#all he wants is to protect the people he loves

[p1girlfriend]

oscar piastri x emotional/sensitive!reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

content: fluff, comfort, love language overload, emotional vulnerability, soft protective oscar vibes.

– Oscar doesn’t say much when he first realizes how sensitive you are, but he notices everything. Every flicker in your expression, the slight change in your tone, the way your eyes gloss over when you're overwhelmed — he picks up on all of it, silently adjusting his behavior to make you feel safer.

– He never tells you to "calm down" or "stop crying." Never. If you cry, he just pulls you into him, strokes your back with slow, steady movements, and lets you fall apart in peace. He’ll whisper things like, “I’m right here,” or “It’s okay, you can cry,” while tucking his chin over your shoulder.

– You're the type to get overwhelmed by good and bad emotions — like, you cry watching underdog wins or get quiet when people are too loud or aggressive. And Oscar? He becomes your human noise-canceller. Just a calm hand on your thigh under the table, or a glance across the room like, “You okay?”

– He sends you voice notes when you're having a rough day. They're short and calm, always starting with a little sigh like, “Hey… I know today’s been a lot,” and ending with a soft, “I love you, alright? I’ll be home soon.”

– The way he holds you when you’re sad. Not tight, but firm. Like he’s grounding you. His hoodie sleeves are long and cozy, and he always lets you hide your face in them. He’ll wrap his arms around your head and let you stay there for as long as you need.

– You’re super expressive when you're happy too — jumping up and down after good news, tearing up because you’re proud of someone, always wearing your heart on your sleeve — and he adores it. Quiet little smirks when you’re telling a story passionately, just looking at you like you’re magic.

– You overthink things sometimes, and Oscar knows better than to say “don’t worry.” Instead, he sits beside you, legs touching, and goes, “Let’s talk it out.” He listens until you get to the real reason you’re upset — and then helps you untangle it with calm logic and gentle validation.

– He remembers the things that make you feel better. That one tea you like when you're spiraling. The way you like your hand held (fingers laced, always). Your favorite soft blanket. The playlist that calms you down. And sometimes, he prepares them without you asking, just… because he knows it’s coming.

– He doesn't get uncomfortable when you're emotional in public. If you're crying in a restaurant or anxious in a crowd, he doesn’t get flustered — he just focuses on you. One arm around your back, shielding you. A soft “Want to leave?” whispered near your ear.

– One time, you said “sorry for being too much,” and he got visibly upset. Not at you, but at the idea that you thought that. He held your face in both hands and went, “You are never too much for me.” And you believe him, because he means it.

– He never teases you for being sensitive. Not even lightly. To him, your softness is a strength. Your big feelings, your empathy, the way you care deeply about everything — it’s part of what makes you you. And he’s obsessed with that.

– Your softness doesn’t make him uncomfortable — it grounds him. It reminds him to slow down, to feel more, to appreciate things. He tells you that all the time. Like, “You make me feel more human.”

– And when he’s upset or stressed? You give him that same safe space. No pressure, no fixing. Just open arms and soft silence. He doesn’t talk much, but your presence alone pulls the knots from his chest. He once said, “You're the calm after the storm, always.”

©p1girlfriend

[teaboot]

Have you had other cats before Ollie? If so, what can you tell us about them?

Thomas was a black cat who slept in my crib when I was a baby. Hated everyone except me and my papa, would attack anyone who came to wake me up. By the time I turned four I was horribly allergic to him and we had to send him to live with family. Never saw him again. Rags was a long-furred bright orange barn cat I only ever saw a handful of times behind my grandma’s house.

Pretty Kitty was half-feral, but by far the most beautiful barn cat we had. A lovely long-haired Siamese type girl with big blue eyes. Shy but gentle.

Monday was a little runty black kitten I gave away at a festival, because I had a box full of kittens who needed homes fast.

Skippy broke his leg as a kitten, and for the rest of his life ran with his back legs together like a jumping bunny. He would play fetch with a ball and bring it back to you after you threw it. My dad hit him with his car one day and never told me.

Arthur was a short-haired orange cat who would meet me at he end of the driveway after school every day and walk me to my bus stop every morning. He had big yellow eyes and would swipe Angel-wing marks onto ground-floor windows with his paws. He went into the fenced backyard when the dogs were out and Penny, the youngest, killed him.

Garfield was another orange-furred cat. I don’t remember much about him, but he got in a fight with a dog and ran away and I never saw him again.

Stumpy was an ancient brick shithouse of a brown tortie with had little tufted ears and á bobbed tail, and half my life she was pregnant or nursing new kittens. She was famously short-tempered and especially protective of her babies, and once swiped one of the sheepdog puppies across the nose for getting too close and spooked him so bad he was terrified of cats the rest of his life. I once saw her catch, kill, and devour an entire rabbit, bones and all.

G*psy was an unfortunately-named sweetheart, white with black spots, who was my absolute best friend for the longest time. Eventually she had two kittens, one I gave to family and one that went to live with my papa. One day I realized she’d disappeared, and spent six months looking for her. Then I found out that an eagle had carried her off, and my grandpa had found half of her left behind in a field and hadn’t had the heart to tell me.

Bobbi and Fritz were two cats whose names I may be misremembering, left behind when an old lady in town had died without assigning them to anyone in her will. My mom wound up giving them to me to take care of. I don’t remember what happened to Fritz, but I went to feed Bobbi one morning and found her dead in her litter box.

Franklin was an emaciated-looking orange bastard who was 17 when I got him. Again, his owner had passed away before he could, so I wound up with him. He was pretty clearly depressed and would sometimes attack me at random, wrapping himself around my leg and biting the shit out of me. He passed away the morning we were about to leave for a road trip so he spent several weeks in a paper bag in our freezer before I could bury him.

Fireside Al was a semi-feral barn cat who would have been an excellent lap cat, if he wasn’t in a perpetual state of mild claustrophobia. The deal was he’d come into the house and STAY in the house for as long as the front door was open, but as soon as you tried to close the door he’d cry and wail and generally pitch á fit before zoning out again at the soonest chance. As per the name, his favourite spot was on the warm bricks in front of the cast-iron wood stove.

Ashley was a black and white cat and a massive bitch who hated everyone and everything except my dad. She never did gain weight, was like a bag of sticks under a rug her whole entire life, was scared of small rodents and hated babies. All she ever wanted was to bite people and be left alone.

Monty survived losing all his teeth, two major ear infections that left both ears tiny and shriveled, dementia, some sort of seizure disorder, cancer, a house fire, and something that made him spontaneously pee blood sometimes. He passed away peacefully in his sleep at 21 years old. Until that point, the joke was that all his various conditions and diseases had neutralized each other in their fight for dominance. My mom once heard him cough, asked him if he was okay, and then watched him hack up a tooth. He drooled when he was happy and smelled like garbage, his skin was crusty and full of cysts, and near the end sometimes he would get confused and end up lost somewhat in the house, or forget who the other cats were and attack them. He was a very good boy and we miss him.

Cookie is 30lbs and silky-soft like a chinchilla. He is also largely blind due to a disease he got as a kitten, and can only see vague shadows and bright lights because he somehow has two optic nerves in each eye. We found out when he first went blind and then seemed to miraculously regain some vision- seems like his tiny spare mutant nerves worked as a backup. I once watched him sit on another cat and eat its food. He’s doing great

Petra is probably 4.5 pounds soaking wet and launches herself from person to person like a flying squirrel. She is a soft blue-grey princess my brother’s boss found in a ditch on the side of the road. Every photo of her looks insanely glamorous.

Otis was my big baby who kept me alive through college. I brought him home and kept him in my room in secret for two weeks before my younger brother narc’d. At one point my dad told me if I didn’t get rid of him he’d kill him, so I took him out into the woods myself and set up camp in the old family home we’d abandoned years back. Then he moved out with me when I was 17 and went to college. He’s a crochety old man now and lives with my mom.

Tyler is my brother’s cat. He stole her by accident. Before then she was kind of shared by his whole neighborhood, until she showed up injured at his house. She is now “the biggest bitch alive, I love her so much”, to quote him. She hates all other forms of life and only really tolerates my brother.

Cleo was also my brother’s, but she passed away recently due to age and health reasons. He used to be solid muscle like Stumpy but developed a thyroid issue of some kind where her body just could not retain weight. She was very spoiled in her golden years though, and once declared terminal was pretty much given Doritos on demand (she fucking loved Doritos)

Not a complete list but these are the ones I think of most. If you can take away anything from this, please don’t let your cats free-roam unsupervised. Even barn cats, with a whole barn for shelter and an actual job to perform, don’t last long outdoors.

Much appreciated.

[bilboyagathechickenfootedhobbit]

I would love nothing more than for my kid to have the same freedom I had growing up but I can’t even let him bike ahead of me in our quiet, private neighborhood out in the country without people freaking the fuck out. I can’t let him play in the cul-de-sac at the end of our street without someone calling child protective services. I can’t let him walk down the street to his cousins house by himself even though that’s the reason my brother and his family moved in down the road.

Do people really think parents WANT to keep their kid with them 24/7??? I love my kid. I also want him to learn independence and resiliency and problem solving, but I can’t DO THAT unless people STOP CALLING FUCKING CPS ON ME EVERY GODDAMN TIME I BLINK AND LOSE SIGHT OF MY KID FOR A FRACTION OF A FUCKING SECOND!!!

Fuck, when I was his age my brother and I had a dozen different hide-outs and forts on the mountain in front of our house. We had a Millenium Falcon and an Ewok village and we only stayed indoors long enough to sleep and eat and then we BOLTED and our mom didn’t see us until dusk. Maybe we went down the road to a friends house, maybe we ran around the desert all day, maybe we went to the creek and swam, maybe we biked and explored, maybe we blew shit up. But it didn’t MATTER, because all the kids were running free and feral and if some unsavory adult came creeping along we ran until we were safe and then we laughed so loud it scared the mountain lions away.

I wish children could have the freedom we had in the 80’s. People complain about younger generations being soft and their parents being helicopter parents but it’s usually these same fucking assholes calling the authorities on me when my kid scooters ahead of me by half a block.

Let kids LIVE. Trust parents to know their kids well enough to assign them freedoms based on their ability to handle it. My nephew is a daredevil with no sense of self-preservation or stranger danger. Naturally his parents can’t give him too much freedom because he has literally tried to go home with other families from the playground. My son is hardcore about stranger danger and has no problem telling strangers to not talk to him and knows how to get help if he feels endangered. I can trust him to make safe choices. I could give him more freedoms if society allowed it. Trust parents to know their children and their abilities better than you, a fucking stranger with their itchy finger on 911 speed dial.

This is a legitimate and damaging cultural shift for all involved parties and it needs to be addressed.

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: you've been sent of a mission where the anomaly transforms into your ideal partner to disarm you.

COMMENTS: some pre relationship mutual pining ... i had this idea a while ago and finally wrote it T0T I CANT FIND THE POST WHATEVER

TAGLIST: @as1iiiwhaa @astralsocfactory

Jin blinks, looking mildly surprised for the first time in his life. Your ideal partner...looks and acts exactly like him? It throws him off his game for a second, enough for the anomaly to close the gap. Jin strikes faster, sending the anomaly flying. He’s going to have to talk to you about this.

Tohma raises a brow, looking rather smug as you avoid his gaze. He can tell you’re embarrassed, shrinking in on yourself as you try to throw the anomaly off your trail. It coos sweet words to you, trying to coax you closer—and Tohma can’t have that, now can he?

Luca gets flustered almost immediately when he finds himself staring at a carbon copy of himself. Now is hardly the time to ask if you like him, but...do you? He springs into action, fighting against himself in order to protect you. There’s no way he’s going to let anything hurt you. Especially something that looks like him.

Kaito shrieks when he sees himself, and honestly doesn't register what it means at first. It takes him staring at the ceiling during the night HOURS later for it to click. He starts rapid fire texting you about it, absolutely blowing up the phone asking for clarification. Good luck Kaito!

Alan gets a little flustered but ultimately thinks that there’s been some kind of mistake. He rushes for the anomaly and takes it down. There’s no way he’d let anyone or anything put their hands on you. He won’t ask you what that was about, but he will think about it occasionally...you’re going to have to bring it up yourself.

Sho raises a brow at the anomaly before looking straight at you. You’re babbling nonsense that sounds like excuses but he just goes in for the kill, neutralizing the anomaly so it returns to its former form. Will ask you, “So hey, why did that anomaly turn into me?” and get way too amused when you try to explain.

Leo doesn’t say shit. He takes down the anomaly and then turns to you, raising a brow as if he expects you to say something. once you’re back at Darkwick and haven’t said a word, he’ll text you to come over and look through the case report with him, only to ask you if you have a crush on him “or something.”

Haru looks shocked for a split second. The transformation genuinely catches him off guard. Knowing that the anomaly considers him your dream guy after digging around in your subconscious is flattering, if that even is true! Sometimes anomalies will try to confuse people! He’s hopeful, but a little oblivious...please help him.

Towa is elated! If the anomaly turned into him, that must mean you love him too, right? There's no need for delay anymore. He takes down the anomaly swiftly, and scoops you into his arms not a second later. There's no debating it now, you are most definitely his soulmate and he's going to cherish you for the rest of your days! (Till death do you part...)

Ren tries really hard to mask his blush with disgust. He's acting like a preteen when he goes “um, what the fuck. do you like me or something?” PLEASE don't let him fool you. If he does end up hurting your feelings he's gonna apologize (nonverbally) because hey, he does really like you. He just...wanted to be the one to say it, and not because of  some stupid anomaly.

Taiga gets a shit eating grin on his face the second the anomaly shifts. He has figured out exactly what it is and what it does—but don’t get distracted by his fake, kitty cat. He’ll be offended if a shitty fake is enough to sway your heart from the real thing. Chances are, Taiga opens fire and destroys the anomaly single handedly.

Romeo doesn’t mention it at all. He’ll take down the anomaly with a fiery explosion and check in on you to make sure you’re doing okay (mentally AND physically.) He’s silent the rest of the way back to Darkwick, which is not normal for him at all. If you feel brave, you can bring it up—he knows the two of you have things to talk about.

Ritsu doesn’t quite know how to react. On one hand, he’s so happy that you see him the same way he sees you, but on the other hand...how can he be sure that the anomaly isn’t attempting to cause confusion and discord within the group? It could be targeting his desire for you and framing you, in a way... Rest assured, once the mission is over, he is asking you for clarification on your feelings for him, and confessing his own.

Subaru jumps into action, taking down the anomaly before it can ever properly transform. Don’t be misled, he absolutely knew what it was going to turn into—or rather, who. He will overthink how to bring it up after the mission or if he even should, until he relays the tale of your mission to Zenji and Haku and the former blurts out “so the anomaly shifted into Subaru!? Goodness!” before he can say it himself.

Haku wants to tease you about it so bad, and rest assured, he will. The number one priority right now is making sure that you’re safe, however. Teasing can wait! Once the anomaly has been taken down, Haku slides up next to you and wraps an arm around your waist. Don’t hide from him now, princess. You’ve got some explaining to do.

Zenji notices, in the back of his mind, that the anomaly’s interpretation of your perfect partner looks a lot like him. You’d be a fool to think that that is going to throw him off when your life's on the line though! Him and his brother-doll and in front of you in a flash, defending you from the anomaly. Once the mission is over, he may ask you about it, a spring in his step(?) as he floats through the air.

Edward already knew you liked him—whether you wanted him to or not. The anomaly transforming into him in order to sway you is more flattering than he thought it would be, though. Ed had no idea he had this much influence on you! After the mission is over, you two should talk about this in private...just the two of you...

Rui will laugh it off initially, making jokes about how he didn’t know he was your dream man. On the inside, he’s freaking the fuck out—but he’s not going to let you know that. You’re his precious Inspector, so he will defend you till the very end...but is it so selfish to want you to feel the same as him?

Lyca doesn’t exactly understand the implications of the anomaly turning into him at first. When it tries to smooth talk you, he gets even more confused, shouting about how this anomaly can’t even act like him! Rest assured, he takes it down for you, snarling and grumpy the whole way back to Darkwick. For some reason, he doesn’t like the idea of someone getting that close to you...

Yuri starts screaming for Jiro to do something the second it starts to transform, but his voice gets caught in his throat when the anomaly transforms into him. His eyes are wild, looking from it to you, and you have half a mind to bury a hole and climb inside. Neither of you say anything after the anomaly has been neutralized—it's up to Jiro to break the silence with a “so your ideal partner is Yuri?”

Jiro blinks, his face unreadable as the anomaly shifts. He looks at you, sees how horrified you are—and immediately takes out his chainsaw. Rest assured, you won’t have to worry about that anomaly anymore, just the fact that Jiro was able to gut himself with no hesitation. He won’t even ask you about it on the way back to Darkwick, figuring that the anomaly wasn’t being truthful and only trying to sow discord...until studies prove otherwise.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Okay, uhm *kinda thunderbolts spoilers ahead*

Can I please request something with (beefy thunderbolts) Bucky Barnes and a shy sweet female reader (maybe grumpy x sunshine)

With the prompts: “hell, okay shit that actually really fucking hurts.”, “just let me help you... please”

Valentina brought the reader to the tower as a new team member. The reader has healing powers and is so shy but kind and polite, everyone likes her. Bucky and the reader are falling for each other but of course they are not admitting it. Like glances from the other side of the room and the reader is so flustered. Somehow Bucky gets her to talk more and more (when the reader feels safe and trusts him, she talks like a waterfall) and they become friends.

Later the team is send to a mission and the enemies attacking the reader and Bucky runs infront of her to protect her and gets shot, then he fights with one of the the enemy. When he turns around to the reader (to check if she is okay) he gets distracted and Bucky gets stabbed. He fell to his knees and Alexei brings Bucky and the reader to the tower and went back to the others.

The reader brings Bucky to her room and is cleaning his wounds at first and takes care of him. Bucky notices that her hands are shaking and her eyes are full with tears (the reader thinks it's her fault but it's really not). He is comforting her and soothes her and she starts to heal him.

A moment later he is so caring and soft and they confess their feelings to each other 🥺❤️

I'm so sorry I got carried away, tell me if it’s too detailed or if you want an other scenario

Thank you so much 😌❤️

Not Your Fault » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Female Reader with the Thunderbolts

Summary: Bucky gets injured while he’s trying to protect you during a mission and you feel like it’s your fault and he assures you that it’s not your fault.

Warnings: Fluff, language, flirting, blood, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: @jackys-stuff-blog thank you for the lovely request🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckyys-babydoll / divider made by me

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

You nervously fidgeted with your fingers as you rode the elevator to the main room of the tower with Valentina. You got startled a little bit by the ding of the elevator when the doors opened. You followed Valentina out of the elevator and into the main room where there was a small group of people. The Thunderbolts gathered around when they seen Valentina.

“What do you want, Valentina?” Yelena asks with annoyance in her voice.

“I have a new team member for you guys.” Valentina says.

They looked over at you. You gave them a shy smile and a small wave. Valentina nudged you with her shoulder as a way of telling you to introduce yourself to them.

“I’m Y/N.” You finally introduced yourself to them.

“Enjoy your new team member.” Valentina says.

The Thunderbolts watched Valentina leave before turning their attention back to you. They all introduced themselves to you. They’re all really nice to you, but you still feel shy around them, which they don’t mind.

“Do you have powers or abilities we need to know about?” Yelena asks.

“I have healing powers.” You tell them.

“So you can heal cuts and stuff like that?” John asks.

“That’s what healing powers do, Walker.” Ava says.

Bucky was staring at you with heart eyes as you shyly talked to everyone. He thinks your shyness is cute.

“Would you like a tour of the place?” Bucky asks.

You nodded and smiled. Bucky showed you all around the tower, showing you to your bedroom last.

“And this is your room.” Bucky says as you followed him in the room.

“Where’s your room?” You curiously asked.

“My room is right next door.” He says, pointing to the right.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound weird or creepy. I was just curious.” You nervously rambled.

“It’s ok. I don’t think it’s weird or creepy at all. You’re welcome to come to my room at anytime of the night if you need anything late at night.” He says.

“Ok.” You replied softly and shyly.

“Do you have any questions?” He asks.

