#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.

[starboye]

pornst★r

it's not that simon hated you were making only fans, he wasn't even jealous because he knew although those guys jerked off to you he was the one who was getting to fuck you every night, something they could never relate to

but he would always watch from the sidelines, the way the silicone dick plunged in and out of your hole had him spreading his legs wider in the chair and palming himself, he just hated seeing you moaning around some worthless piece of shit like that

so one night after you finished filming and were cleaning yourself up he asked you "what if i helped y'film" he leaned against the door frame of the bathroom "like camera work" you questioned "no like actually in the video" he retorted "i mean if you want, you could even keep the mask on if you want to" you reassure him

and in the next video your fans were pleasantly surprised to see some burly man with a mask joining you in your video "today we have a lovely new guest joining me, his name is ghost" you introduce him with a smirk on your face at how his dick jumps just from you introducing him

in no time your straddling simons lap and lifting his mask up just to his nose to kiss him which turns more hot and heavy as the seconds pass "fuck me" you whisper into his mouth pushing him onto the bed, continuing kissing while he prepped your hole, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you

"just like that ghost, just like that" you drawl out arching your back to show the viewers a better look at your ass getting stretched open, simon wouldn't admit it but he was really getting turned on by how you moaned his army name it had his dick standing tall and hard ready to slip inside you

you leaned back up and spit in your hand to lube up his cock, slowly slipping it inside you while simon looked up at you, mouth parted open watching you take charge before you slipped your fingers into his open mouth, his tongue licking them up and down as you bounced up and down on him

"mhm, you like that" you asked and all simon could do was subconsciously nod his head yes at the breathtaking sight in front of him, his hands made their way to grab your ass, helping you ride him faster while he still ran his tongue along your fingers, he couldn't even control his hips from fucking upwards into you at this point

light moans and whimpering mixed with skin slapping filled the room in no time "m'gonna cum" simon muttered "oh yeah" you tease now rocking your hips on him instead of hopping on his cock "mhmm" he mewls, eyes flickering back behind the mask "then fill me up" you say and simons hips are slamming into your ass to fuck you full

his dick twitching as he spurts his load in your hole, doing a few more lazy thrusts to make sure its all in there, his head falling back on the bed with heavy breaths "fuck your load feels so good" you pull your fingers out of his mouth before pulling simons now soft cock out of you to show the camera how his load drips out of you

"how did i do" simon weakly asks smiling up at you "you did good" you kiss him a little before getting up to turn off the camera.

xoxo, starboye💋

(might have to do this pairing again because i feel theirs more to the story, like this was the beginning of it all thats why simon was not as dom if you get what i mean idk i just liked this idea)

taglist: @mailmango @boypied @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac @r0mcom-8ngel

[luveline]

Ur emergency medicine doctor!reader x Hotch blurb changed my life.. can i request either a hurt/comfort part 2 where their busy schedules kinda get too much and all reader needs is hotch but he can’t be there Or…… or… one where someone from the team ends up at reader’s emergency department (nothing too serious) and she treats them? Thank you thank you!!!!!

thank you for requesting ❤︎

“Spencer Reid, what did you do?” you ask, pulling aside the curtain with a whack. 

He grimaces at you. “Nothing! I didn’t do anything, I just got shot!” 

You grimace back. “Jesus, honey, I’m sorry. How’s the pain?” 

“Better now they’ve stitched me back together.” 

“Really?” 

“No!” 

You push up your sleeves and take a look at Spencer’s thigh. You’re careful —in his hospital gown, you’re one good pull from seeing his unmentionables. Not that that seems to be a concern as he winces in pain. “Had tylenol?” you ask. 

“Yep.” 

“They did a nice job with the stitches. Came out the back of your leg?” 

“Yep.” 

“Okay. How’s your head?” 

“Hurting.” 

You aren’t a fan of his one word answers, but you aren’t sure what can be done to help him if he’s not gonna have the strong stuff. And you don’t blame him. He has to do what he needs to do, you just wish there was more you could do now to help him along. “Well, at least I didn’t have to do your stitches. Wounds pretty close to your artery, but you know that already…” You swallow. “Uh, how–”

“He’s fine.” 

“Yeah? I did look at the admissions, but you know he– never answers the phone when I need him to,” you say, squeezed. You obviously hate that Spencer’s been shot, but it’s a relief to know Aaron stayed out of the firefight. You’ve pictured him a hundred different ways since you saw it on the news. You know intimately how hurt people can really be. 

You sigh. “Spencer, sorry. Um. Okay, so, you know we don’t always stitch up wounds like this because of the risk of infection, so you’re gonna have to be super careful with this, you have to keep it clean. But any complications at all are ones we can treat, and, you know, you have my number.”

“It must be hard, not seeing each other for so long.” 

You give him a grateful look. “It’s really hard. Harder when I know he’s so close to danger. But I trust his capabilities, just like I trust yours, and I’m gonna give you this packet of wound care and I’m gonna tell you that you can go home tonight only if you promise me you’ve read it before then.”

Aaron arrives a few hours later, and you’re not upset when he gives you a quick, quick kiss and says, “What room is he in, honey?” Absconding as swiftly as he arrived. You finish up some paperwork at your computer behind the reception desk and wait achingly for him to come back out. It takes twenty minutes, but he appears again with one less bag and a look of relief that threatens to floor you. 

“Hello,” he says, less urgent, more doting, stopping with his shoes pressed against yours. 

“Hey, Hotchner.”

“Nineteen days,” he says. 

“Felt like a thousand.” 

“It did, didn’t it?” he asks, bringing a hand to your cheek. It should be rough. You smile at the way he brushes it along your face to hold you under the ear. 

“You okay?”

He nods. You’re not sure he’s telling the truth, it’s a jerking, stiff thing, but he’s not faking when he brings his face down to kiss you. Just once on the lips, then up to your cheekbone, where he rubs his nose so hard it nearly hurts.

“Thank you for looking after Spencer.” 

“I didn’t, actually, that was Deb. Just been keeping him stocked on tylenol and jelly.” 

“When can I look after you?” he asks. “Finishing at midnight?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’ll come pick you up.” 

“It’ll be too late,” you lament. Once you get home and he picks you up, that’ll be nearing one in the morning, even if he gets there early for you. 

“No, it’s okay. I’ll come and get you anyway. I need to see you.” 

You drop your face into his collar and breathe. He does more of that nose-rubbing into your skin, stirring your stomach with every pass, worse when his thumb travels from just under your ear to across your throat. If you weren’t in an alcove away from your patients, you’d be steaming with embarrassment. Here, you’re tempted to let your teeth drag against his skin through a kiss he has no business receiving. “Can’t believe you haven’t come to see me for so long. You hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you, honey. I’m sorry. I’m gonna make it up to you.” 

You pull away. He cups the back of your head. “You promise?” 

He hears the neediness in your voice. You don’t wanna be in charge, don’t want to be the one saving people. You both need to go home and lock up in bed like pathetic little worm people, boneless and sweet on each other. 

His smile is loving and bemused at once. “Cross my heart.” 

