank you gift for the ever so kind Prince Silvio, so… 

Emma: Could you close your eyes for a moment? 

[howi99]

RK: *tucking team RWBY+Neo in*

6 yo Blake: *timidly* Jaune?

RK: *smile* Yes Blake?

Blake: Can you... Tell us a story?

RK: *chuckle* Again? At this rate, i'll be out of stories in a matter of days!

Team RWBY+Neo: *making Puppy eyes*

RK: *rolling his eyes, in a playful manner* Oh alright. *Take a seat on the edge of the bed* What kind of story would you all like?

Yang: *excitedly* Oh, oh, i want to know about your epic adventures!

Blake: *nodding along* That'd be nice!

4 yo Ruby: *yawn* Maybe something with Juniper?

Neo: 🤔🐇⌚🫵?

RK: *pensive* Hm... The day i first met Juniper, huh? *Nod* Alright, is that fine with everyone?

RWBY+N: *nod*

RK: *chuckle* Good. *Clear his throat* It was a long time ago... Before any of you were even born.

_ _ _

RWBY + Neo: *sleeping peacefully*

RK: *gently closing down the door*

???: That's not how i remember that day. Didn't you trap her for food and subsequently felt too bad to eat her?

RK: *taking a deep breath, turning around to see the curious cat laying in front of the fireplace* What are you doing here?

CC: *Chuckle* Don't worry, i'm not here for them. Besides, what would you want me to do with a child's body? Die in the first encounter i'd have with those Grimm you talk me about?

RK: Then why are you-

CC: I'm bored.

RK: *massage his temples* I figured that much already. What other reasons, i meant.

CC: For once, it's actually the only reason i have. You can't expect me to be scheming all the time, do you?

RK: ... *Walk towards his chair, sitting next to a sleeping Juniper* I don't have much to talk about; The Brothers knows we already went over everything i had to offer-

CC: How has it been?

RK: *blink* Excuse me?

CC: *smiling playfully* How has it been? You know, taking care of kids, acting like a dad with real people.

RK: ... *Pensive* I guess... It was nice. I have to cook for them, clean after them, play with them... *Chuckle* Even if she's 4, Ruby's still invincible at tags, Blake's a complete ninja when playing hide and seek, and Neo has been teaching everyone how to do sign language. Weiss and Yang are actually getting pretty good at it.

CC: Is that so?

RK: *small laugh* Oh yeah, they are fast learners... *Sigh* You know, i really want them to get back at being adults as quickly as they can... But...

CC: But?

RK: *gently caressing Juniper* But... There's a part of me who'd like for them to stay that way. To see them grow up here, where there's no Grimm or Salem to fear, no quest to save the world... *Shake his head, looking sad* But that wouldn't be fair for them. Nor would it be fair for their families.

CC: They remind you of your family.

RK: *looking at the fireplace, melancholy in his voice* It has been many years since i've forgot their faces. But in a way, they do... They give me a sense of familiarity that i lost before even arriving in the ever after. *Sigh, then smile* I'm just glad that the wait will soon be over. I think... I think i deserve some vacations... Right? *Look towards the cat, who had disappeared* ... *Chuckle* I wish you good night, for old times sake.

[redcreekheart]

Carmen Berzatto nsfw alphabet

Afab!reader

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

He might have trouble with words, but perhaps actions can make you understand that he actually cares and gives a fuck about this, about you and the relationship you have.

So he's sweet and caring during aftercare, cleaning you up all sweetly and gentle, even giving you some food if you're hungry.

He likes to have you in his arms afterwards, just enjoying the intimacy of it all and how pretty you look.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

Carmen loves all of your body, he makes it his mission to worship every bit of you during sex to show you how much he cares. However, if he really had to pick a body part then it would be your hands and your breasts.

As corny as it sounds, Carmen loves your hand because of your touch, the way you caress him and hold him so gently when he feels like he's losing it truly helps him calm down and feel like he's able to breathe again.

The comfort and warmth that your touch provides is really precious to him, because he's not used to it.

And your breasts? Well, he loves to grab them, play with them, put them in his mouth and suck on them as he fucks you.

Besides that, he loves lying down on top of you and use them as his very own personal pillow, because they're warm, comfy, and your heartbeat is really soothing.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

What if I tell you he's a little dirty? He will blush like crazy if you say anything about it, but he loves watching you covered in his cum in places like your chest, back, ass, pussy, maybe not your face since he doesn't want to be disrespectful, but if you let him Carmy would be over the moon.

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

Carmy is pretty reserved and overall shy when it comes to sex and sexual attraction in general, no that he's a prude, but he's shy and inexperienced about it. It's a part of him that has been repressed for so long, he honestly doesn't really know how to handle it.

Now, his dirty secret? He got hard watching your photos when he was scrolling through your IG , and may or may not have jacked off to them. He was cursing himself all the way during it, he felt stupid, but fuck you looked so hot.

He stayed still when all the cum spilled on his hand and stomach, poor guy was so red with embarrassment. He couldn't talk to you properly the moment he saw you after that "incident".

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

He's not really experienced, he can barely keep up with basic human interaction, sexual interaction is a whole another level.

Sure he's not a virgin, he had a quickie once to kill some pent up frustration in the kitchen with a chef a while ago. It was fast, messy and aggressive, since it was all about blowing off steam. Carmen didn't really knew how to act afterwards.

Then it was Claire, it was more intimate and he did tried to be more present.

Carmen might no be the most literate when it comes to sex, but he does try to please and make you have a good time.

Your pleasure it's above his, it takes a while for him to actually relax and let himself enjoy too.

He's determined and that compensates his lack of knowledge, he's damn willing to put in the work and learn what makes you melt and cum.

F= Favorite position

Carmen loves to see your face during sex for various reasons, mainly because you look really hot and also because he wants to make sure you're enjoying it. He needs the confirmation that he's not screwing up.

Therefore any position like missionary for example are the ones he usually goes for, it's not that he's not open to try different ones, but it takes a bit of coaxing and assuring him that you'll let him know if he's fucking up.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

Oh the first few times he's going to be stiff! Poor guy is nervous. Please understand him.

Carmen is barely processing that he's having sex and it's taking all of his mind to both focus on pleasuring you, be present and not drown on his overthinking.

It takes him some time to relax, let himself be and actually enjoy the moment. Once he does, Carmy is laid back and actually cracks a joke or two, he's really sweet during sex.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

Carmen Berzatto has a bit of chest hair and a happy trail that goes down to his little friend, it's not crazy down there but yes there's a bit of hair (a little fuss, a little carpet) because he's really exhausted and sometimes can't be bothered for the life of him to shave.