“Not right now, but I’ll let you know if I do.” You answered.

———

It didn’t take you long to adjust to living in the tower. Bucky made it easier for you to adjust too. Everyone loves you, especially Bucky. You hangout and talk to him more than the rest of the team. You and him have become best friends with the short amount of time you’ve been living there. He has gotten you to come out of your shell a little bit. Once he gets you talking, you don’t stop talking. Bucky listens to every word you say with the look of adoration on his face. Also, you have a huge crush on Bucky and he feels the same way about you, but neither of you have admitted to it yet. The team has noticed it too.

Right now, you and Bucky are watching movies. Actually, you fell asleep in the middle of the third movie. So did Bucky. Bucky woke up to the TV lighting up the living room and you snuggled up against him. He smiles at you before checking the time on his watch. It’s later than either of you expected. Bucky shut the TV off and picked you up bridal style, carrying you to your bedroom. He gently laid you down on your bed and covered you up with a blanket. In your sleep, you reached a hand out and grabbed Bucky’s arm before he could walk away. He decided to stay in your room for the night. There’s no harm in that, right? It’s just for one night. Bucky got in bed next to you and protectively wrapped his arms around you.

“Goodnight, doll.” Bucky whispers softly and kisses your cheek.

———

A few days later, you, Bucky, and the team had to go on a mission. You guys had a meeting before it and then suited up. During the mission, Bucky tried his best to protect you and do his part of the mission at the same time. While you were doing your part of the mission, Bucky sees someone aiming their gun at you. His eyes went wide and he ran over to you, shielding you from the bullet. Bucky got shot while he was shielding you from the bullet. Then he turned around to check on you. You had a look on your face like you were about to start freaking out.

“Are you ok, doll?” Bucky asks softly.

“I-I am now.” You stuttered in a shaky voice. “I didn’t see that guy.” You say.

“It’s ok. It happens.” He says.

You nodded. While Bucky was making sure you were ok, he wasn’t paying attention to anything around him. The guy who tried to shoot you, walked over to you and Bucky, stabbing him next to where he was shot. Your eyes widened in horror as he fell to his knees in pain.

“Bucky!” You screamed.

You dropped to your knees to check on him. You looked down to see his hand on his lower abdomen. You seen blood seeping behind his fingers. Your eyes teared up. Bucky noticed.

“Don’t cry, babydoll. I’m fine.” Bucky manages to say and then winces in pain.

“You’re bleeding.” Is all you say.

Alexei wasn’t too far from where you and Bucky are when he saw Bucky on his knees and in pain. He ran over to you guys. Without asking what happened, Alexei helped Bucky up and took him back to the tower. You followed beside them. Alexei took Bucky to your bedroom and helped him in your bed.

“Thank you, Alexei.” You say.

“You’re welcome, Y/N.” Alexei replies.

Alexei left your bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him. You got the first aid kit from your bathroom and sat down on the bed next to Bucky. Normally, Bucky can tolerate pain, but it hurts a lot more this time than it did in the past.

“Hell, ok, shit. That actually fucking hurts.” Bucky groans in pain, his hand still on his abdomen where he got shot and stabbed.

“Just let me help you… please?” You say softly.

Bucky nods and takes his hand off his abdomen. He leans up just enough to take his shirt off, wincing in pain as he did so. Your eyes teared up again when you see where he was shot and stabbed. You started with wiping the excess blood from his wounds and then put alcohol on both wounds so they didn’t get infected.

“Fuck!” He winces at the sting of the alcohol.

As you continued to clean his wounds, you couldn’t help but feel like this is your fault. If you have seen that guy who did this to Bucky, he wouldn’t be in this position right now. Bucky looks down, watching you clean his wounds, noticing that your hands are shaking. He also seen tears in your eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong, babydoll?” Bucky asks softly, putting his hand on your arm.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m so sorry.” You apologized profusely, your voice cracking and tears rolling down your cheeks.

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, doll.” He says.

“Yes I do. This is my fault. This shouldn’t have happened to you. I should’ve been paying attention.” You say.

Bucky props himself up on his vibranium elbow and cups your cheek with his right hand, wincing in pain as he sat up.

“I want you to listen to me when I say this, ok?” He begins. “This is not in any way your fault.” He assures softly.

“It feels like it.” You say.

“It could’ve happened to any one of us. If this happened to you, I would’ve dropped everything to patch you up.” He says softly. “I want you to understand that this is not your fault, ok?” He assures softly again.

“Ok.” You replied in a whisper.

Bucky wiped your tears away while looking deep in your eyes. Something about staring in Bucky’s blue eyes felt calming to you. He leaned up more and kissed you passionately. Now you definitely feel calmer. It’s like every worry you had in you left your body the second you felt Bucky’s soft lips on yours.

“How do you feel now?” Bucky asks softly.

“Calmer.” You answered softly.

“Good.” He replies softly.

Bucky lays back on the bed so you can finish cleaning up his wounds.

“I’m going to heal you now, ok?” You say softly.

“Ok.” Bucky replies.

“It shouldn’t hurt.” You say.

Bucky nods and looks down, watching as you hovered your hands over his wounds. A bright light shines in your hands as you healed his wounds. It took a few seconds to heal his wounds and then he was good as new and not in pain anymore. You moved your hands away to check the area of his abdomen where his wounds were. The wounds weren’t there anymore. He’s healed.

“How do you feel?” You asked.

“I’m not in pain anymore.” Bucky says.

“Good. That’s good.” You say softly.

You cleaned up everything and put away the first aid kit. Bucky noticed your hands were shaking again and your eyes were tearing up.

“Hey, look at me.” Bucky whispers. “I’m fine now.” He whispers again.

“I thought you were going to die before I got the chance to tell you that I love you.” You say, your voice cracking and your eyes tearing up again.

“You love me?” He asks, making sure he heard you right.

You nodded and sniffled.

“I love you too, doll.” Bucky says softly, cupping your cheeks.

You smiled when he said that. Bucky dips his head down to kiss you. This kiss had more passion in it than the first kiss.

“Be mine?” He asks in almost a whisper.

“I would love to be yours, Bucky.” You say softly.

Bucky smiles and kisses you once more.

“Thank you for healing me.” He says softly.

“You don’t have to thank me, Bucky. I would’ve healed you no matter what.” You say with a smile.

-Bucky’s Doll

[a-casxandra]

❝𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗧 𝗠𝗘.❞

Caleb x you [non-mc] | Caleb x mc

𝑺𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔 : After the war ends and the world is declared wanderer-free, you wait for the man who promised to return—Caleb, your over and a colonel with gravity powers. But he never comes back. Years later, you finally met again.. but things were different. He's Alive. Older. With no memory of you. Now, watching him smile at another, living the life you once dreamed of, you're left with only one question: 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱—𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀?

"Do you really have to go?"

Your voice barely carries through the heavy silence of your shared quarters. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling, knuckles white as you clutch his glove. Caleb turns at the door—tall, imposing in his colonel’s uniform—yet softened by the tenderness in his eyes as he looks at you.

You already talked about this. Pleaded. Asked him to resign. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“This is my duty,” he’d said. “My dream. I want to protect you—so you could live without having to worry about wanderers. to everyone else too."

You remember how his arms wrapped around you that night. How he whispered promises against your skin. "I’ll come back to you. I always do."

So you let him go.

And you waited.

The world descended into chaos. Wanderers roamed freely, grotesque echoes of corrupted Evol energy. Evolvers fought back—Caleb among them. The government ordered a lockdown. Civilians were instructed not to interfere. Rations were delivered. Streets emptied. Skies darkened.

But you waited.

Weeks became months. Months turned into years.

You blamed yourself more often than not.

You were powerless—just a civilian. No Evol, no strength, no use.

All you could do was survive.

All you could do was wait.

Then, the world declared itself Wanderer-Free.

The war was won. The streets opened again.

And Caleb...

Didn’t come back.

You went to the Farspace Fleet. Demanded answers.

They told you he was missing. Then, days later—presumed dead.

Just another name on a long list of the lost.

You didn’t believe it. You refused to believe it.

You waited still.

Two Decades Later – Winter, Linkon City

You’re 42 now. You look it too—lines softening your once-youthful face, silver threads starting to braid into your long, uncut hair. Hair he once trimmed for you. You never let anyone else touch it.

People asked you to move on. Some even tried to love you. You turned them away.

How could you let go of a love that never said goodbye?

Then you met her—MC.

A kind woman who recently moved to Linkon City. Around your age. Warm-hearted. Glowed when she spoke of her son, and her husband.

You liked her. You liked the boy, too. Ten years old. Bright eyes.

But the first time you saw him, your heart stuttered.

He looked familiar. Too familiar.

You told yourself it was just your imagination.

Today – Outside the Library

“Mom! Dad is here!” the boy calls out as he runs toward the man waiting by the curb.

MC laughs. “Ah, my dear’s here.”

She turns to you. “Come! Let me introduce you—this is my husband—”

Your world stops.

“Caleb...?”

You don’t mean to say it aloud. But it spills from your lips before you can catch it.

The man—taller, older, refined with age but unmistakably him—blinks, puzzled. “Do we… know each other?”

MC tilts her head. “Oh? You two know each other?”

You force a shaky smile, swallowing the sob clawing at your throat. “...Childhood friends,” you lie. “We were childhood friends.”

Caleb’s brows knit slightly, and then he offers a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry… I had amnesia. During the war. Some memories never came back. If we were close… I’m sorry I can’t remember.”

MC gasps softly. “That’s unexpected… but what a small world.” She beams at you. “I’m so glad you found someone from your past!”

Caleb smiles, warmer now. “It’s good to know I still have connections here. Even if I don’t remember them.”

“Maa! Let’s go home! It’s cold!”

The child tugs at his sleeve. Caleb chuckles and bends to lift him into his arms.

He turns to you one last time.

“Nice to meet you… again, I guess.”

And just like that, he walks away. Hand in hand with his wife. With their son.

With your dreams.

You stand frozen in place, the ghost of his smile seared into your memory.

“Yeah… it’s nice to see you again,”

you whisper, but your voice trembles. Cracks.

You don’t move, even as their silhouettes blur into the snowfall.

He’s alive. Caleb is alive.

And he doesn’t remember you.

He built a new life. New love. New child.

You should’ve been in her place. It should’ve been your family.

But you can’t hate her.

She didn’t steal him—she simply loved him in your absence.

And he…

He loved her the same way he once loved you.

And so, beneath the heavy silence of winter: “Maybe it’s time I accept the changes…” you whispered, as snow began to fall. But the wind carried no answer.

Just silence.

And still—you waited.

Not for him.

But for the day it would stop hurting.

You were once his future.

Now you’re just a whisper from a forgotten past.

And fate, cruel as ever, let you live to remember it.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : i just lost caleb to zayne, and i'm legit crying. because i already didn't got sylus's "where the heart lives" (i started playing during sylus's bday) and now i also didn't get caleb's birthday "no return night" so yeah, i'm gonna be petty and write caleb angst because i didn't get him.

[ghost-kings-court-jester]

Yes exactly like even the tragedy of someone mishandling their own prophecy leads to that person projecting all of that anger and resentment onto someone who has nothing to do with it other than they had similar names/philosophies and you would expect them to be completely different situations except they aren’t because Mei Nianqing is involved in both of them.

Like Shi Wudus family got a prophecy from Mei Nianqing.

They got told how to handle it and decided that that option the more prideful selfish angle was a better idea than listening to the prophecy. (By throwing a feast because of status/keeping the kingdom instead of immigrating to a new place) and while both these characters were children handling an overwhelming responsibility the way they refused to take any option but their own idea really highlights how similar they are.

Like Shi Wudu could have used his cultivation to train and defeat the reverent of empty words. He could have helped Shi Qingxuan hide again after his secret was released by just leaving their rich lifestyle and changing their names, he could have became a God and asked a Martial God for aid but he was to prideful to admit there was even a problem.

Jun Wu of course went about it a little differently he did ask for aid but he didn’t like the answers of move them, accept the loss which he refused to do.

So they became violent and prideful. They were willing to pay the price of any victim to get the path that they wanted and didn’t care about who they hurt in the process because it wasn’t about the people they were claiming to protect it was about their own pride and how they thought things should happen and when those things didn’t happen they completely crashed out.

Xie Lian wouldn’t become white no face. He Xuan refused to be forgotten. Both of them were shaped by what happens when a god sees mortals as as stand ins for their own ideals rather than people who can think and therefore out think them.

He Xuan has always felt like he would be what Xie Lian would have became if did turn calamity. He is smart and cunning and vengeful and yet he was still able to feel the weight of someone loving them and how that destroyed them.

He Xuan wasn’t happy in his revenge because Shi QingXuan suffered, Xie Lian couldn’t be a god again because Wu Ming suffered because unlike Jun Wu and Shi Wudu people matter to them.

He Xuan wasn’t just getting revenge for himself but the people he lost along the way but is unable to stop himself for caring about Shi Qingxuan (see giving him tests and the Ming-Xiong crash out) and Xie Lian still cares for the common people after everything he’s faced they were not broken by the hardships done to them. They can still love and hope and feel sympathy because they have so much empathy despite their intelligence but that didn’t matter in the traps that were set up for them.

Because it wasn’t about the people they were it was about what they represented.

The parallels in this story drive me insane.

Thinking again about how Xie Lian didn’t fail Xianle because it wasn’t a test but a trap. Every decision in that arc was manipulated to make the war as cruel and soul-destroying as possible. BWX failed his kingdom, and he saw a similarity in XL. He orchestrated every single moment of that downfall, pulling multiple puppet strings from 5 different angles and adding consequences to XL that only he had the power to hand out. Like he didn’t lose because he was arrogant or naive or wrong he lost because it there was genuinely no way he coulda won. It wasn’t a test it was a trap.

[hamilton-here]

Hey! I know requests are closed but I just had to send this before I forget it (you’re just the best, so I had to send it to you, you can save it for whenever you open requests again if you want, or just delete it).

So, my idea is (I got it when reading your latest story with the university professor), that Reader works in the education system and now has to work closely together with Lewis for his mission44 project to reform the education system.

Thank you so much! I hope you will better soon!

𝑅𝑒𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I finally moved into my new house but I’m still sick. I recently posted a Wattpad story that’s in the works(Account: hamilton-here) if you want to check it out. I hope you enjoy this request. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: You work in the education system and soon work with Lewis Hamilton on the Mission44 project. Feelings soon bloom between you two.

Warnings: slight slow-burn

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Room Where It Happens –

The familiar drone of the air conditioner in your tiny staff room was usually the loudest sound you heard all day, punctuated only by the distant echo of the school bell. Policy briefings, borough strategy sessions, education panels - they always started the same.

You’d be introduced, maybe even praised for your “invaluable frontline insights,” but within minutes the conversation would inevitably drift toward budgets, test scores, or some abstract bureaucratic concern far removed from the actual students you taught every day. You were used to being in rooms where people barely listened, where your voice was just another data point in a sea of well-meaning but ultimately hollow rhetoric.

So, when the Department for Education’s email landed in your inbox, proposing a “groundbreaking partnership with Mission 44,” you almost deleted it without a second thought. Another initiative. Another roundtable. Another well-intentioned man with a cause, usually accompanied by an entourage of handlers and a glossy brochure that promised the world and delivered very little. You’d learned to temper your expectations, to protect your heart from the inevitable disillusionment.

Except this time, the man was Lewis Hamilton.

A flicker of curiosity, quickly followed by a healthy dose of skepticism, made you open the email. The idea of Lewis Hamilton, a global icon, venturing into the labyrinthine world of education policy seemed almost fantastical. Still, you confirmed your attendance, half-expecting it to be a brief photo opportunity, a celebrity endorsement without substance.

The meeting was held in a modern glass conference room at the edge of Westminster, its sleek lines and panoramic views a stark contrast to the faded posters and chipped paint of your classroom. Your temporary badge, emblazoned with the Department for Education logo, had barely finished printing when someone, a harried young woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm, materialised beside you. Her voice was brisk, her eyes already scanning for her next task.

“They’re just about to start, you’re sitting beside Mr. Hamilton.”

You blinked. The words hung in the air, surreal and unexpected. “I’m sorry, beside?”

The woman didn’t pause, already gesturing down a wide, polished corridor. “He asked specifically for a frontline educator at the table. Said he didn’t want to do this without the people who actually know the system.” Her tone implied this was a perfectly normal, albeit slightly demanding, request from a VIP.

Your heart gave a sudden, heavy thud against your ribs. This wasn’t just a photo op. This was different. A nervous tremor ran through you as you followed her, the sound of your sensible shoes clicking on the marble floor suddenly amplified in the quiet grandeur of the building.

And then you stepped into the room.

There he was.

Dressed in tailored dark navy, a stark contrast to the casual tracksuits you’d seen him in on television. His braided hair was swept back from his face, revealing strong, thoughtful features. A small, elegant Mission 44 pin gleamed on his lapel. He was already seated at the head of a long, polished table, reviewing something on a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. But he looked up the moment you entered, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on you. His eyes steady, warm, intensely observant caught yours.

And suddenly, in that brief, impactful exchange, you saw something you hadn’t expected: not fame. Not ego. But intent. A profound, almost tangible purpose that seemed to emanate from him.

He stood as you approached, a natural, unhurried movement, extending a hand across the table. His grip was firm, reassuring.

“You must be the education lead from Brixton,” he said, his voice low and sincere, surprisingly devoid of any pretence. “I read about your inclusion pilot last year. It was brilliant, honestly.”

Your fingers closed around his, a little stunned. The scent of a subtle, expensive cologne reached you. “You read my report?” The words came out a little breathier than you intended.

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening the intensity in his eyes. “I asked for everything ahead of this meeting. Wanted to understand what’s already working.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “You’re actually the reason I insisted on today’s agenda.”

Your throat tightened. The usual preamble, the polite but dismissive nods, the subtle hints that your input was appreciated but ultimately secondary none of it happened. You weren’t used to being heard before you even spoke.

The meeting unfolded around you with government advisors with their crisp presentations, youth ambassadors with their earnest testimonies, data analysts poring over spreadsheets. At first, you still harboured the suspicion that Lewis might be a symbolic figurehead, someone there to lend celebrity clout to an otherwise standard policy discussion.

But then he started asking questions. Real ones. Not the kind that were rhetorical or designed to showcase his own knowledge, but genuine inquiries born from a desire to understand. And he listened not just politely, waiting for his turn to speak, but deeply. You could see it in the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes tracked the speaker, the subtle clench of his jaw.

When you spoke, your voice initially hesitant, about the disproportionately high exclusion rates for Black boys in Year 9, a statistic you knew intimately from your own school, you saw a profound shift in him. He looked furious. Not performative outrage, not the kind of fleeting anger politicians displayed for the cameras, but something deeply personal. Painful. Raw.

“I remember being pulled out of class for no reason,” he said at one point, his voice quieter, more reflective. “They said I was ‘disruptive.’ I was quiet. Just…different.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, a vulnerability that cut through the sterile atmosphere of the conference room. It was a raw, unscripted moment, and you felt something fundamental shift in the room. The air itself seemed to settle, hushed and attentive.

No one interrupted after that. The advisors, typically quick to interject with their own data points, remained silent.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when your voice stopped shaking, when your carefully prepared notes stopped mattering, becoming mere prompts for a more authentic dialogue but at some point, you realised Lewis was turning to you after almost every question.

Not the Secretary of State, whose department was spearheading the initiative. Not the Director of Inclusion, who had years of experience in policy. You.

“Would that work in practice?”

“What have you seen in your classroom?”

“Do you think it’s enough?”

It was both terrifying and thrilling to be taken so seriously, to have your lived experience elevated to the same level as, or even above, abstract policy frameworks. You found yourself speaking with an unprecedented clarity and conviction, drawing on years of classroom moments, of conversations with students and parents, of small victories and heartbreaking setbacks. You weren't just being heard; you were being relied upon.

After two intense hours, the meeting adjourned. The room buzzed with renewed energy as people began filtering out, chatting in small clusters. Some seized the opportunity to snap selfies with Lewis, who graciously obliged, his smile unfading.

