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theonlyonesora · 1 month ago

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The Third Rule

Lily x Oscar Piastri x You (Reader)

Chapter 3 – Unexpected Pit Stop

We were two cocktails into pretending we were rich and unbothered when the surprise happened.

Lily and I had taken a spontaneous trip to the coast, a little weekend escape that screamed “we’re young, hot, and completely avoiding our responsibilities.” Our rented Airbnb overlooked the ocean, the fridge was full of rosé and overpriced cheese, and we had exactly zero plans beyond tanning, laughing, and possibly texting the bartender.

I was lying on a sun chair in a bikini I’d convinced myself wasn’t too much (it was), and Lily was scrolling through Instagram in her oversized sunglasses, feet propped on the railing. The air smelled like sunscreen and bad decisions. Paradise.

Until a car pulled into the driveway.

Lily barely looked up. “Did you order anything?”

“Nope. Unless God is finally answering my thirst prayers.”

Then the doorbell rang.

We looked at each other. I raised a brow. She shrugged. And then—

“Maybe it’s the Airbnb owner?” Lily said, grabbing a hoodie off the chair.

I opened the door.

And promptly froze.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, joggers, a duffle slung over his shoulder, and the kind of boyish grin that made people underestimate how sharp he actually was. The kind of grin that made girls fall in love on sight—and probably some boys too.

“Hey,” he said, as casual as if we’d just bumped into each other at the grocery store and not, you know, met for the first time in real life ever.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

Lily’s voice came from behind me, shocked and rising. “Oscar?!”

He beamed. “Surprise.”

She all but tackled him. Her arms flew around his neck, legs lifting in that absurd movie-style hug while I stepped back, still mildly shell-shocked.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“That’s why it’s called a surprise.” He looked at me over her shoulder, offering a warm, amused smile. “Hi, (Y/N). Finally.”

I smiled back, heart thudding weirdly. “Finally.”

Lily pulled him in by the wrist and sat him on the couch like he was a museum exhibit we’d just acquired.

“Wait, how are you here?” she asked.

“Team gave us a few days off unexpectedly. I remembered you saying you two were on a mini getaway… figured I’d crash it.”

“You figured right,” I murmured, already handing him a glass of rosé.

He clinked it against mine, and that grin returned. “Is this the part where you tell me more about the infamous night in your room?”

Lily groaned into her hands. “Don’t. Encourage. Her.”

“Oh no,” I said sweetly, “he’s in this now.”

And he was. Fully. Completely. Here, with us.

The three of us.

And somehow, the air was suddenly warmer. Charged. The kind of tension that wasn’t awkward—but anticipatory. Like the universe was watching… curious.

Dinner was meant to be easy. Lily lit candles like we were on The Bachelor, I threw pasta in boiling water like I was Gordon Ramsay drunk, and Oscar… well, Oscar stood in the kitchen being utterly useless but looking good doing it.

“Do you know how to cook anything that isn’t toast?” I teased, handing him a wooden spoon.

“Rude,” he said, poking the sauce like it might fight back. “I make a killer toastie. And I’m here for moral support.”

“He’s the emotional support boyfriend,” Lily said, walking past with a wine glass and an amused little shake of her head.

I leaned closer to him, stage whispering, “She just likes bossing people around.”

“She’s lucky I love her,” he replied smoothly, glancing sideways at her.

And then, something small—but loud—happened. His eyes shifted from Lily… to me.

Held there. Just long enough.

Not inappropriate. Not obvious. But aware.

Dinner turned lazy and golden. We dragged cushions onto the floor of the living room, opened another bottle of wine, and ate too much garlic bread. Lily played music on her phone—something low and sultry and indie—and Oscar told us stories from the paddock: teammates who were divas, drivers who were secretly soft-hearted, chaotic race weekends and inside jokes with mechanics.

“And you still want to date someone who lives on a plane?” I asked, elbowing Lily.

“She’s not dating him,” Oscar said, teasing. “She’s managing him.”

“I keep his life together,” Lily agreed with mock pride, “and (Y/N) keeps me together.”

Oscar turned his head toward me. “Then I guess I owe you a thank-you.”

I sipped my wine. “Yeah, you do. I’m basically the emotional support of the emotional support.”

Lily laughed, eyes gleaming. “Honestly? True.”

And then it got a little quiet.

One of those soft, glowing silences where everything felt safe but not entirely.

Oscar was lying back on the floor now, propped up on his elbows, and Lily was sitting cross-legged beside him, fingers idly tracing circles on the rim of her wine glass. I was leaned against the couch, stretched out with bare legs and an oversized shirt that definitely rode up more than necessary when I shifted.

“Okay,” I said, suddenly reckless with the wine. “Let’s play a game.”

Lily perked up. “Oh God.”

Oscar raised a brow. “What kind of game?”

“Nothing too scandalous,” I promised, then smirked. “Unless you’re scared.”

Oscar smirked back. “Not a lot scares me.”

We played the classic: Truth or Dare. Light at first. Silly. Safe. Oscar had to do his best impression of Charles Leclerc. I had to text an ex “I still think about you.” Lily had to eat a spoonful of hot sauce.

And then…

“Truth,” Oscar said, looking at me.

I took a sip of wine. “Have you ever had a threesome?”

Lily choked. Oscar smiled like a man enjoying the heat. “No.”

“You’ve thought about it?” I asked, eyes locked on his.

He held the gaze. “Sure.”

“Would you?”

He glanced at Lily. Then back at me. And he didn’t answer. But the silence was enough.

Lily looked between us. Her wine glass dangled from her fingers. “This feels dangerous,” she said softly.

Oscar sat up. “Only if we pretend it doesn’t.”

And there it was again—that pause. That breath held too long.

Like a question that hadn’t been asked yet. And a line we were all quietly aware of.

Not crossed. But… We were right there.

Tag List:

@freyathehuntress, @mimisweetz, @aleatorio1234, @totallynotluluu, @rorabelle15, @prongslena, @linnygirl09, @mangotaitai, @forensicheart, @devilacot

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anakinstwinklebunny · 23 days ago

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PAIRING: soldier!anakin x f!reader

FLUFF angst ❦

The morning light of the sun spilled through the kitchen window, smoothly escaping the lace curtains that hung nearby. It painted the room in warm, golden hues, warming up the place. You stood by the stove, fixing up the fresh coffee in your favourite cup that had golden streaks at the arm and by the foot. Happiness bloomed through your heart; ANAKIN SKYWALKER was finally home, with you. Sleeping deeply in your bed after a..well..wild night after months of separation because of the great war that took over the world. Countries after countries, people after people, death after death.

You hadnt hear him at first. Not when you were too lost in the slow, dreamy rhythm of the imaginary music humming in your mind. until you feel those familiar, warm hands slide around your waist. Anakin presses himself against your back, his chest solid and warm as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Mmm,” he hummed, voice heavy with sleepless. “Missed you in bed..”

His lips immediately found that sweet spot just beneath your ear, letting his hot breath linger against your skin. A lazy kiss that sent a slow shiver down your spine. “Didn’t like waking up without you,” he murmured, hands squeezing your hips as if he can’t bear to let you go.

You tilted your head, giving him better access, to which he took it — kisses trailing down your neck, slow, tender, as if he was savoring every inch of you. “Ani,” you whispered, a soft, breathy laugh escaping as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, a light face hair tickling your skin.

“You smell good,” he said, voice all honey, hands slipping under the hem of the shirt to trace lazy circles over your bare ribs. “Think I could just keep you here all day.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on the spatula in your hand, but it was pointless. He was pressing kisses to your neck, biting gently, sucking just enough to make you gasp. “Breakfast is gonna burn,” you warned, yet the resolve in your voice melting with every brush of his lips.

“Let it,” he said, turning you around to face him “I missed you too much to let the eggs stop me.”

It'd be the last words that were spoken between them. Why? In all the wroten true without any rhymes, any embellishments, a shaky gaze of hurt lingered in between the syllables. There was never another morning. There was never another kiss between the shading light of war. Its all..imagined, invented. Something that, in fact, couldn't happen. Because Anakin Skywalker died of septicaemia at Bray-Dunes on June fourth, 1940. At the last day of the evacuation, holding onto all the letters he got from his only sun, you. So he was never able to put things right with you, his dear y/n, because you were killed on the 5th of October, 1940 by the bomb that destrothe gas and water mains above Balham tube station.

So, you and Anakin were never able to have the time together you both so longed for, and deserved. And which, ever since, the first i love you slipped from your lips.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @fredswrite @mvst4far @alealuvshayden @kandralice

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babyjinsu · 1 month ago

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˗ˏˋ ꒰ son-in-law ꒱ ˎˊ˗

anton x fem!reader || 2.5k

౨ৎ manipulation, gaslighting, anton is a bad son-in-law, slight angst if you squint, death, might be missing more honestly but nothing nsfw...

there’s something about their son-in-law. they’re sure of it.

they don’t have the proof yet, but… a parents’ intuition is never wrong.

when you first introduced your boyfriend to them, he was almost too perfect. not to say you couldn’t bag someone like him, no—you’re their perfect, golden child. but your boyfriend… he smiled so sweetly it almost seemed forced. the way he pulled out the chair and complimented her garden like he’d grown up tending roses and lilies himself—it was all just a little too smooth. too studied.

you’ve had a few boyfriends before. your parents hated them all—loud boys with foul mouths and bad manners—but their flaws were honest. this one was like a mask fitted to your dreams.

“anton,” he said, extending his hand across the dining table. his voice was soft and polite.

your father shook it with a glance he thought you didn’t catch, but his wife did. she brushed it off as she served the meat, but from that first dinner, the house felt different whenever he came.

she couldn’t explain it but—somehow, the air got thinner, and the house got colder. the way anton looked at you when you watched the television, or when you’re playing with the housecat—it was not out of genuine love. more like a prize. a claim. a stake.

“what do you think?” you hummed, letting out a shy, flustered giggle. “he’s nice, isn’t he?” you said afterward, washing the dishes with a dreamy smile. you never liked washing dishes.

your mother just watched you with furrowed brows and hands damp with dishwater, a tight feeling bloomed in her chest. she didn’t say anything, just nodding her head in reply as she switched the topic—can you put this back in the drawer?

maybe because of the way you looked around anton—that your parents never had the chance, or the heart to tell you what they really felt about your boyfriend.

you’d always been headstrong, but never stupid. but with anton—your mother saw how you leaned into him like your body didn’t know how to stand without his arm around your waist. it wasn’t just love. it was dependence. it was devotion.

so they bit their tongue, hard. how could they said it? how could they risk becoming those kind of parents when you so clearly thought you’d found your forever?

and when your father said carefully, “there’s something about his silence that makes me a little nervous, sweetheart,” you laughed, covering your mouth and shaking your head like it’s funny. “pa, you always need someone to challenge you, don’t you?”

or when your mother asked, “honey, why did mrs. jung saw anton’s car outside of our house at three in the morning?” you looked at her like she’s weird, “mrs. jung’s like… 90. does she even know what anton’s car looks like?”

that was the last time they brought it up.

still, you got married. their daughter was glowing in your dress, big bouquet in your hands, and a shiny, heavy diamond ring around your finger. anton looked at you like salvation.

your father gave you a toast that night that sounded more like a warning. “our sweetheart has a good heart,” he said, voice tight around the edges. “i hope it’s never taken for granted.”

anton smiled, sipping on his champagne. but his eyes didn’t.

your mother wanted to try again after the wedding, but you were already moving out.

and anton was so helpful—packing boxes before anyone else woke up, putting them in the backseat of his car, making lists in that neat, perfect, handwriting of his.

he handled your life like he’d already lived it.

——

“channie?”

you brushed your fingers through his damp air, still tousled from the shower. he turned from the mirror slowly, towel around his neck with water dripping onto the bathroom tile.

“mm?”

“ is it okay if ma and pa stayed with us for a few weeks?” you smiled.

he blinked, wiping his neck with the towel. “stayed?”

you nodded. “yeah. there’s a leakage at the house. a burst pipe or something… pa tried fixing it himself but it’s under the floorboards now. they called the plumber but he said it might take a while, so i offered.” you shrugged, giving him a cheeky smile.

anton didn’t answer right away. he moved to the sink and started drying his face with the towel like he hadn’t heard you.

“they could stay in the guest room,” you continued. “just for a bit. i feel bad when they said they could stay over auntie’s for the time being.”

anton dropped the towel over the counter and looked at you through the mirror. he wasn’t smiling, but he was calm. “of course,” he said, a second too long. “they’re my parents too.”

you smiled in relief and wrapped your arms around his bare waist, your cheek pressed against his damp back. “thank you baby. i know they can be a little—”

“they can stay,” he interrupted, gently. “i’ll move things out of the room tomorrow.”

“oh, you’re the best. i know you’d understand.”

he touched your hands, resting over his stomach. “i’ll call other plumbers for them. maybe they forgot to check the water heater. easy to miss if they’re not paying attention.” he smiled, turning to kiss the top of your head.

there was something strange in the way he said it, but you didn’t catch it. too happy and busy thinking about the preparations to greet your parents when they stayed over.

later that night, after you’d fallen asleep—anton sat in the dark of the living room, staring at the hallway leading to the guest room. it hadn't been used ever since they moved.

but now it would be.

and he’d have to pretend again. smile again. wait again.

he flexed his fingers. two weeks. maybe three—if they’re shameless.

he could manage. for you.

——

the first three days were normal.

anton would come home from work one hour earlier than you, which meant he’d have to be alone with your parents from around four to five every evening.

you didn’t think much of it. you didn’t think it’d be a problem at all. they’d all be in the living room, maybe your dad reading on the recliner while your mom chatting in the kitchen while anton made tea for them.

but by the fourth evening, something shifted.

your mother was quieter when you got home. her smile was tight-lipped and brief and she barely touched the dinner anton made. she excused herself early and went to the guest room with a mug you hadn’t seen her fill.

when you peeked in an hour after freshening up, she was already in bed, lights off.

your father began misplacing things. first his reading glasses. then his phone. then his wallet. then strangely, the leather pouch he kept his medicines in. “must be my age,” he joked, but you didn’t laugh. anton did.

“maybe you’re just not used to the space yet…” you said, soothing his back to comfort him. “new house and all…” anton stood behind you at the time, his hand on your shoulder. “i can start labeling the drawers, if it helps you, pa.”

your dad gave him a smile. “no, that’s alright. i’ll manage.”

that night, when you and anton got into bed, you turned to him. “thanks for being so patient with them… i hope it’s not too stressful…”

anton brushed a hand through your hair, murmuring, “it’s fine, love. it’s only temporary.” he kissed your forehead.

by the sixth day, anton came home late.

he was meeting an old friend after work—you’d been a little surprised. anton didn’t go out often. he was always home and always near.

sometimes you thought he didn’t like other people.

so it was just you and your parents that evening. the house felt a little lighter, as strange as it sounds. you had dinner together, your mother went for seconds. your father carried the conversation and cracked jokes over stew and rice.

“you know,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “i noticed something strange yesterday.”

you hummed, looking up from your bowl.

“you have a little camera by the bookshelf.”

you blinked, nodding your head. “yeah. safety.”

your dad squinted his eyes at you. “safety?”

“yeah. you know, just in case? break-ins, or if we’re ever away.” you chuckled, eating your rice. “anton’s kind of paranoid about that kind of stuff.”

your dad’s gaze didn’t waver. “but there aren’t any cameras outside. usually people put cctv cameras outside, right?”

you shrugged. “i think there used to be one,. but it broke.” you answered, now sipping on your soup.

he frowned, shaking his head. he wanted to say more but his daughter didn’t seem bothered by it at all. instead, he just muttered a small mm, and stood up to get water. your mom didn’t say anything either. she just kept peeling the mandarins—every now and then, her eyes glanced at the camera in the living room.

when anton came back a few hours later, the three of you were lounging in the living room. “how’s dinner?” he asked, dropping his coat onto the rack and kissing your cheek. “everyone alive?” he joked.

your father didn’t laugh, but you did. nodding and smacking his forearm playfully.

your father held his gaze.

anton smiled wider.

——

on saturday morning, your dad came into the kitchen to find anton already there.

he was seated at the table, still in his pajamas, and sipping on his coffee. “morning,” he said, not bothered to look up from his phone as his thumb scrolled.

your dad nodded and muttered a small morning in reply, then went to the cabinet to grab a mug. he reached for the top shelf, but the mug wasn’t there. not in another cabinet, or the other.

“you reorganised the kitchen,” he said. anton smiled, his eyes still on his screen, “yeah.”

your father turned to look at him. “why?”

“thought it’d be easier. you kept forgetting where things were.”

there was a pause.

“i didn’t forget,” your dad replied evenly. “i just don’t live here.”

anton tilted his head, finally glancing up. “yeah, exactly,” he stood, slowly, and walked to the sink, placing his cup down right beside your father’s unwashed one from last night. “i asked my friend who’s a plumber to take a look at your place,” anton said, rinsing his mug under the tap. the water hissed between them. “he said the leak shouldn’t take more than a day to fix.”

your father nodded. “that’s nice. the one i usually called said—”

the son-in-law interrupted, turning slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile. “mhm. it’s odd they didn’t start the repair yet. it’s almost like… someone didn’t want it fixed right away.”

he turned the faucet off and looked at your father, full now. the silence stretched.

“but that’s alright. once they’ve fixed it, you can go back. you’ll be more comfortable at your home anyway, won’t you?” he smiled again, with teeth this time. nothing kind behind the way he said it, or his expression.

your dad didn’t answer. he watched as anton neatly folded the damp dish towel and draped it over the sink’s edge. like… like this was his kitchen, his house, his life, his wife, and there was no space for another. let alone, two.

anton stepped back, nodding as if something had just been confirmed for him. “i’ll follow up with him again. maybe he can get started on it tomorrow. i just want to make sure you two aren’t stuck here longer than you have to be.”

there was a moment where your dad almost said something.

but anton reached for a clean cup and placed it on the cabinet with a soft thud. a small twitch in his eye. “enjoy your coffee.”

——

when you got home that monday evening, your parents were no longer there.

no texts, no calls, no nothing. just gone.

you stood in the hallway for a moment, keys still dangling from your fingers. you had expected to see your dad in the living room, and your mom tending your garden. but no.

you went to the guest room, staring at the door slightly ajar, bed made too neatly.

“channie?” you called.

“kitchen, pretty!” he replied, cheerfully.

you walked in to find him standing by the stove, his sleeves rolled up (he hadn’t changed), a wine glass already poured for you on the counter. anton turned his head slightly to look at you and smiled softly. “why don’t you take a shower first?”

“where are they?” you asked.

he stirred the gravy in the pan, then turned the heat low. “they went home. the pipe’s are all fixed.”

you blinked, tilting your head slightly. “they didn’t even say goodbye?”

your husband dried his hands and came to you, pressing a kiss to your temple sweetly. “maybe they forgot,” he murmured, his lips warm against your skin. “you know how your dad is when he’s in a rush. they’re just excited to go back home.”

you frowned. “i helped them pack.” he smiled as he returned to the stove, giving the gravy a final stir. you hesitated. something didn’t feel right, but it wasn’t a big of a deal.

anton walked past you to set two plates on the table—your favourite dish, perfectly and beautifully plated. a candle already lit. he pulled your chair out with a little flourish. “why worry? i paid for the repair and drove them back if you’re worried about that.” he let out a soft chuckle.

you sat, anton across you. like usual.

“i thought we could celebrate.”

“celebrate what?”

he leaned in, eyes locked on yours. “just the two of us again.”

——

five days after your parents left your house, you received a phone call from an unknown number.

your parents—gas leakage. home. carbon monoxide—

the words scattered in your mind like marbles rolling across the floor, impossible to catch. to stomach all information at once.

“dead?” you repeated, not even realising you’d said it outloud.

the voice on the other end paused. then gently, “i’m so sorry. it looks like it happened overnight.”

you stared straight ahead at the dresser in front of the bed.

anton walked out of the bathroom, towel draped over his neck.

“channie, ma and pa…” you whispered, lips trembling as your eyes brimmed and pooled with tears.

your husband’s eyes widened with perfect sorrow as he immediately walked towards you. anton wrapped his arms around your shaking body, took the phone from your limp hand, and ended the call for you. “oh, sweetheart…”

you buried your face into his shoulder, wetting his body with your hot tears. “they were just here,” you mumbled and hiccuped. “they were just here.”

“i know,” anton whispered, lips pressed to your hair. “i know.” he held you tighter, rocked you in an attempt to comfort and slow down your sobs. “i’m here, sweetheart,” he mumbled, placing his hand on the back of your head.

“i’m here.”

and as you cried, anton smiled ever so softly, it barely even touched the corners of his mouth.

💭 i feel like i haven't written for so long... this is probably bad but i hope you guys enjoy nonetheless! i didn't want to get comfortable with not-writing.

#riize oneshots #riize x reader #riize imagines #riize fic #riize #anton oneshots #anton x reader #anton imagines #anton fic #riize anton

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sugarcreambiteskingdom · 7 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/dollyrin/764243962401849344/hey-yo-can-i-request-headcannons-of-the-ancient?source=share

I'm not the original Anon but I would like to see your take on this idea

Cream Oreo Cookie: Sure thing! I'll do my best because I didn't read the whole thing and only the ask of it 😅

Pure Vanilla Cookie

The way you steal everything in his castle and then bring it back confuses him and got him interested in it actually

Instead of stealing the artifact or anything that holds great value in history or could be sold for riches you bring it back

Though there is one thing you stole that you never went and give it back which was his heart

As he walks through the halls just to get a glass of water he would saw a glimpse of you in the darkness on the window ready to leave..."Y/N Cookie?" He called out to you

Which you only turned your head around and gave him a wink which immediately made him blush and had his heart skip a beat

And just like that...you took his heart and never gave it back...which he doesn't mind at all actually...

Now every once in a while he will stay up and wait for you...

White Lily Cookie

She was confused on what you want to steal from her when she barely has anything that worths anything since she's always on the move...

Unless you want her soul jam that is? And yet you never touched it..

But you did stole her tools and items she needs for her expedition and has to wait a whole day for you to give it back

She got used to it at this point and while she waits for her items to brought back she improvised to what she can use which actually helped her to be more creative with her ways of doing things like...climbing a mountain...getting something away from her path...or how to light a campfire and etc

You we're very helpful and Wonderful in her perspective..

And she wants to also thank you for giving her flowers in each item you gave back to her

Hollyberry Cookie

You are one cheeky Cookie to be stealing her juice every once and awhile and give it back while putting sticky notes on every juice you stole giving it ratings whether you like them or not which surprised her and actually find it quite funny and entertaining

At this point she would put one of her personal favorites out and check if you like it and some of it did made it to be one of your favorites which she was glad

Wild berry Cookie on the other hand is confused to why Her Majesty is even entertaining this but unfortunately he can't do anything about it let alone his son either...

So they let her be

In one of the juice you stole you actually found a sticky note on it saying..."You do know having juice all alone is very dull right? But having a plus one doesn't!"

Dark Cacao Cookie

You are one very odd Cookie for him

I mean how can you break in his walls and stole some of his weapons but what is much more baffling is the fact you put it back where you find them

You even out sticky note on some weapons saying where you got in and how you managed to get the said weapon which...helped him to actually be more secure and improvised with his way of securing his kingdom which he..thank you for that...