And yes, it's darker than the hair on his head.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Sex with Carmen is intimate and romantic, it's already hard for him to open up so he wants to use this moment to show you how much he cares. It's not only the physical act, it's him pouring his all and the things that he can't bring himself to tell you into it.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

I think sexuality is such a neglected thing in Carmy's life that, if he ever jack off cause most of the time he's energetically drained when he's alone. It's efficient and quick.

He just wanna get it over with, he doesn't dwell in the passionate art of self pleasure and discovery, Carmen just wants to cum and forget about it.

Usually he does it in the shower.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

Praise kink: This is a big one for him since he needs to know he's doing good even if your words got him blushing bright red, he loves the praise.

Also, when he manages to speak during it, he showers you in praises as well because it's hard for him not to when you're making him feel so good.

Marking: It can be something simple and dainty like you wearing a necklace with his initial on it or maybe even a little bear. But also it's him covering you in hickeys.

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

Somewhere private, preferably anywhere in his house where he knows nobody can interrupt and ruin the moment.

Carmen wants as little distractions as possible, maybe the craziest place where he would be down to have sex would be in his office after hours, but even then it's pushing it.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

The realization that you're actually together as a couple make something inside his brain switch. You can be literally existing, just breathing while Carmen looks at you and goes "damn I bagged that, I, me." And get hard.

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

Degrading it's a big no no. Carmen doesn't like it when you insult him and drag him down in such intimate and vulnerable moment, it would take his mind completely out of it and spiral.

Part of it it's because it reminds him of the old (horrible) days back in NY were the head chef insulted him every day, shredding every bit of dignity and self confidence he had. He doesn't want to relive that.

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

CARMEN IS A MUNCH he eats pussy like a starved man and would be happy to spend hours between your legs, licking your pussy and fucking it with his tongue and fingers.

He takes it as personal challenge to find the most efficient and perfect way to make you cum and melt on him.

Carmen was a bit shy at the beginning when it came to blowjobs, but when he got a hold of it he fucking loves them. He won't say no if you offer to give him a blowjob.

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

Carmen is down to whatever you want him to be: fast and rough or slow and passionate, he's there to please.

If he had to choose it would be slow, let himself drown in the moment with you where his mind has an opportunity to shut up and feel loved and wanted for once.

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

If you happened to work together then there would be a few quickies on his office to blow some steam and get Carmy to stop acting like a lunatic on the kitchen.

If not and you only get to see each other after work when it's late at night, then there would be a few lazy quickies before bed full of sloppy kisses and tired moans.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

It takes convincing, a lot of convincing to get Carmy to try new things specially if they're risky or involves something aggressive. He mostly agrees because he doesn't want you to think he's boring and a bad fuck.

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

First time you did it he came fast, he apologized so many times, stuttering and with a red face. Once he gets the hold of it he can last like 2-3 rounds.

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

Again: a lot of convincing. Maybe if you really wanted it he could use something like a dildo or a wand on you, but that's about it really.

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

Carmen focus so much on the task of being present and make sure that he's not fucking up that sometimes he can come off as teasing. How? Well, his main goal is for you to enjoy yourself so much that you come apart under his touch and care, sometimes he gets too into it he zones out.

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

Carmen makes the prettiest moans and you can hear them when the pleasure is so much he can't keep track of his mouth any more. They're quiet still, a whimper as he bites his lower lip, panting and grunting.

At the beginning he wasn't the one to talk much, only stuttering that you were pretty and asking you if you were okay. As he got more comfortable he gets more vocal, sometimes even growing a little bolder and getting cocky/playful with you when the moment is lighthearted and fun.

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

Carmen loves cockwarming, he loves how close he gets to be with you and how intimate it is. Sometimes it doesn't even has to be sexual, just you and him together enjoying a bit of the limited free time you got.

It's soothing, filling the aching gap that being touch starved have left in his soul.

Sometimes Carmen gets a little sleepy, so it isn't strange that he holds you close and peppers lazy kisses over your skin as a distraction to not fall asleep.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

A little bigger tha average and it's thick, it's pretty impressive the first time you see since you're not really expecting him to be packing.

Pretty too, pinky tip, the rest a little darker than his body and uncut.

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

Carmy years and he stares at you as if he's trying to burn a hole in the back of your head. Coming to term with his sexual desire and openly admit that he craves you, that he wants to fuck your brains out? He's surprised with himself honestly.

His sex drive wasn't really high before you, too busy with the mess inside his head, his life and the restaurant, but now that you're in his life Carmen don't pass the opportunity to be with you.

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

After making sure you're okay and taken care off, Carmen is out. He falls asleep fairly quickly and it's so grateful for that because he usually gets little to no sleep at all most of the time.

[acexsmhking]

You can't just say dilf Toby and then go about your day. You forgot we all bunch of freak about Toby-

: ̗̀➛ DILF!Toby x Reader

Note: ugh anon you’re so right I’m sorry. Cause even I’ve been scrolling back to my comment thinking about it 😭🤚🏾

Listen listen, Toby a man now. Thirty-one as of Apirl 28. That’s quite old especially for someone who should’ve passed by 29. And gosh does he look it. Every bit of manliness, bit of some boyish charm when he’s with you

But when he comes home? That hard glint in his eyes, folds and wrinkles from frowning and furrowed brows. You’re reminded just how much older than you he is. It makes that gentleness he reserves just for you that much better

And he notices. How sometimes you just rub your thighs looking at him. Maybe play with a few gray hairs that have started coming in. From age and stress.

I wouldn’t say Toby goes out of his way dating someone younger, but seeing how much you enjoy it? He uses it against you whenever he can. The biggest is making the DILF part truly genuine. Knocking you up with a kid.

Maybe after a few old man jokes you start noticing how he stalks you more often. A predatory glint in his eyes. Doesn’t help if he just came back from.. hunting— a family. Tempted to take children’s items now, almost like he’s nesting.

Finally he does snap. You’re between his legs, arms tangled around them as you rest your head suspiciously close to his crotch. Cleaning the metal of his hatchet before he stops and looking down at you. Brushing a few hairs from your face causing you to look up.

“Darlin.” And you’re soaked. Melting really. That husky voice says it so sweetly with all authority it could muster. “Hm?” You’re turning more towards him, one hand resting on his thigh as you let the other grab at his belt. A dorky smile on your lips as you look up at him.

“Been thinkin’.. maybe we should start trying. Genuinely.” Your eyes widen as you look up at him, moving more upright. “Are you.. sure? I mean we’ve talked about this but—” all he does is nod before slowly standing up, helping you along the way as he pulls you in by the waist.