You gathered your papers, a familiar sense of detachment starting to settle over you. This was just another meeting, albeit an unusual one. You’d go home, decompress, file a debrief. This wasn’t personal. It was—

“Hey,” a voice murmured beside you, startling you from your thoughts. “Can I steal a few more minutes of your time?”

You turned to find Lewis standing close, closer than felt appropriate for a mere acquaintance, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other fiddling with the Mission 44 badge on his lapel. The lingering scent of his cologne was subtle, yet distinct.

“I’m working on something separate,” he said, his gaze direct and unwavering. “A school initiative we haven’t launched yet. Grassroots. I want someone with field experience to co-design it. Someone who actually knows what works on the ground, not just in theory.”

You stared at him, the implications of his words slowly sinking in. “You want me?”

He shrugged lightly, a gesture that belied the intensity behind his eyes. “You’re not afraid to say hard things. You cut through the noise. I need that. Mission 44 isn’t just a name or a branding exercise - I want it to actually work. And I can’t do that with PR people or those who are just going through the motions.”

A pause, heavy with unspoken weight. Then, his voice softer, almost reflective:

“I meant what I said earlier. You made me feel heard today. Truly heard. I haven’t had that in years.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was a confession, an unexpected vulnerability that transcended the professional setting and touched something deeply personal.

“Okay,” you said, somehow keeping your voice steady despite the sudden surge of emotion. A profound sense of purpose, almost a solemn vow, settled over you. “Let’s design something that changes lives.”

He smiled and this time, it was a wide, genuine smile that reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. It was a smile of relief, of shared understanding, of genuine connection.

“I’ll have my team reach out,” he said, but then he hesitated, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But” he added, “I’d rather hear from you directly. If you’re okay with that.”

He handed you his phone, the screen already open to a new contact.

Your fingers brushed his as you typed your number in, a current passing between you both was subtle, barely perceptible, but undeniable. An electric hum that promised something more than just a professional collaboration.

And just like that, you were in.

Not just in the room. Not just another voice among many.

But in the heart of something real. Something profoundly impactful. Something that might just change everything.

The buzzing of your phone, two hours after stepping back into your quiet flat from the whirl of Westminster, was an unwelcome jolt. You were still in your work blazer, half a bowl of soggy cereal neglected on the coffee table, your mind replaying the day’s unexpected turn. Then you saw the name: Lewis Hamilton.

A single message: Hey. It’s Lewis. You were brilliant today. I meant what I said. Would you be free Friday to start mapping this out? Private planning session. No suits, no media. Just you and me and a whiteboard.

You read it twice, then a third time, the words blurring slightly as your hands began to tremble. This was happening. The casual tone, the directness, the invitation – it all felt surreal. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Friday, 3:04 p.m.

The Mission 44 workspace was a revelation. Forget the sterile corporate gleam you’d anticipated; this was a haven, a co-working sanctuary pulsating with quiet purpose. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with educational research and policy papers, colourful beanbags scattered near chalkboards, and long, communal tables that invited collaboration. It was vibrant, lived-in, and entirely unexpected.

Lewis was already there, a striking figure in a fitted black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. A worn notebook lay open beside a tray laden with oat milk lattes and a crinkling bag of vegan biscuits. He looked up as you entered, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Figured you’d need caffeine,” he said, gesturing to the drinks. “Also, I didn’t want to look unprepared.”

You raised a brow, a genuine smile forming. “You’re Lewis Hamilton. You could show up with glitter and no notes and still run the room.”

He laughed then, a rich, warm sound that held a touch of surprise. “Yeah, but I don’t want to just show up. I want to build something. With you.”

That phrase again. “With you.” It resonated in your chest, a strange, hopeful flutter.

The first hour flowed effortlessly. You plunged into the core of your shared passion, talking through the raw edges of lived experiences, your pens scratching furiously across notebooks as you scribbled down ambitious goals: reduce exclusion rates, build robust in-school mentorship programs, challenge systemic bias head-on. It was heady and focused, the kind of deeply resonant conversation you’d yearned for, the kind only possible with someone who truly gave a damn.

But as the second hour began, the atmosphere subtly shifted. The energy remained, but it deepened, becoming more personal, more vulnerable.

“I used to think I was the problem,” Lewis said suddenly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more reflective tone. His fingers absently turned his pen, a small, unconscious gesture. “Back then. At school. I’d get pulled out of class, sent home early, talked down to and I thought, maybe I was the troublemaker. Maybe it was something inherently wrong with me.”

You looked up, surprised by the intensity of his gaze, how carefully he was watching you, as if gauging your reaction.

“I didn’t have anyone who looked like me in authority. No teachers that understood. No one who told me I was allowed to be brilliant. No one who told me my potential wasn’t limited by their expectations.” He paused, his eyes distant for a moment, lost in memory. “Until I found racing.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, compelled by his candor. “That’s what we need to create,” you murmured, your voice low but firm. “A system that finds kids before they give up. Somewhere safe enough to truly see them, to nurture that brilliance, even if it looks different from what’s expected.”

He nodded slowly, a profound understanding passing between you. “Somewhere I would’ve felt like I belonged. Somewhere I wouldn’t have had to fight so hard just to be seen.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, a profound quietude that didn’t demand words. It was the kind of silence that held a deeper communication, a shared empathy that transcended spoken language.

You didn’t voice the ache in your throat, the fierce protectiveness that welled up as you imagined the little boy he used to be, yearning to reach back through time and tell him he was more than enough. Instead, you simply let the silence embrace that unspoken understanding for both of you.

By the third hour, the workspace had transformed into a dynamic hub of your collective thought. You’d pushed two tables together, the whiteboard was half-filled with intricate flowcharts and bold declarations, and your forgotten latte had been abandoned in favour of lukewarm water and pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

“That’s your third time referencing the 2022 SEND reforms,” Lewis observed, a grin spreading across his face. His eyes, bright with engagement, were fixed on you. “Are you always this passionate when you teach too?”

You mock-glared, a playful spark in your own eyes. “Only when I’m trying to stop vulnerable kids from getting permanently excluded because of bureaucratic red tape and systemic apathy.”

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face, his gaze never leaving yours. “I like that you don’t sugar-coat it. It makes people listen.”

“I don’t always want them to listen,” you admitted, your voice dropping, a flicker of weariness touching your tone. “Sometimes I just want them to care.”

Lewis was quiet for a beat, his expression softening. Then, simply: “I care.”

You didn’t mean to, but your gaze involuntarily dropped to his hands. Strong, steady hands, capable of incredible precision and power, now fidgeting subtly with the corner of his notebook.

He’d taken off a distinctive bracelet, and it lay on the table beside your own pen, your belongings blending together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When you looked back up, you found him still watching you. There was something there, unspoken, unacted upon, but undeniably there. A quiet recognition, a mutual awareness that hummed beneath the surface of your professional collaboration.

7:16 p.m.

You had completely lost track of time. The world outside the Mission 44 workspace had ceased to exist. Lewis only noticed the late hour when his phone vibrated – a dinner reminder, likely something formal and forgettable in his demanding schedule. He glanced at the screen, then deliberately ignored it, setting the phone face down.

“You hungry?” he asked, looking at you.

You blinked, emerging from the deep focus of your discussion. “For food?”

His lips twitched, a hint of amusement. “Unless you eat whiteboard markers when you’re low on blood sugar.”

You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound, shaking your head. “Yeah. I could eat.”

He stood, stretching slowly, his movements fluid and powerful. And God, his back flexed under the fitted black t-shirt, the graceful curve of his spine a testament to years of athletic discipline. You snapped your eyes away, hoping he hadn’t caught your inadvertent stare.

“There’s a Thai place two blocks down,” he said, his voice casual as he tossed you a dark hoodie. “Bring this. It’s freezing out there.”

You hesitated, the soft fabric warm in your hands. “I’m not cold.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes holding yours. “But I want you to wear it anyway.”

Something in his tone, a quiet insistence, made you comply. You slipped it on. It was soft, worn, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus, ink, and something warm and uniquely him that you couldn’t quite name.

The walk to the restaurant was quiet, but it wasn't awkward. It was a comfortable silence, filled with the lingering energy of your intense planning session. At one point, your hands brushed, and neither of you pulled away. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible contact, yet it sent a subtle current through you.

You told yourself it was the adrenaline, the lingering high of the project’s boundless potential. You told yourself it was nothing.

But then, as you sat across from him over shared bowls of fragrant curry, Lewis leaned in, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, as if the answer truly mattered more than anything else in the world: “Why did you say yes?”

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised by the question. “To the project?”

He nodded, his eyes searching yours, deep and steady. “To me.”

The air shifted, becoming thick with unspoken meaning. You swallowed, the weight of his gaze almost palpable.

“Because for the first time,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest, “someone with power asked not for my opinion, but for my partnership. And because I believe in this.” You paused, gathering your thoughts, and then, the words slipped out, raw and honest: “In you.”

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, as if you were something he hadn’t expected to find, a surprising, beautiful discovery. And maybe, in some profound way, you were.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The first time Lewis invites you to his flat, it's entirely innocent. Or at least, that's the narrative you meticulously construct for yourself. "It's just quieter there," he says, his voice a low murmur, as you both step out of another Mission 44 session – this one a vibrant but exhausting dialogue with passionate youth workers from Leeds and Manchester. "We'll get more done without people buzzing in and out."

You nod, perhaps a little too readily. "Yeah. Sure. Just work." But every fibre of your being is hyper-aware of the subtle ways he moves around you: the fractional pause as his hand hovers near your lower back when he opens the car door; the quiet intensity of his glances while you speak, as if the very cadence of your words holds as much significance as their meaning.

The flat is in Notting Hill, a hushed corner of London. It's tasteful, understated, bathed in the soft glow of natural light. This isn't the kind of place that screams celebrity; rather, it whispers sanctuary. It feels like a carefully curated retreat from the relentless gaze of the world.

"This place is beautiful," you murmur, stepping into a living room imbued with warm wood tones and eclectic framed prints. Your eyes drift to the bookshelf, a treasure trove of unexpected titles: sociology, philosophy, and poetry. You spot a few authors you adore some you've only ever discussed in hushed academic tones with fellow educators.

Lewis watches you quietly, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "I don't show many people this side of my life," he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You glance at him, a question forming on your lips. "Why me?"

He hesitates, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, but it's only for a moment. "Because I trust you." The words hang in the air, weighted with sincerity. It’s not just a statement; it’s an offering, a small, precious piece of himself, just real enough to mean everything.

You work. You actually work. The first hour is a whirlwind of focused energy: outlining a rough framework for the pilot programs, debating granular strategy points, meticulously identifying underserved boroughs to prioritise for intervention. The air is thick with ideas, shared ambition, and the satisfying scratch of pens on paper.

But somewhere between the fourth page of meticulously planning notes and the second round of steaming Earl Grey tea, the rigid professional facade begins to soften.

He's sitting opposite you on the floor, legs stretched out comfortably under the large coffee table, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

You’re cross-legged, a sprawl of papers surrounding you, notes scribbled in two distinct handwritings across a shared pad. The quiet that settles between you is comfortable, companionable. And maybe…close.

You find yourself explaining some esoteric point about community resilience models something technical, theoretical, pulled straight from a university lecture. He laughs, a sudden, delighted sound that ripples through the calm. It’s not mocking; it’s pure, unadulterated amusement.

“You sound like a research paper,” he says through a wide grin.

You blink, genuinely surprised by his reaction, then burst out laughing too, the sound echoing lightly in the room. “That’s because I am a research paper half the time.”

His laughter deepens, a rich, warm rumble, and for a precious moment, the intricate layers of work and ambition fall away. All that remains is the simple warmth of shared air, a profound mutual understanding, and a tantalising flicker of something neither of you dares to name.

When the laughter fades, the quiet that descends isn’t awkward. It's charged. You look up, and he’s already looking at you, his gaze steady, perceptive.

“Can I tell you something?” His voice is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s about to share a secret.

You nod, your breath catching in your throat, a sudden anticipation tightening your chest.

“I’ve never felt more seen than I do when I’m around you.”

You don't speak right away. The words land with too much weight, too much raw sincerity. He’s not flirting; he’s confessing. This is something deeper, more fundamental.

“I’m always…on,” he continues, his fingers absently tracing a soft crease in the page between you. “Every room I enter. Every lens pointed at me. Even when I’m fighting for change, there’s a performance in it. A pressure to be infallible, to have all the answers. But you… You don’t expect that from me. You expect truth. Just truth.”

You swallow, the honesty of his words resonating deeply within you. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted from people too.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, perhaps something even more profound, but instead, he simply nods, a silent acknowledgment passing between you.

The moment stretches, suspended in the soft afternoon light. You don’t reach across the space between you, though a powerful pull draws you. Neither does he. But something has irrevocably shifted. A deeper understanding has settled between you, a quiet tether that is no longer invisible, no longer merely implied.

You don’t stay too late. You finish your tea, the lukewarm liquid a grounding presence. You review the pilot proposal one last time, making a few final, crucial notes. And when you finally stand to leave, Lewis walks you to the door without a word, the shared silence comfortable, profound.

The city outside is hushed, a typical London night that hums with its own quiet breath, the streetlights casting long, soft shadows.

You turn, offering him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for letting me see this side of things.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. "It means more than I can say."

And just as your hand reaches for the doorknob, he says your name, a quiet utterance that halts your movement.

You pause, your heart giving a small lurch. When you look back, his gaze is steady, earnest, filled with an intensity that mirrors your own burgeoning feelings.

“I know it’s still early,” he says, his voice low, “But I meant it. Working with you it’s different. You get it. And that means everything.”

You nod once, a silent affirmation that carries a multitude of unsaid emotions. “It means everything to me too.”

The next few weeks blur into a relentless but exhilarating rhythm. You’re now co-leading the grassroots pilot, and the workload has tripled, but so, too, has the palpable sense of impact.

Your days are a whirlwind of meetings with government liaisons, policy teams, and school leaders. You speak on panels, articulate the project’s vision, and witness firsthand the ripples of change your work is creating. Lewis, true to his word, insists on being at every single one.

You find him in the crowd every time – arms crossed, a picture of focused concentration, his eyes fixed entirely on you, radiating a quiet pride.

Still, what happens off-stage, in the liminal spaces between official engagements, lingers more vividly than any public appearance. The long, reflective walks along the Thames after intense meetings, the city lights shimmering on the dark water.

The shared coffees on park benches, scribbling notes on napkins as you brainstorm solutions to unforeseen challenges. His voice on the phone at 1 a.m., calm and reassuring, after you’ve just finished reading a particularly devastating report on exclusion rates.

The way he listens – really listens – when you talk about your past, your deep-seated frustrations with systemic inequities, your quiet, fervent hope that this project will become something more than just politics, more than just another initiative. He listens with an intensity that makes you feel heard, understood, and valued in a way you hadn't realized you craved.

You never touch, not intimately. Not yet. But there are moments. Charged, lingering moments that hum with unspoken potential.

Like the time your fingers brush as you pass him a critical note during a high-stakes meeting, and neither of you moves for a beat too long, the soft contact sending a jolt through you both. Or the night you leave a formal dinner, and he opens your car door with one hand, the other grazing your lower back, just briefly, lightly, as if he couldn’t help the unconscious gesture, a silent apology for withdrawing it so quickly.

But it’s never rushed. Never spoken aloud. Not yet. The tension, the anticipation, builds slowly, exquisitely.

Then comes the day of the press conference. The culmination of months of relentless groundwork. The partnership with the Department for Education is official. Six cities. A full rollout. A national pilot for equity and inclusion in schools – backed by the immense power of Mission 44 and fuelled by your shared vision.

Lewis insists you sit beside him at the table, front and centre. “No one else but you,” he says quietly, his voice firm, just before the cameras flash and the microphones are thrust forward.

You squeeze his hand once under the table. Just a squeeze. And just for courage, a silent acknowledgment of the monumental moment you are about to step into together.

The press barrage you both with questions about the project, its anticipated impact, the personal cost of such ambitious work. Then, a reporter asks him why this initiative, above all others, mattered most to him. Why now.

He pauses, the silence in the room suddenly amplified. His gaze finds yours, a flicker of something profound passing between you. Then he looks out at the assembled room, his expression thoughtful, sincere.

“I met someone who reminded me what it felt like to be heard for the first time.”

He doesn’t name you. He doesn’t have to. You feel it anyway – the sudden burn under your skin, the way your chest tightens as if trying to contain something vast and uncontainable. You don’t say a word. You don't need to.

But when it’s all over, when the cameras are down and the lights dim, he turns to you, his hand gently touching your arm. You meet his eyes, and there’s still no kiss. Still no explicit confession.

But it’s in the shared exhale, the quiet understanding that passes between you – like the space between you is safe now. And like whatever this is…it’s only just beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Current time is Monday, June 9, 2025 at 2:03:36 PM AEST.

The article drops three days after the triumphant press conference. You’re halfway through a critical meeting with two sharp, passionate East London youth leaders, dissecting community engagement strategies, when your phone begins its insistent chorus – once, twice, then a rapid succession of buzzes until even Lewis, usually impervious to such digital interruptions, glances over. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question in his eyes, as you flip the screen face down, determinedly ignoring the persistent summons.

After the meeting, as you both walk towards the internal cafe, Lewis catches your wrist gently, his touch light but firm. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low with concern.

You sigh, a weary exhalation. “I think… someone wrote something.”

He frowns, pulling out his own phone, his fingers flying across the screen with practiced speed. A moment later, he exhales hard through his nose, a sound of exasperation.

He turns the screen to you, displaying the headline: Hamilton’s Hidden Partner: The Educator Beside the Mission.

Below it, a grainy, slightly blurred photo, undeniably you and him, captured outside the conference venue. You’re both laughing, genuine and unposed, his hand resting casually on your arm, your eyes on his.

You don’t speak, the image a stark, public mirror of the private world you've been building.

“They’re speculating,” he says carefully, his voice a balm against the sudden intrusion. “About us.” The word "us" shouldn't mean anything in a professional context, but your heart gives an involuntary skip anyway.

You take his phone, your fingers brushing his. You skim the article, your eyes darting over the familiar tabloid sensationalism. Phrases leap out at you like venomous insects: Unusually close working relationship. A source claims the two have been spending late nights together. Whispers of something more than collaboration…

You hand the phone back, a soft, humourless laugh bubbling up. “All it takes is a look, huh?” The irony is bitter. For weeks, you’ve been navigating a delicate dance of unspoken feelings, and the press has, with one snapshot, laid it bare.

His jaw tightens, a visible clench of frustration. “This wasn’t supposed to be about us.”

“It still isn’t,” you say quickly, fiercely. “This is about the work. The kids. The system. This is about Mission 44.”

He studies you, his gaze piercing. “But it changes things, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is – it does. You’ve spent weeks, months even, meticulously constructing something quietly sacred between you: trust forged in shared purpose, a vision that bound you together, and an undeniable, unspoken connection that thrived in the shadows of collaboration. But now, with one cynical article, the world has tilted it into a spectacle, cheapening something profound. The cafe suddenly feels too loud, too bright, the fluorescent lights harsh, and the edges of your skin feel terrifyingly exposed.

That night, alone in your flat, your phone vibrates with his text:

You okay?

You stare at it, the simple words holding so much weight. Then, your fingers hover, reluctant, before typing:

Not really. I feel like someone just turned a light on in a room I didn’t want anyone to see.

You don’t expect a reply, preparing yourself for the privacy that usually defines his guarded life. But it comes a moment later, almost instantly:

Same. Can I come over? Just to talk.

Your fingers hover again, a dizzying mix of apprehension and yearning swirling within you. Then, a decisive tap:

Yeah. Just talk.

He arrives with tea, the same soothing chamomile blend from his flat, a quiet comfort in the unsettling evening. You sit side by side on your sofa – not touching, not looking directly at each other – but somehow, the air between you hums with an almost tangible energy, a silent recognition of the bond that has been publicly laid bare.

“They’ll do it again,” you say finally, breaking the comfortable quiet, your voice tight. “Twist things. Fabricate narratives.”

He nods; his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the room. “I know.”

“And if this…if whatever this is between us complicates the work—”

He cuts in gently, his voice firm, unwavering. “It doesn’t. You are the work. Everything we’ve done together – that’s what matters. That’s what they can’t take away.”