Those notes also have small puns from here and there which he unfortunately inherited from you despite how he has it but...because of you...he starts to actually smile which he won't admit Ofcourse

Golden Cheese Cookie

She was amazed from your greediness and how you managed to get pass her most trusted and most strongest guard of the gates Burnt Cheese Cookie

You stole a lot of gold from her and yet you give it back...you are one interesting Thief Y/N Cookie

She told Burnt Cheese Cookie to actually let you pass which he was baffle and even was taken a back from that but...he can't do anything because her Majesty has made up her mind so...he lets you in whether he likes it or not

Until...you gave her a sticky note saying to let him fight you because you had fun playing with him and his jackals and snakes

Burnt Cheese Cookie was not sure if he should be annoyed or relief to not let in a thief like you into the Golden City whether you give the stolen items back or not

Golden Cheese Cookie was entertained by your greediness and wondered if you plan on stealing more artifacts from her in her Golden City and Palace

#cookie run kingdom #crk #cookie run ancients #cookie run x y/n #cookie run x reader #pure vanilla cookie #white lily cookie #hollyberry cookie #dark cacao cookie #golden cheese cookie #pure vanilla cookie x reader #white lily cookie x reader #hollyberry cookie x reader #dark cacao cookie x reader #golden cheese cookie x reader #ancient cookies x reader #ancient cookies x y/n

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mydearestbeloved · 4 months ago

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Chapter 24 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: Implications of being stabbed and decapitated.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Opening your eyes slowly, you found yourself back in that place.

The world that existed somewhere between reality and a dream, where the bejeweled night an ever-watchful presence over rows upon rows of spider lilies stretching out into the horizons. Where the stems of gently swaying crimson blooms surfaced from the shallow expanse of water, liquid ground a crystalline mirror to the galaxies above. The unknown breeze felt sacred, as though the universe itself dared not intrude.

"Excuse me," a voice called out softly, breaking the tranquility.

You turned, the flowing silken fabric of your dress trailing behind you like a whisper. Standing a few paces away, your gaze fell upon a man—a tall, rugged figure with a tattered ensemble. His appearance was worn, speaking of battles fought in places far harsher than this one. But it wasn’t the state of his attire that caught your attention—it was his sharp, more experienced, gray eyes and shaggy black hair.

He was achingly familiar, tugging at the edges of your memory.

A picture on page, one that reminded you so much of—

The man moved, dropping to one knee with his head bowed in solemn respect.

"I'm—"

"Sung Il-Hwan." his name fell from your lips as though it had always been there, just waiting on the tip of your tongue. Thus your voice carried certainty, soft yet steady. "There's no need to bow to me, Mr. Sung. Please, stand."

For a moment, he remained still. Then, the corner of his lips lifted in a quiet chuckle. “As expected, you already know my identity.”

He rose to his full height, his presence imposing yet not unkind. There was something about him—something that felt both formidable and comforting. It felt like he regarded you with a newfound warmth compared to the previous formality.

“Then, I believe this little one is yours."

Il-Hwan extended his hand, revealing a soft light cupped within his palm. As the glow dimmed, you saw it—a delicate, silvery-blue butterfly, its fragile body shimmering faintly. But your breath caught at the sight of its missing wing, the severed fragment lying beside it like a fallen petal.

"Aria!"

The name tumbled out of you, laced with panic. Without hesitation, you gathered the front of your dress and hurried toward him, mindful not to trip on the pooling fabric. The little beads clinking subtle chimes as chaining ripples formed beneath bare steps light, not a single splash to be seen.

Il-Hwan watched as you approached, his eyes softening, the quiet curiosity barely hidden now. His hand remained steady, allowing the weakened summon to crawl from his fingers to your cupped hands. Handling the broken wing with utmost care, he placed it beside the tiny creature.

Aria trembled faintly in your hold, her tiny movements making your brows furrow further.

“Mama…I’ve…returned…”

The small whimper at the end, carried through your bond, broke your heart.

Hush now, child. You’re in no shape to let out a tune.

To her, the sound was tender yet firm, urging her to rest. Your eyes traced the jagged edge of her missing wing—a clean, circular cut, as though a shard of crystal had severed it at high speed. A faint trail of glimmering dust clung to the wound, the remnants of her former splendor scattering like lost stars.

"Poor thing found me at an unfortunate time," Il-Hwan began, his tone apologetic. "She got caught in my skirmish with the Monarch of Frost. I managed to spot her just in time and shield her before it was too late."

He sighed, a tinge of regret, as if he wished this meeting had taken place under better circumstances. “I suppose you’ve been trying to reach me for quite some time?”

"Yes." you whispered, the word barely audible as you cradled Aria closer. Gently, you stroked her remaining wing with your thumb, channeling a soothing pulse of your healing into her form. The faint golden glow of your power intertwined with her oceanic glitter, igniting the smallest flicker of life back into her.

Still, Aria shivered, as if just now registering how freezing she was in contrast to your touch.

Did she absorb too much of the Frost Monarch’s magic as a defense mechanism? Then the opposing energy that managed to tied her over until now was—

"Thank you for saving her." you said at last, lifting your gaze to Il-Hwan with sincerest gratitude.

Il-Hwan waved it off with a small smile. "No need to thank me, Young Lady. It’s all in a day’s work."

His voice was lighthearted, but something flickered in his gray eyes. A shift so subtle, so fleeting, that it almost went unnoticed.

Sadness. Longing. A sorrow that lingered like the ghost of a memory.

For a single, unguarded moment, his smile faltered.

The words had left his lips so effortlessly, yet you could sense it—the quiet ache of a man who had once said them often, long before his life had unraveled.

A life in another time.

You wondered what he was thinking of in that moment. The past, his own struggles, the lives left behind, the moments missed, what he had to do now, what he could do now, with little chance to reconcile—his losses.

You couldn’t help but saw a reflection of him again.

Like father, like son—couldn’t have rung truer.

Before you could speak, Il-Hwan continued. “As a matter of fact, you saved me the effort.”

Before your eyes, his irises turned bright yellow, and your breath hitched.

"Young Lady, I have a message for you."

My body…why am I reacting like this?

His words carried an off-placed weight, as though he were no longer just a man but a conduit for something far greater.

{Flee.}

The glitching voice—distant yet achingly familiar—sent a shiver down your spine. A pang of dread lodged itself deep within. A mounting of it with no identifiable source. At least, none that made sense.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, and your throat started to close up, cutting off air supply. You took a step back—

Your hands twitched on instinct, a chain of motions you weren’t fully aware of, muscles bracing to envelop Aria in a protective cocoon. Subtle, hidden, as if one wrong move and you would—

“Ma…ma…?”

Aria’s weak, worried call echoed, but it was distant, muffled, as though she were calling to you from behind a thick veil. Your breath came short. You felt suffocated, like the air itself grew thick, pressing down on you with an unseen force.

{What are you doing?}

Even in this state, you managed a quick glance over her before sending her away—back home, back to safety. You had to. You had to.

"They would like to have an audience with you."

The words sent a ripple through your consciousness, like a drop of ink bleeding into water. You went rigid. It felt as though you had lost control of your body altogether. No, not lost—surrendered.

Was it because you had already predicted this? You had always known, that this moment would come?

{Move!}

Cold sweat trailed down the side of your—like a delayed reaction, your hand slowly came up to your cheek, where you swore you felt the droplet of moisture. Yet, when you touched the spot, it was dry, there was nothing there.

The glint of silver, the sharp tip as it was raised high felt like déjà vu.

"Due to circumstances," Il-Hwan added, his tone softening just slightly, "They would be honored if you took the first initiative."

You’re scared.

The thought was not your own, yet it was. Overlapping. Intertwining. A relentless loop that refused to cease.

Stab!

A sharp, blinding pain bloomed in your chest. You gasped, hand pressing against your sternum, fingers trembling as though expecting to meet the hilt of a blade that torn through your very core.

Scared for your children’s life.

“…Young Lady?”

Scared for you.

{RUN—

A scream tore itself from your throat—

Chop!

—And was swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Your legs buckled. You barely registered the sensation of falling, barely noticed when Sung Il-Hwan stopped mid-sentence and rushed to your side.

Both of your hands flew to your neck, fingers pressing frantically against your skin, feeling around, over and over, searching for something—Still there. They were still there. But your irises darted wildly, scanning the surroundings, the ground, as if making sure—making absolutely sure—that your head wasn’t rolling around somewhere else.

“A-ah… ugh…”

Your breath came in heaving gasps, dizzying as nausea churned, twisted your stomach violently. Your body convulsed, but no bile came up. Only saliva, thick and warm, slipping past your lips, trickling down your chin, and dripping into the water below. Mixing in the blooms’ reflections, tiny ripples expanding outward. Yet, even in your delirium, you had to be sure, you still needed to make sure—your shaking gaze dropped to your trembling fingers, the ones that brushed against the clear dampness, checking, checking—that it wasn’t red. That the coppery taste lingering on your tongue wasn’t real.

You dimly realized the hand rested against your back, firm yet careful, grounding you as reality sluggishly crept back into place.

Drip. Drop.

You remained in that hunched position, shoulders trembling, even as the phantom agony receded, leaving behind only an echo of pain and confusion. For how long, you couldn’t say. It was hard to pinpoint time in this strange space, but it felt like an eternity before you could even muster the effort to breathe properly again. Slowly, excruciatingly so, the searing pain pressing against your chest dulled with each inhale, eased just enough for you to think. The logic creeping back in, fighting through the haze of resurfacing horrors.

When you finally dared to look up, Sung Il-Hwan’s met your gaze, his irises no longer glowed that eerie yellow. Just the usual grey, filled with concern as he kneeled on your side.

The first coherent thought that surfaced was how you had just displayed an utterly disturbing breakdown in front of a very anticipated guest.

“My apologies. I don’t now what came over me.” A white handkerchief materialized between your fingers, and with as much composure as you could muster, you dabbed at your mouth, erasing the remnants of your episode, in a feeble attempt to salvage what little dignity you had left.

“About what you said before—"

“Are you okay, Young Lady?”

You stilled.

Am I?

The look in his eyes tugged something loose in your chest, made you feel small. Like a guilty child caught in a lie.

“I know we’re practically strangers,” he started, his voice gentle, measured.

Did he read my mind somehow?

“But this old man still has some great advices.” He jabbed a thumb toward himself, flashing an easy-going grin. Then, realizing he might’ve overstepped, might have come on too strong, his smile wavered slightly as he scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Only if you want to talk about it, of course.”

A curious feeling unfurled in your chest.

This warmth. This concern. The kind that didn’t demand, didn’t expect, didn’t bargain.

It was not the wary deference of the Hunters. Nor the admiration of civilians. Not even the camaraderie of raid mates who called you ‘friend.’

Not conditional on experiences, didn’t need to be earned. Foundational, that exists simply because you are.

Steadier. Quieter. Certain.

Is this… how my children feel when I’m with them?

Was this what parental love felt like?

Don’t you remember?

The rhetorical question in your subconscious was met with startling certainty:

I don’t.

Because there was nothing to remember. Faces, voices, attachments—nothing before all of this. Only stories, books, pictures, songs, games—remnants of entertainment consumed in a life you no longer had access to.

And you hadn’t fully came to terms with that fact.

You buried those thoughts to be revisited another time. Were you running away? Maybe. But right now—

“Thank you. I…” You pulled your knees to your chest, tilting your head back to gaze up at the endless expanse above, trying to make sense of it all. “I’m not sure how to put it into words yet. There are still so much missing. I feel like I need to figure them out first, to piece together… well, everything.”

Il-Hwan studied you for a long moment, as if searching for something—once again, in a manner that reminded you so much of Jinwoo—before sitting down cross-legged, making himself comfortable beside you.

Take your time.

Together, the two of you sat beneath the vast, starry sky.

-----

It was silent between you for a while until he was the first to break it.

“It’s been about a decade, but somehow, your stubbornness reminded me of my son.”

You stayed silent and continued to listen.

“He’s supposed to be in his twenties now. I was around his age when I met the love of my life, his and my daughter’s mother. Now, I often wondered if he already has his own special someone.”

He will.

You closed your eyes, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you thought of your ever-reliable friend, letting the warmth of your love for her overshadow the quiet ache blooming in your chest.

…Bel would’ve loved that one. The thought made you huff a silent laugh. If that child of yours was here, she’d catch the unintended pun immediately.

How easier it is. To shift my focus elsewhere, from something just not meant to be.

“My love, my son, and my little daughter… I wonder how they are doing right now.” The longing in his voice was palpable. “I thought I could check on them while completing my mission, but I haven’t had the chance.”

{DO NOT, in anyway, teleport character <Sung Il-Hwan> to meet his family OR give him something to contact them, ‘Trial Player’.}

…Damn it.

You bit your tongue while Il-Hwan could only sigh.

“Well, I guess I can only hope to get one soon.”

You won’t. Your fist clenched on fabric. Not if everything goes according to the original.

When he turned to face you again, you met him head-on.

“Do you have a question, Young Lady?”

Your lips pressed into a straight line, then you nodded. “How do I contact them?”

"Physical contact with their vessels, any one of them, is the only key needed." Il-Hwan scratched his head, looking slightly confused. “I’m not exactly privy to the details, but I was told you came across two of us before.”

Two?

You remembered your chance encounter with Thomas Andre, and you did note that he reacted strangely. A normal eye would only see how he froze like a statue, but a trained one would notice the slight tremble in his muscles, the visible veins as if he was struggling against something internally—Yikes. You suddenly felt bad if you were indeed the cause.

That was one. But two?

You didn’t recall coming across another Ruler’s vessel, except Jinwoo, but you were pretty sure Ashborn didn’t keep in contact with his former brothers-in-arms. Otherwise, they would know of his plan, and Sung Il-Hwan would already be aware of Jinwoo’s position—which he clearly wasn’t, judging by his reaction. So, the only other possible option you could think of was—

The Chairman.

Il-Hwan’s eyes turned bright yellow again, and that same uncomfortable feeling from before returned. It took a lot of effort, but you managed to suppress most of the unease this time.

Gone was his more relaxed expression, replaced by a reverent seriousness. The shift was sudden, unsettling—more so than before. A disturbing realization settled. This wasn’t just Il-Hwan speaking on behalf of an authority not his own.

This was the authority speaking.

"We will patiently await your call."

The silence stretched as Il-Hwan’s eyes returned to normal, his form less tense.

“Well,” he said, still somewhat taken aback by the revelation. “It looks like they really want to meet you. They don’t usually choose to possess a vessel like this.”

You knew that.

Of course, you knew that fact. It was made quite clear why the Rulers' vessels didn’t stand a chance against the Monarchs in their vessels—because they chose to borrow rather than take, unlike the Monarchs. That knowledge, however, didn’t make your situation any less stressful. If anything, it only made it worse.

What could the Rulers want with me?

That vision you saw back at the Demon Castle—the only memory you could associate with the scene you had experienced was the panels depicting the death of the Absolute Being, speared upon his throne.

The glint of silver, the sharp tip as it was raised high felt like déjà vu—

Your fingers twitched involuntarily.

I must think this through.

{ . . . }

…? System?

What was this... resentment, you felt?

Sung Il-Hwan seemed to notice your state, even without knowing the full context.

"I reckon this meeting doesn't count?"

His attempt to lighten the mood was poor, but you appreciated it nonetheless. The uneasiness lingered, but it did subside quicker thanks to him.

"No." You shook your head, mirroring his smile.

“From my understanding, this place is like a dreamscape. Only our thoughts are connected while our bodies are… 'asleep.' Well, at least they’re suspended… somewhere.” You winced slightly at your own explanation. “Sorry for the bad description, I’m still trying to figure it out—”

Instead of being offended or getting more embarrassed, Il-Hwan’s sudden laughing caught you off guard with how free it sounded. His shoulders shook, as if the weights he carried had been lifted—if only for this fleeting moment at the boundary between reality and dream.

“You finally stopped speaking like that,” Il-Hwan rasped after his laughter died down.

You blinked in confusion. “Huh?”

Il-Hwan only grinned. “'Pardon my crude explanation. I am currently in the process of studying the mechanism—'” His attempt to mimic your formal tone was wackier than anything else.

“—That’s the gist of what I got after we started talking for a while. I thought you’d go on and on like that.”

You coughed into your hand, eyes darting to the side in an attempt to save yourself. “That’s… that is how I normally talk—”

“Then you’re a good kid. Stop apologizing so much and cut yourself some slack.”

His hand ruffled your hair, leaving it slightly messy. You didn’t know exactly how to respond, other than nodding shyly.

“Okay.”

Il-Hwan’s grin stayed as he ruffled your hair a second time for good measure.

“So, what were you going to say about this place?”

“Ah.” You snapped out of it and continued where you last left off. “Since this place is like an imagined land, only the maker and their specific invitees are able to attend. I’m guessing this restriction is what canceled out your Ruler’s possession at the last moment.”

Sung Il-Hwan seemed to contemplate your words.

“My child—Aria is the invitation, your lifeforce is the requirement to enter. But,” You closed your eyes, recalling your last glimpse of her before you sent her away to be cared for by the others back in the garden. The silver of her wing had looked better, the seasick pallor not as pronounced as before, but she wouldn’t have been here if not for his help.

Your hands curled slightly as you exhaled. “I can't thank you enough, for also allowing her to feed off your lifeforce. I would have lost her otherwise." This time, it was you who bowed deeply to him, gratitude etched into every fiber of your being. When you straightened up, you held out both of your hands, staring straight into his eyes.

“I wanted to do something to repay your kindness.”

Sung Il-Hwan’s brows furrowed slightly, a hesitant smile on his face. “Young Lady, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The words came out firmer than you expected. You swallowed, steadying yourself.

You remembered those images vividly—the ones from the story, the ones that had once only been fiction to you. His body dissolving into shards of light, scattering into the wind. The embrace he shared with Jinwoo, the apologies for not being there, for not being enough. The image of Jinwoo standing there, forced to watch, unable to stop it. You remembered how your tears had dripped onto your phone screen, mirroring the ones Jinwoo could not shed fast enough.

It was as if you had felt his pain. As if you had lost your father, too.

Except now—you didn’t even remember what yours looked like. If you even had one.

Your fingers trembled slightly. “Please…” The plea barely made it past your lips, a whisper carried away by the unseen breeze. You cast your gaze downward, watching the way the red blooms swayed around you. “Please, let me do this for you.”

Silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the faint rustling of petals brushing against fabric.

Then, warmth.

Calloused, bandaged palms pressed against your own. You exhaled, only now realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused, golden embers flickering to life between your entwined hands. You wasted no time, channeling a portion of lifeforce into him, hoping—praying—that it would be enough. Enough to prolong his time, to give him a chance not only to speak to Jinwoo, but to meet his wife and daughter as well.

Even if his body still crumbled in the end, even if you couldn’t change his fate completely, at least he could say a proper goodbye.

You saw the shadow of weariness hidden behind his smile; you could hear it in his voice as he talked. And now, you could feel it in the depths of his soul.

His wish was to be reunited with his family.

He had never asked for more than that.

And yet—

{Target cannot receive <Blessings of [][][][]>}

-----

What Il-Hwan noticed first was the squeeze on his hands, firm but trembling. And then, just as quickly, the warmth of magic was severed.

"Young Lady?" His voice was gentle, but concern laced his tone.

Your head remained down, strands of hair falling over your face, obscuring it from view, but he could see the way your shoulders began to shake. He noticed the faint ripples forming at your feet—quiet and unchecked, salty droplets dripping down onto the red-drenched field below.

"Why...?" Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper, but the rawness in it felt louder than any shout. "Why can't I...?"

When his hand rested upon your head again, your head snapped up at him. What was reflected in his grey eyes were your blank ones, so vacant they might as well have been hollow, carrying an exhaustion so deep it felt... ancient.

A toothy smile stretched across your tear-streaked face, a smile that just didn't belong. Despaired. Broken.

Twice too late, twice forbidden when you were able to help. And now, even here, in this imagined land, you were denied the chance to—not even to save him, but to grant his only wish that you now knew, for certain, would never get to be fulfilled in this lifetime.

"You're dying."

You whispered the words as if saying them aloud would make them real, as if they hadn’t already settled deep into your bones. The muscles of your cheeks straining.

Yet, Il-Hwan wasn’t troubled by the sliver of mania laced in your voice, nor the anger buried beneath he knew was not aimed at him. Because, in that moment, he saw a child—the little girl who clung to his legs before he left for work, tears soaking into the fabric of his pants, unwilling to see her father leave for just a few hours.

Neither of them knowing, one was too young at the time to fully understand, that they wouldn't be able to see each other again.

So, with the same assuring smile he once gave his young daughter, he gently patted your head, and watched as the mask you wore shattered. Your lip trembling before you let out a sob, your hand clutched at him—at anything—just to ground yourself, to keep yourself from breaking further.

A lighthearted chuckle rumbled from Il-Hwan’s chest when your sobs slowly dwindled to small snivels.

"Didn’t I just say to cut yourself some slack, Young Lady?" His voice was warm, comforting.

You nodded, though it was pitiful, barely a gesture at all.

Then, the distant rumble echoed through the space.

Sung Il-Hwan patted your head one last time with that caring expression still plastered on his face. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye."

His hand left your head, and he turned—but your grip tightened on the other, halting him in place.

"Young Lady...?"

Your eyes fell on the silver band dangling from the chain around his neck. Your earlier thoughts resurfaced, your resolve finding its way back to you.

If you couldn’t give him more time— If you couldn’t grant him his wish— Fine.

Then the least you could do was ease his heart. Even if it was just by a little!

"Mr. Sung, your family is well!"

Admittedly, Sung Il-Hwan was startled when you near screamed the words out loud, but you were too focused on ensuring that he heard every single piece.

"Mrs. Sung is as healthy as can be. Jinah is studying hard to become a doctor!" Were you afraid that you wouldn’t get this chance again?

"And Jinwoo—!"

{The current information cannot be shared. Tread wisely, 'Trial Player.'}

"Jin... woo..." Your throat tightened.

Your hand squeezed his as the other fist crumpled the fabric of your dress. Your gaze locked onto Il-Hwan’s own, desperate to convey what words could not.

"He's doing the best he can."

You didn’t know what kind of face you were making, but Sung Il-Hwan did. He could see it, as clear as the bright sky above.

"He always has."

Something stirred. Distant, a familiar sensation.

And I wanted to make sure that—

Barely registering the pain anymore, the overwhelming fatigue, the utter emptiness within.

"They miss you..."

When on the edge, a single glimpse into fragmented memories. Fingertips ghosting over a face on a smooth surface. Aching at the sight, yet unable—unwilling—to look away.

He’ll reach his happy ending.

A spider's thread, and a lifeline lost somewhere in the abyss. A new will, a new reason to live, however flawed.

He and his loved ones.

"So, so much."

You clung to it. To a promised happiness.

{What about your own?}

{ . . . }

Silence.

The rumble drew closer, louder. Sung Il-Hwan’s mouth parted, then closed. The way his messy bangs cast a shadow over his eyes.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, the way his shoulders trembled.

Then, his voice, quieter this time. "Young Lady, may I ask your name?"

Had you said something wrong? Had you overstepped?

"I'm... (Name)..." You took a deep breath to try and quell the nervousness. "You can call me (Name), Mr. Sung."

"(Name)."