You feel that throb in your cunt as he pulls you in the house, all the way to the bedroom. It isn’t rare that he’s gentle but it is rare he doesn’t just take you wherever you are. “What you wantin’ to do it right?” You snicker, wrapping your arms around his neck. He nods again, already tugging at your skirt.

“It’s going to be a long night, I figured you’d appreciate the comfort.” Hand moving up to hold your hair as he pulls your head back revealing that pretty neck. A twitch in his jaw. “Very long night.”

: ̗̀➛ So sorry I haven’t been actually writing too much y’all. It’s just been difficult I’m not gonna lie. But ugh… Toby is always on my mind.

[signanothername]

In your interpretation of Nightmare’s gang / Bad Sanses / Murder Time Trio, if Cross was in it, do you think he would be the one that Nightmare hates the least/tolerates more because Cross was already “pre-trained” before he joined NM?

And by “pre-trained” I mean XGaster’s abusive treatment towards Cross and royal guard training.

Like, from your art and some blog posts, I have seen that your Nightmare is pretty abusive towards Killer, Dust and Horror, and they were kind of “trained” by NM to act a certain way in his presence (especially Killer).

For example, Killer having to learn the hard way that a certain look from NM means he wants him to shut up, but in Cross case, he already knows to pick up on little things like this, and when NM looks at him that way he just stops talking immediately.

And for royal guard training, Cross addresses Nightmare as his superior and acts professional towards him, knows how to keep things tightly and neat and clean himself, on missions he performs really well because he already knows how to do them.

I can see some really neat narratives with this, like a XGaster/Nightmare parallel and Cross having to confront his bad habits/automatic response to abuse AND having the others being envious of him because Nightmare treats him slightly less shitty.

Oh quite the opposite, Nightmare absolutely despises Cross’ guts

To put things in perspective, my take on Cross follows his canon counterpart as closely as possible, Cross, both in Xtale and Underverse, is absolutely not professional, polite or respectful, he’s crass, chaotic, defiant, childish, arrogant, repressed, untrusting, insecure, and wants everything to go his way or the highway, he’s the literal definition of a stary cat that would hiss at anyone getting close, he’s an asshole

Which is literally why I adore him as a character, you’d think that because he’s a knight, that he’d be professional, but nope, you’d think that because he’d trained that he’d be actually competent, he isn’t

Despite being abused by XGaster, we clearly see that it didn’t make him fall in line, hell, he talks back to Gaster and even tries to attack him in 0.8

To put it bluntly, Cross isn’t living up to his expectations of being a knight at all (which plays a bit into his insecurities)

And unlike Gaster, Cross has no motive to want to impress Nightmare, Gaster is at the very least his father, so Cross is conflicted enough to absolutely hate his dad but still want to impress him deep down, Nightmare doesn’t have any sort of relation to Cross that would make Cross feel the same way (not that wanting to impress Gaster stopped Cross from defying him)

That being said, Nightmare doesn’t care for Cross, and I’ve mentioned before that even if Nightmare wanted to recruit anyone other than MTT, then it absolutely wouldn’t be Cross, in Nightmare’s eye, Cross is completely incompetent and is absolutely not worth the trouble, Nightmare sees him as somewhat broken (and not in the way he likes, like with MTT), he’s not willing to put in the time or effort into Cross, it’ll just be like dealing with another Murder, but inferior to Murder in every way

Cross, lacks a lot of the experience MTT have with survival and fighting, and while Cross can be a good fighter, Nightmare has 3 good fighters already, so Cross pretty much doesn’t add anything to Nightmare other than the headache of dealing with his defiance

If Nightmare wanted another killing machine to mold into his image that are both competent and easily conditioned to be completely and utterly obedient, he might as well recruit more Killers (not that he’d actually do that)

But Cross? Nightmare just simply would not bother

Even if Nightmare did bother, and Cross was actually obedient and fell in line easily, it wouldn’t make Nightmare treat him any less shitty, Killer is already obedient and falls in line so neatly like Nightmare imagines clearly, yet it doesn’t stop him from abusing Killer regardless, same with Horror, who’s usually doing everything right, it still doesn’t stop Nightmares from abusing him mentally or physically

It simply wouldn’t make Cross’ life any easier even if he was obedient, he’d just end up as abused as MTT

[strawberrystepmom]

dante x f!reader. modern gods au. dante is a vague destruction god, use your imagination. | divider thanks to @/uzmacchiato.

The Temple of the Crimson Guardian sits in the middle of the city, tucked away from the elegant neighborhoods of the rich and the colorful ones of those who are not, nestled between buildings with darkened windows and streets where the fog never quite seems to lift.

How you ever ended up here still is beyond your comprehension. 

You’ve realized quickly, though, that you’re the only person who seems to ever come here during the day which makes it the perfect time to get all of this done. 

With one final push of a heavy, sodden mop, the last patch of red has become something closer to taupe. Not quite clean, certainly not quite like the other temples that dot the city. Simply far better than it was when you first arrived this morning. The temple has remained empty through the hours you’ve spent cleaning up, a blessing in disguise given how disgusting you look after a day of this kind of work.

The silence lulls you into a temporary peace, only to be interrupted by a voice like a thunderclap.

“Who dares to loiter in my temple?”

Footsteps echo off of the walls. They sound heavy – likely from boots – but you remain in place. 

What good would hiding do at this point if it’s someone who wants to harm you? 

The sound grows closer and you can make out who they belong to. 

It’s a man, of course – tall, jacket slung off of his shoulders. Grime darkens the handsome angles of his face, a bit of red streaking his silvery hair.

You stand straighter, still holding the mop between your hands. 

“I’m a guest, actually.”

“Oh, a guest?”

A woman, nonetheless. It’s not often that he sees one around here. He’s the type of god that tends to attract the unruly, angry, frothing masculine type. 

“And who invited you?”

“Technically I invited myself, which is pretty rude.”

The man raises his eyebrows, now close enough to you that you can make out his features in the dimming sunlight that shines through the high window behind the altar.

“Do you know who I am?”

Your eyes dart from him to the sculpture bearing his likeness a very short distance from where you stand. 

“I have a guess or two if you wanna hear them.”

You know very well who this is. 

“Ah, mortal girl. What are you doing coming to a place like this?” 

It seems like he knows very well who you are, too.

He cups your chin, thumb resting dead center. “You’re so gentle, yet perhaps there’s an appetite deep down in you for something you can’t quite name and that’s what keeps bringing you back.”

Just how long has he been aware of your time spent here? Embarrassment curls in your gut. 