[tinysunshine]

thoughts on daryl/rick/negan/literally whoever you please checking you for wounds/bites but like they are reallyyyy thorough and handsy and just keep finding excuses to keep on touching you omgmgmg Ok sorry bai

please don’t be sorry because this is so hot <3

i have some icky + sexy headcanons for this, thank you for the idea!

with rick, i’m imagining him super stressed out bc you’re getting on his fucking nerves like - 

maybe a lot of people have just died atp, or there’s hordes of walkers nearby. you’re either constantly putting yourself in danger, or you’re just acting weird because you’re nervous around rick and maybe he heard someone say you had a close call with a walker - and he just can’t handle having to worry about you anymore.

so he’s all rough and pulling at your clothes, asking what your fuckin’ problem is while he pulls your top off and is accusing you of having a bite or a scratch or a wound under your clothes from bein’ stupid. makes fun of you for being shy when he gets you naked <3

he will feel bad about being aggressive when he calms down, but it’s lowkey fun for him to be the bad guy sometimes. obviously. he’ll just tell himself he was looking out for you and for the safety of the entire community - it’s not like he just wanted to finally see your tits after all your teasing (because yes, you’ve definitely been teasing. and okay, he’s lying - because your hot body is all he’s been thinking about. he’s only a man, after all.)

negan doesn’t have to make up a reason to be invasive because he does whatever he wants and you let him (duh). but i also feel like it’s fun for him, since he loves his king of the apocalypse shit so much. he’s definitely making it a game when the door shuts and you’re finally all alone. let’s see it, as if you know what he’s talking about. and then he does that nod and does that crazy, annoyingly confident smirk and you understand what he’s referring to. he wants to play.

i lowkey feel like this has ddlg elements to it. negan just makin’ sure my baby’s okay, touching, prodding, as if there’s any wounds or bites near your private areas. but it’s so hot and humiliating and gross and a little scary, honestly. bonus points for daddy negan when you really do get scared after a close call with a walker, and you’re too nervous to look at your back just incase you got a bite or a wound, so he checks for you. 

just a kiss, honey, told ya’ there was nothing to worry about, all condescending but he’s glad you’re okay and he kissed your back on the spot you were worried about <3

daryl highkey doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else, but he does think you’re pretty sweet. cute. you don’t deserve to die, at least, but he knows you’re up to something. 

something, which is constantly taking your clothes off around him so he can make sure you’re clean. it’s annoying as fuck to him, and even worse, makes him sort of uncomfortable. daryl likes to be alone, but he is only a man. and you’re kinda forceful. taking your clothes off, naked except for a pair of panties so he can inspect you and make sure you’re all safe. could do this yourself, you know, he’ll say and you know you could but you want him to do it. 

you do this so much that he knows you’re faking the being scared shit, and it’s sort of like the boy who cried wolf. the one time you really are scared you’ve been bitten, you go to him and he’s rude as hell. curses at you bc he’s so sick of you bugging him about this because it’s getting harder to deny you. 

please, daryl, you’ll beg. and he’ll get really mad at you for the first time. fuck you want from me, huh? you want me to rip your clothes off or somethin’? don’t think a walker bite is very good foreplay, but then your lip trembles bc you actually are nervous. just scared, you say, and daryl shakes his head.

scared, huh, he’ll say, ashing his cigarette. he looks down at the bulge in his pants and then back up to you to make sure you can see it too <3 you scared of that?

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

My TV (Working Title) (Tenna x Reader) Chapter 1

I knooooooooooowwwwwwwwww I really shouldn't start another fanfic but uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....ummmmmmmmm......teebeeman cute TwT

I do plan on continuing this but we'll see what LIFE has planned for ME. Secret of the Mimic comes out Friday and I'm sure that'll launch at least 2 new fics for me because I have no impulse control, and I plan on ArtFight in July sooooo don't be surprised if this isn't updated til August. (It'll be on ao3 once it is tho)

Word count: ~4600

Your task: Find a TV. An old one. CRT, ideally. The bigger, the bulkier, the better. Doesn’t need to work, just needs to be big.

Big enough to explode dramatically when hit with a sledgehammer.

You can’t say you fully understand the vision of your friend Jodie’s short film, but she’s paying you to edit it…which means you have a vested interest in helping her film it, which means an interest in helping her get ready to film it… even if she’s not directly paying you for that part of the process. If a day of running around checking thrift stores and pawn shops meant your payday might come a bit sooner, then so be it. You’re technically not strapped for cash just yet, but contract work isn’t exactly steady--one slow month could have you running up a balance on your card that’ll take the rest of the year to pay off.

At least Jodie’s paying for your gas and will pay you back for the TV, so all you’re losing is time…though you hope Jodie will still stick to the agreement when she sees just how many stores you had to hit up.

You can’t remember if this is the fifth stop on your “tour” or the sixth, but you must look tired, for the cashier, a middle-aged woman with her greying hair in a messy bun, winces visibly when you ask about a CRT TV.

“Sorry, hun. Nobody’s donated a working CRT in…probably a decade.”

Yet you perk up, catching something in her wording. “Working? It doesn’t have to work. Just has to be a big, boxy old TV.”

She hums sympathetically. “Well we don’t tend to keep--” She stops suddenly, her face lighting up as she snaps her fingers. “Oh! You know what, I think there is one out back! Or at least there was last night…I assume it’s still there?”

“Can I take a look?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’ll show you,” she says. She grabs her keys from beside the register, walking you through the store and out the back employee entrance to a small alleyway.

The dumpster behind the store is overflowing with donations that had been deemed in too poor of shape to sell, all in various combinations of torn, stained, dirty, and broken. You see a sofa that’s so torn to shreds that most people couldn’t be paid to take it…and yet someone had donated it expecting it to be sold.

“Someone came by with a truckload yesterday. Emptying out an abandoned storage unit, I think,” she says. “Some of it was sellable, this wasn’t,” she explains, nudging the TV with her boot. “Is it about what you’re lookin’ for?”

“Oh yeah, this looks great!” you say, crouching down to look at the TV. It’s pretty dirty--covered in so much dust some of it has actually become caked on. The antennae are folded in, at least mostly--one antenna has a bit of tape on it that prevents it from being fully tucked in. The power cord is so frayed that you think plugging it in might be a fire hazard. But the TV can be cleaned up and made to at least look like it’s in good shape even if it doesn’t actually work.

“Exactly what I need,” you add, picking at a clump of dirt with your nail. You rest a hand atop the TV, leaning on it briefly as you pull yourself to your feet. “How much?”

She laughs. “It’s not sellable. So I can’t ‘sell’ it. But if you wanna bring your car around you can load it up.”

“Free? Really?” you say, surprised.

She shrugs, waving a hand. “The paperwork isn’t worth what I’d end up charging for it.”

“Heh…well, thanks!” you say. Maybe if you tell Jodie the TV ended up being free, she won’t balk at the gas bill so much.

One cordial handshake later, the TV is officially yours. You bring your car around and load up the TV into the trunk and finally head home. When you arrive in your apartment’s parking lot, the sky is tinged yellow from the pending sunset and the shadows stretch long across the pavement.

Getting the clunky CRT into your apartment is a hell of a task. Park close to the door, carry the TV to the elevator, then push it down the long hall to your apartment. It’s too heavy to lift for more than a few seconds at the time, and even the brief walk to the elevator has you setting it down a couple times to rest for a couple seconds before continuing. 

But, you’re able to get it up to your third floor apartment at last, and you shove it into a corner of your mostly empty room.

The apartment itself is a two bedroom, though really you probably should have just gone for the one bedroom. You use the second bedroom as an office, and the living room had, at one point, been intended as a place to host guests, but you’ve ended up doing far less of that than you’d anticipated. You’ve even moved your flatscreen into the office, leaving behind an empty TV stand and a living room even less equipped to hosting anyone.

Once the TV’s in place--next to an empty TV stand that definitely isn’t strong enough to hold an old CRT--you glance down at yourself, wincing at the dust and dirt from the TV that’s now all over your T-shirt.