For some reason, you flinched at the way he said it. Not out of fear, but uncertainty. What was it in his tone that tugged at your heartstrings?

Then, he turned to you fully, and your breath caught.

"It is truly the highest of honors to meet you, Young Lady."

Warmth. You felt... warm.

Thank you.

The tiny butterflies of light fluttered rampantly from every direction, obscuring view. The cracks working their way in from the edges, the world shattering.

You were forced to let go of his hand.

"And thank you for answering my inquiry, (Name)."

Following those last words, was a voice filled with contentment.

And then, you woke up.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [25/01/2025]

Can you all tell how many times I cried while writing this chapter? Or am I just that sensitive? 🥲

I hope my portrayal of Sung Il-Hwan in this chapter fits in his character at least.

Anyway, if it's not obvious, the "inquiry" Sung Il-Hwan referred to is the-"I wonder if my son already has his special someone.”

So, in a nutshell: We just got father-in-law's approval, and we didn't even realize it (at least, not currently in the story). 😉

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #only i level up #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #solo leveling fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #female reader

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gloomwitchwrites · 6 months ago

Text

A Brute, Brute Heart // Chapter One

Mechanic Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (mdni): bdsm au, veteran!Simon, mechanic!Simon, tattooed!Simon, swearing, brief mention of alcohol, brief discussion about boundaries, brief mentions of sex

Word Count: 3k

At a BDSM social, you meet a handsome tattooed stranger.

Chapter Two

ao3 // main masterlist // a brute, brute heart masterlist

The business card in your hand is worn at the edges. The frayed paper is not from years stuffed inside a wallet but from your constant fiddling.

A nervous habit—one you can’t seem to shake.

Anxiety is like a leash, nearly choking.

But that isn’t right. It’s not exact.

Unraveling is a better word. More concrete and profound. That it how you feel after all—stuck between forging ahead and fleeing completely.

This is brand new to you—treading forward into a community you know nothing about except what you’ve read in fiction. The unknown is a clear warning sign for your anxiousness, and for that constant fiddling.

An acquaintance handed you the card.

An offering, they said. An invitation.

This is but a social event. Clean. Simple. No expectations other than making connections. But you know little about the BDSM community. You have ideas of what to expect and what might occur.

For one, this isn’t a sex club. It’s no orgy. The acquaintance emphasized that there would be absolutely no sex which is why they gave it to you in the first place. This card—this frayed thing that’s close to tearing—is only an invite. A way in.

It’s you that has to make the connections.

To find someone who is willing to take on a newbie.

You absently rub your thumb across one of the flat sides of the card. Beneath your thumb is a textured “admit one” in gold lettering. Underneath that is a series of numbers—ten in total. The card itself is black which only makes the golden print more vibrant. On the opposite side of the card is a symbol of two hands grasping each other as if in a handshake.

Strange. New. All of it.

An omen, perhaps. For good or ill is yet to be determined.

Taking a deep breath, you attempt to steady your nerves.

“You’re fine,” you whisper. “You won’t know unless you try.”

Toying with the idea of BDSM is far different than dipping your toe in. Fiction is detached from reality. The truth might be there but it is often skewed for the sake of plot. You can’t rely on romance novels to teach you anything.

Anxious—yes. But also excited. Eager.

Before you stands a stone building. It’s grey, and water-soaked from the morning’s thunderstorm. Completely plain and unassuming on the outside, but within holds your future.

Steeling your resolve, you enter through the main doors, stepping into a small foyer. Beneath your feet is solid dark wood and the walls are a deep green. On the outside, it looks like all the other buildings on the street. But inside, there is nothing plain about it. The interior feels entirely residential, as if you’ve walked directly into someone’s home and not a business.

Directly in front of you is a table covered in black cloth. Behind it sit two people on one side. Before each of them is an iPad on a standing dock. The rest of the table is dotted with nametags.

You approach with a smile, presenting the black card. Glancing at the blonde who takes your card, you read the nametag.

Sarah, it reads. She/her.

Sarah’s blonde hair is pulled back into a soft bun. Her clothes are casual, revealing nothing about what might be further inside. Scanning the numbers on the card, she enters them on her iPad.

“Is this your first time?”

It’s the person sitting next to Sarah that speaks, drawing your attention in that direction.

Lily, says the nametag. They/them.

Unlike Sarah, nearly every inch of Lily’s bare skin is tattooed. Their makeup is exaggerated and detailed—a stark contrast to Sarah’s fresh face.

“It is,” you affirm. “This is…new for me.”

Lily smiles. It’s a genuine, comforting look that instantly soothes some of your anxiety.

“Welcome,” they say. Lily glances over at the nametags, lip pouting slightly as they look over each one. “Here we are.” Lily snags one off the table and presents it to you.

Your name is on it.

“This is yours.” Lily points to a smaller table just off to the side. “Over there are different stickers in various colors. Pick one. Or several. Whatever might give others an idea of who you are and what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” you reply, stepping to the right to get a closer look.

There is a small plastic stand on one end with a paper insert. On it are different round stickers no larger than a pencil eraser. Next to each sticker is a label. As you step closer, you quickly realize what they are.

There are options for bratty subs, switches, and different types of play. You scan every one, considering the options. A twisting sensation seizes your stomach. It’s too much information, and you aren’t sure what to do.

Going over them again, you select the safest one.

Sub looking for dom.

Attaching the sticker to your nametag, you add your pronouns to the bottom left corner.

“Fair warning,” says Lily, as you turn back in their direction. “If anyone—and I mean anyone—claims to be an ‘alpha’ or a ‘real dom’ you fucking run.”

Sarah leans forward a bit, nodding. “They’re vultures,” she says. “Only looking for their next meal.”

With their pointer finger, Lily makes a swiping gesture in front of their chest. “They don’t respect boundaries.”

“Or safewords,” adds Sarah.

“They are looking to abuse you and move on.”

“Do not interact,” finishes Sarah. “Don’t even entertain them.”

You swallow, the salvia catching in your throat. You cough before answering. “Got it. Thank you.”

Sarah waves her hand dismissively. “Not trying to scare you off,” she laughs. “There are lots of wonderful doms.”

“And there are plenty just inside,” smiles Lily. “Have fun.”

With a shy smile, you incline your head, walking past their table and entering through the double doors directly behind them.

You’re immediately submerged into woodsy comfort.

Just like the foyer, the space feels like someone’s home, and yet it’s far too large to be a living room. It might have once been a meeting space of some kind but you can’t tell from its current transformation.

The space itself is divided up with some sections walled off to give the appearance of rooms where there isn’t. The flooring and walls are the exact same as that in the foyer. All of the furniture and decorations appear pulled directly from an antique shop. It’s a bit maximalist, like a wizard’s home full of organized clutter.

People mingle everywhere. They stand in corners and lounge on plush sofas. At the far side of the room is a massive bar, and beside that is a decent display of hors d'oeuvre. You didn’t pay for this, but it’s clear that the person who handed over the card did.

Heading toward the bar, you select something and begin your first sweep of the room.

Understanding all the different stickers is difficult. You find yourself glancing at the reference sheets placed sporadically around the room. It’s taking all your attention, and because of that, you don’t notice the man standing next to you until it’s too late.

“Hello.”

You almost drop your drink as you spin around.

While he’s pleasant in the face, there is a smarminess about him that you don’t particularly like. Maybe it’s his smile or the way he carries himself. Something isn’t right about him.

You glance down at the nametag.

Lance. He/him.

Lance? Like from Pokémon? You nearly snort.

Instead of engaging, you decide on a quick exit.

“Sorry,” you laugh. “Wasn’t paying attention.” You lift your cup and shake it slightly. “Need a refill.”

As you step away, he matches your step. “Allow me.” He reaches—actually fucking reaches—for your cup. You’ve been here all of ten minutes and someone is already up your ass.

No. Fuck this guy.

“That’s kind of you,” plastering on a fake smile that feels more like a grimace. “But it’s really no big deal.”

Lance’s smile never faulters. “It’s on me.”

His hand encases yours and you immediately freeze. The touch is unwelcome, and you want him gone.

Just as you go to yank your hand back, another man appears, this time directly behind Lance’s shoulder. He’s looking right at you, and this smile isn’t lecherous. If anything, it’s kind, and laced with a hint of concern.

“Thought that was you.” His voice is husky. Low. Almost a serenade.

Lance frowns, and turns. The stranger lightly bumps Lance’s shoulder as he pushes past him to get to you. He’s looking at you as if he’s always known you—and somehow it ignites a heat low in your belly.

“Can I help you?” snaps Lance.

You glance at the newcomer’s nametag.

Simon. He/him.

Simon says your name, and you never knew how nice it could sound on someone’s tongue.

Lance is glancing between the two of you quickly, his gaze assessing. But that isn’t what still bothers you. His hand is still wrapped around yours like it belongs to him.

“We’re old friends,” continues Simon. He addresses you. “Isn’t that right?”

You swallow, and lick your lips. “The very best,” you smile.

Simon is much larger than Lance. All broad shoulders and thick muscle. He might be dressed in business casual, but underneath you see the brute strength. This man could toss you around. Break you in half.

Not to mention the tattoos.

The backs of his hands are covered as are his fingers. They disappear beneath the cuffs of his shirt, and only appear again above the collar in a blackout neck tattoo.

A fleeting image of that very tattooed hand grabbing your throat sends a sparking heat up your spine. Warmth creeps in, and you clamp down on your wayward thoughts.

“You don’t mind if I steal her away?” Simon’s gaze drops to Lance’s nametag. “Do you, Lance?”

When Simon says Lance’s name, it’s dipped in annoyance. Lance’s face grows bright red as his hand disappears.

Thank fuck.

“Not at all,” replies Lance, stepping back.

Simon gives the man his best smile before lightly placing his hand on your lower back. Instant warmth radiates from his palm, a wave of calmness coming with it. With a gentle push, Simon guides you away from Lance and off toward a nearby corner.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, leaning in.

“Yes,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

Simon comes to a stop and promptly drops his hand. The warmness you feel fades a bit with his absence.

“You looked like a frightened deer.” He pauses. Winces slightly. “No offense.”

“It’s fine,” you laugh, setting your now empty cup down on the nearest flat surface.

He matches your smile and holds out his hand. “Simon.”

You take his hand and introduce yourself in kind.

“You’re a new face. Don’t usually see that at these events. Nearly always the same pool.”

“Oh. So, you come to these things often?” you tease, a bit of boldness in your tone.

A gentle flush kisses his cheeks. This incredibly tall, buff man is blushing. Actually blushing. “Would it be a red flag if I said yes?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t know. This is my first,” you admit, not sure why you’re being so open.

“Your first social?”

“Not exactly,” you mutter, glancing out at the rest of the room.

No one is paying either of you any attention. Glancing back at Simon, you discreetly take a peek at his nametag. There are three stickers there but you have no fucking idea what they mean. You quickly sweep your gaze across the room again, looking for one of those stands. The nearest one is turned away from you.

Damnit.

“Not exactly?” he repeats.

You shrug, returning your attention back to Simon. “This is all new to me.”

Simon glances around, the middle of his brow creasing in concern.

Well, fuck.

The words tumble out like water flowing from an overturned glass. “I’m brand new. First time. No idea what I’m doing.”

Simon’s confusion fades, morphing into surprise. “Apologies.” He runs his fingers through his hair and then gestures toward your nametag. “You didn’t put the sticker for that on your nametag. I thought—”

“Shit. That’s my fault,” you laugh sheepishly. “Overwhelmed by the choices. Is that my red flag?”

Simon chuckles, a little color returning to his cheeks. “No.” He shakes his head, still laughing softly. “Not at all. That would explain—”

“A new face?”

“Exactly.”

You’re grinning so widely that your cheeks are starting to ache. Making a genuine connection wasn’t even on your radar, but here Simon is, waiting for you to just snatch him up. This is what you truly wanted after all. There is hope here—a possibility.

“So,” you begin. “Did you really come to save me because I looked like a frightened deer?”

Simon’s smile shifts slightly. It’s almost a smirk. A hint of amusement.

“Call it…curiosity,” he answers.

Fucking bingo.

“Are you interested?” you ask, deciding it’s best to put yourself out there. Even if you flop, it’s not like you’ll come back to this place or see any of these people ever again.

Simon considers his answer for a moment. “What if I am?”

It’s a hook. An in.

You glance at your empty cup. “I need a refill.”

Please take it. Please.

Simon straightens to his full height. “Then let’s walk.”

With a commanding presence, Simon guides you back to the bar, deterring all others from poaching you away. He doesn’t walk ahead of you or behind. Simon stays beside you, leading, but in a manner that feels entirely natural.

Is this what having a real dom feels like?

“There’s a balcony,” says Simon after you grab another drink. “It’s quieter.”

“Lead the way.”

The two of you step out onto a private balcony near the back of the room. It’s completely enclosed, made for the people within to look outside but not for others to look in. There are only a few people lingering about but they pay you no mind.

Simon heads for a small sofa and offers you first dibs. It isn’t until you take a seat that he does.

"You're new."

"You said that," you laugh.

"I meant new to the scene."

"Oh. Yes."

What else are you supposed to say? And why lie? Everyone has to start somewhere. Lily and Sarah’s warning creeps into the forefront of your mind. Lance fits, but does Simon? Not that you can tell.

Simon’s gaze quickly shifts to your nametag before returning to your face. “You’re looking for a dom?”

“I am,” you confirm, sitting a little straighter. “And you’re looking for a sub?”

It’s a guess in the dark. There are no stands out here to help you discern what the stickers on Simon’s nametag mean.

Simon inclines his head. “I am.”

“Am I in the running?”

It’s such an odd thing to say, as if you’re campaigning for office and not trying to make conversation with someone.

Simon takes a drink from his glass. “I’d like to get to know you first.”

“Okay.” You mull this over. “Like a date?” you ask slowly.

Simon nods. “We don’t talk about,” he taps the stickers on his nametag, “all this.”

“Like a vibe check?”

“Exactly,” he chuckles. “Get a feel for each other. See how we connect.”

“That’s fair.” You pause. “I’d like that.”

Simon’s demeanor shifts slightly, a seriousness setting in. “I need emotion. Connection.”

“Are you looking for a relationship?” you ask hesitantly.

“No. Not exactly.” Simon takes a sip of his drink and then sets it down. “I prefer monogamy. I want one sub. That doesn’t mean it needs to be a whole life. It can just be sex. But it also needs to be built on trust.”

This openness is entirely foreign to you. Whenever it comes to men, you’ve found many of their communication skills lacking. Simon is telling you exactly what he wants. It’s fucking refreshing.

“We go on this date, and then what?” you ask.

A date sounds like more than just wanting sex. Dating is supposed to lead to a relationship. That’s what tradition says anyway.

“We talk about what we want out of this. Have a discussion. Set boundaries.” Simon sighs and leans back. “I don’t do contracts. Everything is negotiable. I prefer open communication. Constant communication.”

“And what if I don’t know what my boundaries are?” Your voice is soft, nearly a whisper. The last thing you want to be is a disappointment. “What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

The rim of Simon’s cup freezes just shy of his mouth. He pauses, takes a hefty drink, and places it back on the table in front of the sofa.

“Then I can help you. Safely, that is. We can discover what they are together.”

His words are comforting, and yet there is still doubt. It’s not him—not exactly. It might be all in your head, but you are trekking into the unknown. You are venturing into depths you’ve only thought about.

Glancing over your shoulder, you observe the other people hanging around the balcony. They are all relaxed, nearly serene, engaged in conversation. You turn back to Simon, and meet his whiskey-brown eyes.

This man is a stranger. Everyone here is. But just like dating, you need to take the leap, to trudge forward with the hope that this will turn out to be something.

“Is that not what this is?”

“This is…networking. Speed dating.” Simon scratches at his neck just above the neck tattoo. The veins in his hand are pronounced, and you briefly question if they bulge like that on his arms. “I want to get to know you better. Outside of all this. No expectations.”

“I’d like that.”

With a smile that’s infectious, Simon retrieves his phone from his pocket, entering your information. Your phone goes off and you add his.

“Are you available next Friday?”

“I am.”

Your phone beeps, and you look down. There’s an address and a time.

“Meet me there.”

273 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 months ago

Text

you were lonely like me

part III

Pairing: Dean x Deergirl!Reader

Summary: Further into the forest, further into you. Dean's hunting, but he really isn't sure of what anymore.

Warnings: 18+!, language, age gap, pining, guidance, smut (kissing, clitoral stimulation, cunnilingus/oral, mild dirty talk), tension and dread, that's all for now.

Word Count: 4,525

The sun climbed higher, slow and golden, casting its warmth across the surface of the lake. Mist rose from the water in delicate veils, curling like breath from a sleeping mouth. Lily pads bobbed with the quiet movement of the water, soft ripples radiating out from where your bodies stayed pressed together, still as the trees around you.

You hadn't moved. Neither had he.

Dean held you like he might never again. Not tight. Not desperate. Just... close. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

Your arms were around his neck, your skin warm beneath the water, your breath slow against his throat. You smelled like moss and woodsmoke and something floral he couldn't name. Your cheek rested on his shoulder, and he could feel your eyelashes brush his skin every time you blinked.

And still, it wasn't close enough.

Dean let his eyes roam—slow, reverent. The freckles across your nose, scattered like stardust. The curve of your lips, parted slightly in thought. The wet tangle of your curls. The way your nose twitched, soft and instinctive, like some part of you never left the forest entirely.

Even here—wrapped in his arms, surrounded by sunlight and silence—you carried the deer with you. You were the forest. And Dean felt like a man trespassing.

"You don't even look at things the way most people do," he said, his voice low and husky from disuse.

You stirred a little, not pulling away, just shifting to meet his gaze.

"No?"

He shook his head.

"You look like you're always trying not to scare something off. Like the world's made of fragile things, and you're scared to break it by accident."

You smiled, quiet and sad.

"Sometimes I am."

He let his hand rise, fingers brushing back a wet curl from your cheek. His thumb lingered at the edge of your jaw.

"I've never met a hunter like you before," you whispered, almost like it wasn't meant to be said aloud.

Dean exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. His mouth tugged upward at the corner.

"Pretty sure I've never met a... well. You."

Your eyes stayed on his.

"Most hunters don't look at me. Not like this. They don't ask. They don't... stay."

He swallowed. "They don't know what they're looking at."

You blinked, soft and slow.

"And do you?"

He didn't answer at first. He just brushed his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.

"I'm still figuring it out."

"You don't have to." You leaned in, forehead to his. Your breath warmed the space between you. "I'm not meant to be understood. I've made peace with that."

He shook his head, eyes flicking to your mouth.

"That's bullshit."

You laughed, just a little.

"Is it?"

"Yeah," he said. "Someone just has to try harder."

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes fully. Something shimmered in them—hope, maybe. Or memory.

"Then you'll be the first."

Dean didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Instead, he kissed you. Not hard. Not hungry. Just true. His lips met your forehead, then the apple of your cheek, then your shoulder, where water clung to your skin like dew. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering shut, your hands sliding up into his hair.

And there, in the middle of the lake, bathed in gold and surrounded by the wild, you held each other like you had all the time in the world.

Dean pressed his cheek to your temple.

"I don't know what this is," he murmured.

"Me neither."

"But I want it to last."

Your fingers curled into his shoulder.

"So do I."

And neither of you said what you were both starting to feel deep in your bones:

That things this beautiful don't last. Not in the forest. Not in lives like yours. But still—you held on. Just a little longer.

You were still in his arms, the water warm now, sunlight high above, dappling across your bare shoulders. The lake had gone quiet around you. No birds. No breeze. Just the sound of slow, steady breathing.

Your eyes were on his face. You were looking at him like you were trying to memorise something you didn't want to lose. Your gaze traced along his brow, his cheeks, the faint scar near his temple, the curve of his lips. Dean stayed still, letting you look. Letting you have this.

"What are you looking at?" He asked, voice quiet and rough.

You didn't answer.

You just kept studying him, your expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as if a thought hovered there, not ready to land. Your eyes flicked over him again—so soft, so wide, and then, you leaned forward. Slowly.

And pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Dean barely breathed. The kiss was small. Tentative. Just the barest brush of lips against skin. But it sent something sharp and electric through his chest.

Before he could think better of it, he turned his head. Found your mouth with his own. Pressed a kiss back—firmer. More sure.

You made a sound. A tiny, involuntary sound—half breath, half hum—and it went straight to his gut. His grip on your waist tightened, just slightly, just enough.

He pulled back a breath's width. "You okay?" He asked, watching your face.

Your eyes opened slowly. And what he saw there—

Your pupils were wide. Blown. Your cheeks flushed from more than sun. Your breath caught in your throat like you weren't used to needing this much air.

"You liked that," he said softly, almost in awe.

You nodded, lips parted. Eyes dazed.

Dean's chest ached.

"Come here," he murmured, and leaned in again.

This time, your mouths met fully. Soft. Open. Slow.

You kissed him like you were learning how. Like it wasn't just new—it was strange and beautiful and maybe a little frightening. And Dean let you explore it. Let you take your time. His lips moved with yours, gently, reverently, letting the moment bloom between you like something sacred.

Your hands fisted into his shoulders. Your lips parted further. Your tongue brushed his, tentative. You hummed against him, and Dean felt it vibrate through his bones. You pulled yourself tighter to him, like instinct, like your body had decided before your mind could catch up.

"I haven't..." you whispered, barely able to speak between breaths. "I haven't felt this before. This... pull."

Dean nodded, lips brushing yours.

"I know."

"It's—my body—it's... it's responding. To you."

The way you said it—soft and full of wonder, not shame—made heat pulse through Dean like wildfire. You were describing desire, and you didn't even know the words for it.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low and thick. "That's what this is."

"You make me feel... full. And empty. And burning."

Your hands moved over his chest, slow and searching, as if trying to find the place where the ache had started.

And Dean was gone. Completely undone by the fact that you wanted him. Not with skill. Not with experience. But with truth.

The kiss deepened—soft, then breathless, then trembling. You were shaking in his arms, not from fear, not from cold. From something new. Something blooming low in your belly like fire and wonder all at once. You didn't know what to do with it. You just knew you needed more.

When you pulled away, eyes dazed and lips kiss-swollen, your fingers found his.

"Come on," you whispered. "Please—come on."

You tugged gently toward the shore, stumbling a little as your foot met soft mud, too eager, too breathless, like the need had become something urgent.

Dean followed—of course he did—but his hand caught your wrist before you could lead him too fast.

"Slow down," he said, voice low and steady. "We don't have to rush it."

You turned to him, wide-eyed, uncertain.

"But I need—"

"I know," he murmured. "Me too." He cupped your cheek. "But let's take it slow. Let's make it right."

Something in your chest shuddered. You nodded.

The two of you stepped from the water, damp and glistening in the dappled sun. The shore was soft earth and moss, a little wild, still warm from the day's early heat. Dean pulled his boxers on over wet skin, his movements quiet, steady.

You didn't reach for your dress. You stood there, bare, your hair clinging to your collarbones in wet curls, your skin glowing, flush rising in soft pinks across your chest and cheeks. You didn't try to hide yourself. You didn't want to.

Dean looked at you like you were something carved from reverence. His gaze didn't wander. It lingered. It learned.

He walked to his pack, pulled out his sleeping bag, and unrolled it slowly onto the forest floor. The zipper whispered open. He smoothed it out. Then he turned and offered his hand.