“No. I’m a little squeamish, actually. Don’t even really like horror movies all that much.”

The eyes of a myth fall to your damp sleeves, rolled to your elbows and tinged pink with diluted bloody water. 

“Oh yeah?”

Nodding, you look around the temple awkwardly.��

You’ve been here so many times it would be a stretch to try and count them, seeing it as a sanctuary and a second home. 

So why, exactly, does it feel like you’ve entered the home of a stranger without asking? 

That’s breaking and entering down here in the mortal realm. Not sure how the heavens punish for that but it can’t be good. 

Dante clears his throat, catching your attention. “You know all that blood you keep cleaning up is a gift to me, right?”

The awkward, uncertain look on your face falls immediately. Eyes widening in realization, you glance around at age darkened marble in the already dimly lit temple. 

You wiped away every last blessing being asked for and you’ve been doing just that for quite some time. 

“Uh, no. I didn’t know that.”

How awkward. You lean toward the wall, placing the mop against it and hold your hands up innocently before deciding instead to just let them hang at your sides. 

It doesn’t matter.

“I won’t beg for your forgiveness, just punish me as you see fit.”

He’ll probably just kill you. 

Squaring your shoulders, you brace for what’s to come. Your life has been peaceful, you’ve experienced much more love than others have been lucky to, and you refuse to face your end flinching.

Turning your face side to side, Dante inspects you briefly. Then he erupts into laughter. Belly laughter, the kind that feels deeply inappropriate in a place like this.

At least someone finds all of this funny. 

“Why would I punish someone for doing a little housekeeping?”

Dropping your chin, he lets his arms dangle obstinately at his sides. From the wrist down, they’re covered in blood, dripping back down to the clean floor. 

“I don’t get it.” He throws his arms out, sitting down on the altar steps. “Make me get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you do this.”

It’s…difficult to come to one conclusion on the fly. The reasons twist inside your head, crawling over one another like a pit of snakes. One pokes it head out of the crowd: you do this because responsibility is in your blood and you always need something to be responsible for.

“I guess I need a place to put my care or else it gets messy.”

“What does?”

“Me, myself. My feelings.”

He chuckles. 

“And you think I’m the best place to leave said care? Mortals really are arrogant.”

There’s a teasing note in his words yet you feel self conscious being reminded of your place in the hierarchy. You very nearly forget that you indirectly worship this man, that the acts of service you’ve implemented while in his temple are offerings all their own. 

“I just…” 

You trail off and sigh, struggling to find the words to explain yourself. This situation. Anything. 

“I’m only teasing you,” this wild god assures. 

“And if it helps, of all the mortals I’ve ever met, you seem like you’re probably the least arrogant based on what I’ve seen.”

It does at least a little. That little reminder that he’s known about your presence for longer than it seems makes you feel a tad on edge, though. 

Swallowing your discomfort, you smile and look down to find Dante already staring up at you. 

“Doing this makes me happy even if you don’t understand it.”

“But I want to understand.”

“What’s to understand other? Can’t I simply do it because it gives me a sick little thrill to come in here and separate bones?”

“You aren’t telling me the truth.”

Again, you’ve forgotten you’re dealing with a God and not the guy who lives next door or the one who tends bar at the place down the street from here. 

This is not an average man. 

You can not deceive him with your words nor your batting lashes nor your patience. 

There’s no game, word or otherwise, that you can play with the omniscient and win. 

The deity tilts his head to the side, his white waves framing his face handsomely, eyes still trained on you. 

“Well?”

“The painting.”

You point toward the mural that covers the wall behind the two of you — a sea of scarlet suffering with faces in various states of horror depicted across them. Dante stands in the middle, his mouth closed in a solemn line, blood spattered across his bare chest and limbs both. 

He doesn’t look like the typical god of his variety, pleased by his own wrath. The artist, whomever they may have been, depicted him as you’ve seen him now with your own eyes; solemn and heavy, wearing his responsibility like a curse. 

“In the painting you look…” you trail off again, searching for the word. 

“Burdened.”

“Oh?”

You’ve already dug your hole this deep, might as well keep digging.

“Yeah, kind of like you hate this mess too.”

No direct follow up to this question comes, silence falling over the two of you. Candlelight flickers through the temple, shadows fading in and out of view, and the two of you remain simply locked in a contest of seeing who will break it first.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome and should go.”

The impatience of mortals never ceases to amuse him. He smirks, raising his eyebrows. 

“Will you be back tomorrow?”

It’s not as far to the entrance as it feels when you’re looking at it from the altar, you realize as you finally make it there. You look at him from over your shoulder, half smiling.

“We’ll just have to see.”

Offering a shrug, you linger in the doorway for a beat longer than you’d like. 

“Thank you for your mercy today, my lo—”

As deep as your hole is now, maybe you can yet shovel a little dirt back into it.

“Dante. Just call me Dante.”

“Alrighty. Thanks for your mercy today, My Dante…maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ah, so you’d like to test the whole “I’m not going to punish you thing”. Not that he’s shocked, leaning back on the steps and gazing up toward the impossibly tall ceiling of a space created to honor him. 

He doesn’t watch you retreat, only listening to departing footsteps down the path that leads to the door. Hours pass and he sits on those same steps, pondering your courage. 

How brave – or foolish – must one be to see themselves as pure enough to clean up after a god?

[mapsthewanderer]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb XII

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 3000 words. Non-MC!Reader as the law student. The movie’s over. The verdict has been delivered in your own mind. But… is it really the end? This piece is 3000 words of complicated, emotionally tangled romance. It’s not an easy love story, but it is one I hope you’ll enjoy.

Parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil @zaynessdarling @gojosballsack69 @moon-cakei

Sunk costs | Pt. 12

The credits roll over a final blood-slicked frame, orchestral stabs still echoing in your bones.

You survived.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t hide. You didn’t flinch (that much). Your expression stayed somewhere between unimpressed and emotionally dead inside. If Caleb’s sandwich theory had any hope, it had been dismantled by your steel-spined, murder-montage endurance.

Still. You’re a little rattled. Maybe a lot.

There are only so many artfully executed decapitations a person can watch before they start reevaluating their life choices.

And speaking of life choices.

You’ve spent the last 120 minutes deciding—very calmly, very rationally—that this isn’t it. That you’re not going to accept mixed signals and chaos masquerading as charm. That you’ll do the mature thing: ask him to walk you home, say something breezy and dignified like we should obviously just be friends, casually revoke the kiss like a refund request, and file the whole night under emotional learning experience.