You turn your head to look at him, seeking reassurance. “But you’re Lewis Hamilton. If people think you’re distracted by personal matters, they won’t listen. They’ll dismiss the message, the impact.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back into the cushions, eyes on the ceiling, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “I’ve been told I’m ‘Distracted’ my whole life. That I need to pick between passion and purpose. Between my art and my activism. But what if they’re the same thing? What if the very things that fuel your passion are your purpose?”

You sit with that for a moment, the profound truth of his words sinking in. Then, the question you’ve been afraid to ask, slips out: “Is that what this is for you? A distraction?”

He turns toward you slowly, his gaze locking with yours, intense and utterly sincere. “No. This - ” His voice drops, raw with emotion. “You - are the thing that’s been keeping me grounded through all of it. The constant, the real.”

Your throat tightens, a powerful ache blossoming in your chest. But you nod, a quiet acknowledgment. Because you understand. You feel it too, the sense of being anchored, of finding a profound clarity in his presence.

Still, you both know this path is delicate. You’re not ready to fall into something undefined, not while so much is at stake. Not yet. So, you say, your voice soft but resolute: “Then let’s be careful.”

His eyes search yours, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. “You mean… don’t rush?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.

He exhales, a quiet sound that could be relief, or perhaps, immense restraint.

You smile back, just barely. “Besides what we’re building, Mission 44, the pilot programs, or the outreach - it deserves our full hearts. No distractions. No complications.”

His gaze lingers on you, a deep, silent understanding passing between you. Then he nods, a decisive gesture. “No distractions.”

But as you walk him to the door and your fingers brush again just briefly it feels less like restraint and more like a promise. A promise to protect what is growing, to allow it to bloom in its own time, shielded from the harsh glare of public scrutiny.

The next few weeks are relentless. The government signs off on the second phase of the pilot, a monumental achievement that sends a ripple of excitement through your small, dedicated team. You’re flown to Birmingham for a school site visit, the energy in the classrooms palpable.

A regional headteacher asks you for your thoughts on restorative justice practices, and Lewis, who is usually the centre of attention, turns to listen to you, his entire focus shifted, before you even speak. It’s a small detail, but it speaks volumes.

At one point during a school Q&A session, a bold teenager, brimming with youthful curiosity, asks, “Are you two dating?” The entire classroom erupts in embarrassed laughter, and you nearly choke on your water, your cheeks flushing a furious red.

Lewis, however, just smiles, his composure unruffled, and says, with a charming twinkle in his eye, “Only dating ideas. And there are a lot of them.” The answer is clever, deflecting, and yet, somehow, it feels like a subtle nod to the truth.

Later that day, you find a small, folded note on your desk – written in his sharp, slanted handwriting: That kid had guts. Reminded me of you. You fold it carefully and tuck it into your notebook, a private treasure.

The tension doesn’t fade. But it shifts. From overwhelming to familiar. From a burdensome weight to a comforting tether. You’re in this together now, not just Mission 44 but the strange, quiet knowledge of something profound growing between you both.

You start staying late again, the boundary between work and something else, becoming increasingly porous. Brainstorming by lamplight, the city quiet outside. Sharing moments between work that feel less like strategy and more like connection.

Like the night he walks you to your car and doesn’t let go of your hand right away, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, a silent assurance. Or when he sees you overwhelmed, perhaps close to tears from the sheer weight of responsibility, and says softly, “Take a breath. I’m right here.”

He always is.

The tension doesn’t fade. But it shifts. From overwhelming to familiar. From weight to tether. You’re in this together now not just Mission 44, but the strange, quiet knowledge of something growing between you both.

And when the speculation resurfaces louder this time, fuelled by blurry paparazzi photos and increasingly bold, speculative headlines you respond not with a defensive statement, but with a unified, strategic front.

Three carefully curated Instagram posts go live within minutes of each other, a coordinated digital strike.

On your page: A powerful still from the National Youth Equity Conference – you, Lewis, the Prime Minister, and three bright-eyed young leaders, their faces alight with hope. Your caption reads: Change doesn’t happen in silence. Proud to stand beside students, leaders, and partners reshaping the future. #Mission44 #PolicyInAction

On Lewis’s page: A candid shot from backstage of the two of you, heads bent together, reviewing speaking notes, his hand mid-gesture, your brow furrowed in concentration. The caption: Not rumours. Reality. This is what collaboration looks like for purpose, not performance. #Mission44

On Mission 44’s official page: A high angle shot of the entire stage, the full team and students seated in discussion, the Prime Minister at the centre, a symbol of the institutional backing you’ve secured.

The caption: We’re not here for tabloid stories. We’re here to amplify youth voices and build policy change with the people who live it. Our team stands united. #YoungVoicesMatter #Mission44

It works enough to steady the turbulent waters. Enough to remind the world that this isn’t a distraction. It’s a movement. A movement too important to be overshadowed by cheap gossip.

And the movement is still growing, stronger and more resilient with every challenge it faces, just like the quiet, powerful connection between you and Lewis.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Pilot Launch Day: South London

The air outside the school is thick with tension not anxiety, not fear but the weight of something earned.

It’s the first official day of the Mission 44 Education Reform Pilot.

Six cities. Dozens of schools. Hundreds of educators trained in trauma-informed practice, equity frameworks, and community-based learning. A year of drafting, rewriting, coalition building, sleepless nights, early flights and now it’s here.

And this school a quiet brick building tucked between tower blocks in South London is where it starts.

A student greets you at the door, hand outstretched. “Miss, you remember me?”

You pause. And then you do.

Devon. From one of the early youth roundtables. The one who sat with his arms crossed and said the system was “bullshit” and that no one ever listened.

Now he’s in a school uniform that fits properly. His lanyard says Student Council Lead.

Your throat tightens. “You clean up well.”

He laughs. “They made me tuck my shirt in for this, innit. But I’m still saying the same things.”

Lewis joins you a beat later, nodding at Devon. “Glad to see you again.”

Devon grins. “Sir, I’m watching you now, you know. Not just for the cars. For this.”

Lewis chuckles. “That’s the idea.”

The student leads you both inside. The halls have been repainted. The posters lining the walls aren’t generic slogans they’re student-created: “Learning should feel like power.” “Justice belongs in classrooms.”

Inside the main assembly hall, press line the back wall, but they’re quiet. The energy is too respectful, too reverent, to break with shouts or flashbulbs.

You sit side-by-side on stage. Lewis’s knee just barely brushing yours.

The headteacher speaks first. Then a student. Then a youth worker.

When it’s your turn, you stand behind the mic and pause because it hits you.

This moment. This reality.

What began as scribbles and what-ifs is now a breathing, living thing.

“I remember the first time I was told I didn’t belong,” you say. “It was Year 10. A teacher looked at me and said, Some people just aren’t cut out for this system. But no one ever stopped to ask if the system was cut out for us.”

You glance down. Lewis is watching you. Not like a colleague. Not like a co-founder.

Like something else.

You go on. “Today, we’re not just launching a pilot. We’re launching a truth: that young people especially those failed by traditional structures, deserve education that meets them where they are, and lifts them higher.”

The applause is soft at first, then spreads like a wave.

When the speeches end, the cameras roll. You and Lewis take a brief walk through the school classrooms in session, teachers with new materials, students who’ve never been asked for input now shaping their own curriculum.

In one room, a girl raises her hand and says, “Sir, is it true you two designed this together?”

Lewis looks at you. “We did.”

The girl squints. “So…are you like, best friends or something?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

Later, once the press clears and the staff breathe again, you slip out to the empty courtyard.

It’s quiet. Cold, but clear.

Lewis finds you there.

“Didn’t know you’d vanished,” he says gently, holding out your coat.

You take it, tug it on. “Needed a second. It’s a lot.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…weighty.

Then he says, “I watched you speak today. And I kept thinking if I’d had someone like you in my corner when I was younger, I would’ve believed in change a lot sooner.”

You swallow. “I think the same. About you.”

He looks at you and it’s not a glance this time. It’s a full-on search. Like he’s trying to find the version of you that’s been hiding behind purpose and late nights and policy drafts.

Like he’s found her.

You don’t say anything more. Neither does he.

But when he reaches out just lightly and touches your wrist, you don’t pull away.

And when your fingers stay there, almost laced but not quite, for the rest of the evening… it feels like more than enough.

He doesn’t tell you where you’re going only says, “Dress nice. No blazers. You’ve earned at least one night off.”

So, you do.

You trade your workwear for a soft, fitted dress. Something simple. Comfortable. Something that still makes you feel like yourself but seen.

He picks you up himself, no driver. His car smells like cinnamon and clean leather. He doesn’t say much, but the glance he gives you when you slide into the passenger seat lingers.

“Okay,” he says. “You really didn’t have to go this hard.”

You smirk. “You said ‘dress nice.’ I follow instructions.”

He laughs, and it’s the first time all day he sounds like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand expectations.

The restaurant he’s chosen is tucked away no paparazzi, no fuss. A low-lit place with floor-to-ceiling windows, jazz humming from a speaker near the bar. There are no white tablecloths. Just dark wood, gold cutlery, and the kind of hush that invites conversation.

You order drinks ginger mocktails for both of you and share plates between you.

And for the first time in weeks, it’s not about strategy.

It’s about you.

“What was the moment it all clicked for you?” he asks, leaning forward. “The one that made you say, ‘Alright. I’m gonna change the whole damn system.’”

You grin. “Year 11. My best friend got suspended for something she didn’t even do. They didn’t even ask her side. Just a phone call home and an assumption.”

He watches you closely.

“I remember thinking, if the system doesn’t care about truth, what is it doing? And then later, when I started learning about law and policy, I realised maybe I could do something from the inside.”

He nods. “You’ve done more than ‘something.’ You made this real.”

You shrug, looking down at your drink. “We did it together.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “You know, I’ve worked with a lot of people. Been in boardrooms with some of the most powerful folks in the world. But I’ve never felt this kind of clarity before.”

You glance up.

He continues, slower now. “You’ve made me braver. Sharper. More focused. Like I’m not just fighting for something anymore - I’m building it.”

Your heart is a live-wire.

You sit in it. Let it stretch between you.

The check comes. He pays — quickly, before you even reach for your purse.

You leave the restaurant with a lightness in your chest and a warmth in your cheeks.

Outside, the air was crisp but not cold, carrying the faint, sweet scent of damp earth and distant city life. The London streets shimmered under lamplight, still a little wet from earlier rain, each glint a secret shared with the night. You walked quietly, side by side, your shoulders brushing now and then, a soft friction that sent a quiet warmth through you. Your breath, a delicate mist in the low light, mingled with his.

“Walk for a bit?” he asked, his voice a low thrum against the city's quiet hum.

You nodded, a single, soft brush of your chin against your chest. “Yeah.”

So you did. Slowly, unhurried, as if the ground beneath you held no urgency. The city hummed around you but didn’t intrude like it was giving you this moment, a hushed, private space in its vastness.

“I thought about you that night,” he said suddenly, his voice even lower now, as if afraid to break the delicate stillness between you. “After the article came out. I kept wondering if I’d messed it up. Put a spotlight on something that should’ve been private.”

You slowed your steps, your heart giving a quiet, responsive beat. “I thought about you, too. But not like that.”

He stopped walking, and so did you, the sudden absence of motion emphasising the charged air.

You turned to face him beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp, the rain-slick pavement catching pieces of light like scattered glass. The light softened the edges of his face, drawing your gaze to the gentle curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes.

“I thought about how I’ve never met anyone who made purpose feel this possible,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky with the admission. “Like it’s not just an idea. It’s a life.”

He was looking at you the way he did during your speech earlier like he was seeing every version of you at once, pulling them into a single, cohesive truth. The fighter, the strategist, the girl who once wanted to be invisible, and the woman now standing at the centre of something seismic, vulnerable and powerful all at once.

His eyes, dark pools in the lamplight, flickered to your mouth. Then back up. Then down again, a silent, electric tracing.

He took a step closer, then another, his presence enveloping you, blurring the edges of the world.

Your breath hitched, a soft intake of air that felt impossibly loud in the quiet. You didn’t move.

You knew before it happened before his hand grazed your jaw, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through your skin. Before his fingers slid gently behind your ear, finding the sensitive hollow there, the pad of his thumb resting just under your cheekbone, a warm anchor.

Before the soft, ragged inhale he took as his forehead leaned in, touching yours, the slight rasp of his skin against yours.

Everything narrowed, sharpened. The cool, crisp press of the night air against your skin, the radiating warmth from him, a protective aura. The distinct scent of cinnamon and something deeper, richer - something undeniably his, a scent that resonated deep within you.

You didn’t close your eyes yet. You just looked at him, memorising the landscape of his face, the intensity in his gaze, the question in his eyes.

And then he whispered, his voice a raw murmur against your lips, “I’m going to kiss you now, unless you don’t want me to.”

Your reply was breathless, barely there, a sigh of surrender and longing: “I do.”

He didn’t rush it. This was not a moment to be hurried.

His lips brushed against yours like a question the softest ask, a hesitant exploration. And when you answered by pressing closer, your hand sliding up, fingers instinctively curling into the soft fabric of his coat over his chest, he deepened it. Still slow. Still careful. But with a quiet intensity that made your whole-body ache with a sweet, profound longing.

It wasn’t the kiss of impulse.

It was the kiss of weeks of near misses, of accidental touches that lingered too long. Of shoulders touching in crowded rooms, sending sparks beneath your skin. Of late nights with mugs too warm to hold, sharing secrets in hushed tones. Of glances exchanged across tables that said not yet, not here, but soon.

It was the kiss of trust earned through quiet battles, of tension survived, of recognising a kindred spirit.

You tilted your head, allowing deeper access, and his other hand found your waist, firm but reverent, grounding you as if you were something precious, something sacred.

Your fingers curled further into the fabric of his coat, gripping him gently as the kiss lingered, built, softened, deepened a symphony of sensation, a silent conversation of souls. And when it finally broke, it was with a pause that felt like a breath held between heartbeats, a suspended moment before the world rushed back in.

He stayed close.

His forehead remained against yours, his hand still cradling your jaw, his other firm at your waist. In the quiet that followed, all you heard was the distant, soothing hum of traffic and the incredible, effortless way your breaths synced without trying.

Then he murmured, his voice husky, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first night you challenged me in that strategy meeting.”

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound that vibrated between you. “And I’ve wanted to do it since you brought me that terrible chamomile tea the first time I stayed late.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against your forehead as he brushed his nose against yours, a tender, playful gesture. “I knew it was bad. I just needed a reason to walk over.”

You smiled, warm and real, and it bloomed in your chest like something unstoppable, something radiant.

You stayed like that a little longer no expectations, no deadlines, no next steps. Just two people in the middle of a London street, caught in the tender glow of a streetlamp, in the middle of something profound and new.

Something built not from rush or fleeting desire alone, but from shared purpose, deep respect, and a thousand quiet moments that had led, inevitably, exquisitely, to this one.

And when he finally walked you back to the car and opened the door for you, his hand brushed yours again.

This time, neither of you let go for a long while. The connection, now undeniable, hummed between your joined hands, a silent promise in the quiet night.

The kiss didn’t change everything overnight. It didn’t unravel months of carefully constructed caution or send you spiralling into something too big, too fast. If anything, it settled something between you turned tension into a gentle tether, potential into a quiet, comforting presence.

The next morning, there were no grand declarations, no sudden shifts in title or pace. But when you walked into the meeting room and saw Lewis already there, flipping through the week’s schedule, he looked up like he always did with that quiet flicker of something just for you, a warmth in his eyes that had always been present but now felt undeniably acknowledged. And this time, you let yourself return it fully, a soft, open acceptance in your gaze.

You still immersed yourselves in the work, still spent hours in schools, in hushed rooms with policy advisors, with students who carried more weight than any young shoulders should. But now, a new softness was woven into it all. A quiet knowing that hummed beneath the surface.

A foundation that felt just as much about mutual care as it did about systemic change. This deepening connection didn't distract; it enriched, grounding you both as you navigated the demanding landscape of their shared mission.

When the first round of national expansion was confirmed after months of rigorous trial programs, relentless lobbying, and delicate negotiations you were called into a press conference. You sat beside Lewis, the education secretary, and a panel of remarkable young people who had helped shape the pilot. The air thrummed with anticipation.

The announcement came: Mission 44’s groundbreaking school reform initiative would be rolled out to thirty more institutions across the UK. A model rooted in dignity, access, and profoundly, powerfully, youth-led solutions.

The applause rang out, a wave of sound that seemed to lift the very ceiling. You glanced at him, a natural, almost magnetic pull, and found he was already looking at you. And in that look a small, private smile exchanged amidst the joyous chaos, a silent acknowledgment shared in the middle of something massive - you felt it:

You made it.

Not just the program. Not just the policy.

But this. The thing between you. Built slowly, deliberately, like a strong, resilient current. Without ever needing to rush, or to name it before it was truly, unequivocally ready. It was a growth, a blossoming, unfolding at its own organic pace.

Later that night, when it was all over and your shoes were off and the city had gone quiet again, he walked into your living room with a mug in each hand.

Chamomile, of course. It was still terrible. You still drank it, a small, shared ritual.

He sank into the couch beside you, a little closer than strictly necessary. Your legs brushed, a warm, reassuring contact. Neither of you moved away.

You didn’t talk about work. You didn't need to. That day's triumph had already been shared in a look, a touch. Instead, you talked about music. Family. The versions of yourselves that existed before all this began, before the mission, before each other.

And somewhere between laughing about your mutual fear of karaoke and teasing him about his endless collection of knit beanies, you rested your head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of it - absent, affectionate, a comfortable gesture that felt as natural as breathing.

And it was then you realised:

This wasn’t a beginning.

Not really.

This was continuing.

You were still doing the work, the urgent, vital work of building a better system. Still learning how to love each other with care, with patience, with clarity, allowing your connection to deepen as naturally as the shifting seasons.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel heavy with expectation or burden.

It just felt open. Filled with possibility, both for the world you were shaping and the quiet, profound love blooming within it.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Year Later:

You don't even notice the camera flash at first. You're too utterly absorbed in the vibrant energy of the students before you - their eyes bright, their questions bubbling over, a perfect mix of cool indifference and starry-eyed awe at being in the same room as him.

Lewis is to your right, leaning in, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way he gets when he's truly locked into a conversation. A bright girl with box braids is passionately explaining her school’s new peer mentorship program, and when she finishes, he grins, a flash of pure warmth that reaches his eyes, and nudges you lightly with his elbow.

"She just described half the model you spent six months drafting," he murmurs, his voice a low, playful rumble meant just for you. "You've infected the youth."

You bump your elbow back against his, a comfortable, well-worn rhythm that’s become second nature. "Mission accomplished."

The students, sharp as ever, don't miss it, of course the shared look, the quiet, effortless sync between you two that speaks volumes without a single word. One of the boys raises an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye, and mutters something under his breath to his friend, a soft giggle escaping. Later, you'll scroll past a TikTok with a blurry, slightly shaky zoom-in of that exact moment, captioned:

THEM??? #powercouple #educatorera #mission44royalty

It has half a million likes by dinner, but you just scroll past it with a soft smile, a warmth spreading through your chest. You don't care anymore. Because somewhere along the way, the whispers stopped mattering. The mission got louder than the noise, a roaring testament to change that echoed far beyond any gossip.

And people, finally, truly saw it for what it was: two people not just working side by side, but loving without spectacle, building something substantial and enduring that would outlast any fleeting headline. Their relationship, once a quiet, private bloom, had simply become another natural, undeniable part of their public story.

You move in together in March. Not with an announcement splashed across news sites or a formal press release the world already knew, or at least suspected, from the easy way you interacted in public, the lingering touches, the undeniable glow that seemed to follow you both.

It was just boxes filled with shared memories, a collection of beloved mugs, and a shared playlist that became the soft, melodic backdrop as you gently, beautifully, folded your separate lives into the same sun-drenched space. Your worn sneakers found their place next to his polished shoes by the door, a small, perfect tableau of domesticity. His well-loved paperbacks were shelved next to your dog-eared academic texts, a silent blending of worlds, each page whispering tales of your individual journeys now intertwined.