You debate with yourself a moment before deciding to just clean up the old thing a bit. Moving it is difficult enough without also getting streaks of dirt all over your clothes every time you lift it. Besides, Jodie will probably want it somewhat clean for the shot she’s planning.

You grab the kit you usually use for cleaning up your computer--some compressed air, alcohol wipes, and a handful of Q-tips. Probably a bit more thorough than you need for an old TV that doesn’t even work and is going to be destroyed soon anyway….but you figure if you’re going to do it, you may as well do it right.

You’re surprised at how much dust and dirt come away with the wipes, given how much has already come off onto your shirt, but that only solidifies your decision to give it a thorough cleaning. You at least have the sense to cover your nose and mouth with your shirt before getting to work with the compressed air, though once you see the size of the dust cloud that rises from the TV’s vents you wonder if you should have dug around in your closet to see if you still have any N95 masks left.

You use a damp Q-tip to clean around the dials and the edges of the screen. By the time you’re done, the TV looks…well, not new, but at least like it’s been kept in a house and taken care of for the past few decades.

As you’re putting away your cleaning supplies, you wince when you notice how dark it’s gotten outside. There’s still a hint of sun on the horizon, but it won’t be there much longer.

You quickly gather up the trash from your kitchen and head downstairs to the dumpster. You’ve already put off taking out the trash for about two days longer than you should have. You hate taking it out at night, especially since building maintenance has been pretty slow to replace some of the bulbs in the parking lot’s lights. But, you manage to toss the bags away just as the sun slips below the treeline.

Finally, after a day of driving from store to store, hauling a huge TV, then cleaning said TV, you can relax for the night.

Or so you think.

You lock the door behind yourself and step into the living room, where you immediately notice that something is amiss.

Something is very amiss.

Comedically amiss, even.

Where the CRT had once sat, now sits a man. An impossibly tall man with a TV--with the perplexing addition of a cartoonishly long nose--as his head. He’s too tall to even stand up in your apartment--instead he’s seated on the floor, his knees tucked against his chest. 

“There you are!” he cries happily in a staticy, showman-y voice. He crawls towards you with a big grin on his face. “My new favoritest Lightner! Thank you ever so much for taking me home and fixing me up and--” He cuts himself off, canting his head. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

Your back is pressed against the wall, your eyes wide and your shoulders tense. Your hands are held up, your fingers curled like claws as your body instinctively prepares to defend itself from the massive creature shuffling towards you.

And he asks “what’s the matter?” as if you’re reacting strangely to a giant TV-headed man in your apartment!

Before you can recover your wits enough to answer, he frowns, tilting his head in the opposite direction.

“Wait…you’re not a Lightner!” he says, his antennae straightening in surprise.

He lowers his head, leaning forward until his nose is nearly poking you in the chest. You close your eyes, covering your face with your hands. You’d probably fall to the floor in a heap if doing so wouldn’t mean colliding with his nose on the way down.

“Hmm…but you’re certainly no Darkner…” he says, his gloved hand rubbing his “chin” in thought. He shifts his gaze to your face and he flinches when he sees how frightened you are.

“O-Oh! ‘Scuse me! Shouldn’t sit too close to the screen! Especially in the dark!” he laughs apologetically as he shuffles backwards, still on his hands and knees. His antennae are almost bumping against the low ceiling of your apartment as it is.

Your knees give out and you slide down the wall, your trembling hands still covering your face.

This can’t be real. It just can’t. What the hell kind of hallucinogens had you inhaled when cleaning that old TV? You’ve clearly lost your damn mind!

The TV man pulls back even further when he sees your distress. “A-Ah!” he says, nervous beads of sweat appearing in the staticy white image that makes up his “face”. “I-I suppose this is…shocking! Me being…like this…outside the Dark World!”

Don’t indulge the delusion. Wait for it to pass. Whatever you inhaled will wear off. Surely you just need to wait it out? You’ll recover or sober up or…whatever…and it’ll all go back to normal!

But you can’t help yourself.

“I-I…have no idea what you’re talking about!” you admit, cringing internally at how meek and timid your voice sounds.

“Aha, right! Proper introductions are in order!” He clears his throat, then raises one hand to his face to push in his nose, flattening his face. The screen goes dark for a half second before loud, triumphant music begins to play, accompanied by some kind of low-resolution video. 

“It is now time…for our feature presentation!! (Feacher…!!) Coming straight from YOUR house…coming straight from your house!! COMING! He’s the 1!! COMING!! The KING of ONLY!! He’s groovy! And NEVER glooby! You can’t get this from an egg!! The sensation of your screen! The show that makes you SCREAM!! Say it with him folks!!

Mr. (Ant) Tenna’s T~V~TIIIIMMMMME~!!!”

Once it’s done, the screen returns to the white static that is his “face”, his nose reappearing with a cartoony “pop!”.

The whole sequence does little to ease your confusion…though the fear is at least fading. You lower your hands, adjusting your position so you’re sitting with your back against the wall rather than cowering against it.

“Um…”

“And who do we have the honor of speaking with tonight?” he asks, a microphone appearing in his hand, which he holds out to you.

“E-Erm…” you squeak awkwardly.

“Hmmmm?” he hums in an almost playful tone as he holds the mic just a bit closer. The cartoony smile on his screen is huge but…there’s also a gentleness there. As if he’s trying to coax you out of your shell.

Finally, you manage to speak your name, albeit a bit haltingly.

His grin widens. “I shoulda guessed! A perfect name for a perfect sorta-Lightner!” he crows.

You laugh weakly, your cheeks warming at the bit of flattery despite the situation. “A-And…you said you’re…um, Mr. Ant Tenna?”

He nods. “Tenna to my friends, my friend!” The slight head tilt and the cartoony “pling!” noise that accompanies it suggest he would be winking if he had eyes.

Again it’s hard not to smile at the quip…and the fact that, intentional or not, he’d answered your question before you’d even had a chance to ask it. “A-Alright…Tenna…” you say, slowly starting to relax. You’re not entirely convinced this is real, but…it seems to be at least…not dangerous? “M-Mind…explaining…what’s going on?” you ask tentatively.

Tenna laughs. “Well, it’s quite simple!” he says, holding up one finger and waving it slightly, poised like a man about to explain a complicated topic in three or less easily digestible sentences. “You see--” He freezes suddenly, his mouth fixed in his usual big grin.

Your brows drift slightly upwards.

“...I simply don’t know!” he says, his grin turning mildly apologetic as a laugh track echoes around you.

Your shoulders slump. Maybe this is just a dream…one you’re not creative enough to fill in fully. Still… “Wh-What were you saying before? Something about…Lightners? Darkners? And…a-a…Dark World?”

“Ah! Right!” he says. “I can get you up to speed on that, no problem! Y’see, there’s the Dark World and the Light World, Darkners and Lightners.” He places a hand on his chest. “I’m a Darkner, and you…well, seem to be mostly a Lightner.”

You shake your head. “Um, I’m a human, actually…” you say hesitantly.

Tenna nods patiently, unsurprised by your comment. “Which is a type of Lightner!” he says. It’s almost as if he’d anticipated such a response.

“I…see…” you say uncertainly. “But I’ve never…heard of that. Or Darkners, or the Dark World…”

Another nod. “Most Lightners haven’t! And, since they don’t know about the Dark World or Darkners, they have no reason to think of their world as the Light World nor themselves as Lightners! To them, it’s just the world! And they’re just--” He pauses, his smile looking a bit more like a wince before his bright grin returns. “--NERS!” he declares proudly.

You give a weak laugh, sensing that last bit was a joke. “Right…So then…what’s a Darkner?”