You’ll stop coming to the café, of course—because you know how to read a room. You won’t make it weird. Just find a new café without emotional landmines. Somewhere quiet, with reliable wi-fi and zero baristas who make your pulse spike. Clean break. Good boundaries.

You’ll overthink every hypothetical. Spend too long reviewing the same four lines of a contracts case brief. Argue internally with fictional judges about tort reform. Highlight entire pages out of spite.

Totally fine. You know how to write off sunk costs.

(You only have to survive the next ten minutes without crying. Or raging. Or going full unstable-litigator-in-a-drama. Just keep the lawyer face on. That’s all.)

The lights come on. The aisle fills with murmurs and the crackle of candy wrappers. You follow the others out, blinking like you’ve just returned from war.

Outside the theater, the air feels too bright. Too normal. Like the last two hours hadn’t been a cinematic bloodbath and an emotional obstacle course.

Gideon stretches like he just finished a casual jog, arms up, back cracking. “Hey,” he says, glancing your way. “I—. Uh, sorry again for the door ambush earlier. Didn’t break anything important, right?”

You blink, glancing down at your arm like it’s just now reporting back. “I think I’m still in one piece.”

“Good.” He pauses, then adds with mock solemnity, “Also, thanks for not suing me. Caleb said you were the type to bring legal fire.”

Caleb coughs behind you—too quickly. Too obviously.

Gideon’s grin widens, eyes gleaming. “What? I’m just being polite.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Anyway. I’m heading out—bike’s around the corner. Wanna swap numbers?”

You don’t even get a second to answer—

Because Caleb, smooth as ever, slides in with: “Give her a break. You can just get it from me later.” Easy. Light. But the subtext is glaring. Gideon just lifts his eyebrows, all too amused.

“Oh. Sure. I guess that works.” Then, with a lopsided grin, he adds, “Nice to actually get a movie night in again. You bailed on the last one, remember?”

Apple girl hums her agreement. “You said you were working late, but we all know that’s code for ghosting us.”

Caleb just waves them off, all mock innocence. “Had to make sure someone got back to campus in one piece. You know—priorities.”

A beat. Not long, but long enough to feel the weirdness.

Then Caleb’s already moving, catching your wrist like it’s just something he does now. “I’ll walk Golden Girl back home,” he says, glancing toward the others. “It’s on the way.”

You open your mouth.

Gideon beats you to it.

“Wait—aren’t you headed the wrong way? Thought you were staying over at—uh—”

He nods toward Apple girl. Doesn’t finish the sentence. Because Caleb’s already walking. Already pulling.

“Night, guys,” he tosses over his shoulder, casual as anything.

Behind you, Gideon lingers near the sidewalk, phone in hand. “Sure. Uh… I’ll walk her home,” he says, nodding toward Apple girl again. “Catch you guys later.”

Caleb gives him a quick chin-lift of thanks, but doesn’t speak. Instead, his hand slides down, until it settles over yours.

Then—

“Caleb!”

Light footsteps. A flutter of laughter.

You both turn as she jogs up, sleeves bunched at her wrists, steps light on the pavement. She pulls Caleb into a quick hug, then does the same to you—brief but warm.

“Goodnight,” she says, voice all syrup and sleep. Her smile is aimed at you now. “And seriously, thanks for coming. I’m glad I got to meet you.” Then, turning back to Caleb with an easy familiarity that still tugs at something under your ribs: “Get home safe.”

It’s instinct, the way your stomach drops. Silly, indeed. But it doesn’t matter—because it only confirms what you already decided. This? Is exactly why your plan makes sense. Clean break. Emotional firewall. No more gray areas.

She turns back to you, eyes glinting as they catch the charm at your collarbone.

“Oh! There it is! That necklace’s cute on you,” she says, tilting her head with a grin. “But… isn’t it his?”

Your hand jumps to the charm, fingertips brushing the silver.

She’s still smiling. “You can’t just re-gift a gift, Caleb. You should get her her own necklace.”

He doesn’t look at her.

He’s already looking at you.

And then, without a beat, he says, “I should,” soft and certain. His hand is still in yours. And the way his thumb presses into your knuckles—slow, sure, lingering—it doesn’t feel like a joke. Doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove something.

It just feels like him.

“Gideon’s waiting,” he tells her over his shoulder, not unkind. And she pouts dramatically, but spins toward Gideon without another word.

Yeah—he obviously has history with apple girl. The kind that runs deep. The kind that doesn’t need words. It’s in the way she said “get home safe,” like it’s always been her line. Like she’s said it a hundred times before. But your brain’s too crowded to ask. Too full of slasher film flashbacks, a heart pulling in three directions, and a chain at your neck that suddenly feels heavier than it should.

You already know where this is going.

It’s the same kind of walk that happened outside campus. The same warm-cold weirdness that settles between you like fog. The same strange ache that crept in just before he said he wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you.

Only difference now?

His hand is in yours.

You shift your grip in his hand, trying to find your footing.

You glance down.

Then up at him.

And you stop walking.

Right there, mid-sidewalk.

The chain catches between your fingers before you even know what you’re doing. You pull the necklace over your head and hold it out to him, palm open.

His brows knit. “What—?”

“I don’t want it anymore,” you say. Not loud. Not biting. Just… honest.

He takes it slowly, fingers brushing yours, eyes unreadable.

“I— I gave it to you,” he says, voice quieter now. “I wanted you to have it.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But I can’t wear it if we’re just—if this is just…”

You trail off. The word friends is nowhere in reach. You don’t even know what this is.

Something flickers in his eyes. Violet and wounded. And then, too fast to track, it’s gone—swallowed by that familiar lopsided smile.

“Nope,” he says, suddenly lazy again. “Not getting rid of it that easy.”

Before you can protest, he’s stepping forward, slipping the chain back around your neck. The charm settles over your shirt again, warm from his hands. His fingers linger against the metal, then trail down—just barely brushing the fabric.

“Hm… Yup. Definitely a nice necklace,” he says, eyes dipping to where the charm rests against your shirt. “And it looks better there.”

You stare up at him, throat suddenly too dry.

“You said this was a friend thing,” you manage, soft but steady.

“I told them,” he says, not missing a beat, “that they were meeting my girlfriend.”

Your breath stops. The world doesn’t—but your thoughts screech to a halt like someone objected in your brain.

You blink. Once. Twice.

He grins—small, a little crooked, like he’s waiting for impact.

“You—you just said that? You said what—?!” you ask, voice catching.

“I mean,” Caleb shrugs, all casual confidence, “it came up. They both asked when I booked four seats, and I got excited and said, ‘my girlfriend’s coming.’” His eyes find yours, a familiar smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Didn’t know I had to file paperwork for it.”