A calendar on the fridge, covered in outreach trips and campaign dates, now sported a little heart drawn in your handwriting next to "Cambridge student conference," a sweet, thoughtful idea that was entirely his, marking a shared commitment that extended beyond the professional.

You fall asleep most nights with your head nestled against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a lullaby. His hand is always curled around yours, a soft, protective weight, a quiet promise in the dark.

You still talk about work, about the intricate dance of policy and people, about the breakthroughs and the challenges, still dreaming bigger, together, his presence making every aspiration feel more attainable.

One quiet night in June, after a long, fulfilling day of school visits in bustling Manchester, you're brushing your teeth, the low hum of the electric brush a familiar sound, when you hear him call your name from the living room. It’s a soft call, but laced with a certain tenderness that makes you pause, a tremor of anticipation running through you.

You walk out to find him standing by the window, the soft glow of the city lights painting gentle shadows on his skin. He's in nothing but comfortable joggers and a soft white tee, looking utterly at peace, yet somehow more profoundly present than ever, bathed in the quiet glow of the city.

"I keep thinking," he says, his eyes finding yours across the room, full of a quiet wonder, "about how none of this would've happened without you."

You arch a brow playfully, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "The work?"

He shakes his head slowly, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "The work. The change. Me."

He crosses the room, his steps unhurried, as if savouring every inch of the distance between you. He reaches you, and his hands cup your face, so gentle, so utterly natural, as if they were always meant to fit there, anchoring you with a profound, quiet strength.

"I didn't know I could do this," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking softly along your cheekbones, a tender caress, "and feel whole. Until you."

Your throat tightens, a sweet ache blooming in your chest. Not because you didn't know but because you did. You've felt it, every single day, for the past year. The quiet completeness, the profound belonging that his presence had brought into every corner of your life.

So you kiss him. Not like that first night, charged with nervous possibility and the thrilling unknown. This one is different. It's steadier. Familiar. Like something well-loved, deeply cherished, and perfectly settled, a deep breath of coming home. It’s a kiss of deep roots and shared future, of everyday magic, and a love that has bloomed into a comfortable, enduring truth.

When you pull back, only just, he presses his forehead to yours, his breath a soft caress against your lips. "Stay with me," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "All of it. Always."

And you say, "I already am." Every fibre of your being, every beat of your heart, affirmed the truth of those words.

[erinyesofvengeance]

A/N: just watched sinners and i am salivating at the mouth for irish fine shyt... alsooo this is from his POV and he might (definitely will) come across as a narcissist and weirdo in this (might do part two if yall ask in the comments cause i lowkey like this idea)

also!!! reader is dumb af and remmick is lowkey delusional and interpreting reader's feelings to how he wants her to feel. this man is a black flag, yall. THIS IS SHORT AND NOT PROOFREAD!!!

REMMICK didn't take kindly to people he considered outsiders, and that just so happened to be about everyone. Everyone except for you. You were the only exception. He cared for you like one of his own. Made sure you were healthy, loved, and cherished. Protected you against all of the people around you seeking to bring you harm.

He really had gone above and beyond for you. He had given everything to you; his time, his care, his love... he had given away his soul piece by piece to silly old you. So of course you ought to love him with all of your heart for the rest or your living life, or maybe even for the rest of eternity should he decide to turn you.

Isn't that right?

So why was it that you wouldn't even let him come into your house?

"Get the fuck off of my porch!" you snap. He was shocked. Honestly shocked that you had the audacity to treat him, the love of your life in this horrible manner. Surely you'd snap out of it if he talked to you a bit...

"Oh, come on now, baby..." he says. "You don't - you don't mean that. Don't be like this now." His hands are stretched, reaching to you on the other side of the door. But he can't grab you, can't touch you; not if you don't let him inside.

"You were gone for two months. Two whole months, Remmick! You just disappeared with no heads up. You couldn't even say goodbye."

Well... that might've been on him this time... but he couldn't help it! He was so hungry, and was resisting the sweet urge to rip out your neck where you stood. So really, he left for your own good. He was protecting you! Why couldn't you just see that?

"I-" He pauses. "I'm sorry... please, baby. Let me in. I was just tryna do the right thing. To be better, and be the man you deserve."

This was getting a lot harder than he thought it would be. Usually, you would invite him in almost immediately. But it's okay. He has faith in you. He knew you would eventually, one way or another, come around.

"I, I promise, I will repent for the rest of my life. I'll be by your side for the rest of our lives. For forever. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Just you and me."

Your scowl nearly burns through his skull.

"Come on in."

"Huh?"

"I said come on in."

He steps in carefully, as if there were broken shards of glass on the floor. He looks up at you and your expression.

The look on your face says it all. That you love him. That you want to be with him, just like how he'd promised you. For all of eternity.

"Oh, baby..." he says wistfully. "You should've just told me."

Your expression seems confused, but why would it be? You know exactly what he's talking about. This act you've been keeping up is really getting tiring, but he can't lie and say he doesn't like the chase. The effort he has to go through to get you.

His steps are soft, and he can visibly see you tense up as he approaches you slowly.

"What are you doing."

"Awh, baby. Don't you start gettin' shy on me, now. You don't need to be scared."

He grabs your wrist, pulling you close before leaning down to your neck and taking a deep inhale.

"You smell like cherries," he murmurs.

And with that, his teeth pierce your neck, tearing off your flesh with a wet swoosh. A horrifying rip echoes through the air, coupled with your screams.

But he can't hear you. He isn't able to. Not with the amount of euphoria he's drowning in at the moment. And he wants to tell you, to reassure you that the pain only lasts for a minute. That after you wake up, you'll feel as he does now; euphoric. You'll feel powerful and forever young, and although it may come with a few downsides, that it will pay off in the end.

Plus, you two will be together. What is there to fear?

[princesevsnape]

Gryffindor Boys React - Dating

Characters: Ron Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Oliver Wood

Oliver Wood:

Watching him practice Quidditch and cheering him on at every match

Cheering him up when Gryffindor loses

But when they win he runs up to you and gives you a kiss in front of the entire school

He’ll teach you how to fly a broom

He’s so passionate about Quidditch that he will probably end up chewing your ear off about it all day every day

But it’s one of the things you love about him. How passionate he is

He loves cuddling up with you

He’ll place gentle kisses on top of your head or on your forehead

Since his mind is always on Quidditch you do your best to help him study even though he still tries to talk about Quidditch so instead you try and distract him by kissing him. Which then turns into a full on make out session either way you don’t get much studying done

Even though his life revolves around Quidditch he is still very attentive to you and your needs

He is extremely loyal

He will get jealous easily if another guy flirts with you but you will reassure him by kissing him and telling him it’s him and only him and that he doesn’t need to worry about anyone else

Ron Weasley;

He was nervous about asking you out, but you ended up beating him to it

He’s very loyal

He will stand up to anyone that says horrible things about you or anyone that tries to hurt you

He does get worried about losing you. A lot

Constantly reassuring him that you love him

He gets all giddy when you kiss him in front of others

He teaches you how to play Wizards chess and you spend so much time playing each other

He can’t believe how lucky he is to have you

He loves taking you on dates to Hogsmeade

His siblings and parents absolutely adore you

Getting your own Weasley sweater at Christmas

He is supportive of everything you do

Harry Potter:

He was very awkward when asking you out. Stumbling over his words. But you found it cute so you said yes.

He always notices when something is up with you

Special dates to Hogsmeade

He is protective of you

He gets jealous easily

He is extremely loyal

He gives you thoughtful and meaningful gifts

He loves seeing you smile

He always compliments you

Soft, gentle kisses

He’s not big on PDA but he will give you a quick peck hoping that people don’t notice but Ron does and always teases Harry

He’ll hold your hand underneath the table

Cheering him on at every Quidditch match

Being by his bed side in the hospital wing whenever he gets injured during Quidditch matches

Study sessions that turn into make out sessions

Sneaking into his bed at night just because you wanted to cuddle

Neville Longbottom:

He is so shy that he struggles to ask you out

He stumbles over his words, and blushes like crazy

He blushes when you hold his hand or peck his cheek in front of others

He gets nervous when you kiss him or show him affection in front of others

He loves giving you little plants or flowers as a gift

He loves showing you the plants that he is taking care of

You always make sure he’s your partner in Herbology class knowing he can help you pass because he’s so passionate about it

He compliments you when you’re looking good which to him is all the time but he always stumbles over his words and ends up blushing

He gives you thoughtful gifts

He will pass you notes in class to make you smile

Fred Weasley:

He is bold and flirty with you when asking you out

He pulls you in on his and George’s pranks

He is very charming

Always complimenting you

Always kissing you in front of others until they tell you to get a room

He’ll sneak you into his bed at night

Staying at the burrow with him and his family during the holidays and he will always sneak you into his room then too

His family love you

He’ll prank anyone that hurts you or flirts with you

He gets jealous easily. If someone flirts with you he will saunter over to you wrap his arm around your shoulders and place a kiss on your head whilst smirking at the guy. He will then make a mental note to prank the guy later

He loves how supportive you are of him and his twins joke shop plans

Cheering him on at every quidditch match

When him and George drop out of Hogwarts he takes you with him.

When they open the joke shop you work closely with the twins

George Weasley:

He is very cheeky towards you before you start dating always flirting with you

He’ll drag you in on his pranks with Fred

He loves taking you on spontaneous dates

They are always thoughtful and meaningful though

He is protective

His family adore you

He gives you thoughtful gifts

Cheering him on at Quidditch matches

He gets jealous easily

He’ll glare at anyone who flirts with you and makes sure to prank them with Fred later on

He is very cuddly

He’ll sneak you into his bed at night

Make out sessions when you’re supposed to be studying

Supporting his dreams to open a joke shop with Fred

Working at the joke shop with the twins when they finally open

[fic-girlie]

The one who sees

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x model!reader Summary: After a paparazzi ambush turns ugly, Pedro stands up for you—and later, wrapped in his arms, you remember that love drowns out the noise. Warnings: established relationship, haters disrespecting you, Pedro being very protective, slow mornings, pure fluff A/N: It was requested by @kellyxo1! Thank you again!

It starts with the campaign.

You knew the photos were going to be everywhere, of course. That was part of the job. A soft launch for a new lingerie brand with a luxe, minimalist aesthetic—sheer mesh in moonlight tones, gold-stitched underwire, delicate silk straps like brushstrokes across your skin. You’d signed the deal months ago, but the company waited until spring to drop the first wave of images. Your face, your body, blown up in SoHo and Sunset billboards. Trimmed in glossy black-and-white for Paris, golden-brown sun-kissed in São Paulo. You floating through your phone in bed one night, rosy and shocked, because you hadn't even known they were already up. Pedro crinkling beside you half-asleep, arm thrown around your hips, his post-sleep scratchiness rasping out, "Oh, that's gonna break the internet."

You laughed, leaned against his chest. "Too much?"

"No," he said, warm hand spread across your belly. "Hot enough."

You hadn't been thinking about doing the press tour. He was off to Europe for a week and a half of interviews, early screenings, some festival panels — not even that bad of a schedule. But he wanted you to go, and the way he worded it made it clear that he really needed you there. A bit gruff-around-the-edges, as if it had cost him something to mention that he did not wish to be away from you for that length of time. You kissed the corner of his mouth and rolled your carry-on into the trunk that night.

The airport would have been understated. Early flight, early landing. A side entrance they'd organized, as Pedro's people were used to how wild foreign travel was. But the tip was leaked—paparazzi and supporters lined up along the curb, all packed together behind barriers, cameras already snapping when the SUV arrived. Pedro's face hardened at once when he spotted them, sunglasses firmly planted and shoulders tensed.

You slid your hand into his. He squeezed once, twice. You okay?

You nodded. This wasn't new, not really. You'd both been in this spotlight long enough to know how volatile it could be. But still—this was more intense. Louder.

The moment you step outside, it gets to you like heat.

They're yelling his name, screaming your own, shoving forward with phones already in hand just in case. It's flattering, sort of. You'd been used to attention recently, but this isn't like that. Some girls are yelling about how gorgeous you are, whether they can take a picture—one gasps, "You're literally a goddess, oh my God." It's nice. Sweeping, but nice.

But then there are the others.

You hear it like a note of bass under song. The timbre of their voices—apart from the rest. Half-slurred laughter, maybe, or something worse. A group of men against the barricade, not holding signs or phones, just watching with smiles that fall short of their eyes.

One of them whistles as you walk by. "Yo, Pedro, damn! She's fine as hell."

You feel Pedro wince next to you.

"Bet you don't get much sleep, huh, bro? Lucky bastard." A snicker like static noise in the background. "She's got that lingerie body, you know what I'm saying?"

It takes a second.

Pedro stops dead in his tracks.

You feel it in the looseness of his grip, the way his fingers tighten around yours as if they don't want to rattle. He spins slowly, close enough to be calm, but there's a fire behind his shades now. It radiates from him in great waves.

He moves a step forward toward the man who talked. Not running, not shouting—just walking, but it's enough to make the man take half a step back.

"What did you just say?" Pedro's voice is icy. Biting. Glass-cutting.

The man laughs, trying to brush it off. "Hey, man, relax—just a compliment. You know what they say—don't hate the player—"

"No," Pedro interrupts, and his voice echoes over the crowd, now louder. "That's not a compliment. That's you disrespecting my partner in front of me like a coward."

There is a moment of silence, and for one awful second, you believe he's going to shove the guy. His hand tightens at his side.

You grab at him, holding your hand on his chest. "Pedro," you say, barely loud enough for him to hear. "Not here."

He looks at you. Really looks. You can feel the fight raging behind his eyes—anger and protectiveness burning so fiercely it hurts your chest.

But he stiffens.

His jaw tightens, his shoulders rise on a profound, wary breath, and then he turns away from the man as if he isn't worth a second glance. Takes your hand again. You both move on like nothing happened.

Inside, past security. Through the gate, toward the lounge. No words exchanged until the door closes behind you and the din at last fades.

He collapses on the top of the leather couch, rubbing both hands over his face. "I'm sorry," he tells you.

You crouch down in front of him. "Why?"

He blinks at you. "I nearly lost it out there. I was so close to—"

"You didn't."

He's gasping for air. His hands are sweaty when they lie against your cheeks. "I just don't like that people talk about you like you're not a real person. Like you're just—photos. Skin. An illusion."

You tilt your head, your forehead against his. "You think I don't know that? I'm proud of what I do. But that doesn't mean I like being used as a prop."

His thumbs trace the lines of your cheekbones. "I'll always protect you. But I can't be the one to make them spout more crap about you, either."

You close your eyes. "You weren't. You stood up for me. There's nothing wrong with standing up for the ones you love."

Later, when the plane takes off and you're curled up beside him with his arm draped over your shoulders, both of your phones light up.

Someone got the whole interaction on video.

They post it to X—distorted and jittery, but audible enough. Pedro's voice. The man's words. Your hand on his chest. How he holds himself, how he flinches away instead of retaliating. It goes viral.

You are already trending when you arrive in Cannes.

#PedroPascal #RespectWomen #ProtectPedro'sGirl

Your phone buzzes with repetitive messages. Screenshots, quotes, fan edits already circulating. People addressing him as a king. Addressing you as a queen. Some even stating it as the most romantic thing they've ever seen in a year.

Pedro watches you scroll through and says nothing, just kissing your forehead and burying his nose in your hair.

The Cannes suite is beautiful—too beautiful, actually. The kind of place that's meant for press kits and photo ops interviews, all floor-to-ceiling windows and velvet armchairs, shining surfaces and softness carefully designed. There's a subtle smell of lilies and bergamot throughout, and someone left a bottle of champagne cooling on the sideboard with a card reading Welcome to Cannes, Mr. Pascal in bold calligraphy.

You set down your bag softly. Pedro's already pacing, jacket off, one hand running through his hair as he mutters something to himself in Spanish too low for you to catch. The sun's pouring in golden and warm across the parquet floors, but the space between you has tightened like a muscle that won't unclench.

You can feel it in the air. He's shaken. But not just upset—shaken.

You perch on the edge of the bed and watch him pace like he's attempting to throw something off. The sunglasses are gone now, tossed onto the marble table. His eyes are darker than usual, a storm still raging behind them. And it's only when he finally stops to lean against the wall next to the window—one hand on the windowsill, the other on his hip—that you say anything.

"Talk to me."

He turns his head but doesn't look at you. Just stares out at the street. "I know this is part of the life. I know we both signed up for the visibility. But today…"

You wait. You've learned not to push him when he pauses like this, when his throat works around a feeling that hasn't found shape yet.

"…today felt different," he finishes, voice low.

You nod. "It was."

He turns finally, eyes meeting yours. "It wasn't what they said about me, okay? It was the way they looked at you. Like you were something they owned. Something they had the right to touch with their words."

You swallow. His voice cracks on owned, and it's just a nail in your ribs.

"They weren't fans," you whisper. "They were vultures."

Pedro moves toward you slowly, like each step is deliberate. He kneels in front of you, hands on your thighs, eyes searching yours with such intensity that it steals your breath. "I wanted to hit him. I've never actually felt that way before—not like that. That white-hot desire to punch him."

"But you didn't."

"Because of you."

You shake your head, brushing a hand over his cheek. “No, Pedro. Because of you. Because you’re a man who knows how to walk away and don’t care about those people who don’t deserve it.”

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes. “You kept me steady.”

“You’ve done the same for me.”

His fingertips trace the hem of your top, restless now. "Do you ever feel like we're living in a glass house?" he says quietly. "Like the world is sitting there watching us sleep, breathe, touch—and every time you step out into public, they think they can take a piece of you just because they've seen your body in a picture?"

You breathe in sharply. He asks as if he's ashamed to be asking, but you don't detect judgment in his tone—just gentle, pained concern.

"I do," you admit. "But you make it feel like it doesn't. You're the only one who makes me feel like I'm more than the body they see. Like I'm not just a headline or a hashtag. You see me."

His lips part slightly, and something in him unravels. You watch it happen—his shoulders loosen, his mouth softens, his whole chest rises and falls in a deeper breath. As if letting that truth in takes effort.

Then he whispers, almost shyly, "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

The words open like a sunrise in your chest.

You press your forehead to his. "Then let it scare you. I'm not going anywhere."

He puts his arms around your waist and pulls you down onto the floor with him, the two of you kneeling beside the bed, holding each other like gravity doesn't work in this glamorous suite.

Later, after room service and a long shower, you’re curled up in one of Pedro’s oversized shirts on the couch while he scrolls through his phone, every once in a while, muttering something like, “Jesus, this went viral fast.”

You sit up. “Bad viral or good viral?”

He shakes his head, awe creeping into his smile. "No. All good. Like, overwhelmingly good. They're all calling me your 'respectful protector' now." He snorts. "Someone made a whole thread called 'Pedro Pascal being feral about his girlfriend for seven minutes straight.'"

You blink. "Seven minutes?"

"With timestamps. And background music. There's even a playlist to it."

You bury your face in your hands, laughing. "God. That's so embarrassing."

"It's perfect," he says softly.

You gaze at him through your fingers.

"I don't mind if the entire world knows how much I love you. I just don't like it when they make you into something cheap. You're not their fantasy. You're mine."

You can't speak for a moment. That knot in your chest—fear, tension, the hurt of being gazed at too long—starts to come undone.

"I'm yours," you say, voice trembling. "And you're mine."

He slams down the phone. Stands. Takes three deliberate steps across the room and holds out his hand. "Then come here."

You go to him. And in that moment, you don't care about Cannes or photographers or fans or headlines.

You only care about the way his hands close around your waist, the way his nose buries into your temple, the way his heart rate decelerates when you whisper, "I love you, too."

And when he picks you up and sweeps you over to the bed, the city outside just disappears.

——

You wake to the aroma of coffee and the far-off rustle of pages. There is a cold wind sneaking in through the open balcony door, with the sleepy stillness of a Cannes morning on its breath—the muted thrum of scooters deep below, pigeons battering against rooftops, and the ringing of a church bell tolling the hour. The suite is filled with warm, golden light, pulled long across the walls in languorous shadows. The sheets are warm from sleep, twisted loosely around your legs, and Pedro is there, busy in the chair next to the window, glasses sliding a little down his nose, thumbing through the pages of a much-thumbed paperback and cradling a cup in his lap.