“Residents of the Dark World! The place where light doesn’t reach. Darker than dark, where imagination takes hold and is made real!”

“Imagination…?”

“Imagination made REAL!” he says pointedly, emphasizing the last word. Blue flashing text appears on his screen spelling out the word “REAL!” in bold letters.

“And…I’m now imagining a TV as…a giant TV-headed man?” you ask skeptically.

Tenna’s expression falters and his antennae seem to drop. “...A-A TV?” You can barely process the remark before his bright grin reappears. “I-I mean! Yes! Er, no! Not…you’re not imagining anything! This is how I am in the Dark World! I’m quite real!”

You frown, glancing around despite knowing full well you’re in your apartment. “But we’re not in the Dark World…are we?”

He mimics your thoughtful frown, finally adjusting himself to sit crosslegged, propping his elbow on his knee and resting the bottom of his TV-head on his palm. He has to hunch over to an almost comedic degree to keep his antennae from hitting the ceiling. “No, definitely not! But I’m not so sure it’s the Light World, either…”

“Why not?” you ask.

“Well, aside from all this,” he says, gesturing at himself with both hands, “It just…doesn’t feel like the Light World…” The showmanship fades from his tone, his voice becoming quiet, almost somber.

“How so?” you ask curiously.

Tenna laughs awkwardly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you! It’s just a feeling.”

“What’s the Light World like?” you ask, getting to your feet and taking a step towards him.

“Almost exactly like this one,” he says thoughtfully. “In fact…I’m…not even sure how long I’ve been in this world…I was thrown away at some point,” he says with a frown, his shoulders tensing. “Then I…” His frown deepens. “I…I don’t know what happened next. I don’t…even remember how I ended up in that storage unit…” His tone makes it sound like it’s just as much a revelation to him as it is to you. His frown grows more melancholy and his antennae droop.

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. What could you possibly say? What do you say to a living TV that seems to be lamenting being thrown away?

Before you can summon an answer to that question, Tenna’s mood turns on a dime and he brightens. His antennae perk back up and he leans forward towards you. “But I’m sure glad I did!” He touches his index fingers together shyly, red circles appearing on his screen as he glances away with a bashful smile. “If it meant being found by a nice Light--er, human who’d clean me up and take care of me!”

The awkward, almost pained laugh you let out barely sounds like a laugh to you, but Tenna doesn’t seem to notice. Dream or no, you really don’t want to tell him the true reason you’d been on the hunt for a CRT.

“Now! I’ll bet you’re excited to watch all your favorite shows on your brand new TV!” he says in a playfully smug tone. “So, why don’t you whip up some popcorn and I’ll find us something good!” he says. His face begins flickering as if flipping through channels…though all the channels are the same white static.

“I don’t have any--” you start in a faint protest. You pause, frowning up at him in confusion. “Can we even watch TV on you when your cord’s broken?”

“Oh sure! Don’t need electricity in this form, I run on good ol’ Tenna-Watts!” he says cheerfully. His smile fades a bit as he continues flipping through channels. “Although…I can’t seem to find a signal…”

“You’re an analogue TV, aren’t you? They uh…kinda moved to digital like…ten years ago?” you say hesitantly.

Tenna pauses, staring at you. His screen goes blank, which causes his nose to disappear as well. His head slumps forward and he turns away, his antennae drooping. “O-Oh. S-So I. I can’t…I can’t really…I wouldn’t be…very useful…as a TV…would I?”

He’s so dejected that he actually seems a bit smaller as he slumps forward miserably, but you quickly rush over to him.

“H-Hey, don’t say that!” you say quickly, the words spilling out of your mouth before you really think about what you’re saying. “We could buy an adapter--”

His gaze snaps to you so abruptly you have to duck to avoid being beamed by his nose as it reappears. He grins brightly, red circles appearing on his cheeks as he leans forward. “An adapter? You’d buy an adapter? For me?” he asks giddily, cupping his screen in his hands.

You falter a moment. Despite your phrasing, you’d meant the remark as a hypothetical, not a plan…certainly not a promise. You’re still not completely sure this is even real…maybe it is a dream and whatever promises you make actually don’t matter. But…even if it’s not…how expensive can an adapter be?

If Tenna thinks anything of your slight pause--or even notices it--he gives no indication, continuing to beam down at you eagerly.

“Uhm, s-sure…Yeah, I can do that…”

“Oh thank you!” he cries eagerly, clapping his hands while the sound of applause plays. “And in the meantime, if you want to hook up a VCR or DVD player or game console…?”

You stare at him a moment before letting out an awkward laugh.

Tenna’s antennae twitch in confusion. “Oh? Did you have something else in mind?”

You shake your head, smiling weakly up at him. “Not…as such, but…you’re…a…a giant TV-man from another world…a-and this is all so…impossible…”

He scoffs playfully, waving a hand. “Can’t be that impossible if it’s happening!”

You sputter a moment, trying to come up with a counterpoint, but none presents itself. “I…suppose you’re right,” you admit. “But…still…just sitting down to watch TV after all that seems…so mundane…”

“Takes a bit of mundanity to wind down the day, doesn’t it?” he says. “Besides, why go to all that trouble of cleaning me up if you don’t wanna watch TV?” he adds in a smug, cheeky tone.

You manage to stop yourself from flinching too visibly at that question, but you’re sure a brief look of nausea still passed over your face. 

“I--I s-suppose…”

“Then it’s settled!” he declares with a clap of his hands. “You go pick out your games or movies or whatever you want and I’ll do the rest!”

“Heh…” you chuckle thinly. “S-Sure, Tenna…” You consider a moment…as tempting as it is to dig out your old SNES and see if the rumors of old games looking better on CRTs is true, you don’t think your brain can handle anything resembling thinking and strategy right now. Certainly not anything involving reflexes either. So perhaps best to stick with a movie. You glance up at him. “What kind of movies are you into?”

“A--!” He stops, his mouth open in surprise and subtle pink blush lines appearing on his cheeks. “M-Me?” He lets out a hearty laugh, waving his hand and shaking his head. “Oh, silly! I’m the TV!”

You pause, regarding him thoughtfully. You…suppose it’s not that weird that he’d truly have no opinion--or that his opinion would be that you should pick the movie--but he’s clearly flattered that you’d asked.

So for tonight, you’ll oblige and make the pick yourself. Tomorrow--

--Would he even be here tomorrow? Suddenly you find yourself hoping he will be.

“...Right,” you say, trying not to seem too deflated as you give him a bracing smile.

You sidestep around him, crouching in front of your empty TV stand and opening one of the drawers. You pull out your PS3 and its wires, setting them atop the TV stand. Your newer consoles are in the office with your TV, but you doubt Tenna has an HDMI port. So, older console it is, even if you’re just using it as a DVD player.

Tenna scoops up the console and its wires and you glance over at him, watching as he plugs the wires into the back of his head and holds the PS3 in his hands. 

As for the movie, you grab a couple DVDs of lighthearted cartoons. You close the drawer and get to your feet, and are surprised to see the PS3 already powered on, the menu screen displayed on Tenna’s (once again noseless) face.

“Wh--How’s it on? It’s not plugged in…?” you ask.

“Tenna-Watts!” he chirps proudly.

“Right…” you say again, a bemused smile on your face. You put one of the movies in, then take a seat on the couch, lazily tossing a fuzzy throw blanket over your legs.

Once the disc is in, Tenna sets the PS3 on the floor beside him, then tucks his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and rests his screen on his knees…more or less acting as his own TV stand, albeit a very tall one.