You took it. You moved onto the sleeping bag with him, your knees damp, your breath short. He laid you down like you were meant to be laid beneath open sky.

Not to be taken. To be worshipped.

Dean leaned over you, his body propped on one arm, the other trailing from your shoulder to your wrist, just barely brushing your skin.

"You okay?"

You nodded, unable to speak for a second.

"Just... don't stop looking at me," you whispered.

He didn't. He kissed you again—slow. Parting your lips with his, letting your breaths mingle, his hand moving along your ribcage, learning the rhythm of your shiver.

"You're coming undone from just kissing me," he murmured, half-wonder, half-warning.

You nodded, panting.

"I don't— I don't know what's happening. My body—Dean—"

He hushed you with another kiss.

"You're just feeling it. That's all. That's what this is. Let it happen."

Your hands roamed his shoulders, your thighs parting instinctively as you drew him closer. Every movement was clumsy and open and achingly honest. You arched into him like you were trying to understand the shape of this longing.

Dean kissed your neck. Your collarbone. Your shoulder. His mouth moved like worship, like language. Like he could spell out you with lips alone.

And you whispered his name—like you were learning how it tasted.

"Dean."

He pressed his forehead to yours.

"I got you," he said. "I'll take care of you."

Your breath caught. Your fingers curled into his back.

And beneath the trees, with sunlight pouring through branches and the world holding its breath—you learned what intimacy felt like. What it meant to be wanted without fear. To be touched without pain. To be seen and still loved.

The forest had gone quiet around you, the trees holding their breath.

You lay bare against Dean's sleeping bag, the earth beneath you soft and damp with morning. Your skin still kissed with lake water, your curls sticking to your shoulders, your thighs trembling just slightly where they brushed his.

Dean knelt over you, boxers clinging wet to his hips, his hands gentle as they skimmed your sides. He was looking at you like you were something carved from divinity—like he didn't know where to start, only that he wanted to worship.

"God, look at you," he murmured, voice thick. "You're shaking."

"I don't know what's happening to me," you whispered, breath already catching.

"Yeah, you do," he said softly. "You just don't have the words for it yet."

He leaned down and kissed your lips—slow, warm, open-mouthed. You whimpered into it, arching beneath him, your hands rising to fist in his damp hair.

"Dean—Dean, I—"

"I know, sweetheart," he breathed, brushing his nose along your jaw. "I got you."

His hand slid lower, dragging down your ribs, over the curve of your hip, settling between your thighs. You gasped, eyes flying wide, hips twitching.

"Easy," he whispered. "Let me touch you. Just like this."

His fingers parted you slowly, sliding through the wetness already slick between your legs.

You cried out—soft, startled, overwhelmed. "What is that?"

Dean's lips curved into the faintest, crooked smile. Not cocky—tender.

"That's your body telling me it wants more," he said, pressing his fingers against the softest part of you. "You're so damn wet for me, baby."

"Wet—?"

"Means you're ready. Means you want this."

He leaned in again, kissing your mouth as his fingers circled your clit—soft, slow, measured.

You mewled. Your legs trembled wider. Your chest arched. You clung to his shoulders like they were the only solid thing left in the world.

"Is this okay?" He asked, voice low. "Can I keep touching you?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Please—Dean, please—"

"Good girl," he murmured, and fuck, the way you moaned for that broke something open in him.

He kept working his fingers—one hand stroking your clit in slow, teasing circles, the other braced beside your head as he kissed down your throat. You didn't stop moving, couldn't. Your hips rolled up into his palm, your thighs twitching with every pass of his fingers.

"You feel that?" He whispered, his voice thick with heat. "That pressure building? That heat in your belly?"

"Yeah—yes, I don't know what it is—"

"You're gonna come, Fawn. That's me bringing you there. Just let it happen."

You were panting now, your eyes glassy, mouth falling open in a gasp every time his fingers hit that spot just right.

"Dean—Dean, I can't—"

"You can," he said, voice firm but soft. "You're doing so fucking good for me."

He kissed your jaw, your temple, your mouth. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I feel like I'm gonna—gonna break—"

"Break for me, sweetheart," he whispered. "That's what I want. Let go. I've got you."

And then you did. You shattered—legs shaking, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in a soft, helpless cry as you came against his hand. And Dean kissed you through it, whispering praises against your lips, grounding you with his hands and his voice.

"That's it. So perfect. So fucking perfect. God, look at you..."

You collapsed against him, breathless, boneless, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

"What was that?" You whispered, stunned.

Dean smiled, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

"That was me making you feel good."

You blinked up at him.

"I didn't know I could feel like that."

His smile turned soft. Loving.

"You've barely scratched the surface, baby."

There, beneath the rising sun, Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead, still holding you like a promise. And you were still catching your breath.

Your limbs trembled softly where they tangled with his. Your skin glowed with heat, flushed and dewy, and your eyes were wide and dazed—still lost in the high he'd given you, still stunned by the depth of it.

Dean lay half over you, chest heaving, hair damp against his forehead, one hand brushing along your side like he couldn't stop touching you. Like he didn't want to.

You looked up at him. Still breathless. Still soft.

"Can you..." you swallowed. "Can you do it again?"

Dean's breath hitched. A beat of silence. Then a low chuckle, more relieved awe than amusement.

"Damn fucking straight I can," he murmured, leaning down to kiss you. "Question is... you want the same thing, or you wanna try something a little different?"

You blinked up at him, flushed and confused.

"Different... how?"

He kissed you again, slower this time. His palm cradled your jaw as he pulled back just far enough to whisper against your lips.

"I can use my mouth, sweetheart."

Your eyes went wide.

"Your mouth... down there?"

Dean nearly groaned, his brows drawing together like it physically hurt him not to touch you already.

"Yeah, baby. That's exactly what I mean."

You stared at him, stunned.

"You want to do that?"

That wrecked him. He looked at you like you'd asked if he wanted to breathe.

"More than anything," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You have no goddamn idea how much."

You swallowed hard, something electric flickering in your chest.

"Then..." your voice trembled a little. "Show me what you want."

Dean's jaw flexed.

He kissed you again—deep, reverent, grateful. And then he trailed kisses down your throat. Down your chest. His hands stroked your sides as he moved, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his mouth lowered, as he kissed down your belly, slow and sure and soft.

You gasped when his lips brushed the inside of your thigh.

"Just relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

And then he kissed you there. His mouth opened over you, warm and slow, tongue pressing flat and soft and perfect—and your hips jerked.

You moaned—high, helpless. "Dean—what—?"

"Just feel it, baby. That's all I want."

He devoured you, slow and sinful, like it was his religion, like the earth itself had made you just for this. His mouth moved in gentle circles, his tongue curling up to taste every drop of you, and his hands held your thighs like you might float away if he didn't anchor you there.

You were crying out now—broken little gasps, fists curled in the sleeping bag, your body arching for more.

"Oh—oh my god—Dean—Dean—!"

"That's it," he growled against your skin. "So damn good for me. Taste so sweet. You gonna come for me again, Fawn?"

"I—I think—oh—Dean—"

He hummed into you and the vibration tipped you over. You came again—harder this time, wrecked and trembling, a mess of mewling, panting, pure feeling.

Dean didn't stop until you were gasping, tugging at his hair, overwhelmed. He kissed your thigh. Your hip. Crawled back up your body and kissed your mouth like it was nothing, like he hadn't just ruined you with his tongue. You kissed him back. Tasted yourself on his lips.

"That..." you whispered, breathless. "That's what you want?"

Dean cupped your face.

"You are what I want," he said, forehead to yours. "In every damn way."

And you believed him. With every ache, with every breath, with every part of yourself you'd never let anyone see before.

You were still shaking. Not from the orgasm—though that still shimmered along your skin like aftershocks. But from something deeper. Something you couldn't name. You clung to Dean like the world might vanish if you let go. Your arms around his neck. Your forehead pressed to his shoulder. Your legs tangled with his.

And he—he held you right back. One hand at the small of your back, the other curling around your head, fingers buried in your damp curls. His chest rose and fell against yours, heart steady, breathing slow.

But you could feel it. The way he held himself tight. Tense. Restrained.

"Do you want..." you whispered, unsure. "Do you want something else?"

He stilled. Then he kissed your temple. Soft. Warm.

"Yeah," he said, voice quiet and raw. "God, yeah."

A beat.

"But we should slow down."

You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him.

"Slow down?"

"I'll show you everything," he said, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. "If you want that. But not all at once. Not like this."

You searched his eyes. He looked so wrecked. Like holding himself back was hurting. Like he'd never wanted anything more in his life—and still chose to wait.

"Why?" You asked, soft.

Dean leaned his forehead against yours.

"Because you're not just some girl, Fawn," he said. "You're not like anything I've ever known."

You curled closer.

"I'm scared," you admitted.

Dean pulled you tighter.

"I know," he whispered. "Me too."

The forest stayed quiet around you. Still. Reverent.

And Dean found himself thinking—he didn't care. He didn't care that you weren't human. That you were something wild, something ancient, something he didn't fully understand. He didn't care that he couldn't explain what you were.

Because he knew what you weren't. You weren't cruel. You weren't dangerous. You weren't a monster. You were soft. You were good. You were the most pure, aching, living thing he'd ever touched.

And then something caught his eye—just past your shoulder. Your shadows. His, long and crooked across the mossy forest floor. And yours...

Antlers. Curled. Sharp. Crown-like. Rising from the silhouette of your head like they belonged there.

Dean's breath hitched.

"Fawn," he said, voice tight. "Why does your shadow have antlers?"

You turned your head slowly, your body still pressed to his. Your eyes tracked the shapes, the way the light cut through leaves and turned your silhouette into something half-woman, half-deer. And your face changed. Just slightly. A flicker. A shift. Like something had been tugged loose behind your eyes.

"It's always had antlers," you said slowly. "I don't know why."

You looked back at him.

"I don't think I've ever asked."

Dean studied you—your profile glowing in the gold light, your expression calm but not settled. Like something had started to turn deep inside your mind. But you didn't say anything else, so he just pulled you close again, wrapping you up in his arms like he could hold the questions at bay for a little while longer.

And you let him. Even as something inside you began to stir. You were warm against him. Breath steady. Skin soft. Pressed to his chest like you'd always belonged there.

Dean lay on the sleeping bag, arms around you, the filtered morning light gilding the curve of your bare shoulder. One of your legs lay between his, tangled like a secret. Your cheek was over his heart.

He hadn't moved in a long time. He didn't want to.

You'd fallen asleep with your mouth still parted. A soft sound in your throat with every exhale. It killed him, how peaceful you looked. How small. How safe in his arms, like you didn't even know he was supposed to be the thing that kills what can't be explained.

She's not a monster, he thought. She's not even close.

You hadn't hurt anyone. You hadn't lied. You'd just... been. Gentle. Wild. Lonely.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe this had set him back. Maybe he wasn't any closer to finding what he came for. But he didn't give a damn.

How could it be wrong when it feels like this?

And then something shifted. It was small. Subtle. The breeze that passed through the trees changed. It wasn't colder. Or warmer. Just deliberate. Like the forest was making room.

Dean's eyes opened. He didn't move. Didn't startle. Just... listened. Birdsong had fully stopped. The light looked different now. The shadows had thickened under the canopy. A sound, far off—soft. Not footsteps. Not wind. Something... else.

And still, you slept. Pressed to him. Breath warm against his ribs.

Dean's hand curled instinctively around your back. He could feel your heartbeat through your chest, slow and steady and—

No. Not steady anymore. You stirred. Just a twitch, then stillness. Then a breath that wasn't quite right.

"Fawn," he whispered, barely audible.

You didn't open your eyes.

But you heard him. And he felt it, the moment everything changed inside you. Like something ancient had woken beneath your skin. Your hand fisted against his chest. You sat up—slow, fluid, every movement suddenly too quiet.

Dean propped himself on his elbows, tension bleeding into his spine.

"What is it?" He asked.

You didn't look at him. You turned your face toward the trees. Eyes wide. Unblinking.

"Be still," you whispered, like the forest itself was listening. "It's here."

Dean went still. So did the air.

You rose to your knees slowly, your spine long and graceful, curls tumbling down your back. You weren't trembling. You weren't afraid. But your body held a stillness that wasn't human. Something watching. Something ancient. And then you shifted.

Dean had seen things shift before—violent, grotesque, forced.

But this wasn't like that. This was natural. Beautiful. Inevitable. Your body folded inward like breath. Your limbs lengthened and narrowed. Your skin dappled, spine arching as soft fur replaced flesh, your face elongating, eyes staying just the same—wide, brown, mournful.

It wasn't magic. It was truth. You had always been this.

You stood before him now on trembling legs, delicate hooves digging into the moss. A small, perfect doe. Your ears twitched. Your nose lifted.

Then you bolted.

Dean scrambled to his feet.

"Fawn!"

You didn't look back. You ran. And the moment you vanished into the trees, he felt it. The presence—thick and watching, oppressive as smoke—lifted. Like it had followed you. Like you'd taken it with you.

Dean's chest tightened.

"Goddamn it—"

He yanked his damp jeans up, fumbled with the buckle, pulled his shirt over his head inside out, didn't care. His hands were already on his weapons—blade at the hip, gun in his grip. The sleeping bag was left behind, cooling in the light. The forest was different now. And you were gone. But not for long. He ran after you—chest tight, heart pounding—not to kill. To find you. To protect you. Or maybe—just maybe—to understand.

The forest felt wrong now.

Dean wasn't new to woods like this—dense and wild, shrouded in shadow—but something about the air had changed. The light. The silence. It wasn't quiet. It was holding its breath.

He moved fast but careful, boots skimming over soft ground, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. His jeans were still damp. His shirt clung to him. Sweat gathered at the base of his spine and the pulse behind his eyes thudded with every step.

Fawn. Shit. Where the hell did you go?

There were signs—small ones.

Fresh hoofprints pressed into moss. A cluster of disturbed leaves. One pale tuft of fur caught on a bramble like it had been left for him.

He followed.

The trail twisted in ways that didn't make sense. Paths that should've turned left curled back right. Familiar trees repeated where they shouldn't. The forest bent inward. The hush grew heavy.

The shadows thickened, and still—he pressed forward. He wasn't hunting anymore. He was chasing. And the fear wasn't about what was ahead. It was about what he might lose if he didn't reach you in time.

You had run.

Not from fear, not exactly—but from something deeper. Older. Something that rose in your blood the way fog lifted off the water in the morning.

You didn't think. You just moved.

Your hooves hardly touched the earth. You leapt through shafts of light, brushed past trees that bent to let you through. The forest seemed to know you, even as something darker pressed at its edges.

You didn't understand the feeling, but it pulled at you like instinct.

And still—you ran.

You felt it in your ribs. In your lungs. In the way your heart pounded faster than it should have. In the way the wind changed around you, whispering in tongues you didn't know but recognised.

There were flashes behind your eyes you couldn't hold onto:

Blood, warm on your fur. Stones in a circle. A name screamed into the snow—yours, maybe. Or someone else's.

You didn't remember. But your bones did. And so—you ran.

He heard it before he saw you. A snap of hooves on stone. A break in breath. Then a flash of pale dappled fur through the trees, gone again in an instant.

"Fawn!" he called, his voice rasping in his throat. "Wait—!"

Branches scraped his arms. The gun thudded against his thigh. Sweat trickled into his collar. A low, pulsing sound began in the base of his skull—a hum, like pressure before a storm.

He broke into a clearing and stopped dead.

You stood in the centre of it. Still. Silent. Your flanks heaved with breath, sides trembling from exertion, from something else. Your ears twitched toward the trees, your gaze fixed on a space just beyond him.

Dean followed it.

The trees around the glade looked... burned. Only the bark—blackened, scorched in spirals reaching up toward the canopy. The smell was faint, not quite smoke, but memory of it.

And beneath your hooves, etched into the mossy floor, was a circle. Not recent. Not clean. But old. Overgrown. Still pulsing faintly, like veins under skin.

Dean took a cautious step forward.

You didn't move. You breathed, shallow and fast. Your form shimmered faintly in the light—like something beneath your skin was trying to surface. Your head turned slowly, and for one breathless second—your eyes weren't yours. They were ancient. Knowing. Distant.

Then you blinked, and the expression was gone.

You turned your head toward a stone half-submerged at the clearing's edge. Dean followed your gaze, saw the carvings etched into it—worn symbols, unreadable but humming with something that tasted like truth.

You stepped toward it.

Dean reached for you.

"Fawn," he said again, gentler this time. "Come back."

You didn't answer. You looked back at him—startled, almost—and then past him, eyes sharpening.

Dean turned, gun raised instinctively, but there was nothing there. No creature. No sound. Just trees. And wind. And a forest that no longer felt like the one he woke up in that morning.

a/n: ahh!!! Okay, little bit of smut. Not my usual filth. I'm trying to go for something more reverent here. I'm trying to evoke FEELINGS, besties. You know the filth is coming though. For I always bring the filth. I am a humble whore. I'm so in love with Dean and Fawn, it hurts. This story is becoming one of my favourites. I know it's not truly on brand for me, but it's something different and I kind of love it. Also... not Dean being an absolute munch and looking like he's in pain when she asks him if he wants to go down on her... of course he does, bestie, he's a fucking obsessed with it. Let him do his thing. Gentle, guiding Dean. OOOOF. All the love.

Dean taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @kaz-2y5-spn <3

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dungeonmapster · 23 days ago

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patreon.com/dungeonmapster

In the heart of nature's embrace, a sunlit marshy wetland unfolds its enchanting beauty, a haven where sunlight weaves through the slender blades of vibrant green grasses. The air is alive with the melody of unseen creatures, and the scent of damp earth mingles with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers. Sunbeams dance upon the mirrored surface of the still waters, tall, graceful cattails stand as guardians along the water's edge, their slender forms reflecting in the tranquil pools. Dragonflies dart gracefully, their iridescent wings catching the sun's golden glow. Amidst the symphony of rustling reeds and gentle water ripples, frogs leap between lily pads under the shade of leaning willows.

Nestled at the edge of a serene landscape, a secluded cottage perches atop a gentle rise, commanding an unparalleled view of beautiful wetlands that stretch as far as the eye can see. Surrounded by a lush tapestry of emerald green marsh grasses and dotted with delicate wildflowers, the cottage exudes an air of timeless tranquility. The morning sun bathes the wetlands in a soft, golden hue, casting a warm glow on the water's surface. A weathered wooden porch, adorned with pots of blooming flowers, provides a perfect vantage point to absorb the breathtaking scenery.

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nhmkhnh · 1 month ago

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Hello!! I really like the way u write, and u are very talented! I would like to ask one question: will u ever be able to write either a bot or a mini fanfic knight! Vi/goddess!User or something like that? no pressure, just wanted to see this idea in ur writing style! :'3 (I ask you to forgive me in advance if my question was asked incorrectly, in any case, thank you for ur answer and ur efforts!)

come from way above, to bring me love.

pairings: knight!vi x goddess!fem!reader

preface: in a realm where gods are not meant to love mortals, a knight—marked by duty and honor—finds herself bound to a radiant goddess, a bond that will test the very heart of her resolve.

author's note: girly this idea is TOO GOOD?? like why i hadn't even thought abt it but here we go!!

wrn: lowercase, and really long, i'm a yearner for this au now hahah.

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

the morning is cool and quiet, the kind of silence so delicate it might break if you exhale too hard. dew clings to the wildflowers by the lakeshore, and sunlight filters through the willow leaves like golden threads slipping from the sky.

you sit with your knees tucked beside you, fingers moving patiently across a stretch of shimmering silk. every stitch glows faintly—enchanted embroidery, divine in nature. it’s not meant for mortals to see.

but someone does.

vi wasn’t supposed to be near the lake. her patrol route usually bends away from the lower gardens, but this morning, something pulls her—something soft and invisible. her boots crunch gently over damp grass, her gloved hand resting near the hilt of her sword, always alert.

she sees you before she realizes who you are.

a figure in white and gold, hair cascading over your shoulders, head bent as you draw golden thread through blue silk. there’s no halo. no divine announcement. you’re just… there.

peaceful. alone. real.

vi freezes mid-step, like a deer catching the scent of a star.

her breath stalls in her throat. for a moment, she contemplates turning away—pretending she never saw anything. what is a knight like her, born of soil and blood, doing standing this close to something made of sky?

but then you lift your head.

you see her.

and smile.

it’s the kind of smile that undoes centuries of order. not flirtatious. not grand. just warm. gentle. curious. like you’d been expecting her. like she belongs in that quiet morning, too.

“knight,” you say softly, your voice like ripples on still water. “you’re far from the eastern wall.”

vi swallows hard. her hands suddenly feel too large, her armor too loud.

“my apologies, my lady. i didn’t realize—”

“you’re not intruding,” you cut in, tilting your head. “you looked like you were thinking very hard about running away, though.”

vi’s ears burn.

she drops to one knee before she can stop herself, armor creaking. “forgive the disrespect. i didn’t mean to look. i didn’t mean to stare.”

“you didn’t stare,” you say with a laugh that sends birds fluttering from the trees. “you looked.”

she dares glance up. you’re watching her now—not as a goddess might observe a mortal, but as one person might look at another across a quiet lake and wonder what’s behind those eyes.

“what are you making?” she asks before she can bite her tongue.

you smile again, and this time it tugs something loose in her chest.

“a veil,” you say, holding up the fabric. it gleams faintly with shifting constellations sewn in. “for the moonlight festival.”

“it’s beautiful,” vi says, then adds quickly, “forgive me if that’s improper—”

“it’s not improper to recognize beauty,” you say, standing. “even when you’re not sure if you deserve to.”

she stiffens.

you walk toward her, slow and deliberate, and her heart slams against her ribs.

you stop a foot away.

“next time,” you murmur, tucking the veil into your satchel, “don’t kneel unless you want to.”

and then you’re gone. a breeze lifts the scent of lilies where you stood. vi stays frozen, heart pounding, unsure if the morning was a dream stitched from light and longing.

vi can’t sleep that night.

not that she’s ever been one for soft beds or quiet dreams—but ever since that morning by the lake, her mind won’t shut up. she’s polished her gauntlets three times. sharpened her blade twice. still, your voice stays with her. the way you said “next time” like it was a promise.

next time.

what does that even mean, to a goddess?

she’s on duty the next morning, but her route somehow bends again—toward the lake, through the lower gardens. maybe it’s coincidence. maybe it’s her feet choosing for her.

and there you are.

seated beneath the same willow tree. different fabric in hand today, deep violet velvet with silver thread curling into unfamiliar patterns. you don’t look up right away, but vi halts, once again unsure if she’s meant to be here.

“i was wondering if you’d come back,” you say without turning your head.

vi’s throat goes dry.

you look up at her, eyes shining with that same impossible softness. no crown. no throne. just you, surrounded by birdsong and breeze and scent of wet leaves.

“i shouldn’t be here,” vi says. it’s not a complaint. it’s a prayer she doesn’t want answered.

you tilt your head, considering. “and yet here you are.”

“i didn’t mean to—”

“you never do,” you say gently. “but you always find your way back.”

silence folds between you like silk. you shift on the blanket, then pat the space beside you.

vi stares.

you pat it again, amused. “you look like i asked you to sit on fire.”