Then, with a little tilt of his head—teasing, but not unserious: “Or should I have said… what did you call it? Exclusive flirting partners in crime?”

His smile deepens like he’s proud of himself for remembering. Like that label meant more to him than he let on.

You part your lips to say something—

But he keeps going, like he can’t stop now. Like the words have a hold on him.

“And. Uh—T—” He catches himself, shifts gears without missing a beat. “Apple girl screeched when she saw your fit check pic. And she wouldn’t stop going on about how pretty you were.” A beat. “Whole block probably heard her.” Then, quieter—just for you—

“I told her to relax, act normal. But yeah… then it hit me—I was kinda scared to actually see you in person. Just—suddenly.”

You scowl, which is the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. “Wait. Hold on. You didn’t think you needed to mention that to me?”

“I figured showing up and staying was your way of signing the weirdness contract,” he deadpans. “You came. You suffered through at least four graphic deaths. You survived a seating chart nightmare. That’s commitment.”

You narrow your eyes. “You thought throwing me into your group chaos with a side of gore counted as wooing?”

Caleb lifts his brows, all mock-thoughtful. “Well… there was popcorn. Physical proximity. And I shared my Sour Patch.”

“Sour Patch isn’t exactly a winning argument,” you mutter.

“But offering them,” he says, gently tapping your jacket pocket, “in the dark? In public? That’s intimacy.”

You shake your head, but it’s not just a shake. It’s a full-body exhale, hand half-lifted in disbelief. “This is probably the weirdest shit I’ve ever been exposed to,” you mutter. “And I’ve taken property law. I don’t appreciate it.”

Caleb just blinks, startled—half-laughing, half-bracing.

“Listen. You’re impossible,” you add, jabbing a finger at him. “Absolutely communication-bankrupt. I swear to God, I have a crash course printout somewhere—old contracts material. ‘How to establish dialogue with clients who actively resist clarity.’ I will staple it to your forehead.”

He grins, infuriatingly unbothered. “And yet, somehow, still your problem.”

“Oh my god.”

But you don’t walk away.

Because yeah. He is your problem.

And that’s the problem.

‘Cause there’s something new in his voice—lighter, but grounded. Like he’s still figuring out how to say what he means. But he’s saying it anyway.

You can see it—behind the bangs falling into his eyes, behind the smug smirk that’s barely hiding real hope.

“Caleb. Be honest,” you say, folding your arms to cover your heart’s entire meltdown, “was this whole group chaos supposed to charm me?”

“I panicked,” he admits, no hesitation. “It was either introduce you to my friends or lose my mind not introducing you to my friends. I compromised.”

“And dragged me into a social Rubik’s Cube situation without warning?”

Caleb smiles. “Well… you survived.”

“You’re lucky I’m into emotionally confusing cases.”

His grin breaks wider. “That’s why you’re my favorite lawyer.”

“Your only lawyer.”

“Still counts.”

And just like that, something in your chest starts to unclench. Because he’s being real. Messy. Thoughtless. Thoughtful. All at once.

But real.

Then—because of course—he leans in close, breath brushing your cheek, warm and maddeningly casual, as his hand slips into your jacket pocket like it belongs there. Fingers search with practiced ease until they find the Sour Patch Kids hiding in your pocket. He pulls out a red one.

He holds the candy between his teeth, grinning around it like it’s part of the performance.

“Mood candy,” he mumbles around the gummy, voice low and a little shy. Then—quietly—he reaches for your hands, gently trying to uncross your arms like he’s unwrapping a closed-off moment.

“Please… cheer up,” he says. “And… If you let me… I’ll take you on solo dates from now on. Just you and me. No interruptions, no weird dynamics. Just… us. Like I should’ve done from the start.”

A breath slips past your lips—soft, reluctant—as your fingers uncurl from your crossed arms, and you let him take your hand.

You don’t say anything.

Because you’re still trying to find the words. The break-it-off words. The let’s-just-be-friends words that have been drafting themselves in your head for the past two hours.

But also—damn it—you still want to understand what this is, what he’s doing. Because something about the way he said it—makes you hold back. Just for a second.

And just as you start walking, slow steps down the quiet sidewalk, shoulders brushing every third one—he adds, voice low, almost like he’s not sure you’re meant to hear it,

“I… honestly just wanted you to meet them. See how it felt. I know it’s weird.” A pause. “But mostly, I just wanted you there.”

A breath.

“I’m… not really good at this,” he says. A little laugh under his breath, self-deprecating. “Like, dating. Or whatever this is. I don’t know the rules. I keep trying to act normal around you and then my brain just—” He bites the gummy. “—stops cooperating.”

You slow slightly. He does too. Glancing up, you catch the side of his face. The way his bangs fall over his brow. The way he’s not looking at you now.

“I want to be around you,” he says. “But I also don’t want to screw it up by being… too much. Or not enough. Or making you uncomfortable… with everything that comes with me.”

He nudges your shoulder with his.

“I’m not used to… caring this much about how I come off.”

There’s a pause—quiet and crackling—and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You—… Do you live with her?”

He stops. Just briefly. Like he didn’t expect you to say it out loud.

Then he nods. Looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah. I used to.” A pause. Then—almost offhand, but not quite: “I live closer to campus now. I just come back some weekends… or… when I can.”

Your stomach flips, but he’s already rushing to fill the silence.

“It’s not—look,” he starts, fingers brushing his bangs like he’s trying to reset something in his brain. “We’ve known each other forever. Grew up together, same everything. She’s been my best friend since we were kids.”

His brow furrows, like the words are harder to pin down than he expected. “It’s always just been… us. I didn’t know how to bring that up without making it sound weird. Or like I was hiding something.”

There’s a beat. A breath.

His voice dips, careful now, like he’s balancing something fragile. “And… ugh… For the longest time, I thought maybe that was all I’d ever need. Like, that kind of bond would be enough.”

His gaze lifts, and lands squarely on you.

“But then you happened,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, like the words are heavier than he expected. “And I realized I might’ve been wrong. I told you before… Being around you feels… light,” he says, almost like it surprises him. “Like—for once—I’m not dragging chains behind me. Like I can actually breathe, and not brace for the weight that usually follows.”

You watch his brow knit, lips parting like he’s still trying to explain it right. Like he’s bracing for impact again.

But instead of pulling away, your fingers tighten around his.

“You… should’ve told me. But I’m not completely weirded out,” you say, soft and steady. Then, with a small shrug and a lie bold enough to count as perjury, “I’ve done mock trials messier than this.”