You find yourself watching him more than the movie, barely paying attention to the plot as you try to process everything he’s said. You suppose “another world” is as plausible an explanation for a twenty-foot tall TV man as any. An old TV turning into a guy is already so far beyond the realm of possibility…how can you say anything except “Sure, why not?” to whatever explanations are given?

“Can you…actually see the movie?” you ask eventually.

He doesn’t move, keeping his screen angled towards you, but you see the lines of his mouth appear over the movie as he speaks. “No, but I feel it.”

“Feel it?” you repeat. “What…what does it feel like?” you ask, intrigued.

He pauses the movie, though his face doesn’t fully reappear. “Hmmm…interesting question! I suppose…it feels like colors. Sounds. Music…it feels like a story!”

You stare at him a moment before giving a soft chuckle. What sort of answer had you expected? “Well…a-as long as you’re not sitting there bored, I guess…”

“Bored? Not at all!” He frowns slightly. “Are you? We can put in something else--you don’t have to finish it for my sake!”

“Oh, no, I’m fine!” you reassure him quickly. “I just…wanted to make sure you were doing alright…”

His antennae perk slightly in surprise and the pink circles that appear on his cheeks stand out starkly against the paused movie. “Oho, you! Of course I’m just peachy! I’m a brand new TV all cleaned and polished and set up for movie night! I couldn’t be better!” he says in a chipper tone.

Your cheeks warm at his enthusiasm and his smile is infectious. “Heh…well, that’s…good…” you say, awkwardness making you feel a bit shy.

Tenna’s grin widens before disappearing, and he resumes the movie, sensing the conversation is over.

Before the movie’s over, you adjust yourself to be laying on the couch, your head resting on the pillowed armrest. Tenna’s height actually makes the position more comfortable--you don’t have to lay on your side or with your head turned ninety degrees to see the TV. You can lay on your back with your head angled only slightly towards him.

As the credits roll, you almost tell Tenna you’re too tired for a second movie, but he switches out the DVD before you can even think about sitting up. So you stay put, letting your eyelids get heavy as the second movie plays.

Maybe hauling the CRT up the stairs and then having your sense of reality severely questioned has taken more out of you than you’d realized. Or maybe it’s just time for the dream to end. Either way, you find yourself drifting off far more readily than you’d thought you ever could under such unusual circumstances…it’s not even a third of the way through the second movie when your eyes fall shut.

*

Tenna can immediately tell when you’ve fallen asleep. Lightners dozing off in front of the TV is a very familiar sight to him, after all. Still, he waits for the movie to play out and for the credits to roll before turning off the PS3. He unplugs the cords from the back of his head and quietly tucks the PS3 and the DVDs back into the drawer on the TV stand.

He leans forward, shuffling towards you slightly, careful not to bump the coffee table. He picks up the blanket from the floor and carefully spreads it over you as you sleep. You stir slightly, snuggling into the blanket and it’s all he can do not to let out a delighted little squeak.

Blankets knocked askew had always been a sad sight for him. He likes doing what he can to give anyone who falls asleep in front of him a good night’s rest, though those abilities had been highly limited until now. In the Light World, he could only dim his screen slightly and lower the volume just a touch. Sometimes if he really focused he could switch off the screen and let the Lightners think they’d done it themselves at some point in the night.

But the simple act of adjusting some blankets? Absolutely out of the question.

What a wonderful world this must be to let him finally do that small gesture for his dear Lightner! Well, almost Lightner. Basically a Lightner. A Lightner to him.

Tenna smiles softly, leaning back against the wall and watching you sleep. He’s loved all the Lightners who’ve had him, but…there’s something different about you. About this world.

He thinks…He thinks he’ll like it here!

[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.

[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

[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

[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.

[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. 

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Chapter 32

Description: after a little bit of miscommunication, you finally get your boys back. Whoop! Laika’s emotions are all over the place…..

*Kyle’s POV*

As soon as we board the helicopter, two nurses take over. She’s whisked away from Simon and laid on the floor. Fear flashes through her eyes. God she looks terrified. One of the nurses produce a large syringe, and before any of us have chance to stop them, they’ve sedated her. The last noise she makes is a scared whimper, before she just goes completely limp.

Simon tenses beside me, and I can tell Johnny is struggling not to intervene. I’m the level headed one, and even I can feel the Alpha inside of me trying to force itself to the surface. I turn away from the scene in front of me. It is too much to watch. Not after what she’d been through.

Johnny tries to pull Simon away but he is met with a malicious sounding snarl, so he steps back and joins me on the seats. I close my eyes and try to relax. Calm myself down. I allow the thrum of the helicopter blades to seep into my brain, blocking everything else. I could smell her scent slowly returning having removed the patches. Silly girl shouldn’t have put them on in the first place …

My thoughts are interrupted by Johnny.

“Why’d you think she ran..?”

“I don’t know. We’ll need to talk to her when she comes round from this…”

“D’ya think she still wants to be with us..?”

“I don’t know. You heard Laswell…”

“Aye, but what the fuck happened to her. Look at the state the wee lassies in. How’d she get so banged up if she was just planning to leave..?”

“Johnny.. look.. none of us have a crystal ball. We’ll need to talk to her…” I sigh, trying not to think of the possibility that she actually wanted to run away from us.

*Laika’s POV*

I feel light, and warm. I can smell Simon’s thick scent. It’s right next to my face. I’m lying on a soft bed..

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My eyes aren’t really to open just yet. I feel drowsy and heavy. I manage to roll my head towards the scent and am met with soft fabric. My Omega purrs.

“-woken up yet..” I pick up from the tail end of a conversation. My brain still not fully computing everything happening around me.

I’m snapped back into reality when I hear that gruff voice.

“Silly silly girl.”

If my brain would have allowed it, a broken whine would have slipped from my throat. The Pack Alpha thinks I’m stupid. He probably wishes I’d just ran away for good. That’s what I get for thinking anyone could possibly care about me in the same way I care about them.

I roll my head away from the comforting scent of whatever it was next to me that smelt of Simon. I don’t deserve the comfort from an Alpha who doesn’t want me. Useless, broken, worthless mutt.

*John’s POV*

I go straight to her bedside. She looks awful. Worse than awful. Broken.

The nurses have cleaned her up somewhat. But wipes don’t do the same job that a good soak in a warm bath would do. She’s coated in a layer of smudged dust and blood.

Her shoulder is wrapped in rolls and rolls of bandages and gauze. The doctor tells me that she had been shot. Concussed. Fragile.

She’s been moving slightly in her unconscious state. The doctor tells me that the sedation will be leaving her system. He tells me that it’s basically up to her when she decides to wake up. But he warns me that she may turn feral again. She may have temporary memory gaps from her concussion, and the added trauma of going feral. I notice her roll her head towards Simon’s coat.

Good girl. She remembers her Alpha’s scent. That’s a good sign.

The doctor rambles on about how they had to sedate her on the journey home because she was feral. And how she didn’t properly give in to the sedation until Simon placed his jacket next to her. She had been seeking comfort. Comfort from her Alphas. Clever girl.

The doctor tells me how she resisted the police, meaning her shoulder, already damaged, has ended up even more mangled than the original injury.

I tut, in disbelief of what she’s gone through, and grumble “silly silly girl” aloud, into the room. If she’d have just stayed with Simon, none of this would have happened.

Or, perhaps, if Simon and I hadn’t have had that dick measuring contest a couple of days ago, that resulted in her getting caught in the crossfire of Alpha testosterone, none of this would have ever happened.

As I tut those words out into her room, she whimpers. Her face scrunches up, as if she is pained. I rush to her side, gently grasping her small hand in mine. She rolls her head away from the coat sitting up by her pillow.