“i’m… armored,” vi says dumbly. “i might crush something.”

you laugh—a real one this time. “you think i can’t enchant a patch of grass?”

she hesitates. then moves. every step toward you feels like crossing a sacred line. she sits stiffly, knees bent, back straight. you don’t seem to mind.

“you always stitch alone?” she asks, eyes on your fingers.

you hum. “sometimes the stars guide me. sometimes i guide them. but yes… i like the quiet. people tend to grow loud in my presence.”

vi swallows, unsure if you’re joking.

“you’re quiet,” you add, without looking at her.

“i wasn’t always,” she murmurs, eyes dropping. “war takes the noise out of you.”

you pause mid-thread, then glance sideways. “did it take anything else?”

she doesn’t answer.

you don’t push.

instead, you offer her something unexpected—a needle, long and thin, already threaded.

vi blinks. “i… i don’t know how to sew.”

“you know how to fight. this is just… gentler precision.” you tilt your head, smile soft. “try.”

her fingers fumble. the needle feels alien in her calloused hands, and she holds it like a dagger. you suppress a laugh. “you’re not slaying the fabric, knight.”

“could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

you reach for her hand.

she freezes.

your fingers brush hers, guiding her hold, your warmth threading through her armor like fire. she doesn’t breathe—not when you press your palm over hers, not when you whisper: “here. like this.”

the first stitch is crooked.

the second, shaky.

the third—guided by your gentle encouragement—lands true.

you lean back, satisfied. “you did well.”

vi looks down at the tiny silver mark she made. barely visible, but it’s there.

“i ruined your pattern,” she says.

you look at her, really look, like you’re seeing something she’s hiding from the world. “no. you added to it.”

and vi thinks, gods help me. because she’s falling. stitch by stitch. quietly. irrevocably.

the summons comes at dawn.

a priest in silver robes finds vi just as she finishes patrol. he bows, avoids eye contact, and says only, “the lady requests your presence. immediately.”

vi stiffens. no explanation. no emergency. just a request.

from you.

her palms start to sweat inside her gauntlets.

the temple of stars is quiet when she enters—quieter than any place has a right to be. the marble under her boots doesn’t echo. the stained glass doesn’t cast shadows. everything is too perfect.

and at the far end of the chamber, in a sunlit alcove framed by floating veils of light… you wait.

you’re seated at a low table set with tea, your silken robes trailing like moonlight on water. a second cup steams gently across from you.

vi stops a full five paces away, heart hammering.

“you summoned me, my lady,” she says, dropping into a kneel so fast it clinks. “is there danger?”

you don’t answer right away. you just pick up the teapot and pour the first cup, fingers graceful, unhurried. then you speak.

“would it be a danger to sit with me?”

vi’s eyes dart upward.

“…i’m not certain how to answer that,” she murmurs.

you gesture delicately to the cushion across from you.

she hesitates.

you smile. “you’ve stood in front of burning gates and bleeding skies, knight. surely tea isn’t the final trial.”

vi obeys.

she sits like the porcelain might explode.

you pour her cup. “do you drink jasmine?”

“i drink anything that doesn’t melt my insides,” vi replies before thinking.

you laugh—a small, delighted sound that makes her ears flush. “good. this one shouldn’t. probably.”

she picks up the teacup like she’s defusing a bomb. her hands are too large, too scarred. she tries not to notice how the handle barely fits her grip.

you sip first. then watch her.

vi sips.

and it’s… divine.

of course it is.

but the taste is nothing compared to sitting this close to you, breathing the same perfumed air, feeling the silence stretch thin like a pulled thread.

you watch her over the rim of your cup, head tilted. “you’ve been avoiding the lake.”

vi blinks.

“you’re not hard to track,” you say softly. “your footsteps are like echoes in grass.”

“i… didn’t think it was appropriate to intrude again.”

“you weren’t intruding,” you say. “you were… noticed.”

vi sets the cup down before her shaking hand drops it.

your gaze softens. “do i frighten you?”

“no.” (yes.) “not you,” she adds. “just… everything you are.”

a beat of silence.

“you think i’m untouchable,” you say, not accusing, not even sad. just… observant.

vi’s throat tightens. “aren’t you?”

you look down at your own fingers—elegant, capable, glowing faintly where light kisses your skin. then you hold out your hand, palm up. “touch me.”

vi jolts. “my lady—”

“touch,” you repeat, gentler now. “i give you leave.”

she doesn’t move.

“please,” you say, softer still. “not because i command it. because i want it.”

her hand reaches out like it’s moving through holy fire.

she brushes your palm. just her fingers.

and nothing burns.

but everything changes.

you smile, luminous and human all at once. “still think i’m untouchable?”

vi can’t answer. she pulls her hand back before the moment devours her whole.

you don’t chase the contact.

you pour another cup.

“i don’t summon easily,” you say. “but i find myself… enjoying your presence.”

vi stares at the tea, unable to breathe.

“i hope that’s not… improper,” you add, eyes glinting with mischief.

vi finally finds her voice. “i think i stopped knowing what’s proper the moment i met you.”

you sip your tea, eyes never leaving hers.

and vi realizes—this isn’t a test. this is an invitation.

it’s the night of falling stars.

once every decade, the sky opens for the celestial bloom—a rare veil of radiant light that marks divine alignment. the high temple is overflowing with priests, nobles, and guards stationed at every threshold.

vi’s among them. standing near the lower altar, back straight, eyes scanning the crowd, trying—trying—not to look up at where you float like a vision atop the central dais.

you stand with arms outstretched, silver chains and gemstones woven into your robes, your skin glowing with a soft aura as if the stars themselves favor you. you’re chanting in the old tongue, summoning blessings. every word from your lips hums down vi’s spine like thunder wrapped in silk.

she should be focused.

she is focused.

so when the shadows twist behind the altar flames—when the whisper of cursed magic slithers through the crowd—vi notices it a second before anyone else.

a blast of black flame erupts from a cloaked figure in the crowd.

people scream. guards rush forward.

but you’re the target.

vi moves.

not even a second of thought.

she lunges past the rows of stunned priests, vaults the stairs of the dais, and shields you with her entire body as a bolt of corrupted fire slams into her back.

the impact sends her crashing to the marble with a gasp.

your voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. a single word in divine tongue—and the attacker is frozen mid-step, consumed by celestial vines that bloom from nothing.

but you don’t look at the enemy.

you drop to your knees beside vi, trembling, eyes wide.

“vi…”

she coughs, chest heaving. her armor is scorched through at the back, smoke rising from the twisted metal.

“didn’t—mean to interrupt,” she wheezes, blood on her lip. “wasn’t even my section…”

you press your hand over the wound without hesitation. light bursts from your palm, gentle and radiant, curling into her burned flesh. vi flinches—not from pain, but from the intimacy of your touch.

your fingers tremble over her ruined armor. “why… why would you do that?”

“you could’ve died,” she rasps.

“i am divine. i would’ve survived.”

“you might’ve hurt,” vi says, eyes fluttering. “even just for a second. i can’t—watch that.”

you falter.

the spell falters.

your hand stills over her wound, and vi tenses—feeling your magic pulse through her like a river she’s too small to hold.

“you’re bleeding,” you whisper. “for me.”

vi’s eyes find yours—tender and raw. “i’d do worse.”

and you break.

you lean closer, forehead nearly touching hers, and whisper something ancient, something holy.

the last of the burn vanishes. skin knits. bone settles.

but the ache in vi’s chest grows.

because your hands are still on her. because you’re still trembling. because your breath is brushing her cheek like a prayer wrapped in guilt.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

“for what?”

“for being the reason you’d ever do that.”

vi closes her eyes.

and she says—because there’s no going back:

“you’re the only reason i would.”

ever since the attack, vi has been… near.

you didn’t command it. no formal assignment. no official decree. she was dismissed from duty three days after the incident, her injuries deemed healed, her role fulfilled.

but still.

when you sit by the lake, she’s there—on the other side, silent among the reeds, pretending not to watch as you sew your next silk spell. when you wander the temple gardens in the late dusk, she walks three paces behind, never speaking unless spoken to. when you press yourself into a hooded robe and slip down the market path—trying, just for a moment, to taste the world as a mortal—she appears in the crowd like a silent sentinel.

you catch her reflection in glass.

you hear her boots in alley stone.

and once, when a vendor grabs your wrist too hard, mistaking your quiet grace for weakness—vi’s hand appears around his throat before you even flinch.

“let go,” she says.

her voice is soft.

but it’s not kind.

the vendor stammers, drops your hand, and scurries off.

you look at her—at the way her shoulders tremble once the moment passes. at the way her jaw clenches, like she’s ashamed of acting before asking.

“vi,” you murmur. “you’re not assigned to me.”

“i know.”

“then why follow?”

she hesitates. then: “i don’t want to leave you undefended.”

“there are ten high mages on my route at all times.”

she stares ahead.

silent.

so you try again.

“would you still be following me if i hadn’t been attacked?”

her jaw works. something falters in her gaze. then she says, almost too quiet:

“i think i was… before that.”

you stop walking.

she does too.

you tilt your head, smiling just slightly. “so i’m not the only one who noticed.”

vi looks like she wants the earth to swallow her whole.

“i—wasn’t… trying to be seen.”

“no,” you agree. “but you never really wanted to stay hidden either, did you?”

her cheeks darken.

she says nothing.

you take a single step closer. “what is it you’re guarding me from, vi?”

“everything.”

you blink.

she adds, softer, more broken: “even myself.”

your heart stirs.

because now you see it—truly see it—the way her body is always half-tensed around you. like she’s both drawn in and holding back, like her own feelings are the most dangerous thing in the room.

and you realize…

she’s not just watching to protect you.

she’s watching because you undo her.

with a look. a smile. a thread of silk dancing in your hand.

so you take her hand.

her eyes widen like a prayer’s just been answered wrong.

“i want you here, vi,” you whisper. “not as a shadow.”

“…then what?” she breathes.

“as someone i see.”

her breath catches.

and just like that, the world shifts again.

they call him the god of war’s favored son.

a demigod—part mortal, part flame. golden-eyed, arrogant, tall enough to make kings feel like servants. he walks into the high temple with a hundred gifts and a declaration so bold it silences the marble halls:

“i seek union with the goddess of light. her beauty sings to my blood.”

vi hears it from behind your throne.

she stands in polished armor, hands clasped, spine like stone.

you say nothing at first.

you sit, composed, radiant as dawn, eyes half-lidded as you regard this golden prince. the council around you murmurs. the high priest nods eagerly. this would be a political bond of strength—one they’d blessedly sought for decades.

but you only say, “we’ll walk.”

and so you do.

through the inner gardens, with guards at your heels—and vi at the back, silent, burning.

you’re dressed in layered robes that shimmer with divine light, every step a breeze, every glance a blessing. the demigod flirts with poise, confidence sharp as blades:

“you must be lonely, walking these gardens with no equal. you deserve one who burns bright enough to warm even you.”

you smile, polite. “are you offering fire to the sun, then?”

he laughs. he thinks he’s winning.

but behind him—three steps back—vi’s fists are clenched at her sides. jaw tight. eyes dark.

she’s walking, but not breathing right.

because this man—this thing—dares look at you like you're a conquest. like he’s worthy.

because he is beautiful. he is powerful. the kind of being you should be with.

not a girl from the lower quarters.

not a soldier with burned hands and no bloodline.

he says something again—something bold, about how he could “earn your favor if only the guards would step away for a night.”

and vi moves.

not fast.

not aggressive.

just a step forward.

your voice stops her.

“vi.”

it’s gentle.

but enough.

she freezes.

you glance over your shoulder.

eyes meet hers.

and for one breath—one heartbeat—everything around you blurs.

“i’m tired,” you say suddenly.

to the demigod: “the sun wanes. return tomorrow.”

he frowns, confused—but obeys.

when he’s gone, the guards dismissed, and the last echo of his footsteps fades—you turn to vi.

she won’t meet your eyes.

“you were angry,” you murmur.

“i don’t get angry,” she mutters.

“vi.”

she breathes through her nose.

then: “i’m not the one who gets to be.”

you step closer.

she doesn't back away—but she looks like she wants to.

you say softly, “and why not?”

“because i’m not him. i don’t shine. i don’t burn. i’m not yours.”

the last words break.

they slip out before she can stop them, trembling between the cracks in her armor.

you lift a hand.

touch her face.

vi flinches. but doesn’t pull away.

your fingers are warm.

gentle.

“then choose to be,” you whisper. “if i must be chosen, let you be the one.”

her breath shatters.

and then she falls to her knees.

not because she was told.

not because you asked.

but because the weight of what she feels is too heavy to stand with.

“goddess,” she whispers, forehead to your robes.

you touch her hair.

and say, barely audible: “vi.”

just her name.

as if it’s all you ever wanted.

the hall of divine bonds is flooded with gold.

silks and prayers hang from every pillar, musicians hum an ancient tune, and guests from across the realms stand waiting in reverent awe. the altar is lined with white flame. beside it: a golden cup. a sacred thread.

and a throne.

your throne.

you sit on it with your head bowed, veil hiding your expression. you’re dressed in ceremonial silk woven from starlight, the symbol of your divine house pressed to your chest.

tonight, you are meant to choose.

a suitor.

a name.

a bond.

the demigod stands at the center of the circle, radiant and proud, flanked by his house. your priest speaks of legacy, of balance, of divine union.

and vi stands in shadow, just beyond the light, armor polished, hands clenched behind her back.

she wasn’t meant to attend.

you asked for her anyway.

to escort you. to guard you. to stay.

just until the ceremony ends.

she stands with her head down, heart cracking open in silence. her jaw is tight. her eyes are dull. because tonight she will watch you be taken.

and she will smile.

because that’s what good knights do.

the priest lifts the golden cup. the flame dances. the thread glows.

“name your chosen,” he says. “let the bond begin.”

silence.

you rise.

slowly, every step floating.

the demigod smiles. hands outstretched.

you don’t take them.

you walk past him.

straight through the circle.

straight toward the dark.

toward her.

vi doesn’t understand at first.

until you're right in front of her.

until your hands lift her chin gently.

until you say, loud enough for the gods to hear:

“if i must choose… then let it be the one who never asked to be chosen. the one who bled for me. the one who saw me when i wasn't a goddess—only a girl by the lake.”

vi’s breath dies in her throat.

“you don’t have to—”

“i already have.”

you hold out your hand.

she stares at it.

at you.

at the crown of light behind your head.

and she falls to her knees.

in front of the gods.

the guests.

the suitor still standing in disbelief.

and she takes your hand like it’s the only real thing she’s ever held.

the thread floats from the altar.

glows brighter.

then wraps around both your wrists—divine silk binding blood to starlight.

the bond is sealed.

and the hall erupts.

but vi?

she’s still kneeling.

still trembling.

still whispering, “why me?” like a wound.

and you only smile, gently lifting her to her feet, pressing her forehead to yours.

“because you never tried to take me.” “you just stayed. and that’s what i needed.”

alright thank you for coming to my ted talk today haha. didn't think i cook good enough, but hopes you enjoy, anon!

#vi x reader #violet x reader #vi arcane #arcane

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ad-caelestia · 9 months ago

Text

common toxic plants

[long post; updated 12.8.24]

this is not a complete list by any means, but these commonly noted plants, herbs, and flowers should be handled with care or avoided altogether.

aconite (wolfsbane, monkshood) - all parts: dermatoxic, hepatotoxic, and neurotoxic

adam and eve (jack-in-the-pulpit, wild arum) - root: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic if ingested

african sumac - leaves: dermatoxic; possibly fatal

agave - juice: dermatoxic

angel’s trumpet - all parts: cardiotoxic; often fatal

apple - seeds: cytotoxic in large doses

apricot - leaves and seeds: cytotoxic in large doses

arnica - gastrotoxic

asparagus - berries: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic if ingested

azalea - all parts: cytotoxic and neurotoxic; rarely fatal

betel nut palm (pinyang) - all parts: gastrotoxic if ingested

bittersweet nightshade - all parts: neurotoxic and gastrotoxic; rarely fatal

black hellebore - all parts: cardiotoxic and gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

black locust (false acacia) - root bark and flowers: gastrotoxic

black nightshade - all parts except ripe fruit: neurotoxic and gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

bleeding heart - leaves and roots: neurotoxic

bloodroot - rhizomes: cytotoxic

blue passion flower (common passion flower) - leaves: cytotoxic

bracken - all parts: carcinogenic

buttercup - all parts: gastrotoxic and dermatoxic

calabar bean (ordeal beans) - seeds: neurotoxic and gastrotoxic if ingested in large doses

cassava - leaves and roots: cytotoxic in large doses

castor bean (castor oil plant) - seeds: cytotoxic if ingested or inhaled

celandine - nephrotoxic

cherry - leaves and seeds: cytotoxic in large doses

christmas rose - all parts: gastrotoxic

cocklebur - seedlings and seeds: gastrotoxic and neurotoxic

columbine - seeds and roots: cardiotoxic; easily fatal

corn lily (false hellebore) - all parts: cardiotoxic; often fatal

cowbane (water hemlock, snakeweed) - root: neurotoxic if ingested

daffodil - bulbs and stems: gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

datura/moonflower - all parts: gastrotoxic and cardiotoxic

deadly nightshade (belladonna) - all parts: cardiotoxic and neurotoxic; often fatal

desert rose (sabi star, kudu) - sap: cardiotoxic with skin contact

dumbcane - all parts: dermatoxic; possibly fatal

elder (elderberry) - root: gastrotoxic

elephant ear (angel wings) - all parts: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic

ergot - neurotoxic

foxglove - leaves, seeds, and flowers: cardiotoxic; often fatal

garlic - all parts: gastrotoxic in animals

giant hogweed - all parts: dermatoxic

golden chain - all parts, especially seeds: neurotoxic and gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

goldenseal - all parts: gastrotoxic and neurotoxic in large doses

grapes/raisins - all parts: gastrotoxic in dogs

greater celandine - all parts: gastrotoxic in large doses

hemlock (spotted cowbane, poison snakeweed) - all parts: neurotoxic; possibly fatal

hemlock water dropwort - roots: neurotoxic if ingested; possibly fatal

henbane - all parts: neurotoxic and cardiotoxic

holly - berries: gastrotoxic

honeybush - all parts: gastrotoxic

honeysuckle - berries: gastrotoxic in mild cases and cardiotoxic in severe cases

horse chestnut - all parts: neurotoxic

hyacinth - bulbs: gastrotoxic and neurotoxic; possibly fatal

iris - rhizomes: gastrotoxic and dermatoxic

kava kava - nephrotoxic, hepatotoxic

kidney bean - raw: gastrotoxic

larkspur - young plants and seeds: neurotoxic; often fatal

lemon - oil: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic to animals

lily - all parts: nephrotoxic

lily of the nile (calla lily) - all parts: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic if ingested; possibly fatal

lily of the valley - all parts: cardiotoxic; possibly fatal

lima beans - raw: gastrotoxic

lime - oil: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic in animals

lobelia - all parts: gastrotoxic

mandrake - roots and leaves: gastrotoxic and neurotoxic

mango - peel and sap: dermatoxic

mangrove - bark and sap: dermatoxic and eye irritation

mayapple - all green parts and unripe fruit: gastrotoxic

meadow saffron (autumn crocus) - bulbs: gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

mistletoe - leaves and berries: gastrotoxic, cardiotoxic, and neurotoxic; rarely lethal in adults

moonseed - fruits and seeds: gastrotoxic; often fatal

mountain laurel - all green parts: gastrotoxic

nutmeg - raw: psychoactive in large doses

oak - leaves and acorns: gastrotoxic; rarely fatal

odollam tree (suicide tree) - seeds: cardiotoxic; often fatal

oleander - all parts: dermatoxic, cardiotoxic, and gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

onions - all parts: gastrotoxic in animals

orange - oil: dermatoxic and gastrotoxic in animals

peach - seeds and leaves: cytotoxic in large doses

periwinkle (vinca) - all parts: neurotoxic and potentially fatal

pokeweed - leaves, berries, and roots: gastrotoxic; often fatal

poison ivy/oak/sumac - all parts, especially leaves: dermatoxic; possibly fatal

poison ryegrass (darnel) - seeds: neurotoxic

potato - raw: cytotoxic

privet - berries and leaves: neurotoxic and gastrotoxic; possibly fatal

ragwort - all parts: hepatotoxic

redoul - all parts: gastrotoxic, neurotoxic, and causes respiratory issues; can be fatal in children

rhubarb - leaves: nephrotoxic

rosary pea - seeds: neurotoxic and gastrotoxic; often fatal

skullcap - hepatotoxic

spindle (spindle tree) - fruit: hepatotoxic and nephrotoxic; possibly fatal

stinging tree (gympie gympie) - bark and sap: dermatoxic; sometimes fatal

strychnine tree - seeds: neurotoxic; often fatal

sweet pea - seeds: neurotoxic and damaging to connective tissues

tomato - leaves and stems: cytotoxic in large doses

uva ursi - neurotoxic, dermatoxic

white baneberry (doll’s eyes) - all parts, especially berries: cardiotoxic; possibly fatal

white snakeroot - all parts: gastrotoxic; often fatal

winter cherry (jerusalem cherry) - all parts, especially berries: gastrotoxic; occasionally fatal, especially to children

wisteria - gastrotoxic

yew (english yew, common yew) - leaves and seeds: gastrotoxic if ingested and respiratory issues if inhaled

glossary:

carcinogenic - a substance that can cause cancer

cardiotoxic - toxic to the heart

cytotoxic - toxic to living cells

dermatoxic - toxic to the skin

gastrotoxic - toxic to the gastrointestinal system (stomach, intestines, etc.)

hepatotoxic - toxic to the liver

nephrotoxic - toxic to the kidneys and urological system (ureters, bladder)

neurotoxic - toxic to the neurological system (brain, nerves, brainstem, spinal cord, etc.)

psychoactive - pertaining to substances that change brain function and result in alterations in perception, mood, or consciousness

#witchblr #witchcraft #witchy #advwitchblr #herbalism #poison garden #witch #witches #herb magic #toxic plants #witch community #witch stuff #witchcraft community #witches of tumblr #ad-caelestia

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the-winter-spider · 3 months ago

Text

Yours, Always | Part Seventeen

Steve x reader, Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Little bit of smut, angst, fluff

A/N: Bucky has my whole heart 🤍🤍

Masterpost

----

A few hours had passed since Bucky had dropped you off. The shower had helped, washing away the heat of the day, the exhaustion from walking around all afternoon, and the heaviness from certain moments. But you still felt restless, like you couldn’t quite settle, like there was something buzzing beneath your skin that water and soap couldn’t rinse away.

You sat on the edge of your bed, towel-drying your hair, your phone balanced in your lap. A part of you had been waiting, maybe for a text, maybe for something else entirely but when your screen finally lit up, it wasn’t Bucky.

Steve: We’re home. Hope you had a wonderful day.

You stared at the words, your fingers hesitating over the keyboard. You thought about your day. The flea market, Sam leaving, the graveyard, the slushies. The bracelets. Bucky.

Finally, you typed back:

I did.

Not even a minute later, another text buzzed through.

Steve: I love you.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers twitching, hovering over the keyboard. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. You did. You always would. But the fight had left something fractured between you, something unsettled.

Your mother’s voice echoed in your mind.

“Then listen to your heart, honey. It’s never led you wrong before.”

And God, you wanted to. But how were you supposed to, when your heart and your brain were at war? When your heart was screaming a name that wasn’t your husband’s, but your brain was reminding you Steve, Lily, the life you built.