He looks like something from a dream—rumpled and real, bare feet stretched out in front of him, curls still disheveled from sleep. The T-shirt he wears was your chioce, too large and draped across his chest like a sloppy afterthought. You can't understand how one man can be this desperately loose and still make your chest ache this way.

You shift slightly, and he lifts his gaze, a slow smile creeping over his face. "Hey, sleepyhead."

"Hey," you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

"Didn't want to wake you. You were out cold."

You stretch out, arms over your head, letting out a gentle sigh as the tension leaves your muscles. "I slept better than I have in days."

Pedro stands, puts the book on the table, and walks over. He leans over the bed to put a kiss on your forehead, then your cheek, and looms over your lips with that grin that always makes your stomach twist.

"Good. You needed it."

You tug lightly at the hem of his shirt until he climbs in next to you, working himself in behind you so your back curves to fit the shape of his chest, his arm settling around your waist like second nature. It is. His body has been knowing yours for three years now, like muscle memory.

Neither of you say a word for a few minutes. You just lie there, wrapped in each other's arms and silent, the rest of the world like a mere background hum.

And then he whispers, his voice low and rough against your neck, "I keep thinking about yesterday."

You nod, fingers tracing the hand on your stomach. "Me too."

He places a kiss on your shoulder. "You were so cool. You kept me grounded. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there."

"You didn't need to do anything," you respond quietly. "You'd already saved me. Just for being with me and not letting it shatter you."

He exhales slowly. "It did shatter me, though."

"I know," you whisper. "But you stayed calm and composed. That takes more courage than anything else in this world."

You feel him hold you tighter. "You're too good to me."

"No," you say, turning around in his arms so that you could look up at him. "I'm just right for you. And you're just right for me."

He studies your face the way he's studying a map—eyes tracing each curve, each line, as if he must memorize it all yet again. "Do you ever wonder if it will always be this way?" he asks. "The press, the comments, the noise?"

You nod. "Sometimes. But I think we'll get used to it. Or perhaps we'll figure out how to tune it out. Like we both did for all these years"

"I want a life with you," he says to you. Without ceremony, without buildup—just the plain honesty of a man who's learned enough to know his own mind.

You flinch. Your heart stutters. "You already have one."

Pedro moves in and kisses you—slow and long and hot, like every molecule of him is whispering thank you and I love you and I'm not going away all at once.

And when he leans back, smiling, he says softly, "Yeah. I do, don't I?"

Later, you have room service bring you croissants and fruit and eat on the tiny balcony in your pajamas, legs folded under the tiny café table, as Pedro works the phone again with a look of wonder.

"I swear, this one's had over eight million views. Eight million."

You reach for your coffee, a smile tugging at your lips. "And the comments?"

"All dry. But respectfully so," he replies, an eyebrow raised. "One of them called me 'Zaddy Supreme of the Year.'"

You nearly spit out your drink laughing. "Are you embarrassed or are you proud?"

"Both. But more proud."

He snaps a photo of you at that very moment—eyes crinkling, cheeks reddening, hand clamped over your mouth laughing. And he never posts it, never shares it with anyone. He simply keeps it. For himself.

For certain things are meant to be introduced to the world.

And others—such as your lazy mornings, and sleepy kisses, and whispered I love yous spoken with croissants balanced on your fingers—are just meant for two.

[hollyhomburg]

Hold your Breath (Count to Seven)(2)

(Sneak Peak)(JHS x reader, Ot7 x reader, Omegaverse, Forced Caretaking, Omega scarcity au)

୨୧‧₊˚ Summary: Hoseok will never forgive the people who did this to you. Never.

୨୧ ‧₊˚ Word Count: 14.4k

୨୧ ‧₊˚ Tags: Omegaverse au, omega scarcity, forced caretaking, discipline, possessive love interest, protective partners that go a little too far, Dom/sub undertones, dom! jimin x m/c, spanking, Pack alpha Hoseok x omega! m/c, Sickfic, Angst, Hurt/comfort, chronic health issues, themes of trauma, familial neglect and abuse, Brief institutionalization, Past Medical mistreatment, non-chronological storyline

୨୧ ‧₊˚ A/N: ah well... people said they wanted to see a bit more of dom jimin so~ hopefully this scratches an itch! i can't believe they're all gonna be home soon! i saw jikook yesterday and...really does feel like the world is healing doesn't it? i guess this is also sorta a fest present too <3

"You're not my father Namjoon, I don't want you to act like my fucking dad when you're my partner. I get that sometimes- you have these instincts- but it doesn't make me feel good." You're close to tears, eyes suspiciously glassy. Your head feels fuzzy but panicky like everything is happening faster than you can handle it. Leaving you overwhelmed and off kilter.

You glance at Hoseok, and he stares back impassively. Rubbing a finger across his bottom lip- but he won't intervene unless you actually do cry or you ask him too. You're just starting to learn to trust your instincts. To understand why your breath goes even around him and why things are easier to sort through when he's touching you- either with a hand on the small of your back or holding yours so delicately- like you're fragile.

The others understand but you don't. you've never had a pack alpha before. He's the only pack alpha you've ever known.

There is apart of him more wolf than man, that loves that fact. That he's your first and your only pack alpha, If Hoseok can help it.

And Hoseok is helping, that's what this is. Mediating. Making sure you adjust to the pack and the pack adjusts to you. Hoseok is here just as Jimin is as pack beta- to make things go smoothly.

It's strange. Growing up you'd been treated so often like you were strong. industructible no matter what. Any cold or sickness was met with a snear that you were tougher than that. Strong despite your shakiness, strong despite the fact that when pushed you broke. Strong like your weakness was ever something you could conquer. No matter how many times you told people you couldn't- that you couldn't stay awake to study, that you couldn't run any faster- that you couldn't try any harder without it hurting- they never listened.

But now everything's changed- the pack are almost too gentle with you. Too aware of just how fragile you can be sometimes. You like to act independent. You even might need to sometimes (Hoseok is not so convinced that you actually need independance or if you just feel like you need it). And while they'd never stop you they are always hovering a little. It's easier sometimes- but right now-

Right now it feels stifling. Right now it feels like you can't breath. Like something very bad is going to happen if you take too much- like they'll find out it's not worth it. That you're not enough. You lean away from Namjoon when he speaks, and you can see the hurt in his eyes as you do it. Can see that Jimin's eyes darken in disapproval, posture stiff.

But your skin feels like it's going to crawl off your body and leave you fleshy and exposed. Something fights to claw out of your chest. And no breath comes easy.

Until you look at Hoseok.

You're not sure where your anger comes from or if it even is anger at all. Afraid, you know you're a bit afraid of Namjoon, but afraid of what you can't say. You know that his controlling behavior isn't exactly why but you're too worked up to care. Maybe you've never been both afraid and safe before. Maybe you don't trust them to keep you safe.

A deep voice whispers in Hoseok's ear, hidden and telling. His desires and impulses dark and not to be shared. You don't trust them to handle everything for you.

Yet.

Hoseok waits, Hoseok reclines in the chair and watches. Namjoon's voice is deep and calm. Rational. You're the only one getting worked up here, but thats okay. All of this is okay.

"Our lives are all very controlled, they have to be to get to the level that we are. But we need to look after each other. I won't be made out to be some sort of monster when all I'm trying to do is make sure you take care of yourself. You can't expect me not to treat you the same way I treat the others."

"Now that's some bullshit. You treat me like-" your voice warbles, and Hoseok gives it another 10 seconds before he intervenes. "I might be your omega but I'm not some sort of pet. You never tell the others what they can and can't eat or do so why am I-"

Hoseok holds up his hand, stopping your train of thought. For what it's worth you instantly fall silent. Your shaking stops just a little at the show of dominance, at obeying. Your body wants it even if your mind struggles to comprehend it. It's like you're trying to listen to your omega and your instincts but you just can't hear them.

You need a push. And Hoseok is very gentle. Gentle enough to do the pushing.

Coming Friday June 13th at 6pm EST

(Link to Part 1)

[softjeekies]

Waiting After The Rain

↳ chapter 3

previous chapter // next chapter(coming soon)

Pairing: ot8!stray kids x pregnant omega!reader

Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.

Warnings: a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory

A/N: please enjoy this chapter everyone, like i said before my asks are open for any questions or to chat!!

Chan closes the door behind him once he enters your room, where you and Felix sit together on the bed. He doesn’t make any moves to sit on the bed, making sure he keeps his distance. You can smell the fear in him; he’s terrified that one wrong move will ruin everything.

“Feeling better baby?” The alpha gives you a warm smile.

“My baby is fine.” You speak unsure of your words, confused why Chan would ask that. Why does he care?

“Oh, I’m happy to hear that but when I said baby, I kinda meant you.” He raises a hand to scratch his neck, his ears turning bright red, Was he wearing fake pheromones? How was this an alpha? Nonetheless, unconsciously you blush like a teenage girl with a dumb crush. You can’t help but scold yourself for the behavior, you don’t know these people get it together. You’re left even more confused, You could chalk Chan caring about the pup up to his instincts but you? Why you?

“Ah, I’m okay.” Short and to the point, that’s all he needs to hear, nothing more and nothing less.

“That’s good, really good. Seeing you get sick like that made us kinda anxious so I called the omega specialist Felix and Han went to and I was able to get you an appointment for tomorrow morning! Felix can’t drive so I’ll be driving you if that’s okay, I can also go in with you, the alphas usually do the same for the other omegas’ appointments, which eases us a lot. But please if you don’t want me to go in with you say it, I won’t be mad, I just want to make sure you two are healthy, I don’t want to get in the way of that-“ The omega sat next to you swiftly cuts off the alpha.

“Babe you’re rambling.”

“Right. Sorry! So what do you say?” Chan looks at you sweetly, but as you look deeper into his eyes you can see his plea, he would never say it out loud, not wanting to sway your decision. You can’t bring yourself to defy an alpha’s wants, all you can do is hope you don’t regret it.

“You can come with me to the appointment.” Before you can even blink the bed in front of you dips and there are big arms wrapped around your shoulders. You flinch, well a sad attempt at a flinch, the arms keeping you stilled. A weak growl that could only come from an omega omits from next to you and the arms immediately disappear allowing you to let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Chan hyung, what the hell was that?” Felix speaks sternly, and yeah you’d only know him for less than a day but you’d never imagine him speaking in such a manner, especially not to his alpha.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry I don’t know what came over me. I just got so happy that you want to let me be with you during such an important moment for you and your baby, that you’ll allow me to keep you both safe.” The alpha moves to kneel on the floor next to the bed laying his head on the edge of the bed, excited eyes looking up at you. His arm lies flat against the bed dangerously close to your leg, but you don’t move, no matter how much the hand calls to you. Your omega purrs loudly.

Alpha. Alpha protects us. Alpha loves our pup.

Your breath hitches at the thought and you pray nobody hears. This is the worst part of being an omega, these instincts that are simply just that, instincts, there’s no logic or thought behind them, just your biological need for an alpha to take care of you. Your instincts are what got you into this situation in the first place, you know better than anyone that your omega isn’t always right.

“When you came down for breakfast today it got so silent because we all felt this pull towards you. The three of us felt it last night, but it hit the others this morning when they got to see and smell you for the first time. I really think, fuck, I think you are meant to be here. And if you let us show you how true that is, we will go at whatever pace is comfortable for you, this is a promise from my pack to you. You are still free to leave, but I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”

The silence is heavy and almost suffocating. His words were simple but they pulled on your heart in a way you’d never felt before. Your omega began to purr so loudly in your mind, it felt like your brain was vibrating. This was going to be a real problem. You were split, a part of you that you wanted to chalk up to instincts that felt the same pull to this pack, and the other part of you, beaten broken and bruised that wanted to run, so terrified that this was all a sham and they too would hurt you just the same as everyone before them had.

“I don’t know you people. Every single person I was supposed to trust ended up hurting me, Why would I trust strangers I just met?” The two pack members frown at your answer, they were determined to help you no matter what that looked like. This was just a bump in a larger road, and god was there a long road ahead.

“We get it. I wish we could take away all the pain you’ve ever felt, believe me. We will never push your boundaries or scare you okay. Having you here, it feels like we found something that was missing, it’s second nature to take care of you, like this is what we were meant to do. I know wolves are known for rushing into things because we can sense when someone is for us but we’ll hold back for you, like I said, we go at your pace.” The pack alpha continues to look up at you, never breaking eye contact, but it’s not a suffocating alpha eye contact, it’s almost submissive.

“I can’t lie and say I don’t feel something, but I’m scared. I’m really scared. Chan, I’m broken. The people who have been in my life have done a lot of damage and I can already tell there are a lot of things I’m going to have to unlearn and change. I don’t believe any of this is real, You guys treating me as kindly as you have is so foreign to me and it probably will be for a while. In the past less than 24 hours I have felt more love than I have ever felt in my life and I never want it to end but I have to keep my guard up, because I may deserve to be hurt but my baby does not, I have to protect them. If this is real and you guys can be patient with me, I’d be willing to try being a part of your pack.” You squeeze your eyes shut trying to hold back tears, keeping your head down terrified of what’s to come out of Chan’s mouth next.

“All eight of us will do everything in our power to get you to want to be here with us. You do not deserve any of the pain you’ve been caused and we will turn the earth upside down trying to prove that to you. That’s a promise.” You give a tearful smile and Chan doesn’t hesitate to give you one back. You look to your side to see a teary-eyed Felix.

“Y/N, he’s right, we’ll do anything for you.” He speaks, taking your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“So, I have to head out to the studio soon and the other guys also have work but Seungmin will be staying back here with you and the other omegas okay? Felix will probably want to show you around the house and help get you settled in, hopefully you’ll find time to get to know Han and Seungmin, I already told Seungmin to be on his best behavior and he really is a sweetheart but if he bothers you, you have my full permission to put him in his place.” Chan moves over to the other side of the bed to place a kiss on Felix’s head and you couldn’t have known but he fights the urge to give you one as well, instead, he leaves with a gentle smile shot your way.

You lie down on the bed with a sigh, unsure of how to proceed, your mind is running a million miles a minute. Felix places and gentle hand on the curve of your shoulder and once again you don’t flinch at his touch. You can’t wrap your head around how easily he’s wormed his way into your space, Something about Felix is special, like everything is okay as long as he’s there. You lay there like that for a while, going over every possible outcome in your head before Felix interrupts you.

“If my nose doesn’t betray me it seems as though the alphas are gone for the day, we'll have free rein to explore the house and I’ll be sure to show you all the best spots!”

Felix gives you a big smile as he watches you get up off the bed gesturing for him to show you the way.

The house is huge. Each pack member has their own room, then there are guest rooms, and there’s an office that Felix lets you know that it’s mainly Chan’s office but the whole pack will use it here and there. There’s a massive fenced backyard that is surrounded by trees leading into the forest. You take note of the pool, you’ve never had a pool and have never learned how to swim, would the pack be annoyed by that? You shake your head at the thought and look at the deck, it’s pretty, littered with different flowers and plants, and tons of places to relax or eat. And all that doesn’t even include the large basement that has been turned into the pack den. Felix takes you down into the den and your mouth waters involuntarily. It’s perfect, the biggest nest you’ve ever seen lies on the floor, there’s a TV and a mini fridge. There’s lots of storage space, which you assume holds anything you could ever need for heats and ruts, and then even more stuff.

“You are free to come down here whenever you’d like, I’ll speak for Han here when I say we’d love your scent in our pack nest. A blush spreads across your face and in embarrassment, you face towards the door letting Felix know it’s time to move on.

The last place Felix takes you is in the large living room, where Han is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed under him watching something animated.

“And that’s the end of the tour! Is it okay if I leave you here to relax with Han while I make us some lunch?” You nod at Felix and as he leaves you take a seat on the couch leaving one cushion's worth of space between you and Han, not wanting to disturb him. You decide to watch along with him to pass the time before your skin begins to crawl with the feeling of a pair of eyes on you. You turn to see Han’s round brown eyes on you, and he jumps a little once you look at him.

“I’m sorry! It’s just, you’re, god you’re glowing! I know that’s cliché but it’s true! Can I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer.” He asks nervously and you take a deep breath before nodding.

“What’s it like? You know, being pregnant?” Han gives you a nervous yet curious look, his full attention on you and you can’t help but find it endearing. Your mouth falls open thinking of a response.

“I’m not that pregnant yet but it’s nice so far. It’s kinda like having a friend with you everywhere you go. I’m a little more tired all the time and I don’t like morning sickness though.” He lets out a soft laugh.

“I can’t wait to have my own pups one day, but for now I’d love to help you take care of yours.”

“I think, I think I’d really like that.” You speak softly, as if you said it too loud the wrong person would hear. But Han doesn’t judge, he doesn’t scoff or make a sly comment, no he gives you a warm smile. An unfamiliar feeling settles in your chest, not quite sure what it is but it feels good.

“Minho saved me too.” Han blurts out, and by the way his scent sours, you can tell he didn’t mean to. Your eyes go wide at the implication.

“What?”

“I come from a long line of alpha men, I think my parents knew I’d be an omega before I presented. I got called pretty boy and some meaner names growing up. Yet they were still so disappointed in me for presenting as an omega, they put me on intense blockers and rarely let me leave the house. Almost a year after I turned eighteen I made my escape, that’s where I found Minho. I showed up at his dance studio asking for a job, desk work, assistant, anything. I didn’t know this at the time but Minho doesn’t like omegas working for him, he doesn’t think omegas should have to work at all but he especially doesn’t want them to feel like he is above them as their boss, but he felt that pull, the same way we feel with you. He put together some bogus application for me to fill out and once he saw that I left the address line blank he didn’t ask or push he just offered me a bed at his apartment, no questions asked. He ended up basically paying me to sit at the front desk of the studio every day and look pretty. Months later, we met Chan and his pack and the rest is history.” Han smiled fondly at the memory. Your mouth was ajar, unsure how to respond to such a deep confession, Han trusted you with his story, and that meant more than he could ever know.

“Thank you for telling me that, I’m sorry you grew up like that.”

“Chan told us what you told him about your story. I hope you don’t mind, it’s good for us to know. I’m sorry that happened to you, but you’re safe now. Not all alphas are bad, especially not these big puppies in our pack.” Han giggles turning to face you, you both let out a contented sigh before Felix shouts that lunch is ready.

You’re sitting in the same seat you sat in during breakfast, Felix taking his spot next to you with Han and Seungmin across from you. You happily eat the food as the guys try their best to include you in their conversations. After the food is long gone and the other two have wandered off Felix leaves you in the kitchen for just a moment to use the bathroom. With nothing to distract your mind, it wanders as well. An internal fight between your logical human mind and your omega, unable to agree on what’s best for you in this situation. It’s all too much, you feel suffocated. So you find air, taking a step onto the deck outside, and taking a seat on the steps trying to catch your breath. The sound of the sliding glass door opening and closing rips you from your thoughts, and the smell of fresh laundry pierces your nose.

“Chan doesn’t like it when the omegas go outside alone.” It’s Seungmin.

“I’m fine.” Your voice is shaky, and you don’t even know why you tried to lie.

“I know you are. But Chan would kill me if anything happened to you or your pup so I will stay over here by the door until you’re ready.” You let out a shaken sigh, Great now he had to babysit you out here because you couldn’t even hold yourself together.

“I don’t mind, I like it outside.” It’s like he could hear your thoughts.

“You don’t have to lie, I know this sucks. I know I’m being annoying, I know I should leave and never look back so you guys can live your lives as normal.” Fat tears fall down your plush cheeks, you don’t dare look at Seungmin, nobody needs to see you like this, especially not a stranger.

“If we didn’t want you here you wouldn’t be here. As a pack, we are very territorial and we tend to stay with our pack except for necessities like work stuff. Us wanting you to be a part of our pack is a big deal.” He’s blunt, but maybe that’s what you need right now.

“And what if I don’t want to?” Your mouth moves faster than your brain, and your omega scolds you for your words.

“So leave. You’re free to go. But you won’t, because I know you feel the pull too.” Who the hell does he think he is? You could leave right now, it wouldn’t matter, none of this matters. And yet, you don’t move to leave the yard, you don’t run away. Instead, you get up and move past Seungmin into the house. Running head on into what you were so scared of.