I can’t wait for her to wake up. I need to apologise and atone. She needs to realise she is here to stay. That she is our Omega.

*Laika’s POV*

My hand is suddenly enclosed in another. I can hear John murmuring to himself. I use all of my energy to open my eyes. I grimace with the effort. I try to pull my hand away. I don’t want him feeling as though he needs to comfort me. I’m just a stupid omega, after all. Ruining everything as per usual.

He lets go when he realises I’m trying to pull away.

“Hey, you’re awake.. you’re ok.. the boys, they found you.. you’ve had surgery on your shoulder.. you’ll recover.. just need to take it real easy for a few weeks…” he speaks. My eyes are fixed on his fingers splaying on the bed, millimetres from my own, but never touching.

“I’m sorr-” my voice breaks due to the dryness of my throat. A few swallows of saliva and a good couple of coughs later, I’m ready to try and talk again. I keep my eyes down, not wanting to make eye contact with the Captain.

“I’m sorry. I - I’ll leave as soon as I’m able. I-I..”

“-who said anything about leav- wait..? Were you trying to run from us..?” He turns away slightly, clearly disappointed. Muttering something about Laswell being right about me.

My eyes shift with confusion. What the fuck does he mean by that?!

My scent obviously turns sour, he thinks his quick sniffle is subtle, but it’s not. He immediately back pedals.

“Is it me..? Is it.. do you want me to send Johnny? Kyle. Yeah, Kyle’s always been softer with you. I can call Kyle in until you feel a bit more awake, yeah?”

What the fuck does he mean? I’m perfectly coherent, yeah I’m a little drowsy, and nauseous, but my brain is fine..?!

I shake my head.

“No.. I don’t think - I - I’d rather be alone..” I stutter, knowing that I’m slowly sealing my fate.

It’s for their own good I tell myself. I deny myself the temporary comfort of having them near me. They don’t want me, anyway. It’s just my own stupid feelings prolonging everyone’s suffering.

Detach. Let go. Release them. Stupid mutt, letting yourself go and believe that you could belong.

John pauses, clearly not sure how to react.

His eyes widen, when I stubbornly sit up, albeit weakly, and hand the fabric that held Simon’s comforting scent. He’d left me his coat my omega feels fleeting joy, which is quickly stamped out. I’m in the drivers seat now. Not the omega. Me.

“You.. you should go. I’ll - I’ll be ok on my own” I whisper, looking away. He stares at me, shocked.

He turns away, as if he had lead on his feet. I finally let the tears fall, now his back is turned. The soft click of the door closing behind him marks the end of this. Whatever this was…

*Simon’s POV*

John had sent Johnny, Kyle and I back to our quarters. We’d sat outside her room for hours, still covered in her blood. Still stinking of the mission. Still reeking of distressed omega.

It’s his scent that hits me first. The joys of having the sensitive nose.

His head is hung low. He is emitting a foul smell. He’d never looked, or smelt, like this before.

A pit forms in my stomach and throat.

“…John?” I ask the unspoken question.

“- she, she - she rejected me. Us.”

No no no no… no she didn’t, she couldn’t!

Johnny and Kyle immediately start squabbling from behind me.

“Naw she Cannae have done. She’s no thinking straight. Still high on meds… that cannae be right. I’ll go talk to her..”

“-Johnny. She doesn’t want to see us.”

“I could go?” Kyle offers “I’ve always gotten through to her best..?”

“Kyle.. she made it clear.” John shuts him down.

He holds up my coat. The coat I had scented. Absolutely covered it in my scent, before tucking it under her head. She calmed down immediately. Why doesn’t she want it now?

The pack sit in absolute silence for the next few hours. Not a word is spoken. Nobody moves.

The silence is broken by a phone vibrating.

John huffs a dull laugh. “Laswell” he grunts, and declines the call.

A few seconds later it starts buzzing again.

“You should take that” I speak.

“Why would I want to chat to her right now? Eh? So she can tell us she was right? That the omega was running from us all along? Because of me? Because I let my Alpha feel challenged by a member of my own fuckin’ pack? No thank you, Lieutenant.”

I snatch his phone from the table, answering it sharply.

“Laswell, what do you want?” I bark down the line.

“Simon, it’s nice to talk to you, too” she says back sarcastically.

“I’m not in a joking mood, get on with it, or I’ll hang up”

“Are you ever in a joking mood? - anyway - It’s about your omega. We’ve combed through the building in Chicago. We have found something that may be of use to you.”

“S’too late. The Omega. Basically told John, and by extension: us, to fuck off, so whatever you have, it don’t matter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you’re going through a rough patch. But it’s her bandana fabric thing. It was found in the rubble at the site of the blast on the 51st floor. We’ve sealed it and sent it first class. Should be with you by morning. I’d try to work things out with her. She’s worth the effort.”

And with that, she hangs up.

I slam John’s phone down on the table.

“Her hanky? How -” Johnny starts but I cut him off.

“She went to help. She went to help her Alphas, and we just left her to fend for herself. How the fuck didn’t you notice her.. she damn well got herself shot and blown up, and we left her in the rubble?” I rage.

“It wis you who dinnae even notice her sneak away in the first place, Simon. Don’t forget that…”

“Wait.. Simon. Remember you radioed to me, when I was holed up on the stair well waiting for Hassan? You said there was someone coming up?”

I nod, remembering. “Do you think..?”

“But how did she get to the site of the explosion. Hassan was about to shoot me execution style before that marine tackle-”

“Shit. SHIT”

“It wasn’t the Marine who hit Hassan.” Kyle says matter of factly.

“I couldn’t see. Because of all the dust and debris. And she had those scent patches on. Fuck. FUCK. I should have known..” he goes on.

“Kyle, this isn’t your fault” John tries to comfort.

“You’re tellin’ me.. that that wee lassie ran all the way doon from LT’s perch on the top floor of the building opposite, across the street, and all the way up to us, AND managed to save Cap just before he took a bullet between the eyes?” Johnny summarises.

“We need to see her” I conclude.

We all stand at once and march toward the medical wing.

*Laika’s POV*

I smell and hear them before I see them.

Oh no. Please not again.

I rapidly wipe away my tears, knowing that the puffiness and tear tracks won’t disappear so easily.

A knock sounds on the door. I stay quiet. Then I hear the nurse from outside telling them that I’d asked for no visitors.

“I’m sorry, Sir’s. She asked to be left alone for the next few days. Only staff are allowed beyond these doors” the nurse politely explains.

A soft scent flows into the room from under the door. I immediately recognise it as Kyle’s scent, when he concentrates it to calm me down. Sneaky bastard.

“We are her Pack.. you need to let us in.” I overhear Simon grunt, annoyed.

“Oh, Uhm.. sorry Sir’s. I hadn’t been informed that she was mated, or part of a pack. If you’d wait here while I go and check her documentation..” she excuses herself, I hear hurried retreating footsteps from outside my door.

Kyle’s calming scent continues to seep its way into my brain. My omega is crying out to be allowed some comfort.

“We know you know we’re here..” Johnny whisper-yells from behind the door.

I feel my cheeks heat. I gulp.

“Could you let us in, Bonnie.. please..? Just want to talk..” he pleads with me.

My eyes flash from left to right, weighing up my options. I can’t say no to them. My stupid omega just can’t say fucking NO to them.

I find myself nodding. Then mentally slapping myself around the face, realising they can’t see through doors.

“Ok” I consent, barely loudly enough for them to hear.