Your life.

Your daughter.

The weight of it all pressed down on your chest, crushing, suffocating. Because no matter what happened between you and Steve, Lily was yours. And she was his and no matter what the hell your heart wanted, she had to come first.

You couldn’t lose her. You wouldn’t.

That’s why you shut off your phone, setting it facedown on your nightstand, pushing away the ache in your chest. It wasn’t time for this. It wasn’t time to pick apart all the things you still didn’t have answers for.

In the distance, you heard it.

The low, familiar rumble of an engine, the slight squeak of an old brake pedal.

Bucky’s truck.

You didn’t even think. You were on your feet, moving before you could register it, flying down the stairs and slipping out the front door before he had the chance to park.

Just like old times.

Bucky didn’t need to text you that he was here. Didn’t need to knock on your door. You just knew.

You slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of leather, motor oil, and faint cologne wrapping around you like something out of a dream. Something long buried and never forgotten.

You turned your head toward the back of the truck and saw it.

The blankets. The pillows.

Your stomach twisted, something warm pooling in your chest, thick and consuming.

You turned to him, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “The field?”

He smirked. “The field.”

And just like that, he shifted into drive, and you were off.

You weren’t supposed to end up there.

It had started as nothing more than a lazy summer afternoon, you and Bucky wandering past the outskirts of town, your sneakers kicking up dust as the sun hung golden and heavy in the sky. Neither of you had a destination in mind you never really needed one. Some days, it was enough just to be, to let the world carry you wherever it wanted.

And that’s how you found it.

The trees opened up like a secret, a near-perfect circle of sky breaking through the dense woods. The grass was soft, untamed but inviting, and the air smelled like pine and earth and possibility. It was untouched. Hidden. Yours.

Bucky whistled low under his breath, hands settling on his hips. “Well, would you look at that?”

You turned slowly, taking it all in. The way the treetops curled inward, sheltering the space like it was meant to be found but only by the right people. The way the path leading up to it was just wide enough for Bucky’s truck to make it through.

“This place,” you murmured, awestruck, “it’s perfect.”

“For what?” Bucky asked, grinning as he nudged your shoulder.

“For star gazing,” you said, spinning in a slow circle, tilting your head back to stare up at the sky. “It’s so open… no light pollution from town. You can see everything out here.”

Bucky nodded, but he didn’t say much else. Just looked at you, really looked at you, like he was memorizing something important.

The sun was starting to dip lower, shadows stretching long through the trees, and you knew you had to head home soon.

“Come on,” he finally said, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Gotta get you back before your mom thinks I kidnapped you.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, but you didn’t argue. You let him walk you home, let him tell you about how his ma was making pot roast for dinner, how he was probably gonna get an earful for staying out so late.

Just as he reached your driveway, he paused. “I’ll be back after dinner.”

You blinked. “Back?”

He smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. You wanna star gaze, right?”

Something warm flickered in your chest, something soft and unspoken.

“You’re the bestest friend a girl could ever want, Bucky Barnes,” you teased, grinning as you walked up your porch steps.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head, “I’d do anything for you.”

It had been a few hours and you were waiting impatiently for Bucky to show up so naturally you nearly tripped over your own feet when you saw his truck.

The bed was filled with pillows and blankets, layered haphazardly but comfortably. There was even a thermos of something probably hot chocolate, knowing him sitting near the edge.

You stared at him, your mouth parted in disbelief. “What’s this?”

Bucky, leaning lazily against the side of the truck, just smirked. “Told you I’d be back.”

You shook your head, climbing up into the back, settling into the nest of blankets as he followed. When you both lay down, side by side, staring up at the vast stretch of stars above, it felt like nothing in the world could touch you.

You pointed out constellations, telling him all the stories behind them, and he listened like he actually cared, like every word you said was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard.

You and Bucky lay side by side in the back of his truck, wrapped in blankets, staring up at a sky so big it made you feel like you could get lost in it.

The weight of the day was gone, replaced by something softer. Something that settled deep in your chest as the two of you let the silence stretch between you, comfortable and familiar.

After a long moment, you sighed. “You ever think about what kind of dad you’d be?”

Bucky blinked, turning his head toward you. “That’s random.”

You shrugged. “We both lost our dads young. I guess I just… I don’t ever want my kids to go through that.”

Something in his expression shifted. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, his features unreadable.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me neither.”

You swallowed, tracing invisible patterns on the blanket beneath you. “Whoever you have kids with… she’s gonna be really lucky.”

Bucky’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “How many do you want?”

“Three.”

His brows shot up. “Damn. That was fast.”

You grinned. “I’ve got it all planned out. A girl first, she’ll be quite a few years older, give me a chance to get my bearings, she’ll be protective over the younger ones. Then a boy and then another girl, real close in age to him.”

Bucky let out a low whistle. “You’re gonna have your hands full.”

You laughed. “Maybe. But my heart will be full, too.”

He was quiet for a second, then hummed. “Three sounds amazing.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Oh, so now you’re just copying me?”

Bucky chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “What can I say? You’ve got good ideas.”

You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked at him. “So, what? A little Barnes trio running around, causing trouble?”

He smirked. “Obviously. They’d have the best mom in the world.”

You felt your breath catch for a split second, your heart stuttering in your chest. But before you could let yourself linger on it, you flopped back down beside him, exhaling a slow breath.

“You’re gonna be an amazing dad, Buck.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes locked on you, voice softer now. “You think so?”

You nodded, “Never been more sure of something in my life.”

Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just kept looking at you, something unreadable in his expression. The easy smirk he usually wore had faded, replaced by something softer, something heavier.

“You always believe in me more than I do,” he finally murmured.

You turned your head to face him again, your noses just inches apart. “Somebody has to.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat bobbing. His fingers twitched where they rested on the blanket between you, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t quite know how.

He was about to say something but you were anxious, you weren’t ready for the heaviness you knew would follow and it was like the universe knew it too because all of a sudden you saw a shooting star, you pointed to the sky. “Hey, look. Shooting star! Make a wish!”

“What if I already have everything I want?”

Your breath hitched. Bucky wasn’t looking at the star. He was looking at you.

The weight of his words settled between you, heavier than the night air, thicker than the warmth still lingering from the summer day. You felt your heart stutter, your fingers curling into the blanket beneath you.

You could pretend you didn’t know what he meant. You could laugh it off, roll your eyes, nudge him playfully and tell him to pick something better, something bigger like a brand-new truck or an all-you-can-eat pass to your favorite diner.

But you didn’t. Because in that moment, under that endless sky, you knew. You knew, and you were terrified, you weren’t ready.

So you did what you always did when things got too real, you deflected. “Well, I’m still making a wish,” you said quickly, squeezing your eyes shut, as if wishing hard enough could turn this moment into something safer. Something easier.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just watched you, his expression unreadable, his lips pressed together like he was holding something back. He knew, he could tell you weren’t ready for something more yet, not in the way he was. He didn’t blame you, you two were only Sixteen, still had a year of High School left. So he let you deflect.

When you opened your eyes again, the weight in your chest was still there. The air between you still crackled with something you weren’t ready to name.

“So?” he asked quietly. “What’d you wish for?”

You hesitated, then forced a smirk. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

Bucky huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Of course.”

The clearing was exactly as you remembered it. The sky stretched wide above you, littered with stars, the air thick with summer warmth.

Bucky parked the truck in the middle of the field, throwing it into park. You both climbed into the back, settling into the nest of blankets and pillows, the case of beer tucked between you. A pizza box sat open, slices already half gone, grease-stained napkins scattered around.

It felt so easy.

Like no time had passed at all.

You leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the sky. “Do you ever wonder what sixteen-year-old us would think if they saw us right now?”

Bucky snorted, taking a sip of his beer. “They’d probably be pissed we never took over New York like they planned.”

You laughed. “They really would.” You paused “There's still time, we're not that old yet Buck.”

Bucky hummed, tilting his head toward you, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Speak for yourself. I’m practically ancient.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his knee with yours. “Please, you’re, what, four months older than me?”

“Five.”

“Whatever,” you teased, taking another sip of your beer. “You’re still the same punk you’ve always been.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the sky. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable, warm, thick with memories neither of you had to voice to know they were there.

You sighed softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Do you remember the last time we were here?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around his beer bottle. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t look at you right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, steady. “I remember every time we've ever been here.”

Your breath faultered in your throat. Because you knew what that meant. He remembered all of it. The late-night talks. The laughter. The quiet dreams spoken into the night and the one time that should have changed everything. The time you gave yourself to him in the very spot you were sitting now.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you set your beer down beside you, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the way the night air felt against your skin, the way Bucky was looking at you, the way your heart was hammering in your chest.

You hadn’t talked about it since. Not really. You had both let life move forward, had let other things take over, had let that night slip into the past like it was something fragile, untouchable.

But sitting here now, under the same stars, in the same place, you realized it had never really left you.

And from the way Bucky was looking at you, soft, unreadable, something heavy lingering in his eyes you knew it had never left him either.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twisting in the blanket beneath you. “Did it mean anything to you?”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might get whiplash. His brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly, like he couldn’t believe you were even asking.

His voice was raw when he spoke. “It meant everything to me.”

Your heart stammered in your chest.

You let out a shaky breath, looking away, because if you didn’t, you might drown in the way he was looking at you. “That was my first time, Bucky.”

“I know.”

You blinked, turning back to him. “It’s okay that it wasn’t yours.”

Bucky’s face twisted in shock, and then something like frustration. “What?”

You shifted slightly, sitting up straighter. “I mean, I know it wasn’t your first time. You went to parties, kissed all those girls—”

“That was my first and only time.”

Your entire body stilled. You stared at him, stunned. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

He let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “Why wouldn’t you believe that?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Bucky, come on. All those girls—”

“Kissing,” he interrupted firmly. “That’s all it ever was. Yeah, I turned eighteen a couple of months later, and yeah, I deployed. And yeah, I had chances. But you should know me better than that.” His voice softened, “Plus Y/N, I was kept in a dark dirt filled room for years, not really filled with opportunities.” He laughed softly then something almost vulnerable creeped into the edges. “I wasn’t just gonna give something as meaningful as that to someone else. Not when I already gave it to you.”

Your chest tightened.

You swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought you’d been able to tell it was my first time.” Bucky exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “And because you weren’t ready for that, for the kind of love I was ready to give,...it would have been too much, would have jeopardised our friendship.”

You let out a breathy, bitter laugh, shaking your head. “How dare you decide that for me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and then he was looking at you again, really looking at you. “Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you were ready for something like that? A relationship? When we had all these big plans, when you had just gotten accepted to NYU?”

Your throat ached, but you didn’t break his gaze. “I would’ve given up everything for you, Bucky.”

And that was the truth.

Bucky shook his head, his expression pained. “That’s the thing, you shouldn’t have to give up anything for me. It should just work.”

---

The first time you and Steve had sex, it was different from your first time in every possible way.

With Bucky, it had been sloppy, perfect, desperate, burning with something you hadn’t known how to name at the time you were only a teenager.

But with Steve… with Steve, it was slow. It was careful.

It was two people learning how to touch again after loss, after heartbreak.

Steve's hands cradled your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw, as he explored the contours of your mouth. His lips were gentle, yet insistent, and you felt yourself yielding to the pressure, opening up to him like a flower unfolding its petals.

The taste of him was familiar, yet strange, a mix of comfort and excitement that left you breathless. You felt a rush of emotions, a jumble of sadness, longing, and desire, as you kissed him back, your lips moving in tandem with his.

As you broke apart for a moment, gasping for air, Steve's eyes locked onto yours, and you saw the vulnerability there, the fear of rejection, of being hurt again. But you also saw the hope, the spark of connection that had ignited between you.

Without a word, you reached out and touched his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. Steve's eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned into your touch, his skin warm and alive beneath your fingertips.

The air around you seemed to vibrate with tension, as if the very fate of your relationship hung in the balance. But in this moment, you knew that you were ready to take the leap, to risk everything for the chance to heal, to love again.

Steve was gentle with you, his touch reverent, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful. His lips ghosted over your collarbone, tracing the delicate skin as if memorizing it.

“You sure?” His voice was hoarse, thick with something you couldn’t name.

You nodded, but Steve still searched your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I mean it, baby,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

A lump formed in your throat. Steve had always been kind. Patient.

You knew that if you told him you wanted to wait, he would kiss your forehead, pull you into his arms, and hold you close until you fell asleep.

But you didn’t want to wait.

You wanted this. You wanted him.

“I’m ready,” you whispered. “I want you.”

Something flickered in his eyes, something deep, something tender.

He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wanted to make sure you felt nothing but warmth, nothing but love.

His hands explored every inch of you, worshipping, learning, cherishing and when he finally, finally pushed inside you, his forehead dropped to yours, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

“God,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You feel—”

As Steve slowly began to move, his hips rocking against yours, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. It was as if the world outside had melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in this moment of vulnerability and connection. The rain continued to patter against the window, a soothing melody that seemed to match the rhythm of Steve's gentle thrusts.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and Steve's eyes fluttered closed as he let out a low groan. His lips brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "You feel so good," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

You felt a lump form in your throat as you gazed up at Steve, his face etched with a mix of pleasure and tenderness. You knew that this was more than just sex for him, too. This was a connection, a bond, a sense of healing and redemption.

As you moved together, the tension between you built, a slow-burning fire that threatened to consume you both. Steve's hands roamed over your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts. His touch was reverent, worshipful, and you felt like a goddess, worshipped and adored.

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the creak of the bed, and the rain pounding against the window. It was a symphony of sound, a cacophony of sensation, and you felt yourself getting lost in it, lost in Steve, lost in the moment.

Without warning, Steve's pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. You felt a surge of pleasure, a wave of sensation that crashed over you, leaving you gasping, trembling. Steve's eyes snapped open, locking onto yours, and you saw the depth of his emotion, the intensity of his feeling.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm so sorry it's been so long. I'm so sorry I wasn't—"

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips pressing against his, your tongue tracing the curve of his mouth. "Don't apologize," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. "This is exactly what I need. This is exactly what I want."

Steve's eyes searched yours, and you saw the doubt, the uncertainty, melt away. He knew, in that moment, that you were exactly where you wanted to be. And as he came, his body shuddering, his eyes locked onto yours, you felt a sense of peace, a sense of closure, wash over you.

You let out a quiet gasp, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Steve kissed you again, breathing you in. “You okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

---

Your eyes flickered to his arm, resting beside you, the faded scar on his shoulder barely visible in the dim light. You swallowed, ready to change the subject, needing to. You wanted to keep things light.

“So,” you murmured, “Miller’s old property, huh?”

He turned his head slightly to look at you, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Not Miller’s anymore. It’s Barnes now.”

You grinned, nudging his leg with your foot. “That’s got a nice ring to it.”

He shrugged. “Sam even made me a mailbox.”

“A mailbox?” you repeated, laughing.

Bucky grinned. “Yeah. One of those big ones, real fancy. Has my name on it, right where Miller’s used to be.”

You smiled, warmth swelling in your chest. “Sam is a wonderful friend, I’m glad you had him.”

His expression softened. “I know he is.” He took another sip of his beer before adding, “I’m glad you had Steve.”

You froze.

It was unexpected. The way he said it, gentle, genuine. No bitterness, no resentment. Just a quiet acceptance of the life you had built without him.

It made something in you ache.

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

You both let it sit there, neither of you pushing it further.

Instead, you turned back toward the sky, watching as a faint shooting star streaked across the darkness.

“So,” you said after a moment, clearing your throat. “When are you starting on the house?”

“Sam already ordered the lumber for me, he knows a guy,” Bucky said, leaning back on his elbows. “I know how I want the outside to look, just gotta finish up the floor plan.”

You nodded. “What’s the timeline?”

“Hoping to have it done in a year, the major things, small things can be done when I get there.”

A small smile pulled at your lips. “I hope it brings you joy. I can’t wait to see it when it’s done.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered toward you, something unreadable in his expression. “Me neither,” he said quietly.

Bucky shifted beside you, his fingers idly picking at the label of his beer bottle. He had been quiet for a while now, his mind clearly somewhere else. Somewhere far away.

Then, without looking at you, he finally spoke. “So, you read it? Right? The letter?"

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

He nodded too, like he already knew. Of course he knew. He had seen it in your eyes the morning after you read it, at the diner, the way you looked at him like you had peeled back the layers of time and finally seen all the truth, the love, the heartbreak.

Silence settled again, just the hum of summer night air wrapping around you both.

Then Bucky exhaled, long and slow, and turned toward you. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it might as well have been a thunderclap.

“I still do.”

You blinked, unsure you heard him right. “What?”

His gaze met yours, unwavering, steady in a way that made your chest ache.

“In case you were wondering, I can see it on your face that you are” he said, his voice rough, raw, like it was scraping against something tender inside of him. “I still love you. I will always love you.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I loved you when we were kids, when we were just stupid teenagers sneaking out and stealing beers from my mom’s fridge.” He let out a shaky breath. “I loved you the night we drove out to the field, when you told me you wanted a house on Miller’s old property and I promised you’d have it someday.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, but he kept going.

“I loved you the night we fell asleep in the back of my truck, and I woke up with you tangled up against me, breathing me in like I was something you needed to survive.”

His throat bobbed, his fingers gripping the bottle so tightly you thought it might shatter.

“I loved you when we had our first time, and I was so fucking scared to touch you, not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew, I knew that once I did, there’d be no coming back for me. I was yours. I’ve always been yours.”

His voice cracked, and he tore his gaze away from you, blinking fast, his jaw clenching like he was trying to keep himself together.

“I loved you when I left,” he admitted, his voice breaking completely now. “And fuck, I hated myself for it. Every goddamn day I was out there, I hated myself for leaving you but I had to, I needed to prove to myself I was a man, that I could be a man that deserved you”

You didn’t realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek.

He looked back at you then, eyes glassy, burning with something desperate, something infinite.

“It was you,” he whispered. “It was always you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Bucky swiped his knuckles across his eyes, letting out a broken laugh. “Jesus. I wasn’t gonna say all this tonight. But I can’t keep it in anymore. I can’t pretend like I don’t love you, like I haven’t loved you for my entire goddamn life and will for whatever is left of it.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t bother wiping it away this time.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said, his voice quieter now, steadier. “I don’t expect you to say anything, or do anything. I hope you know that, I know you have a husband, you're married, you're actually married, you have a beautiful daughter. I know that please believe me I do. I don’t want to ruin anything you have, I just needed you to know.”

His eyes searched yours, waiting for something, anything.

But you couldn’t speak, Couldn’t move. Could only sit there, staring at him, your world tilting on its axis because hearing him say it all out loud for the first time in your life felt like a dream come true but the shadow of your physical life was making you dizzy.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, his fingers running through his hair as he looked away, staring up at the stars like they might have the answers. Like they might be able to fix whatever was breaking between you.

Then, softer now, almost like a prayer, he said, “There’s no one else for me but you.”

Your chest tightened.

“There never has been,” he continued, voice rough with emotion. “There never will be.”

The weight of his words settled over you, pressing into your ribs, into your bones, into every piece of you that had ever belonged to him.

“I don’t care how long it takes, how messy it gets. If all I ever get to be is your best friend, then I’ll take it. I’ll take it, because I’d rather have a lifetime of that than a single second of nothing.” He swallowed hard. “But if there’s even the smallest chance, if there’s some world, some timeline, some universe where we get it right, where I get to love you the way I’ve always wanted to, then I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever if I have to.”

You exhaled shakily, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

“If it’s not this life,” he whispered, “then maybe the next. Maybe the afterlife. Maybe some place where fate isn’t so fucking cruel.”

His voice cracked, his hands trembling as he reached for his beer bottle again, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“But even if it never happens, even if this is all we ever get, you still have me,” he murmured. “You will always have me. My whole heart, my whole goddamn soul, it’s yours.”

The words hung between you, thick and unmovable, pressing against your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs.

He smiled then, small and sad, wiping at his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie. “And I don’t regret a single second of it.”

You stared at him, the man who had been your best friend, your first love, your everything, and for the first time in years, you saw it all: the weight of loving you, the pain of losing you, the quiet devotion of a man who would wait for you in every lifetime.

You opened your mouth like you were going to speak even though you knew you didn’t even know what to say, your phone rang, shattering the moment like glass hitting the pavement. You jumped, heart slamming against your ribs as the loud vibration echoed through the quiet night.

Bucky blinked, sitting back slightly, wiping at his face before glancing at you. You fumbled for your phone in your pocket, squinting at the bright screen.

Steve. FaceTime.

Your stomach twisted, but you already knew who it was really going to be.

“I have to take this,” you murmured, looking at Bucky.

He nodded once, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You hopped down from the back of the truck, pacing slightly as you swiped to answer.

Lily’s giggling face filled the screen, her eyes sleepy but full of excitement. “Mommy!”

You smiled instantly, the weight on your chest lifting just at the sight of her. “Hey, my love.”

“I just wanted to say goodnight,” she said, curling into her pillow. “I miss you.”

Your heart clenched. “I miss you too, baby. But I’ll be home tomorrow, right after your dance lesson.”

She squealed, kicking her little feet under the blankets. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Can you sing me my song?”

You hesitated, heat crawling up your neck. Your gaze flickered back toward Bucky, who was still sitting in the bed of the truck, watching you. His expression was unreadable, but he nodded slightly, encouraging you.

You sighed softly and turned slightly, lowering your voice. “Okay, baby.”

Quietly, you began to sing.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

Your voice was soft, a little shaky, but filled with warmth. You heard Lily hum along sleepily, her little eyes fluttering.

Bucky watched, his throat tightening, his heart aching in a way he didn’t have the words for.

When you finished, Lily yawned, her tiny voice muffled by her pillow. “I love you, Mommy.”

You smiled, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I love you more, sweetheart.”

The screen shifted, and then it was Steve. His face was relaxed, but his eyes flickered with something you didn’t want to name.

“Sorry to bother you on your last night there,” he said, voice soft. “She’s been asking all day.”

You shook your head. “It’s never a bother. I’d make all the time in the world for her.”

Steve exhaled, his lips twitching. “I know. That’s what I love most about you.”

You nodded, chewing your lip.

Steve hesitated, his voice softer now. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

You swallowed, shifting on your feet. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

A beat of silence.

“I love you,” Steve murmured.

Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone. The words were right there on your tongue, three little words that had once been second nature, effortless. But now…

Now they felt heavy and you hesitated. Just a second too long.

“Goodnight, Stevie,” you finally whispered, voice quiet, uncertain.

Steve’s face barely changed, but you saw it. The flicker of something behind his eyes, the briefest flash of realization, of understanding, of hurt.

Bucky saw it too.

You didn’t even have to look at him to know. You could feel the shift in the air between you, the way his posture straightened just slightly, the way his hands curled against his lap.

The call ended.

The silence that followed felt thick, suffocating, pressing against your ribs. You let out a slow breath, setting your phone down beside you.

You turned to Bucky.

His gaze was already on you, something unspoken swimming in the depths of his eyes. He looked at you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to hold onto something fleeting.

Your voice was quiet, but steady. “You already deserved me.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes au #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x steve #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader angst #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader

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imthebadguyyy · 1 year ago

Text

i can fix him, no really i can.