[see-arcane]

Oof, that's tricky.

The trouble is the different flavor of vampirism we're treated to in Sinners, which I think needs a look first.

Remmick is the Head Vampire, but only because he's enforcing himself as a Head Vampire. He's got everyone turned, no matter who does the turning, under his direct influence in the big bloody grinning hive mind. The only exceptions we see to that influence come from Mary and Stack. In both cases, it seems that Remmick's direct control gets interrupted or spoiled by a suitable outer emotional factor.

Mary snaps out of her thrall mode when she sees Annie staked, recognizing that she's now fully dead and not part of the undead party. There's no getting Annie back--and that horror spurs Mary out of Remmick's command. By the film's end, we see her escaping into the dark at Stack's urging. Stack being similarly nettled out of the hive mind control enough to send her away.

Stack's full thrall mode is broken in the fight with Smoke, when the latter pins him and hesitates to stake him. They are brothers in that moment, not combatants. The one who protects--who always protected--apologizing for not keeping the other safe.

"Don't be sorry. You always did."

And that is Stack snapping the leash. Meaning Smoke is able to send him away after Mary; freed. That spares two loved ones. Which makes for a sour question of what might have been possible for the poor Chows. If Bo had been given the right stimulation, could he have broken free of Remmick? No knowing.

But circling back to the Harkers. What would have played out here? Mina in Annie's place, Jonathan in Smoke's.

Necessarily, a Jonathan who had presumably not gone through the Castle Dracula experience but had been given the up close view of how the undead appear to be smiling drones warped into Remmick's puppets with their souls as mere flavor added to the servitude. Especially after witnessing Bo Chow show zero regard for Remmick's cunnlingus line to Grace and openly threatening their own daughter. Bo just stood there, placid as anything.

That is not him, we're left to think. These people are not themselves at all, but costumes for Remmick's will.

No question. Jonathan would have kept that promise. And then, perhaps, felt a stake twisting in his own heart at seeing Mary (Lucy in this scenario?) reacting in horror to Mina's ending, breaking free in that shock.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Was there a chance for her after all? For all of them? Oh, God...

But either way, Mina would still be dead. With or without a belated bitter wondering at how she might still have been saved, Jonathan would have found some way to die in the end. Not Remmick's.

And now consider the flip side! Smoke as Jonathan Harker, Annie as Mina Murray.

The bitter abridged version involves Smoke dying immediately in Castle Dracula when he fails to play along to the Count's Bluebeard bullshit. If the Count was too chickenshit to turn Renfield, he's not turning the fucking brick wall that is Smoke and his impeccable aim. He'd want to kill the man dead, chuck his bits to the wolves.

But! Let's assume he makes it through the Castle Dracula BS in one piece, either stonewalling Dracula's psychological warfare nonsense or just flat out escaping. We get to the threshold of the Dracula Attackula of Mina Annie on October 3rd, mwa ha ha, cackle cackle, -> Annie clocks that she's on limited time, so if she goes full vampire, end her, swear to her and pinkie promise.

What would happen in order:

SMOKE AS A PSYCHOPOMP CRYPTID GIVE IT GIVE IT TO ME

Smoke also clocking that, hey, there is a waiting period involved with this kind of vampirism...and he has zero compunctions about killing anyone who looks at Annie the wrong way before she's actually factually cold and dead. Jack and Van Helsing do not survive long enough to make it to Transylvania. No, he hasn't seen them. Ignore the used shovel behind his back.

"If we have to split up, take this with you."

"This is a Tommy gun. How do you have a Tommy gun in the 1890s?"

"Don't worry about it."

But as to the serious Holiest Love bit? Fuck.

The vampirism is still poisoned with the influence of a colonizing Head Vampire, and supposing he was aware of the actual lethal body count Dracula and the Brides have chalked up as opposed to mere conversions like Remmick's, those vampires are more physically dangerous. If Annie told him she didn't want to become one of their number, I don't see Smoke reacting all that differently to how he did at the sticking point in Sinners. Annie was in immediate danger of turning into something Smoke had no reason to believe would really be her anymore. He acted fast. Dracula's conversions are slow, even when you aren't dead of exsanguination. You're forced to sit and wait and think.

What if? What if there's an alternative? What if there's a chance? What if we defeat the Head Vampire AND his curse in time and all is well? ...What if these others jump the gun? What if they try to put my beloved down because her teeth are too sharp or her hands are too cold? What if?

Smoke acted fast to stake Annie because he had already been made to promise

(Jonathan never promised),

he had no time to ponder

(Jonathan had resolved already that if Mina became a monster, he would too--the issue to him is not What if Mina becomes a monster? It's 'I Will Be Whatever Mina Is. Living, Dead, or Otherwise. Everyone else can do whatever.')

and no reason to think there was anything to make vampirism less horrible, right up until the shock of Mary and Stack slipping their mental collars over Annie's death. What if...

(Jonathan, thinking, thinking, thinking. These vampires have free will. I saw the Sisters disobey Dracula. I know Lucy tossed her poor young meal away at the sight of Arthur, love overruling appetite. If we kill Dracula too late and Mina is turned? Well. She will not be alone. Let them hunt two monsters. She will not be slain for another's sin. I refuse.)

It's all terribly tasty to think of.

And as an aside, I like my even more super abridged version:

Smoke as Jonathan Harker, lizard fashioning into the tomb, and just hacking Dracula apart with the shovel spade. No jumpscare, no waiting. Just whackwhackwhackwhack until he puffs apart into dust. The End.

There is so much to love about Sinners, but one of my favorite parts was the running theme of flipping the table on static storytelling tropes. And my favorite out of that pile?

Christianity is not the Magical Universal Good That Keeps the Monsters at Bay, and Hoodoo—or, nodding to cinema history, [INSERT ANY NON-CHRISTIAN FAITH HERE]—is not the Weird and Wicked Supernatural Scary Evil, Only Here for Curses and Pearl-Clutching Taboos.

In Sinners, Christianity isn’t held up as an evil in itself, but it is held up as itself, specifically as it actually came to be when it was introduced (forced) onto those people who never asked for it, didn’t want it, and had gods and cultures of their own which were largely crushed underfoot by colonialism and doctrines that generations were forced to choke down to the point that modern descendants now follow and spout a religion their ancestors had to have slaughtered or beaten into them. Remmick, an Irish vampire revealed as being old enough to have been a young man in an era before Ireland had been overtaken by Christianity, at the cusp of having it forced on them while their land and rights were stolen, can recite the Lord’s Prayer verbatim. Those words not only do nothing against his vampiric nature, but he admits the words give him comfort, even as he still hates the men who forced those words upon him and his father.

That scene coupled with Sammie’s interaction with his own father in the church was so beautifully and insidiously vindicating. Because Remmick and Sammie’s father are both leading congregations. They both have these groups of people following along, reciting what they want those groups to recite—even as they both come from groups that this religion was forcibly grafted into, they stand in places of power and command, and therefore it has become good! They both want Sammie to use his musical gift for their purposes, not his own wishes. They both disregard his fear and pain as they lay hands on him before staring crowds who wait to see him bow to their will.

Vampirism is the greater existential terror, especially as it is under Remmick’s rule. A potentially eternal undeath that traps the spirit and has one single controlling mind puppeteering their body and will. But Christianity as it’s framed in the reality of Sammie’s life is shown explicitly not to be the savior of the story, having so many of the same bones as the nightmare he barely escaped with his life.

Give up your gift and your desires and your free will to the Church, son, it’s the only way! Be a lesson for my followers and then we can acknowledge your torn face and the blood on your clothes and the absence of your cousins! Drop the guitar and give yourself to worship and leave behind all the evil sin that is joy not taken from sitting and reciting the Bible! Drop the guitar, son!

Then we turn to the Hoodoo and to Sammie’s musical conjuring. Annie’s magic and expertise is the only reason anyone survived the night as long as they did, and the only reason anybody was lucky enough to die as a human being. Her mojo bag saved Smoke’s neck from Stack twice, whereas everyone who went outside and got jumped by Remmick—or, in Grace’s case, rushed out in a literal blaze of glory to stake her turned husband—who might have worn a cross or been some manner of churchgoer, all got taken out by the vampires. Sammie’s power is not part of a Christian magic, but as the film points out, it is sacred. Those strings and his song pulled reveling spirits from the past and the future to dance with the present. That passion, that talent, that joy, that humanity, was so magnetic that it cast a spell...

…and it did so in what his father and many aghast others would deem a den of sin.

Sinful because of dance. Because of games at a table. Because of sex had for the sake of pleasuring each other—notably, each time with a miserably married woman, both getting to experience lovers who actually wanted them to enjoy themselves (sorry about that climax, Stack), rather than rote marital rutting for its own joyless sake. Because of nocturnal jubilation, separating oneself from the labors of life and the constriction of ‘polite and upstanding’ society.

Raucous joy is sin.

Faiths other and older than Christianity are sin.

Refusing to let yourself be absorbed into a coercive collective, no matter how well it sings or friendly its smile, is sin.       

Sin, sin, sin. The movie sins in this way, and so many glorious others, if only because these things which are not evil are painted with the label of ‘sin.’ Things that ‘are not done’ in a civilization choked by white supremacy and an increasingly puritanical Christian lens that leans deeper and deeper into disdain for empathy while championing strict control and obedience to patriarchy, bastardizing itself even as its original messages of love and goodwill are stretched so far and thin as to be nonexistent.

It’s sad to know how timely this story is. Here we are in the 21st century, strangled by conservative overreach on so many monstrous levels. But the story of Sinners does exist and it is being played like a loud and joyous song. A thousand thanks to Ryan Coogler for doing this all so artfully and so powerfully. I honestly can’t recall the last time I’ve seen such a thing on screen, if I’ve seen it at all. Here’s to more of it.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Her Turn Now - 3

Character: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: Twin sisters. Opposite worlds. The eldest is a tough, no-nonsense soldier. The youngest is a quiet, hardworking corporate girl. They rarely meet—until the younger sister collapses from stress, hiding months of workplace bullying.

Furious and protective, the soldier twin trades places with her. Heels off, boots on. Now, the office has no idea what's coming.

She doesn’t play nice. She doesn’t play fair. And while she's serving justice in a pencil skirt, the ruthless CEO starts to take notice…

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , -

Bucky still felt guilty for leaving you. His voice was low, filled with regret.

"I'm sorry. My mind was filled dealing with my brothers."

You frowned slightly. You didn’t exactly understand what he meant. His brothers? That was the first time you ever heard him mention family. Back in high school, Bucky had never talked about them. He was the mysterious transfer student. Handsome, quiet, and distant.

Many girls liked him back then. Well, you and Levi included. And, of course, he was ridiculously good at playing the piano.

He looked down at his hands, his voice softer now.

"I should’ve been there to protect you, Levi. You joined this company to help me."

"But karma always comes at the right time," Bucky continued with a faint laugh. "The whole department ended up in the hospital."

Your breath hitched.

'Huh?' you thought, blinking in surprise. So that's why Levi wanted to stay? She stayed to help him? You swallowed hard.

'Dear God, Levi... you love him that much?'

You wanted to laugh too. After all, it was your handiwork.

"I'm glad you weren't there when it happened," he said, concern flickering in his eyes. "Did you get enough rest? It's fine if you need a paid leave."

"Oh yeah. I'm fine," you smiled, masking everything behind that calm expression.

His phone rang suddenly, cutting the conversation short. He glanced at the caller ID and answered.

"Yes. It’s true there are twenty-nine patients." His voice shifted, sharper, colder—more like a CEO. "Do your job. What's the point of me paying for your insurance if you can't cover that?"

You blinked, slightly stunned. This was the first time you heard Bucky sounding like that. Firm. In control. Ruthless.

Ending the call, he exhaled deeply and looked back at you with a light chuckle.

"I'm glad you're alright and they got punished. If your older sister found out, she would kill me." He laughed softly. "I heard she's a Captain now."

"Yes," you replied, clearing your throat. "After her last successful mission, she was promoted. She brought home all the hostages alive. She's still stationed in Egypt."

Your heart skipped.

'He knew?'

"Wow," Bucky whistled under his breath. "Remind me not to pick a fight with her. But honestly... she's awesome."

"If you ever need security advice, I know someone you can call."

He smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. Tell her I said that."

Curious, you asked, "Who was that?"

Before you could say anything else, his phone buzzed again. He stared at the screen for a few seconds, looking annoyed.

"Fine. I’ll go," he muttered, before hanging up.

He sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck.

"It’s them. My brothers. They know I’m back and they want me to come home."

You nodded without hesitation. "Yeah... of course."

He paused, then glanced at you almost pleadingly.

"Can you accompany me again? Please?"

Not long after, you both sat in the backseat of his black sedan, heading toward his family home. The city lights reflected off the window as Bucky stared outside, lost in thought.

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

After a long silence, he scoffed under his breath.

"Hm. What kind of humiliation will they throw at me tonight?"

"My brothers," he answered, his voice dry. "I’m sure they’ve invited extra people just to make things more fun."

You bit your lip.

‘Shit,’ you cursed inside. You had no idea who his brothers even were.

Quickly, you texted Casey:

Emergency. Background check on Bucky’s family. ASAP.

Her reply came instantly.

On it, boss.

Bucky leaned back into the seat, his tone bitter.

"Maybe they'll ask why the planning department got shut down and why most of them landed in the hospital. Then they’ll probably try to pin the blame on me."

Bucky leaned back into the seat, his tone bitter.

"Maybe they'll ask why the planning department got shut down and why most of them landed in the hospital. Then they’ll probably try to pin the blame on me."

You snorted, tilting your head, voice laced with dry sarcasm.

"Well, maybe if they spent less time kissing each other’s asses and more time doing actual work, none of this would’ve happened."

Bucky blinked, clearly not expecting that. His eyes widened for a split second before a laugh burst out of him.

"Wow," he shook his head, grinning. "Levi... you're... way blunter than I remember."

The black sedan rolled to a stop in front of the Barnes estate, its towering gates looming like silent judges. Bucky let out a long sigh, staring blankly at the grand mansion ahead. He sat there for a moment, shoulders heavy, fingers drumming restlessly on his knee.

You shrugged, giving him a sly smirk.

"Guess I got tired of playing nice."

He exhaled sharply and opened the door. "Well, here we go."

As soon as Bucky stepped out, your phone buzzed. You glanced down, catching a message from Casey.

Casey: Turned out Bucky is the illegitimate child.

Your eyes shot open for a second, heart skipping a beat.

So that's the weight he's been carrying.

You looked up. There they were, standing at the top of the marble steps. Three men, his half-brothers, waiting like vultures with smug grins plastered across their faces. Their sharp suits couldn’t hide the arrogance radiating off them.

The eldest one, tall with slicked-back hair, let out a chuckle. "Well, look who finally made it. The world traveler."

The second brother crossed his arms, his eyes cold. "We were starting to think you’d skip out again, Bucky."

The third one simply smirked, eyes flicking toward you for a brief second, sizing you up with thinly veiled curiosity.

You stayed silent but straightened your back, standing beside Bucky like a shield. You weren’t here by accident. You were here as his support partner for this suffocating dinner.

Inside the dining hall, the air was heavier. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above an overly long mahogany table, while the scent of expensive perfume and roasted duck filled the air.

Mr. Barnes sat at the head of the table, his stern face carved in stone. His sharp eyes landed on Bucky, and even his neutral expression carried weight.

"You finally return from London," Mr. Barnes spoke in a low, commanding tone. "How was the trip? Productive, I hope."

Bucky sat down beside you, his jaw tight. "It went as planned. Secured a potential deal for the European branch."

"Good," Mr. Barnes nodded once, but his tone lacked any warmth.

Across from you, Mrs. Barnes sat like a queen on her throne, her diamond necklace catching the chandelier light. She offered you a glance, her painted lips curling into a fake smile before quickly turning her cold eyes back to Bucky.

"It’s nice that you finally make yourself useful, James," she said, her voice honeyed but sharp. "Unlike certain other… accidents in your life."

Bucky's knuckles whitened around his fork, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

You swallowed the urge to roll your eyes. This woman made her hatred crystal clear. She didn't see Bucky as family. Only as a stain.

The second brother joined in, eyes glittering with amusement. "Yeah. Someone almost died, right? What a shame. Poor management, I guess."

Then came the brothers again, ready to poke. The eldest leaned forward, voice dripping with mock concern.

"So, how's the little scandal back at headquarters? Planning department closed? I heard almost thirty people hospitalized... sounds messy."

The third one chuckled under his breath. "Father must be so proud."

You felt your teeth clench. Every word they spoke made your blood boil.

Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he held his composure, replying calmly, "The situation has been handled. The people responsible are no longer in the company."

His brothers exchanged glances, disappointed their prodding didn’t get a stronger reaction. But they weren’t done.

"You do seem rather calm about it, considering the mess," said the second brother.

Bucky smiled thinly. "Because unlike you, I fix problems."

You nearly smirked. That was a clean hit.

Bucky nodded stiffly. "Understood."

Mr. Barnes cleared his throat, silencing the pettiness for now. His voice remained sharp.

"I expect your next report by Monday. London or not, you still have responsibilities here."

The rest of the dinner dragged on, a tightrope of fake pleasantries and loaded jabs. You quietly kept your head high, observing every venomous glance, every hidden sneer.

This family wasn’t just dysfunctional. They were sharks. And Bucky had been swimming with them for far too long.

As dessert was served, you stole a glance at him. Beneath his calm facade, you could see it. The tension, the exhaustion.

And now you were here, sitting beside him in enemy territory.

Your chest tightened.

He’s been fighting alone this whole time.

⚾⚾⚾⚾

Before leaving, Bucky’s brothers weren’t done yet.

"Hey, Bucky," the eldest called out with a sly grin. "Come on. Let’s have a little game before you go."

Bucky glanced at you briefly, then looked back at his brothers standing near the private baseball field. The way they stood there, smug, waiting, was enough to tell anyone this wasn’t just an innocent game.

"You know I’m not good at baseball," Bucky said, his voice flat.

"Exactly." The second brother smirked. "That’s why it’ll be fun."

The third one grabbed a bat, spinning it casually in his hand. "Come on, lighten up. We’re family."

Reluctantly, Bucky walked over, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. You followed behind, sensing the trap but staying quiet. They handed him a bat, and one of the brothers stepped up to pitch.

The first pitch came fast, way too fast.

The ball slammed into Bucky’s stomach with a solid thud.

"Ugh!" Bucky doubled over, the bat slipping from his hands as he dropped to his knees.

His brothers burst out laughing.

"Come on, little brother," the eldest chuckled, "don’t tell me that hurt."

The second brother wiped tears from his eyes, barely able to contain his laughter. "Man, you’ve always been so fragile."

Your patience snapped. You stepped forward, grabbing the bat off the ground.

"Alright, let me finish it," you said, voice sharp and eyes locked onto the brothers.

"Ooh, look at that," the third brother teased. "The little assistant wants to play hero."

The eldest brother tossed you three spare balls, still grinning. "Be my guest."

You didn’t say a word. You simply planted your feet, adjusted your grip on the bat, and narrowed your gaze.

With a smooth motion, you launched the first ball straight at the eldest brother’s forehead.

Crack.

He stumbled backward, clutching his head and groaning, "Shit!"

Without hesitation, you threw the second ball. This time it struck the second brother square on the nose.

Crack.

Blood spurted instantly as he howled, dropping to the ground with both hands covering his face.

The third brother’s eyes widened in panic, but you were already swinging the bat. The ball connected cleanly and flew straight into his groin.

"Ughmf!" he groaned, collapsing like a rag doll, his face turning pale.

Bucky stood frozen, eyes wide, watching his brothers roll on the ground moaning in pain.

You blew a breath, letting the adrenaline cool off, and glanced back at Bucky. "My sister taught me sometimes."

Bucky stared at you like he was seeing a ghost. His mind raced.

Levi doesn’t like baseball. She never even wanted to try golf.

But suddenly, a memory surfaced. Back in high school, he remembered seeing a girl—one of the twins—playing baseball with the boys, laughing, full of energy, swinging the bat like she was born with it.