Johnny is first in. He rushes over and grabs my hands, hurriedly but gently patting me down, searching for all the bruises and blemishes left on my skin.

“Oh Bonnie, there ye are.. awkt, we’ll get you cleaned up in no time, eh? Clever wee thing you are..” he slides his thumb over my chin, and kisses the crown of my head, so tenderly, that it breaks me.

I preen at the praise, trying not to purr.

“What happened back there, huh? You threw pack Alpha out..? Scared us, lass. Really scared us..”

Scared them? Why..?

“Didn’t want me.. not pack..” my chin wobbles, trying not to sob. “I - I didn’t mean it… such a stupid burden useless mutt.” I sniffle, letting my anxieties pour out.

Johnny leans in and presses another kiss to my head, before softly lifting my hands and kissing all of my knuckles.

“That’s just not true. Not true at all. Not a single word of it..” he whispers.

Kyle steps in, then, and I bathe in his calming scent, still enveloping me, holding me together at the seems.

“You’re too clever for your own good, you know that, right, little bug?” He smiles gently at me, stroking my dirty hair away from my face.

“So beautiful, too” he says, making my cheeks heat.

“Think we wouldn’t find out that you saved pack Alpha’s life, huh? And those damn scent patches… they stopped us from finding you. I should have known, baby. I’m sorry. Forgive me..”

Kyle’s thumb gently swipes where the scent patches had been, causing a little whimper to rise from my throat, the sensitive skin feeling overwhelmed at the Alpha’s attention.

“I - I don’t blame you…” I breathe, looking at Kyle.

“It’s my fault-” John steps forward, hanging his head in shame but before he can quite finish his sentence I cut him off “I don’t blame any of you.. just myself..”

“No. No no - it’s not anything to do with you, love. Nothing is your fault. Nothing. You hear me?” John argues.

Simon steps forward then, looming over the others like a tall shadow.

“You’ve caused quite a stir here, Omega.” He states. I shrink back further into my bed, ashamed for a split moment.

“Don’t do that. Hide away as if you’re scared of us. We would never hurt you. Could never be angry at you. Look at you. You’ve saved us.”

My eyes blink away the heavy, fat tears forming.

Saved them? Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had a knock to the head..

“You’re part of this now. Part of us. If you’ll take us…?” John hesitates, extending the olive branch.

“I - I don’t want to be a burden..”

“Awkt enough of that, lassie..” Johnny cuts in, nuzzling his face against my un-injured shoulder, desperate for touch. His scent wraps around me like flames.

“You all want me to stay..?” I ask, confused

There is a chorus of agreement in the small room.

My tears fall loose, and Kyle is there to wipe them away.

“Is that a yes, bug?” He whispers into my hair.

I nod, sniffing away my tears and snot.

As I nod, I’m bombarded by the heady scent of the four Alphas. Pure relief and happiness wafts through the room. My omega is jumping up and down with joy.

—————— Timeskip (1 week) ————————

I’d finally been discharged. It felt weird getting to walk beyond the halls of the infirmary. Of course, the Alphas of task force 141 followed my every step. They’d visited every day, for hours at a time, and I was rarely left alone for the duration of my stay. They were trying their best to make up for what had happened last week. I felt as though I was in a happier place. Mentally and physically.

Johnny was blabbing about what he had planned for the next few weeks.

“So this week, we’re gonna be takin’ it easy, but the nurse said you’d be up for more activity by next week so we thought we could-”

“Wait.. what? How long have you got on leave, Johnny..?” I ask tentatively, not wanting to get my hopes up.

“Not just me, hen.. John made sure to put all of us on leave for at least the next four weeks. Ain’t that right, Alpha?” He explains, practically buzzing.

My eyes fly to John, almost giving me whiplash..

“Really?!”

He smiles down at me, “yes, love. Needed to make sure you were settled and happy. Need to make up for the past couple of weeks..”

I squeal, excited, grabbing Johnny’s bicep and squeezing, bouncing up and down.

“Oi, calm down. Nurse said to take it easy!” Ghost barks, gently removing me from Johnny and escorting me by my good shoulder, back to our quarters.

“I feel better, Simon..” I whine, glancing back at him.

“You’re on a huge dose of painkillers, you don’t know if you feel better or not. Now take it easy..”

I grumble under my breath. Stupid Alpha.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s strike one..” he warns.

“You’re not funny..” I roll my eyes, pouting like a spoilt child.

“What makes you think I’m joking?”

We reach the kitchen and he sits me down on the sofa. Johnny and Kyle sit either side of me. I immediately adjust myself so I’m sprawled across Kyle’s lap, with my feet up on Johnny’s lap.

Johnny puts the TV on and flicks to a random documentary about animals and starts massaging my toes.

“Anyway, next week, I thought we could try and plan something to do away from base. As a pack..” Johnny continues his earlier conversation.

My heart leaps at the suggestion of being a pack, but my brain reminds me that they’ve not made a move to claim me yet, and I’ve only been properly intimate with Kyle.. just the thought of intimacy sends heat through my body.

I nuzzle into Kyle’s neck, inhaling his soft scent. He kisses my hair and tightens his hold of me ever so slightly, pleased to have his omega back in his arms. I chase the warm feeling, shuffling closer and closer, practically straddling him, pushing my nose further into his scent glands. Then I feel him tense up, I whine, upset, pulling away and looking at him with sad eyes.

“I- I’m doing something wrong..?” I ask, pained.

“No. No not at all, love. But you’re still hurt. You need to be careful. Just don’t want to hurt you..”

“Aye lass, nurses said no strenuous activity” Johnny chips in, wiggling his eyebrows cheekily.

“Was just cuddling…” I whine

“You were about to start more than cuddling, Omega..and you know it” Simon adds, from behind me.

I whip around, angrily, and point an accusatory finger at Simon.

“You’re just a kill joy. You don’t like me being happy..” I accuse, perhaps a bit harshly, but I was upset that he kept ruining my happiness.

Simon looks a bit put out by my comment, and steps back slightly, probably shocked that I’d been so harsh.

John steps forward from his place at the kettle.

“Sweet girl, that’s no way to talk to pack, is it? Apologise to Simon. He just wants you to get better..”

I furrow my brow, standing wobbly from my place on Kyle’s lap. “I’m not pack, and I’m not sorry. He’s being mean..”

I turn and leave the kitchen, heading back to my own room. I’d not been in my nest for a few weeks.

*Kyle’s POV*

I know a pent up omega when I see one. She’s desperate for touch and attention. Absolutely desperate.

She blows a gasket when Simon interrupts our little cuddle session. It had been quickly escalating into something more, she’d been neglected for too long..

And then the poor thing hobbles away, in a mood, probably back to her nest. I want to go after her. Calm her down. Make her happy.

I wait for her door to slam shut before speaking to the rest of the pack.

“She needs her Alphas. Her pack… she’s pent up..”

“And hurt, Garrick. And mentally exhausted from the last few weeks. She needs time.”

“I don’t see the issue with letting her set the pace..” I argue.

“Aye, I’m with Kyle, let her decide.” Johnny agrees.

“Boys” John prowls over,

“Just give it a few days. Please. Just don’t cross that line. Not until I give you the go ahead. That’s an order. Simon’s right. She needs time. Time to heal. Mentally and physically. Poor omega’s been through the mill. Remember she hasn’t even properly presented yet. Or shown any signs of her first heat. We need to back off until she’s ready…”

I drop my argumentative gave as the pack Alpha tells us the ground rules. I’m slightly disappointed but I cannot argue back.

“Kyle, look at me” he sighs, gentler than before.

I glance up.