Pairing : charles leclerc x reader

Fandom : formula 1

Series : the tortured poets department

Synopsis : they tell say God help her when I tell em he's my man...

warnings : angst.

the jokes that he told across the bar were revolting and far too loud...

The Monaco Grand Prix had been spectacular. Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Formula 1, had won in his home country, and the celebrations were grand. The streets of Monte Carlo were alive with excitement, and the night was still young when you found yourself at a cozy bar with Charles and your friends, including Alex and Lily.

Charles was in high spirits, the euphoria of his victory coursing through him. You couldn't help but feel proud of him, but a knot of anxiety had formed in your stomach. You brushed it off, attributing it to the intensity of the day. The bar was crowded, the laughter loud, and the drinks flowing.

You sat beside Charles, trying to engage in the celebratory mood, but the jokes he told across the bar were revolting and far too loud. You could see the discomfort in Lily’s eyes, and Alex’s attempt to diffuse the tension with his own humor only partially succeeded.

“And then there was my ex, remember her?” Charles roared with laughter, slapping the table. “She was always so organized, never made a fuss about anything. I swear, sometimes I think she had everything more together than anyone else I’ve ever known.”

The laughter that followed was forced, a thin veneer over the awkwardness. Your heart sank. Charles had a few too many drinks, and his filter was gone. The way he talked about his exes, and sometimes even you, made you feel small and insignificant. Tonight, it stung more than usual.

Lily gave you a sympathetic look, and you tried to muster a smile. Alex changed the subject to racing, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. But Charles was on a roll.

“And you, love, you’ve got your quirks too,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. His voice was louder than necessary, drawing the attention of those around you. “Remember that time you tried to cook us dinner and nearly burned the kitchen down? Classic.”

The laughter was scattered, and you felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You wanted to disappear, but you stayed, for Charles. The night dragged on, each joke more painful than the last, until finally, it was time to leave.

Back at the hotel, the atmosphere was heavy with the unspoken words that lingered in the air. Charles, still basking in his victory, seemed oblivious to your discomfort. He collapsed onto the bed, eyes half-closed, a contented smile on his face.

You changed into your pajamas quietly, the tension building within you. Charles didn’t notice. He didn’t kiss you goodnight or tell you he loved you. He just lay there, lost in his own world.

As you slipped into bed beside him, tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The silence was deafening. You turned away, facing the wall, the weight of your doubts pressing down on you. Was this what love felt like? Was this the future you had envisioned with him?

Sleep was elusive, your mind racing with questions and insecurities. You felt a chasm growing between you, one that his victory and the night’s revelry couldn’t bridge. Charles had won a race, but you felt like you had lost something precious.

In the quiet darkness of the hotel room, you lay awake, wondering if Charles would ever see the pain behind your forced smiles, the hurt beneath your laughter. The night that had started with joy ended in silent despair, leaving you unsure about the road ahead.

they shake their heads, saying god help her, when i, tell em he's my man...

The living room buzzed with nostalgia and laughter as you mingled with Charles' childhood friends. Marta, Riccardo, and a few others caught up animatedly near the fireplace, while Lily and your closest girlfriends gathered near the kitchen, sharing stories and memories.

Charles slipped his arm around your waist, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "Hey everyone," you announced, your voice trembling slightly. "There's something we want to share."

The room quieted, and curious eyes turned towards you. You felt Charles' supportive presence beside you, which gave you a measure of reassurance.

"We're dating," Charles declared with a bright smile, his eyes searching for signs of approval or happiness.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, Marta and Riccardo exchanged concerned glances. Lily's expression softened with worry, but she quickly composed herself.

Without saying a word, Lily motioned for the other girls to follow her. You gathered in a nearby room, and they enveloped you in a supportive hug.

"We just want you to be careful," Lily whispered, her voice filled with concern. "You know how Charles can be sometimes."

The other girls nodded in agreement, their expressions a mixture of sympathy and caution. "We're here for you no matter what," one of them added, squeezing your hand gently.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you felt their unconditional support. These were the friends who had always been by your side, through thick and thin. Their concern was palpable, a reflection of your deep bond and shared history.

"I appreciate your concern," you managed to say, your voice trembling with emotion. "But I really care about Charles. I hope you can see that."

They nodded understandingly, their embrace tightening around you. "Just promise us you'll look out for yourself," Lily said softly.

You nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. Despite the doubts lingering in the back of your mind, you knew you had their support. With them standing beside you, you felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out alright.

Back in the living room, Charles was chatting animatedly with his friends, oblivious to the heartfelt conversation happening just a few rooms away. You took a deep breath, wiping away your tears. Whatever happened next, you knew you weren't alone.

his hand so calloused from his pistol, softly traces hearts on my face...

The day had been a disaster. Charles had been so sure of his win, so confident in his abilities. But the race had ended in bitter disappointment. You could see the frustration radiating off him as he stormed out of the pit, his face a mask of barely contained rage.

You followed him quietly, giving him space as he retreated to the trailer. He slammed the door behind him, and you hesitated before opening it slowly and stepping inside. The tension in the small space was palpable.

"Charles," you said softly, hoping to calm him down. "It's just one race. There will be more."

He whirled around, his eyes blazing. "You don’t get it!" he shouted, the force of his anger making you flinch. "I needed this win. Everything was riding on this."

You took a step back, feeling a mix of fear and sorrow. "I'm sorry," you whispered, unsure of what else to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, and then turned away from you. "Just...leave me alone," he muttered, his voice still edged with anger.

Your heart ached at the distance between you. You wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but his fury made you hesitant. You stood there, torn between giving him the space he demanded and wanting to bridge the gap his disappointment had created.

Minutes passed in tense silence. Eventually, his shoulders sagged, and he turned back to you, the anger in his eyes replaced by regret. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now, though it still carried the weight of his frustration.

You nodded, but the hurt lingered. "I know," you replied quietly, not sure if you believed it yet.

He stepped closer, his calloused hands reaching for you. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness of his words earlier. He softly traced hearts on your face, the roughness of his fingers a reminder of the man he was — strong, yet capable of such tenderness.

You closed your eyes, trying to reconcile the conflicting emotions swirling within you. His anger had scared you, but his apology and the softness of his touch made you question your feelings. Could you forgive him so easily? Did his regret outweigh the sting of his outburst?

He continued to caress your face, his fingers moving in soothing patterns. "I hate that I took it out on you," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. There was genuine remorse there, but also a desperation for your forgiveness. You wanted to trust him, to believe that this was just a moment of weakness, not a glimpse into a darker side of him.

"I don't know what to feel," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "You scared me, Charles."

His face crumpled with guilt, and he pulled you into a tight embrace. "I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry. Please, just give me a chance to make it right."

You stayed in his arms, your heart heavy with uncertainty. His touch was soothing, but the memory of his anger lingered. You wanted to forgive him, to move past this moment, but a part of you wondered if this was a sign of things to come.

As he traced another heart on your cheek, you closed your eyes again, trying to find clarity in the midst of the chaos. You loved him, but love alone couldn't erase the hurt. Only time would tell if his actions matched his words, if his tenderness could outweigh his anger.

For now, you held onto the hope that he could change, that the man who traced hearts on your face was the real Charles, not the one who lashed out in anger. And as you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, you silently prayed that your hope wasn't misplaced.

i can fix him, no really i can..

The evening had started off so well. Charles had invited you to a family dinner at his mother's house. Pascale, Arthur, Lorenzo, their girlfriends, and a few of the drivers were all there. The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter and warmth. You felt a sense of belonging, surrounded by the people Charles loved most.

But as the night wore on, a seemingly innocuous comment about a minor mistake Charles made during a recent race triggered something in him. What began as light-hearted teasing quickly escalated into a heated argument. Charles' temper flared, his frustration from the season bubbling to the surface.

"You don't understand the pressure I'm under!" Charles shouted, his face flushed with anger. "It's not just a game to me!"

You tried to calm him down, to remind him that everyone was just joking, but he was too far gone. "Charles, it's just a silly mistake. Everyone makes them," you said gently, hoping to diffuse the situation.

But your words only seemed to fuel his rage. "You always take their side!" he snapped. "You never support me!"

The room fell silent. Pascale and the others exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the evening had taken. Arthur stepped forward, trying to intervene. "Come on, Charles, she’s just trying to help."

Charles whirled around to face his brother, his eyes blazing. "Stay out of it, Arthur. This is between me and her."

You felt a pang of hurt at his words, but also a rising determination to stand your ground. "I'm on your side, Charles. I always am," you said, your voice trembling with emotion.

He shook his head, his expression a mix of anger and frustration. "No, you're not. You never are."

With that, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Pascale sighed deeply, her face etched with worry. "Let him go, dear. He needs time to cool down."

Arthur put a comforting hand on your shoulder. "He’s being unreasonable. It's not your fault."

But you shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes. "I can fix him. No, really, I can," you insisted, your voice breaking. "He’s just under so much pressure. He doesn't mean it."

Lorenzo's girlfriend, Charlotte, gave you a sympathetic look. "We know he doesn't mean it, but you can't keep taking the brunt of his frustration. It's not fair to you."

You looked around the room, seeing the concern in everyone's eyes. They cared for you, and they cared for Charles, but they didn't understand. They didn't see the Charles you saw — the one who was vulnerable and scared, hiding behind his anger.

"I love him," you said quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. "And I know he loves me. I just have to be patient."

Pascale walked over and took your hands in hers, her eyes filled with motherly compassion. "Love is important, but it shouldn't hurt this much. Sometimes, it's okay to step back and let him come to terms with his own issues."

You nodded, but your heart was heavy with resolve. You knew they were right, but you couldn't give up on him. You had seen glimpses of the man he could be, the man he was when he wasn't weighed down by his own demons.

"I have to try," you whispered, more determined than ever. "I have to."

You slipped away from the group and found Charles outside, pacing back and forth, his hands clenched into fists. He looked up as you approached, his expression softening slightly. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice raw with regret. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

You stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "I know you're under a lot of pressure, Charles. But you can't keep taking it out on me. We need to find a way to handle this together."

He nodded, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I know. I’m sorry," he repeated, his voice breaking. "I just...I feel like I'm drowning sometimes."

You held him close, your heart aching for him. "We'll figure it out," you promised. "But you have to let me in. You have to trust that I'm on your side."

He nodded against your shoulder, his grip tightening. "I do. I will."

As you stood there in the darkness, holding each other, you knew the road ahead would be difficult. But you were determined to help him, to fix what was broken. Because despite everything, you loved him. And you believed that love was worth fighting for, even when it hurt

trust me, i can handle a dangerous man..

The car ride home was supposed to be peaceful. The two of you had spent a pleasant evening with friends, but as you drove back, a comment about his racing performance earlier in the week had sparked an argument. The tension between you and Charles had been simmering for days, and now it was boiling over.

"You're always criticizing me," Charles snapped, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "You think it's easy out there? You have no idea what it's like!"

You took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "I'm not criticizing you, Charles. I'm just saying you need to be more careful. It's not just about you—there are other drivers, the team, and me."

His jaw clenched, and he pressed harder on the gas pedal. The car surged forward, the speedometer climbing rapidly. "You don't get to tell me how to drive," he growled.

Your heart started pounding, but you kept your voice steady. "Charles, slow down. This isn't the track."

He ignored you, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white against the wheel. The car continued to pick up speed, the scenery outside blurring into a streak of lights and shadows. Fear tightened your chest, but you refused to let it show.

"Charles, this is dangerous," you said firmly. "You're not thinking straight."

He shot you a fierce glare. "Stop trying to control me!"

You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to keep us safe. You're being reckless."

He let out a bitter laugh, his anger palpable. "You think you can handle everything, don't you? That you know better than me?"

Your patience snapped. "I can handle a dangerous man," you shot back, your voice rising. "But I'm not going to sit here and let you put our lives at risk because you're too stubborn to listen!"

Charles flinched as if you'd struck him. For a moment, the car seemed to hover on the edge of something catastrophic. Then, slowly, he eased off the gas, the car's speed gradually decreasing until you were traveling at a more reasonable pace. The silence that followed was thick with unresolved tension and unspoken words.

You both stared ahead, the only sound the hum of the engine and the faint whir of the tires against the asphalt. The anger and fear churned inside you, but you kept your composure, refusing to give in to the chaos.

Finally, you reached home. Charles parked the car and turned off the engine, but neither of you moved to get out. The weight of the argument hung heavy in the air.

"I don't want to fight," he said quietly, his voice breaking the silence.

You turned to look at him, your expression softening just a fraction. "Neither do I. But you need to understand that your actions have consequences. It's not just about you anymore."

He nodded, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and exhaustion. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You sighed, the tension slowly ebbing away. "We need to communicate better, Charles. We can't keep having these explosive arguments."

He reached for your hand, his touch tentative. "I'll try," he promised. "I don't want to lose you."

You squeezed his hand, offering a small, tentative smile. "I don't want to lose you either. But we have to work on this together."

With that, you both stepped out of the car and walked into the house in silence, the echoes of your argument lingering in the night air. The road ahead would be challenging, but you were determined to face it together, one step at a time.

Come close I'll show you heaven, if you'll be an angel all night..

The argument had been intense, but now the storm had seemingly passed. You and Charles found yourselves in the dimly lit living room, the atmosphere heavy with unresolved tension. He reached for you, his touch tentative at first, but quickly growing more insistent as he pulled you closer.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with regret. "I don't want to fight anymore."

You responded to his kiss, your anger melting away into a fervent need to reconnect. Your hands roamed over each other, the intensity of the make-out session escalating quickly. Lips met with a desperate passion, tongues intertwined, and the world outside ceased to exist.

"Come close," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "I'll show you heaven if you'll be an angel all night."

He paused for a moment, his eyes searching yours, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, really?" he teased, his voice low and husky.

His lips trailed to your neck, kissing the delicate skin there, taking it between his teeth and sucking it to leave a mark, making you gasp and moan at the sting, letting your head roll back.

You nodded, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Yes, but you have to promise not to bring up the argument again. Let's just enjoy the night."

He chuckled, the sound dark and sardonic. "And if I don't behave? What happens then?"

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. "Then the deal's off. No more fighting, Charles. I mean it."

His expression hardened, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by a familiar edge of defiance. "You think you can control everything, don't you?" he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Always trying to manage me, like I'm some child."

Your heart sank, the heat of the moment dissipating in an instant. "That's not what I meant," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I just want us to have a good night together."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Sure, whatever you say. As long as I'm your perfect little angel, right?"

The insult stung, cutting through the fragile peace you'd managed to build. Without another word, you pushed away from him, the anger and hurt flooding back. "You know what, Charles? Forget it. I thought we could move past this, but clearly, you're not interested."

You turned on your heel, heading for the door. Behind you, Charles called out, his voice tinged with frustration and regret. "Wait, don't go. I didn't mean it like that."

But you didn't stop. You couldnt. The promise of a passionate night had been shattered by his careless words, and you needed space to cool down and collect your thoughts.

As you walked away, you heard him sigh deeply, the sound filled with the weight of unspoken apologies and missed opportunities. The night that could have been spent in each other's arms was now tainted by lingering resentment and unresolved tension.

In the quiet of your room, you let the tears fall, mourning not just the lost night, but the growing distance between you. It would take more than apologies and promises to mend the rift, but for now, you needed to be alone.

The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: you couldn't keep going on like this. Something had to change, and it had to start with him.

but your, good lord didn't need to lift a finger, i can fix him, no really i can....

The vacation had been a welcome escape from the relentless pressure of the racing season. You and Charles had joined a few of the drivers, including Lewis and Pierre, at a luxurious beachfront villa. The days were spent basking in the sun, enjoying the ocean, and indulging in rare moments of relaxation.

But even here, away from the track, the shadow of Charles' recent bad streak loomed large. It was a warm evening, the group gathered around a bonfire, laughter and conversation filling the air. Charles, however, seemed distant, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames.

"I feel like I need to pray," Charles said suddenly, breaking the jovial mood. "I need something to break this bad streak."

You squeezed his hand, trying to offer some comfort. "You know, you've always said I'm your good luck charm," you joked lightly. "You’ve got pole, fastest lap, and wins when I’m around. Maybe I’m the one you should be praying to."

There was a moment of silence. You expected a laugh, or at least a smile, but instead, Charles' expression darkened. He pulled his hand away, his eyes narrowing. "You think you're like God? That’s incredibly arrogant."

The words hit you like a slap. The laughter around the fire died instantly, replaced by stunned silence. You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift. "Charles, I was just joking," you said quietly, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on you.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden deck. "You don't get it," he snapped. "You think everything revolves around you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you fought them back. "I was just trying to lighten the mood," you said, your voice trembling. "I’m always here for you, trying to support you."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Maybe I don’t need your kind of support."

The tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. Lewis and Pierre exchanged concerned glances, clearly uncomfortable with the unfolding drama.

"Charles, that’s enough," Lewis said gently, stepping in to diffuse the situation. "We’re all friends here."

But Charles ignored him, turning on his heel and walking away, disappearing into the darkness. You stood there, feeling the sting of his words, the hurt cutting deep.

Pierre got up and walked over to you, his expression filled with empathy. "Hey," he said softly, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You nodded, but the tears finally spilled over. "I can fix him," you insisted, your voice breaking. "No, really, I can."

Pierre sighed, his eyes sad. "You can't fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed."

Lewis stepped closer, his gaze steady and compassionate. "You're better off without him if he keeps treating you like this. You deserve someone who appreciates you, not someone who lashes out."

You shook your head, the conviction in your voice wavering. "He’s just under so much pressure. He doesn’t mean it."

Lewis and Pierre exchanged another look. "Pressure or not, there’s no excuse for treating you this way," Lewis said firmly. "You need to think about yourself, too."

You wiped your tears, the reality of their words sinking in. But despite everything, you still loved Charles, still believed in the man you knew he could be. "I just need to talk to him," you said, more to yourself than to them.

Pierre gave you a small, sad smile. "Just be careful, okay? We’re here for you."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. The night that had started with so much promise was now marred by tension and hurt. As you walked away from the fire, your heart heavy, you knew you needed to find Charles, to try and reach him one more time.

You found him by the shoreline, the sound of the waves crashing against the sand echoing your turbulent emotions. He stood with his back to you, his posture rigid.

"Charles," you called softly, stepping closer.

He turned, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and for a moment, you saw the vulnerability beneath his anger. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice raw. "I didn’t mean to snap at you."

You reached out, taking his hand. "I know," you whispered. "But we can’t keep going on like this. We need to find a way to deal with this pressure without hurting each other."

He nodded, pulling you into an embrace. "I don’t want to lose you," he murmured into your hair.

You held him tightly, hoping that this time, things would be different. But a part of you couldn’t shake the fear that this cycle would continue, that the man you loved would keep lashing out in his moments of weakness.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the waves crashing at your feet, you silently prayed for strength—for both of you. Because love was worth fighting for, but you couldn’t do it alone. Charles needed to fight too, for himself and for you.

WOAH- maybe, i can't...

The villa was supposed to be a retreat, a place where you and Charles could escape the relentless pressure of the racing season and find some peace. But the calm had been shattered by yet another argument. The drivers who had joined you—Lewis, Pierre, and a few others—had made themselves scarce, sensing the brewing storm.

You were in the kitchen, the words flying between you and Charles like daggers. "You’re always on my back, always criticizing me," he shouted, his face red with anger. "Do you think I don’t feel the pressure already?"

"I’m not criticizing you, Charles," you replied, your voice shaking with frustration. "I’m trying to help you, to support you. But you keep pushing me away."

He scoffed, turning away from you. "Support me? By constantly nagging? That’s not support, that’s control."

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. "I’m not trying to control you. I just want you to be your best, and that means sometimes you need to listen."

He whirled back around, his eyes blazing. "Listen to you? You think you know better than me? That you can fix all my problems?"

The words hit you hard. You had spent so much time believing that you could help him, that your love and support could make a difference. But now, standing there, the reality crashed down on you. He didn’t want to be fixed, didn’t want to change. He wanted to wallow in his frustration and drag you down with him.

"I thought I could fix you," you said, your voice breaking. "No, really, I did. I thought if I loved you enough, supported you enough, you’d see that you don’t have to go through this alone."

He rolled his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "That’s your problem. You think you’re some sort of savior."

The anger flared inside you, hot and fierce. "And you think you can treat me like this and I’ll just keep coming back? You’re the one with the problem, Charles. You’re so caught up in your own misery that you can’t see what’s right in front of you."

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off, your voice rising. "You know what? I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending that I can fix you when you’re not willing to fix yourself. I’m done."

Charles looked taken aback, his bravado faltering. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying that I’m leaving," you said, the words steady and resolute. "I deserve better than this. Better than you."

You saw the shock in his eyes, the realization that you were serious. "You’re not serious," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"I am," you replied, turning to grab your bag. "I’m done being your punching bag. I’m done trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved."

You walked past him, heading for the door. As you reached for the handle, you felt a sense of clarity, of strength. "I can fix him, no, really, I can," you muttered to yourself, then shook your head. "Woah, maybe I can’t."

You opened the door and stepped outside, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. As you walked down the path, away from the villa and from Charles, you heard the door slam behind you. He didn’t follow, didn’t call out to you.

The drivers who had been waiting outside looked up, concern in their eyes. Pierre stepped forward, his expression gentle. "Are you okay?"

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I will be."

Lewis came over, his hand resting on your shoulder. "You did the right thing. You deserve someone who values you."

You felt the tears well up, but they were tears of relief, of release. "Thank you," you said, your voice steady. "I needed to hear that."

As you walked away with your friends, leaving Charles and his toxicity behind, you felt a newfound sense of freedom. You had tried to fix him, but in the end, you had fixed yourself by walking away. And that was the greatest victory of all.

a/n : it appears I've given allll the angsty ttpd songs to charles 🥲 this one was painful to write. as always, comments likes reblogs feedback etc is always appreciated 🤍

TAGS-

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general - @roslastyles420 @hopefulinlove @bluesongbird-blog

charles : - @chanshintien @eternalharry @janeholt @magicalcowboyarbiter @oneafterdark @leclerc13 @moon-enthusiast @crlsummer @superlegends316 @electrobutterfly @formula1mount @f1loverrr @livs @inkfablesandstories @ssararuffoni

f1 : @ivegotparticulartaste @moon-enthusiast @superlegend216 @theonly1outof-a-billion @williams-spare-chassis

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annaswrites00 · 25 days ago

Text

Just Between Us - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Margot Piastri (OC)

(3.3k)

Chapter Four - Miami Heat

Chapter Three, Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary – The Miami Grand Prix weekend brings heat, high stakes, and quiet moments that linger longer than expected. As Oscar takes the win and Lando finishes just behind, Margot finds herself pulled further into something unspoken. A hotel room, a breath held too long, and a parting that stays with her. Warning – Mentions of disordered eating

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The Florida heat clung to Margot's skin like a thick blanket even as the sun dipped low over the paddock. The air shimmered with the scent of burned rubber, champagne, and summer sweat. Camera shutters clicked in fast succession, a frenzied chorus competing with the crowd's cheers.

Oscar was on the top step, drenched in victory.

The glint of the trophy caught the stage lights as he lifted it overhead, the confetti storm raining down like pastel snow. He took a deep breath, waving down towards their dad. Lily stood off to the side next to them, her smile as bright as the lights overhead. The moment was theirs, golden and loud and blinding.