(It’s not true. Not even close. This is the weirdest case study in personal chaos you’ve ever lived through—like someone ripped off a band-aid and then asked you to hold hands about it. But it’s Caleb. And somehow, that’s starting to feel like a valid legal defense.)

His shoulders relax. Just a little. And under the streetlight glow, he looks at you like he’s seeing a lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“Thanks for… being patient with me,” he says, voice softer now. “I’m sorry if I made this weird.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles—barely there.

“I’ll talk to her,” he adds after a beat. “She’s used to us being a certain way, but… that can’t be the same anymore. I don’t want you to feel like… there’s no space for you.”

He glances at you, bangs falling into his eyes.

“I’m figuring it out. But I want to get it right.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the red hand blinking overhead. He looks at you finally, like maybe he thinks that was too much.

“Pretty sure I’ve said more in the past twenty minutes than I have all year. Must be the law student charisma,” he mutters.

“But yeah,” he finishes, a little quieter now. “That’s where I’m at. Stupid candy and all.”

Then he turns slightly, hand brushing yours—fingertips catching the edge of your jacket pocket like he’s grounding himself.

“Hey. I—I’m sorry,” he says, real now. Not teasing. Not dodging. “For the mess. For not explaining things right away. For… being kind of a dumbass about all of this.”

His thumb brushes over your hand again, slow, uncertain. Then his other hand shifts—tightening just slightly where his fingers still rest near your pocket. Like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

“If you want space after this—if you don’t want to deal with… whatever this is—I’d get it.” His voice drops, a little tighter now. “I wouldn’t like it. But I’d get it.” Then, quieter—almost like it slips out:

“But… can I still make your pre-lecture coffee?”

The walk sign flashes.

He goes for another candy.

You don’t let him get there.

You don’t think. You rise up on your toes and kiss him.

Right there at the crosswalk.

Hands gripping the front of his jacket. Mouth pressed to the smug curve of that sentence he was about to say. And for once—finally—he doesn’t say anything back.

Just kisses you like he’s been waiting to.

Like the world narrowed down to this exact crosswalk. To you.

To this.

And yeah.

You’re still kind of mad.

But you’re also kind of gone.

——————————————————————————

My insecurities surround me like lions in the den

And I feel like I'm losing touch with what I am again

So won't you fall for me?

Won't you fall for me?

——————————————————————————

Part 13

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So. Sunk costs; costs that have already been incurred and cannot be recovered, regardless of future outcomes or decisions. They cannot be changed and should not factor into future investment decisions. Only future costs and benefits should influence decisions. Will you still accept Caleb, knowing he’s carrying this? Will you trust him? Will you accept the bond he shares with apple girl? Will it be worth it if you do? Thank you for reading. I’m a bit on the fence about continuing right now—the arc I felt good about is suddenly making me second-guess everything. But I’m so grateful you’re here. Seriously, thank you 🫶🏻

[trippinsorrows]

stuck

authors note: if you've read the hot mess express, you'll understand this. you really, sadly, do need to read said hot mess in order to understand. it's backstory that, hopefully, sheds a tad bit more light on solana's situation.

limited tags. hopefully, we can keep these few shorts contained with just a select few folks, so ya'll don't start making them requests for this to actually become a thing. 😭

words: 1.5k

warnings: angst

“You remember my cousin Bron?”

An unexpected question that pulls us from the silence that settled between us. The only sounds present in the kitchen being the splash of dishes into the water and the clatter that stems from me placing the wet but clean plates in the drying rack.

I have to think about it for a second. “He’s big, right?” And orange. I’ve never seen a white man other than that man with such a….bold tan.

One glance at Cody leaning against the counter beside the dishwasher, cold beer in one hand, eyes on me. “Yeah. Was at the wedding.”

I wonder if he knows I try my best not to think about said wedding. “What about him?”

Cody waits until taking another sip before responding. “Apparently, his wife has been cheating on him.”

I’ve never been so thankful to have my hands submerged in the sink of soapy water, because if not, he would have seen the way they stilled at his answer. It takes a lot for me to maintain my composure. The only thing keeping me sane and still the swell of my belly, the feel of the babies moving inside, as if they also heard him. 

As if they also know. 

“Oh?” I grab the sponge to continue scrubbing the dishes used in the dinner I prepared for us tonight. It’s been his recommendation. Dinner once a week, alternating houses, to prepare. Prepare for us finally living together.

I wish I could feel less depressed about that. 

He nods. “Yup.”

I don’t know what possesses me to ask. Maybe because it feels like a normal, natural follow-up question to such a statement, but still, something about it leaves a bitter aftertaste. “Are they getting a divorce?”

But, it’s when Cody chuckles, almost comically that I turn my head to look at him. “Of course not.”

The smallest hint of a frown on my face, as I ask, “but….she cheated on him.” Why wouldn’t they divorce? The unspoken tail end of my statement. A statement that suddenly feels like it has ulterior motives, like there’s something else being sought out.

Insight. 

I’m looking for his insight. 

His eyes settle on me, and I take a second to take him in. Cody isn’t an ugly man. Hardly. Striking blue eyes, sharp, angular features, a nice build. He’s an objectively handsome man, albeit with….interesting tattoos. 

But, he’s not him. 

No one could ever be him.

“We don’t do that in my family.” 

Thankfully, Cody’s reply snatches me from memories of the man I saw just earlier today. He’d come to see me at the hospital, snuck and brought me lunch. The feel of his big hand on my stomach, questions about the pregnancy and how I’ve been feeling as we ate in the backseat of the SUV. The almost domestic nature of it all before we ended up arguing. He left, upset with me and vice versa. Not like it’s the first time, nor will it be the last time. But, up until that point, it was nice. 

However, there’s nothing nice—or sensible—about Cody’s answer. 

“Why?” Again, it feels like a normal question. The conversation now something that has my full, undivided attention. “I mean….people get divorced. It—it happens all the time.”

“Not us.” I wish I could tell if he’s still referring to his family. Or something else. “It’s….it’s not a good look.”

“And staying with someone who cheated is?” Ironic words coming from the poster girl for infidelity herself, but there’s something illogical about what he’s saying. Something I can’t understand. Or, maybe I just don’t want to.

Still, he remains staunch rooted and planted in his take.“They have children. It’s better to work things out than to break up the family.”

I turn to him, hands now pulled from the water, as I use the towel on the counter beside the sink to dry them. “But, sometimes that does more harm than—”

“Solana.” The firmest use of my name I think I’ve ever heard from him. It makes my shoulders drop. “That’s just how it is, alright?” It doesn’t feel like he’s looking for understanding. Just acceptance. Even if forced. 