“Go to her - Johnny, you too - hang out, be near her, even cuddle. I’m not disallowing that. You just can’t escalate anything, she’s only been with Kyle so far, and remember how she reacted afterwards. She panicked. We need to make sure she’s ready for us. As a pack.. understood?”

“Yes, Alpha” I reply, and from the corner of my eye, I see Johnny nodding.

“Go make sure she’s ok then” John nods his head in the direction of her room and I jump to my feet and speed off down the hall with Johnny.

*Laika’s POV*

Three knocks on the door break me out from my thoughts.

I’ve been sitting in my best in the cupboard for a few minutes, reorganising my blankets and throws, and scented items, trying to make it comfortable again. My brain had been playing on a constant loop since storming out of the kitchen.

Not good enough for them. Knew this would happen. Simon doesn’t want me near his pack mates. Simon doesn’t like me. Kyle is just being nice. John thinks I’m stupid.

“Bug..? It’s us.. can we come in..?” I hear Kyle from through both doors.

I stand and open the cupboard, walking towards the bedroom door. I inhale, trying to figure out who the ‘us’ Kyle referred to was. Probably Johnny. I confirm my suspicions with his scent slowly making itself known.

I slowly open the door and peak up at them.

“You angry at me..?” I ask, sadly.

“Oh Bonnie, c’mon, let us in and we’ll make it all better” Johnny practically shoves through the door and picks me up off of my feet suddenly.

I yelp and grab hold of him, conscious of my wrapped up shoulder wound.

“Johnny!” I gasp, wrapping my arms and legs around him for stability.

“Soap!” Kyle warns, “you heard what John told us…”

“Awkt, just stop actin’ weird around her. We’re just push in’ her away. Ain’t that right, sweet lassie?”he replies to Kyle, cheekily nuzzling his nose into my scent glands.

I feel giggles bubbling from my throat and the burden on my inner voice suddenly silences itself.

“Missed you, Johnny” I laugh, cuddling him closer. He moves us both towards my nest, stopping before entering to make sure I was ok with him being in my nest. I nod my head, smiling like a Cheshire Cat.

Kyle watches on from the middle of the main bedroom. I see a hesitant smile reach his lips.

He turns away and for a second I think he’s leaving. I release a loud whine and am about to plead with him to stay but he quickly closes the door to my room and turns back to face me.

“Shush, love. Was just shutting the door so the two killjoys wouldn’t catch us in your nest” he laughs.

“Come cudddddlllleee” I whine, making grabby hands at him past Johnny’s back.

“I don’t know if we’ll all fit in your little nest.”

“Jus’ do as the little lassie says, Garrick. She needs her Alpha’s. Ain’t that right?”

I nod my head enthusiastically, delighted that I’m finally getting some much needed attention from them.

Kyle squeezes in behind me, cautious of my shoulder. He pecks me on my head, and tells me how sweet I am. I’m basking in all the attention and feel purrs slipping past my lips.

“John and Si will come around soon, don’t worry..”

“Don’t they want me anymore..” I ask shyly,

“No, lass. They think you’ll break. Told us to be gentle and let you rest. Think Si wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and keep you at arms length for the rest of your life..”

“Simon’s being mean. He doesn’t like me..”

“That’s not true…” - “yeah it is”

Johnny and Kyle stay in my nest and we continue to cuddle and scent together for a while. I start to feel a little better after their constant promises that Simon and John aren’t mad at me and that they still want me. I feel a little more reassured.

“I - I have a question..?”

“What is it ‘mega..?”

“When I.. when I had my scent patches on… did you notice..? Because I mainly put them on because Simon has always said I stink… but you two and John never seemed too bothered by my scent. Or… lack of scent… I guess…”

“It’s not that we weren’t bothered by your scent, love..” Kyle starts. “-it’s damn near addicting once we get a whiff of it, Bonnie”

“You just had a very subtle scent. It slowly started to get thicker, ever so slightly, but I guess we didn’t notice as much with the scent patches because we weren’t with you.. you went off with Simon, remember… but.. when we found you on the street, surrounded by those cops and you’d gone feral… when the scent patches were taken off, your scent is stronger than ever… hit me like a fuckin’ train…”

“S’stronger..?” I ask, shyly..

“Yeah. Stunk of distressed Omega at first.. thought it wis’ just cos you went feral… thought it’d go back to like is wis before but it hasnae. Smell as sweet as a cherry pie, little lass.”

Johnny makes his point clear when he presses his nose into my scent glands and groans appreciatively. “Oi Johnny.. don’t be greedy!” Kyle laughs jealously.

I giggle but present my neck to Kyle to allow him some space to enjoy my new found scent.

“Love..” he growls lowly .. “you can’t just present your neck to an Alpha like that.. fuck”

He clearly struggles to restrain himself from jumping at me there and then.

“Aye lass, walking a wobbly tightrope doin’ that in front of us, ya little minx you…” Johnny grumbles from behind.

“You both like my scent..?” I look for reassurance.

“Can’t get enough of it” Johnny mumbles.

“Sweet as I dreamt of..” Kyle sighs.

I smile, bashfully, at both the Alphas, pulling them both down to lay with me in my nest.

Johnny ends up being the big spoon, tucking himself tightly behind me, and Kyle faces me, cuddling me face to face. I tuck my head into the crook of his neck and wind my legs with Johnny’s, purring happily.

“M’ happy to be home with my Alphas. Would never run away from them.. ever…” are my last mumbled words before falling asleep, feeling safe, happy and wanted.

[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?

[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!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Ms Raven! I have a question about the research you're doing on the type of people and the relationship of their interest with the twst OB. Is there a quota of answerees that you try to meet or do you have a deadline for when you plan to close the survey? I'm just curious if there's a specific time frame we can count on in receiving the results of your study.

[Referencing this survey!]

As of my reply to this ask, we’ve already collected over 800 responses!! 🥳 It’s been less than a week since the survey form went public, so it’s been really exciting seeing this level of engagement and interest.

The survey form will still be accepting responses until July 15th. Ideally, we’d like to hit at least 1000 responses (which I think we’re well on our way towards). Even if we do meet our goal, we’ll happily accept as many responses as we can get before the deadline. BIG NUMBER GO BRRRRRRRRRR and also a larger sample size makes our data stronger 💪

Between now and July 15, we’re throwing together a template and model that will crunch the numbers for us when the data is prepared. This is because the final report will NOT be just pie charts and bar graphs showing the OB boy rankings; we will actually be using various statistical tests to compare the variables while accounting for potential confounding factors.

Once the form closes, we’ll move into the next phase, which will involve doing a sweep to “clean up” the data (ie throw out invalid responses, translate open-ended questions that have been written in languages other than English, standardize short responses so they all read the same (ie America/U.S./USA/United States of America -> USA), etc.). The cleaned data is what will be plugged in for analysis.

When the analysis is done, we’ll be in the writing phase. The average Joe will not be able to understand what these numbers, percentages, graphs, and tests mean. The hope is to produce a final report that is divusee up into sections like a research paper but is also fun + easy to read and understand. We plan to include an introduction, our methodology (why did we choose this test and these questions, how did we clean the data, etc.), results, discussion, conclusions, contributor credits, and even what we could theoretically do better next time.

Altogether, this process could take at least a few weeks (and that’s not counting time for editing and rewrites). If all goes well and there aren’t any unexpected bumps in the road, we can anticipate the full report being out in late August, maybe September. No promises though!! There’s various people involved, a lot of moving parts to account for, and, of course, a lot of data to play around with. At the end of the day, we want to make sure we know what we’re talking about before we pass that information along to the rest of the fandom!