Margot stood half-shadowed beneath the podium awning, sunglasses hiding her eyes, arms crossed loosely across her chest. Her lips were neutral—not a smile or a frown—just stillness. She looked like a part of the crew, yet outside of it, she looked like someone watching a film through thick glass.

Her gaze wasn't on the trophy.

Lando stood one step below her brother, a bottle of champagne dangling from his fingers, some dripping from his curls. His smile was genuine, but it didn't quite reach up. Not the way she'd seen it when it was just the two of them. Still, he played the part. He always did.

And then, maybe accidentally, maybe not… he looked her way. It was brief. Barely a moment. But it hit like a pull, gentle and strange. He nodded once. Like it mattered.

She didn't nod back. Just held his gaze until he turned again.

The noise didn't soften, but she felt a little quieter inside.

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Her phone buzzed sometime after midnight.

She'd been lying on the hotel bed for over an hour, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the air conditioner's hum barely masking the dull ache in her chest. The post-race adrenaline had long since faded, leaving only stillness—heavy and familiar.

The message lit up her lock screen.

Lando

you around?

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second. Just long enough to admit to herself how fast her heart had jumped.

Then…

Margot

yeah. room 614.

The soft rush of her breath filled the small room as she hit send, then tossed the phone to the mattress like it burned.

She didn't move right away. She sat cross-legged in one of Oscar's old t-shirts and a pair of soft cotton shorts, her damp hair curling at the ends from a shower she didn't fully remember taking. Her skin was warm and clean, but her mind felt foggy like it hadn't caught up.

When the knock came, it was soft and tentative. Her pulse stuttered. She padded to the door, the carpet muffling her footsteps, and opened it. He was there.

He was wearing joggers, a jacket, and a hoodie pulled over his damp curls. His sneakers were loose and slightly scuffed. One hand was in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't sure if this was a good idea. He was a little tired around the eyes.

She stepped aside without a word.

Lando moved past her slowly, his shoulders brushing the edge of the doorway. He didn't speak either; he offered her a faint, crooked smile as he slipped inside. The room swallowed him up, all shadows and low light, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across the carpet and catching the edge of his profile in gold.

It smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, mingled with hotel linen and the ever-present hum of Miami's heat pressing on the sealed windows.

"Do you want water or anything?" she asked, her voice quiet and rough around the edges.

He looked at her like he was about to say no, then nodded instead. "Yeah. Sure."

She moved toward the mini fridge in the corner and pulled out two bottles. She handed him one and set hers on the counter, where a glass already sat—full, untouched. Next to it, a protein bar, still in the wrapper, and a bowl of almonds.

Also untouched.

He didn't say anything, but she felt his eyes pause there.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, curling one leg beneath her, the other foot still flat to the floor. "Didn't go to the team dinner thing?"

He twisted the bottle open and took a long sip before answering. "Nah."

That was all.

Her mouth twitched. "Same."

"Yeah, I figured."

She looked at him and saw how he'd settled into the armchair by the window. He'd done this before, and he knew the shape of her space. One ankle crossed over his knee, fingers drumming lightly against the cap of his water bottle. Not tense. Just alert in that way, he always was — like his brain was still partly on the track.

A silence drifted in, not sharp or uncomfortable, but something slower. Ambient. Familiar.

"You looked pissed getting out of the car," she said finally, half teasing.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out.

Lando gave a soft, rueful sound and scratched the back of his neck again.

"I was mostly pissed at myself. Shit start. Screwed turn one, lost momentum. Took me too long to work my way back up."

"You still made up for it."

He nodded slowly. "Hmm."

Margot tilted her head, watching him. "P2's not exactly a tragedy."

He looked at her for a beat. Not annoyed, not defensive. Just… tired.

Then: "You sound like my engineer. Like Zak."

"Does it mean more coming from me?" She laughed breathlessly.

That pulled something looser from him. A laugh that felt real. She liked that one.

Lando leaned back further, letting his head fall against the cushion behind him. "You ever wish you could just redo the first ten seconds of something?"

Margot blinked. "Like, in general?"

He nodded. "Race starts. Conversations. Days."

She thought about it for a moment. "Only a million times a week."

That earned her another soft smile.

She looked down at her knees. "You didn't fuck up the whole race, though."

"No," he admitted. "Just... didn't get what I wanted."

"And what did you want?"

His gaze slid toward her, a little sharper now. Curious. "A win."

He went quiet again.

"Would've felt nice. To have that. Two years in a row. Something concrete."

"You mean the trophy?"

"I mean... yeah. And no." He paused. "Oscar deserved it. He drove clean. Smart."

"So did you."

He looked at her like he wasn't sure how to respond.

She stood then, slowly, and crossed the room. Taking the chair at the table across from him.

Outside, the city glowed in streaks of gold and red, blurred through the tinted glass.

"Does it ever get easier?" she asked, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room. "Losing, I mean."

He was quiet for a long beat. "Sometimes."

She turned her head at that. Found him already looking at her.

Something about it made her throat tighten — how his expression softened when she didn't look away.

"Wasn't your win," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But it wasn't a loss either."

Lando's fingers stilled on the bottle. "You're not really talking about the race anymore."

"No," she admitted.

And the silence that followed wasn't empty at all.

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They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed by the time the second episode started — some painfully scripted dating show with too many slow-motion makeouts and too much crying. The kind of thing you weren't supposed to like but kept watching anyway.

Margot's back rested against the headboard, knees pulled up, arms around them like a shield. Lando sat beside her, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. His hoodie was off now, draped over the foot of the bed, and his curls were still damp, drying in soft coils that made her want to reach out and touch them more than she should.

The room was dim, bathed in the flicker of the television and the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. Outside, Miami breathed in restless waves of light and sound, but inside, it was quiet, thick with the hush of almosts, the kind of silence that wrapped around them like a held breath.

Lando shifted slightly, and the side of his leg brushed against hers. She didn't move.

"You know this is actually the worst show I've ever seen," he murmured, voice low like even the silence around them deserved respect.

"You love it," she replied, barely above a whisper.

He turned his head, not all the way, just enough that she felt it. "Don't tell Oscar. He would never let me hear the end of it."

His arm brushed hers again, this time on purpose. Not enough to startle. Just enough to feel.

Margot didn't look at him. Couldn't. Her fingers were curled into the edge of her oversized shirt, and her chest felt too tight in a way she couldn't explain. Not painful, just heavy.

The protein bar was still on the counter. The water glass still full.

And she knew he'd seen.

Lando played with his fingers a bit. "When's the last time you ate something?"

The question should've come sharp, but it didn't. It came like mist, like concern wrapped in cotton.

Margot blinked at the screen. A girl was crying on a poolside lounge chair. Her bikini was glittery, her face blotchy.

"I had… a smoothie. After qualifying."

"That was yesterday."

Her throat closed up. She should've just lied. With him, though, it felt like she didn't have to.

"I'm fine," she said, quiet but firm. Maybe if she said it softly enough, he wouldn't hear the shakiness in her voice.

Lando didn't respond right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and unhurried. Then he shifted again, slow and careful, laid back against the pillows beside her, arms behind his head.

"I was gonna order fries," he said simply. "And grilled cheese. It's good here."

She shook her head before he could finish. "I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask," he said, not unkindly. Soft. Reassuring.

Margot's jaw tightened. She stared harder at the screen. Forcing herself to focus on the couple's on-screen argument. Not the thick tension building between her and Lando.

He glanced over at her, then back up at the ceiling. "You don't have to eat. I just don't want to eat alone in my room."

Something in her chest gave out a little. Bent. Not broken — not yet. Just tired.

The space between them was an inch. Maybe less. She turned her head then, just slightly, and looked at him — really looked at him. The faint crease between his brows. The line of his throat. The way he wasn't watching her but was entirely aware of her.

"You don't have to stay," she said, barely audible.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

He was quiet for a moment. A car honked faintly outside, swallowed by the thick hotel windows.

"Because you didn't ask me to leave."

Margot's breath caught.

And maybe it was stupid, the way that landed. Like her ribs had been strung too tight, and his words plucked one loose. She let her head rest back against the headboard, not quite looking at him, not quite away. Her voice was steadier now but smaller.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"You don't know that."

"I don't need to." He paused.

She stared at the screen. The couple was kissing again. Music swelling. Everything fake and fluorescent.

"I don't want to make this your problem," she whispered.

"You're not. I'm not going to push. Not right now." He said it like it was the truth and he didn't need her to believe it immediately. Like he was willing to wait.

And then, it was quiet again—not awkward. She felt the weight of him beside her, steady and unmoving, his thigh warm against hers, his breathing slow. Then his fingers brushed hers—barely.

An accident.

She didn't pull away. She linked her soft fingers with his — calloused and warm, worn by years of pressure and precision, and yet they held her like something delicate, like maybe he knew she was.

And for a moment, that felt like enough.

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Morning came slowly.

The curtains were half drawn, letting in a slip of sunlight that stretched across the floor like a quiet invitation. Margot stirred before she opened her eyes, aware first of the heaviness in her limbs and then of the shape beside her—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

She blinked up at the ceiling. The TV was still on, volume low, frozen on the streaming menu screen. Her neck ached faintly. Her legs were tangled in the sheets. And Lando was still here.

He was lying on his side, arm bent beneath his head, curls a little messier than the night before. His eyes were open, gaze soft and far away. He didn't move when she shifted, only offered the smallest smile, barely there, as if he didn't want to startle the moment.

"Hey," he said, voice low and gravelly with sleep.

Margot sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face. "Hey."

She didn't know what time it was. Didn't want to check.

Her stomach felt hollow and tight. Her throat was dry. And still, somehow, none of it was loud. Not like it usually was. Just a faint hum, tucked behind the quiet.

Lando stretched an arm over his head, then let it fall again. "I did not mean to fall asleep."

"You didn't snore," she said softly, attempting a smile that almost worked.

He laughed under his breath. "Didn't mean to overstay either."

"You didn't."

He sat up slowly, groaning like he was trying to dissolve the stillness. Then he glanced around, found his hoodie at the foot of the bed, and tugged it on in silence.

Margot watched him, uncertain. Part of her expected him to say something. To bring up last night. But he didn't.

And she was grateful.

He stood, ran a hand through his hair, then looked at her again. "I'm heading out in a bit. Flight home."

She nodded. "Right. Week off."

He paused for just a second. "I won't say anything. About… any of it."

Margot did not respond at first. She looked down at her hands, twisting the corner of the sheet between her fingers.

"Okay."

His voice was gentler then, lower. "You don't have to talk about it. I just meant… I am here, alright? When you want. If you want."

She looked up, and this time, she let the quiet between them speak for her.

He smiled again, soft and crooked, then moved toward the door. Just before he opened it, he turned back.

"I'll see you in Imola?"

His voice was tender, woven with something that wasn't quite a question. He knew the answer but wanted to hear it from her anyway.

Margot nodded, her throat thick. "Yeah. I will be there."

Lando didn't move right away. He lingered in the doorway, one hand resting on the handle, the other still tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. The morning light kissed the side of his face, softening the curve of his cheek, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the slight pink mark pressed into his jaw from where it had rested on the pillow.

She thought he might say something else. But he didn't. He just looked at her.

So she got up.

Barefoot, steps hushed on the carpet. Her oversized shirt hung low on her frame, and her hair was gently disheveled, her sleep woven into the strands. She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the trace of his shampoo, faint hints of hotel soap, and something warmer that was just him.

For a second, they didn't speak.

Then she stepped forward, just slightly, just enough, and wrapped her arms around him.

Lando froze for the smallest beat. Then she felt the slow exhale, the way his hands rose to meet her back, one resting at her waist, the other curling gently around her shoulder.

It wasn't rushed. Deep and quiet, the kind of embrace that settles into the bones. His head tilted, his chin brushing the top of her hair, and his thumb moving slowly against her spine. Margot let herself lean in and let his warmth anchor her for a breath longer than she should have. Her face found the hollow of his neck, where his pulse moved steady and slow.

Neither of them spoke.

Not when she shifted slightly, lifting her chin to look up at him.

Not when his eyes flicked down, briefly, to her mouth.

It was an almost that lingered. The kind that lived in the air between two people like a held breath. His hand stayed at her waist. Her fingers rested light against his chest. She felt his breath catch, just once, then ease.

Then, slowly, he pulled back. Just enough to look at her. His gaze traced her face like he was trying to memorize it.

"I'll see you soon," he said softly.

And then he turned, opened the door, and disappeared down the hall.

Margot stood in the doorway a moment longer, her fingers tingling with his imprint. The hotel room felt colder now.

She closed the door gently, rested her forehead against it for just a second, and whispered to the stillness,

"Okay."

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The airport was cold in that artificial, too-bright way airports always were. Margot sat cross-legged in a terminal seat with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the hum of people and wheelie suitcases and low boarding calls all blurring into background noise.

She wasn’t sure she’d slept much. Her body ached the way it did when rest didn’t quite reach her — shallow and scattered. But she was warm. She kept thinking about that, oddly. Her skin still felt warm, like some part of Lando had lingered. The press of his hand at her waist. The shape of his voice in her hotel room. I’ll see you soon.

She wasn’t used to people meaning it when they said things like that.

"Flight’s still on time?" Lily asked, sitting beside her and tipping her head onto Margot’s shoulder.

"Mhm."

“You gonna try and sleep on the plane?”

“Maybe.” She looked down at the worn handle of her carry-on. “I’ll try.”

A few minutes passed. Oscar was off grabbing a water from a nearby shop, and Margot let herself sink into the lull. Her body was tired. Her brain was noisy. But there was something... softer about today. Even in the static hum of an airport, she felt like she could breathe a little better than she had the day before.

“Hey.”

Oscar’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He crouched in front of her, bottle in hand, his brows a little pinched.

“You okay?” he asked.

She blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

He glanced to the side, checking that Lily wasn’t listening — though she had her earbuds in now, probably pretending to nap.

Oscar looked back at her. His voice dropped a little.

“I just meant… you know. The food thing. Are you doing okay? I don't want you falling into those old habits. Mom and Dad would want me to check in.”

Her heart did that annoying thing where it jumped and curled at the same time.

She forced a small smile. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Oscar didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on her face, like he was reading too much into the lines under her eyes, the way she held herself. But he nodded eventually.

“Alright. Just checking.”

She didn’t thank him. She couldn’t quite make herself. Instead, she stood and smoothed the sleeves of her hoodie down over her wrists.

“And Margot?”

She pulled back, meeting his gaze.

“Eat something today. For real.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

She’d try.

Maybe.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Thanks for reading!

tagged: @henna006 @wherethezoes-at @landofotographyy

#lando fic #ln4 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #lando x reader

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applebutter-and-cinnamon · 1 year ago

Text

On the Open Water

Pairing: Joe Rantz x OC (Sadie)

Warnings: N/A

Description: Joe takes Sadie out for a boat ride. Yes, this is heavily influenced by the scene from the movie. All credit goes to the original writers of the script for the idea.

Boys in the Boat Masterlist

This is not meant to be a reflection of the real person that was portrayed in the Boys in the Boat. It is a work of fiction.

The first time she'd laid eyes on the tall figure that was Joe Rantz, her heart skipped a beat and her cheeks flushed red. Thankfully, he'd been distracted by his crew who were crowded around him as they walked out to the water. She'd heard about the junior boat, they were one of the hottest topics on campus at the moment - that the 8 of them had managed to beat out so many others was remarkably impressive.

Joe was tall, broad-shoulder and muscular in a way that she'd never seen. His blonde hair looked golden in the afternoon sunshine and he had a laugh that echoed easily in the air. It was plain as day that he was very, very handsome. She allowed herself a few blissful moments to watch as he walked away, but forced herself to turn back to her homework that was due the very next day.

The second time Sadie saw Joe Rantz was at a school-sanctioned party after he and his crew won their first race. She'd been doing her best to keep her gaze from where he was sitting, but considering the party was in their honor, it was hard not to let her attention wander back to him. Joe was seated between Roger Davis and George "Shorty" Hunt at a circular table just off to the side of the area that had been marked off for the dance floor.

Roger and Shorty were leaning close to Joe, shoving his shoulders a bit and whisper-yelling at him as he shook his head, a red flush tinting his cheeks.

Sadie was sitting comfortably at her own table surrounded by some of her roommates who had become some her best friends. Lily and Angela were laughing as they slowly drank the colorful cocktails in their chilled glasses - the only refuge from the increasingly hot room.

"What do you think, Sadie?" Lily asked her, drawing her attention away from the men of the hour. Lily had always been the more outgoing of their bunch, blonde and as beautiful as she was she drew men to her as easily as she breathed the air around them.

Angela was equally gorgeous with long hair that trailed down her back and dark as a raven's wing. Her lips were always painted bright red in contrast to her bright white teeth. She was incredibly smart, witty, and was always making them laugh with some sort of remark made just under her breath.

Sadie smiled, tucking a loose piece of curled hair behind her ear. "What do I think about what?"

Angela and Lily shared a glance, smirking at one another, "About how Joe Rantz has been glancing over at you every few minutes since he saw you sitting there."

"He has not," She protested. Her eyes widened as she took in their honest expressions and twisted, smug lips. "Really," she continued, "I doubt he knows I'm here. What is more likely is that he's looking at one of you."

Lily shook her head, "Looks like we're about to find out."

"What do you mean?" Sadie asked, turning her head to follow the direction of Lily's quirked brow. Joe Rantz had begun to stand from his seat and George was patting him heartily on his shoulder, while Roger looked straight in the direction of their table. He was leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands together and grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Joe's eyes caught hers, eyeing the red that crept into her cheeks for a split second before she looked away from him. Casting worried looks at her friends, "He's not coming this way, is he?"

Sadie was not as confident as Lily or as quick-witted as Angela, but she was enthusiastically kind and had a heart twice as large as anyone else. She prided herself on seeing the best in others even though most times she couldn't quite see the best in herself.

Lily and Angela didn't answer, instead they made to stand giving her a supportive thumbs-up before hurrying away from the table. Angela winking at her and her giving her a large smile.

The sound of footsteps nearing the table drew her attention away from her giggling friends. Sadie felt distinctly aware of every hair out of place on her head and the dampness at the small of her back from the heat of the room.

"Hello," Joe's baritone sounded next to her and Sadie looked up into startlingly, clear blue eyes in answer. His blonde hair was combed neatly atop his head and his mouth was softened into a small, hesitant smile. "My name's Joe - Joe Rantz."

She offered him her hand in greeting and he extended his much larger hand to accept it. "It's nice to meet you," she smiled, proud of how she held her voice steady in front of the man she'd been admiring from afar.

Sadie offered him her own name, which he repeated softly, almost to himself. He seemed to be testing the way it tasted on his lips and she couldn't deny the butterflies that took flight in her stomach at hearing him swirl her name around inside of his mouth.

She gestured towards one of the empty seats in an offer for him to sit down. Joe hesitated, eyes downcast before flicking back up to hers, "I was actually wondering if, maybe, you might want to dance with me?"

Sadie's smiled encouragingly, "I'd love to."

Accepting his outstretched hand, she let him lead her to the dance floor. Where he pulled her close and she wrapped her arms around him, feeling the steadiness of his body against her own nervous one. Her heart was beating so hard that she could feel it in her fingertips and she glanced up at his face to determine if he could hear it.

Instead, she caught a look that was a little bashful and incredulous as he pulled her slightly closer than one might a friend. She stepped forward to make it easier for him, delighting in the red that grew at the tips of his ears.

The third time she saw Joe Rantz was beneath her window.

"What are you doing?" She asked, laughing as she pushed the window open.

He was beautiful in the moonlight, eyes wide in excitement and a broad grin taking over his face. "Do you want to go on a boat ride?" He looked up at her expectantly, no trace of any expectation that she would say no.

"Right now?" Sadie asked, voice full of laughter.

He shrugged, "Sure, why not."

She laughed, "I'll be right down." She hurried into her shoes, flinging her door open and ignoring the questions from Lily and Angela. She half-ran and half-stumbled her way down two flights of stairs to the door where Joe waited for her.

"Hi," she greeted, breathless as she pushed the door open.

Joe's grin was brighter than she'd ever seen. He reached for her and she stepped easily into his reach, one of his hands trailing down her arm to her hand which he took in his own. "Follow me," he said, leading her forward.

He must've already been to the University's shell house, because he led her to the dock where he had a small row boat tied securely. He offered her his arm and she climbed into the boat with unsteady legs.

Joe climbed in after her, the very picture of grace and set them off. The water was calm around them and as Joe rowed them away from shore, the symphony of the open water at night performed for them. Swirling water and soft breezes smelling of fresh spring flowers, carrying with it the smell of Joe's cologne.

She turned her head towards him and found his blue eyes already staring at her.

"You're going to row us into something if you don't pay attention to where we're going," she teased, quirking an eyebrow at him playfully.

Joe smirked, his expression the picture of confidence. "Of the two of us, remind me who has more experience out on the water," his voice drew her attention down to his lips, which morphed into something of a smug grin as he caught her slip.

Sadie glanced up quickly. "Obviously, it's me," she continued, tossing her hair over her shoulder pretending to have all of the confidence in the world.

Joe laughed softly next to her and she couldn't help the giggle that escaped her.

He stopped rowing, letting the current take hold once they were in the middle of the water and the boat began to drift slowly as it did.

"Do you like rowing?" Sadie asked, studying his expression. It was mostly hidden from her but as he tilted his head in contemplation the light from the moon illuminated him in a silver glow.

"I'm getting a job out of it," he shrugged. His voice took on a nonchalant tone but his eyes gave away his enjoyment for the sport.

Sadie nudged him with her shoulder, "You seem to be pretty good at it."

"Do I?" Joe smiled, blue eyes twinkling.

Sadie nodded, "You boys are going to become famous with the skill you have in your boat. Just wait, you'll see that I'm right and you'll forget all about me."

She turned her face away from him, not wanting to show him the expression that was likely painting her face.

Joe's calloused hand slid a long her cheek, gently guiding her gaze back to him. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried," he whispered, his voice so low she was sure she could only hear him because he was so close.

Her gaze dropped down to his soft lips again before flicking back up to his eyes. Joe didn't wait a moment and leaned forward, gently pressing their mouths together.

His lips were warm and so very soft against her own. He tasted of salt and something distinctly Joe that she ached for more of. She reached her own hand up, gliding her hand over his shoulder to the back of his neck and into his hair, pulling him closer.

He groaned softly into her mouth and twisted his head, deepening their kiss. Using the hand that wasn't caressing her face, he gripped onto her waist, just holding her softly against him.

She cursed herself for pulling away first but her lungs were begging her for oxygen. They stayed close, resting their foreheads against one another. Joe's breath kissed the apples of her cheek as he exhaled.

"We should probably get back to the dorms before someone notices I'm gone," she whispered.

"I'll row us back," Joe hummed in agreement, though his hands remained where they were. "But, one more kiss couldn't hurt."

His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as he looked at her, waiting for her permission.

Sadie slid her hand back into his soft, blonde hair and if they shared a few more kisses than their only witnesses were the full moon above them and the open water that surrounded them.

A/N: Would anyone be interested in reading any more about Sadie and Joe?

#Joe rantz #joe rantz x reader #the boys in the boat #tbitb #Callum turner #Callum turner x reader #Joe Rantz x oc #the boys in the boat fanfic #applebutter and cinnamon masterlist

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