And once again, I’m not sure what possesses me to ask, why I would even rock the boat and dance so close to fire, but it escapes before I can reel it back in. “So, if it was us, and infidelity was an issue….we just….stay married? No matter what?”

I don’t know what answer I’m looking for. What answer I want to hear, or even what I need to hear, I just know his response isn’t on the list of possible responses that I’d mentally formulated. “It’s different for us.” 

The shovel continues to dig. “How?”

“Our marriage is a contractual agreement. The fulfillment of a debt. Divorce isn’t an option, because there’s no undoing the contract.” 

Contract. A piece of paper. A single, binding legal agreement that’s left me in a situation not of my doing but of someone no longer with us. My father, bless his soul, in trying to save our family from being homeless, from losing everything he worked so hard to build, made a deal with the devil. Thought promising his daughter to Dusty’s son—the man who stands only inches away from me— gaze assessing and watchful, would save us. And, in some ways, it did. It saved my family but damned me. A debt I didn’t even acquire but am being forced to pay.

A debt I’ve considered from time to time over the past years actually repaying. If there exists some chance to pay off the debt my father accrued in his constant borrowing from the Nightmare Factory. If the deal can be undone. Thousands. I know it was in the hundreds of thousands at the time, and time, inflation, maybe even interest, would raise that initial number, but with the salary I’m set to make once I’m done with school, it feels doable. Even if I don’t live the life one might expect someone with a Dr. behind their name to live. Even if fancy, expensive restaurants are traded for simple, budget friendly meals. Designer clothes with names so foreign, I don’t even know how to pronounce them, replaced with fast fashion outfits that serve the purpose under my white coat. A decent apartment in an okay part of town versus the condo I live in now, courtesy of the man I call my legal husband. Major sacrifices to some, a path to freedom for me. 

Freedom to choose. To actually choose who I want to be with. Whose wedding ring I want to don. Who I wish to spend the rest of my life with. 

And kind as Cody can be, that’s not him.

If only the alternative wasn’t him. 

But, the fact of the matter is that this conversation leads me to believe that for all of my wondering, and maybe even hoping, over the years, there still and will always remain the fact that no amount of monetary substitution can undo what’s already been done. Can null and void an agreement made by two parties no longer among this earth.

And one of those parties is no longer here because of the man you wish to leave your husband for. 

The dread that settles within me deepens the frown on my face, something I’m unable to hide. Just like the most devastating question and realization I’ve encountered in some time.

Perhaps ever.

So, I’m stuck? Forever?

Unspoken words fully felt. 

“Even though….even though it was technically not for me?” I don’t say her name. Not even just because of this situation. It’s too painful, hurts too deep to invoke the name of the person I’ll never be able to see or speak to again. The person whose place I was forced to take, and sometimes, when I think about it, I wonder if…if her ending would be preferred over this. Freedom in the eternal versus bondage in the living. 

His eyes are leveled, briefly darting to my belly, his free hand reaching to plant over my stomach. I wish I didn’t want to back away. “Yes.” 

I don’t say anything after that. Not immediately. It’s not until he removes his hand, and I resume washing the dishes that I ask another question. One that stems from putting it all together, what was said, what wasn’t said, and what could be extracted. 

“If they were to divorce….he’d keep the kids from her….wouldn’t he?”

He never gives me an answer. 

And that’s all the answer that I need.

Stuck. 

[ghostly-bat]

Yeah so I wrote this in your askbox and I'm now using it as a fic outline.

Teen dad Jon being really laid back with how protective the family is with Damian, he takes the jokes, the threats, the (attempts at excluding him) and the attitudes in stride and an easy smile.

He's not going anywhere, and he knows Damian isn't either. He cut right to the end game and knocked up his high-school sweetheart! (His parents would have preferred him to not still be in actual high school, though.) He is unrepentant, smug even.

He's glad Damian's getting pampered as he finishes up his last semester, he can put his foot down after- when he and Damian have successfully (and secretly because Bruce is in his opinion a little bitch) moved him into the manor after he graduates (after because his mom in his opinion is right about everything and scary).

Then there's an off world mission, something big, all Supers, Lanterns and Martians on deck, "we need to do something before it hits earth, and it will hit earth" kind of big.

Jon only goes because his dad asks him and he knows he wouldn't take him away from Damian and the Babies unless it was necessary.

When it comes to say goodbye his patience nearly snaps when one of the Dami's siblings  says something in the background about Damian and the baby/ies being just fine without him but then his dad comes back to get him going and Damian's kissing him and crying now (pregnancy hormones wont give him peace for even a minute.) So the moment passes incident free.

The mission is a slog.

Communication is consistant but not constant so far away from earth they only have a clear line of connection on the Comms for only fifteen minutes every second day- something about solar winds but Bruce manages to get into a small line about or from Damian and the Babies every few days.

Halfway through Bruce stops handling the mission control in the watchtower passing over to Oliver citing a Gotham emergency, he doesn't get anymore personal messages from there on so Jon is at his wits end by the time the last Enemy has been rooted out, he's spent the last week getting increasingly more violent, more ruthless- just anything to get it done.

Jon just wants to go home, shower, eat his dad's body weight in noodles, and use Damian's thighs as earmuffs for at least two hours before he sleeps for four days straight. He's never leaving earth again until the kids are in their thirties and Damians finally pushing him into a spacecraft to get some peace, he thought Jon was annoying before? that's nothing now.

The fight is finished it's been three weeks, three entire weeks of Damian's third trimester what has he missed? Do his babies still have that weird fluff covering them?

Clark turns to him, gives him a good check over before nodding him off. Usually doesn't let Jon shirk any clean up responsibilities but he didn't even want to drag Jon away from Damian in the first place so he sends him off with a hug and a kiss Jon's to share with his Mom as son as he sees her.

It another two days before he touches down in the watchtower for decontamination and debriefing but when he gets out of the decom Nightwing is there to meet him instead of Oliver or Bruce for his debreif, looking wrecked.

"Damians gone."

Oh I don't think I can explain how honored I am for you to drop this into my ask box because oh my god I'm so invested.

I love that Jon is so smug about his consequences too, like yeah that checks for him.

What also checks for him is the fact that yeah he would get increase in violent and impatient to the point where people are maybe a little concerned and they tell him to maybe chill out a little bit but how can he? He's got Damian back on earth with their baby, his got family and the other heroes need to respect that.

And you left me on a cliffhanger too what the heck anon.

Ugh let me tell you this is a fic that I would become obsessed with 😔 subscribed to it and everything!