His chest tightened. He shook his head, forcing the thought away.

Impossible.

Still, a seed of doubt had been planted. His eyes lingered on you just a moment longer, searching, questioning.

You simply smiled and handed him back the bat. "Let’s go home before they call their nanny."

Bucky laughed, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened. "Yeah. Let’s get out of here before they can even stand."

He held his stomach as you helped steady him. The two of you walked back toward the mansion, leaving the three groaning brothers behind, defeated and humiliated.

💥💥💥💥

Later that night, you sat on the couch, scrolling through your phone while the TV played quietly in the background. The weight of everything that had happened kept swirling in your chest. You stared at Bucky’s contact info for a moment before shaking your head and tapping Levi’s name instead.

After a few rings, Levi picked up.

"Hey," you said, your voice light. "You didn’t tell me you work with Bucky."

On the other end, there was a small pause. "Now you know," Levi replied, her voice calm, as if she’d been waiting for this conversation.

You chuckled softly, trying to keep it casual. "Hey… do you like him that much? Is that why you insisted on working here?" You were teasing, but part of you hoped for a different answer.

Levi’s voice dropped, soft but firm. "Yes."

The simple word landed heavier than you expected. For a moment, your chest tightened, as if something bitter crawled up your throat. You swallowed it down quickly and forced a small laugh.

"Alright then," you said, masking your discomfort. "I’ll watch him for you. No woman will come near him while you’re resting. You’ve got my word."

Levi exhaled quietly. "I could go back, you know. I don’t want to make things complicated."

You shook your head even though she couldn’t see it. "Sist, rest. Take two full weeks. Then you can come back. You need to recover completely."

Levi went silent for a moment, as if weighing her emotions. "Okay," she finally whispered.

The call ended, but the silence in your living room grew louder. You let the phone rest on your lap and stared at the dark window ahead. Your reflection stared back at you.

Could you really surpass this strange feeling twisting in your chest?

After all these years, the high school crush you thought had faded suddenly roared back to life the moment you stood beside him. But now, you weren’t the only one standing there.

Levi loved him too. Enough to stay in a toxic company just to be close to him.

You rubbed your chest lightly, trying to calm the uneasy thumping of your heartbeat.

"This is stupid," you muttered under your breath, forcing yourself to stand. "You’re not in high school anymore."

But as much as you tried to shake it off, the ache lingered.

💥💥💥💥

Back at the McCain house, Levi was comfortably resting on the large sectional couch in the living room, surrounded by pillows and blankets. The comforting aroma of home-cooked meals filled the air. Elle had gone all out—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, honey-buttered cornbread, peach cobbler, and her famous sweet iced tea. Plates were scattered around Levi as she slowly picked through the feast her mother had lovingly prepared.

The front door swung open with a loud creak as Daren stepped inside, dropping his backpack onto the floor with a heavy thud. Still in his school uniform, the youngest of the McCain siblings ran a hand through his messy hair, scanning the living room.

He spotted Levi sitting on the couch, a blanket draped loosely over her lap as she sipped her tea.

He squinted. "Which one are you?"

It was always like this with Daren. Unless his twin sisters wore something completely different, he could never tell them apart when they were in regular clothes.

Levi let out a small, tired sigh and rolled her eyes. "It’s me, genius."

Daren’s shoulders visibly relaxed. "Thank God you're Levi."

Levi arched a brow. "Why do you sound so relieved?"

Daren grimaced. "Because your brother got into trouble… and Y/N gave me a punishment that still haunts my nightmares."

Levi’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile before she shook her head. "I see she's been keeping you in line."

Before Daren could respond, the front door opened again.

"Honey, I'm home!"

The voice was deep, commanding, and filled with warmth. David McCain, head of the family, stepped into the house like a storm entering calm waters. His tall, broad figure filled the doorway. He still wore his Iron Man Marathon medallion proudly around his neck, sweat from the long trip clinging to his skin.

Elle walked up to greet him. David leaned down and planted a firm kiss on her lips, then patted Daren’s back with his large hand, nearly knocking the boy off balance.

Finally, his gaze landed on Levi, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"You’re home," he said, walking over and pulling her into a strong, comforting hug. His embrace was firm, almost protective, like he was silently shielding her from the world.

Levi clung to him for a moment longer than usual, breathing in the familiar scent of her father that always made her feel safe.

David pulled back slightly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he examined her face. He sensed something was off — fathers always do — but he didn’t press. Not yet.

"I’m so happy you’re here," he said softly.

Levi exhaled quietly in relief. At least for now, her father wasn’t asking questions.

But later that night, after the house had grown quiet and everyone retreated to their rooms, David sat down in the living room, his expression unreadable.

Elle sat beside him, already knowing what was coming.

"Tell me," he said.

Elle took a deep breath and explained everything. Every detail about what had happened to Levi, the bullying, the company, the cover-up.

David listened in complete silence, his face like stone. When Elle finally finished, all he said was, "Oh."

Elle’s heart sank. That was never a good sign.

"Oh no," she whispered, biting her lip. She knew her husband far too well. The calmer his reaction, the angrier he was inside.

David grabbed his phone and dialed a number. His voice was low but sharp as steel. "I want you to do something for me."

And just like that, the wheels were set in motion.

💥💥💥💥

The next morning, you sat on the edge of your bed, scrolling through the latest news as you sipped your morning coffee. The headline nearly made you drop your mug.

"Massive fire: 29 properties including homes, apartments, and businesses burned to the ground overnight."

"Yes."

You called your mother "Mom," you said, your voice sharp. "Is it… Dad? He’s back and now this?"

Your mouth went dry. You knew what that meant. Your father never left loose ends.

*****

You stepped into the company building, the atmosphere far more chaotic than usual. Employees whispered in hushed tones, phones rang nonstop, and the HR department looked like a sinking ship. Papers scattered across desks, and multiple people paced back and forth, some on calls, others just frozen in panic.

Well, they deserved it, you thought coldly. After what they let happen to Levi, this panic was nothing compared to the hell they allowed.

As you walked further down the hallway, you spotted Bucky standing near the conference room window, his phone pressed to his ear. His posture was tense but composed. His jaw clenched as he listened, nodding occasionally. His usual sharp suit was immaculate, but his face carried the weight of last night's drama.

He glanced up when he noticed you approaching.

"Did you see the news?" he asked after ending his call, his voice quieter than usual.

You kept your tone neutral, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a faint smirk you couldn’t quite hide. "I know. Devastating."

Bucky narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, something flashing behind them as he studied your face. His gaze wasn’t unkind, but calculating.

He had seen that smirk before.

His mind drifted—back to high school, back to a moment that had imprinted itself deep inside his memory.

There she was: standing in the school courtyard, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, sleeves rolled to her elbows. A group of girls who had bullied her classmate were suddenly covered in paint and feathers thanks to a carefully rigged prank. She stood back, arms crossed, and smiled that same exact smirk. Mischievous. Satisfied. Dangerous.

He remembered how she had turned her head and caught him watching her that day. Their eyes met, and she simply winked before walking away like nothing had happened.

The image blinked away, but it left a lingering question burning inside him.

He kept telling himself it was impossible. Levi’s twin sister, according to what she said, was still stationed in Egypt. She couldn’t possibly be standing in front of him now. Could she?

Still, ever since last night, something had been gnawing at him. The way you carried yourself, the sharp remarks, the confidence that Levi never really showed. And now… that smirk.

Bucky rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his voice low. "Strange… you seem much calmer than the rest of us."

You gave a small shrug, trying not to meet his eyes for too long. "Someone has to stay calm, right? I mean, panicking won’t solve anything."

He watched you for a moment longer, his head slightly tilted, as if trying to read between your words.

"I suppose you're right," he finally said, though the suspicion hadn’t left his face.

But inside his head, the puzzle pieces were starting to shift. The question now was: would he dare put them together?

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

Link for Arrogant Ex-Husband

Amazon.com

Link for Dad I Can't Let You Go

Amazon.com: Dad, I Can't Let You Go eBook : Bing, Alina C.: Kindle Store

[sasukekys]

the homosexuality and romance in naruto and sasuke’s relationship is textually supported inside the story

this is just an expansion of my own old post (rip sasukesun), but panels will be included in this edition. i also took inspiration from my friend @narutouzumakiarchive who so accurately wrote, and i quote, when determining the validity of something in canon you need to look at the internal logic of the world and the values that the author promotes, my post will only show other instances where naruto and sasuke do exactly (to each other) what is established by the manga itself as “love” or “romance” and even “gay”, many of them have already been pointed out by myself or other people in the fandom, but i wanted to put them all together to reinforce how a narrative is built and how an in universe logic is established. sit down cause it’s gonna be long and i will not leave it under a read more because i’m afraid to lose it forever if i do.

haku and zabuza

land of waves is such a well written arc that its presence, ideas, values etc keep showing up for the whole story. it’s the essence of the manga, if i’m being real, and if i were to put all the references here, it would be endless, but for the purpose of this post, i want to point out the implication of romantic feelings in haku and zabuza’s relationship, without any value of judgement whether i find it “problematic”, and how they parallel naruto and sasuke’s.

sasuke sacrificing himself for naruto parallels haku sacrificing himself to zabuza. but it goes beyond it because haku establishes the importance of wanting to protect people who are precious to you, an idea that persists for the entire manga. the same way haku considers zabuza precious to him to the point that he would die to see zabuza’s dream come true, sasuke’s sacrifice implies he feels the same for naruto, sasuke himself implies in his “deathbed” he wants naruto to fulfil his dream. and later in the manga, naruto internalises this thought, he wants to protect sasuke, who is precious to him.

almost 200 chapters later, and we still have land of waves clear references.

and as if that’s not enough, the feeling of acceptance that makes haku so devoted to zabuza is also shared by naruto towards sasuke.

in the arc itself, naruto recognises clearly that what haku felt for zabuza was love, the word he uses denotes feelings of affection, it’s not a mere “care about” the translation here is saying. the devotion, the desire to protect someone who is precious to you, the feelings of acceptance, they all fall under love as a definition, recognised by naruto himself when he calls zabuza out, but it goes beyond that, because kishimoto wrote haku to have romantic feelings for zabuza, something pointed out by many people in this fandom, haku blushes while calling zabuza’s body beautiful. kishimoto draws them in angles where their mouths are aligned. zabuza wishes to go to the same place haku went in the afterlife.

and yet the devotion, the desire to protect someone who is precious to you, the acceptance, all of those aspects that fall under the definition of love in haku and zabuza’s relationship are applied to naruto and sasuke. i guess it’s easy to accept that what they feel for each other is love, but it’s very curious how they parallel two people with implied romantic feelings in every single aspect of their relationship. again, i’m not here to morally judge haku and zabuza’s relationship or kishimoto’s decisions, the age gap isn’t part of naruto and sasuke’s relationship anyway, but i want to follow the internal logic of the manga, it was certainly a choice to add this romantic subtext for zabuza and haku while making naruto and sasuke follow the exact same patterns.

shikaku

shikaku talks about someone rough having a soft spot for the person they love, and shikamaru thinks his father likes to be bossed around by his mother. this is a trope kishimoto is fond of, in his manga mario, he likes that saori is tough but has a warms up for mario, but inside the naruto manga, the logic is no different in naruto and sasuke’s relationship. sasuke clearly has a soft spot for naruto, naruto is the only one sasuke shows weakness towards, sasuke admits naruto made me him feel at ease, and one of the things that actually got sasuke’s attention in naruto’s behaviour was his prankster gremlin antics, a trait generally rejected by others. when naruto yells at chuunin exams, people think he’s loud and annoying, but sasuke smiles fondly.

naruto also enjoys to be bossed by sasuke, this was shown in war arc, he says sasuke is “pissing him off” for giving orders but he doesn’t really do anything about it, he smiles and agrees on following sasuke’s ideas anyway, like a smitten boyfriend. shikaku says this is love, and again how naruto and sasuke act towards each other fall under what is defined as love by someone else inside the manga.

tayuya

i made a specific post about this one already, but i can’t leave what tayuya says out of this compilation because it’s one of the most interesting ones to me. tayuya doesn’t define love, she defines homosexuality specifically.

in sasuke’s retrieval arc, during tayuya vs shikamaru, tayuya asks if sasuke is that important for them to waste a team for one guy, and says that’s gay, there’s no euphemism or disguise on her words, she says they are homos. shikamaru himself explains at that moment that no, in his case at least, he wants to save sasuke because he is a brother of the leaf and shikamaru trusts his comrades, he doesn’t think he’s wasting his team for one guy, perfectly understandable, but that doesn’t change how tayuya has established a logic inside the narrative: there is a line to cross.

tayuya talks about “wasting a team” for one guy but it’s not the “wasting a team” aspect that is gay, it’s the idea of “going too far” for a guy that’s very important to you, now i wonder who has an entire narrative surrounding this idea, of many people questioning “why would you go that far for one guy?”.

“is that boy sasuke that important to you?” and the answer to naruto is yes, but not because sasuke is a “brother of the leaf”, and then you continue with what tayuya says after… so you are a homo. how naruto acts towards sasuke is established in the narrative of the manga as homosexuality, not only love or romance.

sai and nicknames

when trying to improve his social skills, sai reads a book on the matter. what kishimoto chose to show the readers by the social rules of the naruto universe is that using sufixes like “-kun” expresses distance, an emotional barrier, something that both hinata and sakura use with naruto and sasuke. but using nicknames and terms of endearment help to combat that distance, and it allows you to form an especial and close relationship. sasuke uses a term of endearment with naruto, a special nickname he doesn’t use with anyone else, actually, naruto is the only person to have that with sasuke.

in a flashback, we learn that naruto called sasuke an “usuratonkachi” first, but sasuke kept it and started using it with naruto. through the manga we see that sasuke calls naruto that multiple times, and sometimes it is when naruto is being an “idiot”, but it’s also in endearing moments, the most remarkable one being vote2, after their reconciliation. in the boruto movie, we learn that sasuke has its own definition for usuratonkachi, someone who hates to lose, a very noticeable trait of naruto’s personality, but something endearing to sasuke nonetheless. naruto’s strong will is something sasuke admires.

kishimoto uses a book on social skills to establish another in universe rule, that using nicknames with someone expresses emotional closeness, a special relationship. through the manga, kishimoto portrays sasuke to follow the same rule with naruto, showing that they are close and their relationship is special.

hinata’s confession

hinata confesses her love to naruto during pein’s invasion, in her confession, she explains the reasons for her feelings.

naruto doesn’t say anything about hinata confessing to him, but one arc later he says the same things she said, but to sasuke, basically the same reasons.

hinata to naruto: i nearly went the wrong way, but you showed me the right one / naruto to sasuke: one misstep and i could’ve ended up like you, but my connection with you helped go the right way.

hinata to naruto: i was always chasing you, wanting to overtake you, i just wanted to talk to you, i wanted to be with you / naruto to sasuke: i wanted to talk to you but i didn’t know how to approach it, you made me feel jealous so i made you my rival, but i wanted to be like you, i was always chasing after you.

on vote2, sasuke’s monologue reveals he feels the same about naruto, it’s a direct response to everything naruto has said, he even remembers that very conversation in kage summit, sasuke also adds the loneliness he and naruto were familiar with, but the same feelings of admiration naruto talked about in kage summit are there.

sasuke to naruto: i saw you growing stronger and i reciprocated the rivalry, when you started growing more, i felt jealous, you had a strength i didn’t, you had always walked in front of me.

hinata doesn’t have the same proximity with naruto as naruto and sasuke have with each other, the way she refers at him (the -kun suffix) expresses distance and an emotional barrier, meanwhile the way sasuke refers to naruto expresses a special relationship and closeness, as we can see by the social rules of this universe, and yet, what hinata says to naruto is defined as love. the way naruto and sasuke speak about each other is indicated in the manga as reasons for someone to romantically love one another, but they have a plus that their relationship is seen by the narrative as special, and what they have is mutual.

omoi and shinjuu

another one that has been pointed out by many people in the fandom, i’m not here to exactly discuss shinjuu and its references outside the manga, even though other tumblr uses have done a pretty good job on this. what i’m about to say has already been explained by @narutouzumakiarchive on the same post i linked at the beginning, i just want to compile all the references together and pay attention to the logic built through the entire story.

at the beginning of kage summit, omoi wonders about shinjuu, he specifically uses that word and frames it as romantic, translations are sometimes watered down because omoi says shinjuu (しんじゅう), the furigana is unmistakable, it means double suicide not merely “can’t let me go”, the text that doesn’t say suicide is omitting relevant information. omoi’s thoughts are basically: what if someone is so in love with him they can’t bear to be apart from him, making them propose a lovers suicide if he and the hypothetical person are to separate? omoi wonders about a romantic situation, it is not framed as anything else but romantic.

everybody knows what happens at the end of kage summit right?

the context of the entire arc shows everybody telling naruto to stop going that far for sasuke, to cut sasuke off, and yet naruto has a panic attack over the thought of sasuke dying. when naruto meets sasuke, he tells him the same things hinata said to him, and after everything, naruto proposes a double suicide with sasuke because he can’t bear the idea of existing without him, with this kind of separation. how exactly does that differ from what omoi imagined?

kishimoto throws a random and seemingly comedic and unrelated information at the beginning of the arc, frames it as romantic, and then not so innocently makes naruto repeat the same behaviour towards sasuke at the end of the very same arc. he could’ve chosen anything for omoi to say, and still, coincidentally, what he says fits naruto and sasuke’s relationship perfectly, please someone warn him the things he be writing accidentally.

kushina and minato

able to piss off even people inside the naruto and sasuke pile of shippers itself, what sasuke says about naruto parallels what kushina says about minato and why she fell for him, there are many many narusasu/minakushi parallels, actually, even more after the minato one shot, and it’s not about their personalities or looks, but rather about roles and themes.

kushina tells naruto that she fell for minato because he saved her, the only one who was able to, and he was capable of changing her heart, if those are reasons to make someone fall for another person, what can we say about sasuke that says naruto saved him, the only one who was able to, and was capable of changing his heart?

kishimoto even gives sasuke and kushina the same role of explaining to their son (k) about their fathers, and what they say about naruto and minato is also similar.

(this collage is maoam’s btw, you can check their posts, they also point out a lot of stuff i’m talking about).

kushina about minato: he looked like a sissy and unreliable, he said he wanted to be hokage but there was no way i believed in that / sasuke about naruto: he was always talking about becoming hokage but he was a loser, full of weaknesses, a good for nothing.

kushina about minato: i looked down on him, but i was wrong, he saved me and became a slpendid ninja (and later hokage) / sasuke about naruto: he pulled himself with his own strength and became hokage.

my point here is not even to show how their relationships parallel one another, but rather to talk about how the way naruto and sasuke act towards each other is framed as reasons why people fall in love in this universe, it can be seen as platonic for a reader’s standard, but for the naruto world’s rules, it isn’t, it is romantic.

not giving up

when kakashi wrongly claims that sakura has never given up on sasuke and that she’s only wanted to save him, he associates those feelings with love. this is not the first time kakashi’s judgement on sakura is objectively wrong, in kage summit, sakura was shown to be the same as any other konoha ninja when it comes to sasuke, well any other konoha ninja but one.

sasuke himself acknowledges that naruto was the only one who has never given up on him, not only that but it was naruto who saved him, that’s solely on naruto, nobody else mentioned. despite kakashi being wrong about the person, he also has a definition on love, one that was already used with kushina and minato. saving someone and not giving up on them is framed as love, and it comes out of sasuke’s mouth that only naruto did that for him.

i’ve only talked about the content itself, but in some of those instances kishimoto also uses visual language to get the message through, though that would be for another occasion, i guess.

i wonder how come so many different characters can name what’s love and romance and even homosexuality and have naruto and sasuke meeting every single standard, but people still claim kishimoto wrote it all accidentally because he is, without any proof except for the claim that he is japanese and old and a man, homophobic. i’m sorry, but it’s not “up to the audience” to decide wether naruto and sasuke’s relationship is romantic or platonic. you can disagree all you want and i know people will, but no one has yet provided the textual evidence that shows otherwise. by every metric, the narrative establishes that, in the logic of the naruto universe, what naruto and sasuke have is not only love but romance, and not only romance but homosexual.