#and i think that's by far the most likely | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inseobts · 3 days ago

Text

Captain

characters: luffy, law, shanks, kid and ace

inspired by: 'Captain' - Kang Seungyoon || spotify || youtube || apple music

a/n: hope this doesn't suck tbh

words count: around 1.0k - 1.5k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Luffy:

The sun is hot on your back as you lean over the Sunny’s railing. Waves crash below, sparkling like tiny stars in the ocean.

You sigh, but it’s not a sad sigh, just… tired.

Luffy’s jacket hangs off your shoulders, far too big, smelling faintly of salt and him. He’d dropped it on you earlier without a word, like he always did. Just something that happened now, the way you always saved the last bite of your food for him, or how he tucked your hair behind your ear when you weren’t paying attention.

“Oi! You’re making a weird face!”

You jump a little, turning around fast.

Luffy’s standing behind you, hands on his hips, grinning like he knows something you don’t. Which he usually does.

“I am not” you say.

“You are” he says “That’s your thinking-too-much face. I don’t like that one.”

You squint at him “You don’t like my face?”

Luffy laughs and walks up, grabbing your hand “Nah. I like your laughing face way better.”

Your heart does that stupid flip again. Luffy is always like this… saying small, silly things that hit you like cannonballs. You wonder if he even realizes what they do to you, or if he just lives like this, naturally, saying the exact thing you need to hear without trying.

He tugs your arm “Come eat meat with me.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will be when you see Sanji’s new meatball thing. He said he made it just for me. That means it’s good.”

You don’t want to argue, so you follow him. His hand stays in yours as you walk. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even think about it, like holding your hand is the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is. Maybe with him, all the strange, lovely things you thought you'd never have just… are.

The kitchen is loud. Usopp and Chopper are arguing about who can eat more. Sanji is yelling at Zoro to stop drinking straight from the soup pot. Nami rolls her eyes at everything. And through it all, Luffy’s hand stays in yours until he lets go just to sit.

Luffy sits down at the table and pats the spot next to him “Here. Sit.”

You sit.

Sanji brings over a plate with a small mountain of meatballs.

“Special recipe” he says, setting it down.

“Only for idiots who eat too fast and the people dumb enough to love them.”

“Yay!” Luffy cheers “That’s me!”

You raise an eyebrow at Sanji. He just smirks and walks off.

Luffy hands you a meatball. You take it. You chew slowly. He doesn’t. He shovels in three at once and nearly chokes. You thump his back.

“Maybe you shouldn’t eat too fast” you say.

“Too good,” he says between bites “Can’t stop.”

You laugh a little. He grins at you with his mouth full, face messy, eyes shining.

And somehow, in that moment, you feel more at home than you’ve ever felt on land. You bump your foot lightly against his under the table and don’t pull it away. He nudges back without missing a beat.

Later, when everyone’s tired and full, and the stars are peeking out, Luffy sits on the deck with you again. He lies down and folds his arms behind his head.

“Did you still have the weird face?”

“No” you say softly.

“Good.”

There’s a pause. The wind is gentle tonight. Your fingers inch toward his on the wooden deck until they touch. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts his pinky so it loops around yours.

You look at him and wonder if he knows. If he knows how much he saved you. If he knows that before this ship, before him, life felt so small.

“You’re thinking again” he says without opening his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be your captain forever, y’know.”

You blink “What?”

Luffy opens one eye and smiles at you.

“Even if you leave the crew. Even if you fly away like a bird. I’ll still be your captain. Okay?”

Your throat feels tight. You don’t say anything. You just nod and lie down next to him.

The stars look different from here. Brighter. Bigger.

Just like everything since you met him.

That night you have a nightmare... you often dream of fire.

It’s not real, not anymore. But the smoke curls around your chest when you wake up, and your heart races like you’re still running.

You sit up fast, hand on your chest. You're sweating.

The bed is warm beside you, a tangle of blankets and the faint imprint of Luffy’s sleeping form. He must’ve gone when he felt you stir.

Outside, the sea is calm. The ship creaks gently like it’s breathing.

You step outside the bedroom, careful not to wake anyone. The deck is dark, quiet. The kind of quiet that feels too loud when you’re carrying a storm inside.

You lean on the railing, gripping it hard. Trying to stop your hands from shaking.

You don’t hear Luffy approach. You never do.

“Bad dream?” he says softly.

You nod.

He doesn’t ask more. He just sits beside you on the wooden deck, cross-legged like a kid.

You look at him. He’s staring out at the ocean.

You whisper, “I wasn’t a good person before this. I did some things... things I can’t forget.”

Luffy shrugs “That’s okay.”

You blink “Okay?”

“You’re good now.”

Your breath catches “But—”

“I don’t care what you did. I care what you do now. You protect people. You laugh with us. You love this ship.”

You bite your lip “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve to be happy.”

Luffy’s head tilts “Why?”

“Because I hurt people. I made bad choices.”

He frowns, serious now “Everyone hurts people. Even me. You ever see me not punch someone?”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” he says “Because I’m the captain?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He scoots closer, his leg bumping yours “Listen. I don’t pick people because they’re perfect. I pick people who need a place. You needed one. So I gave you mine.”

Your eyes sting.

“And if you’re scared sometimes... that’s fine. I’ll be scared with you.”

You let out a shaky laugh “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Luffy grins “Thanks.”

Then he does something rare.

He reaches out and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm and a little awkward, his chin bumps your shoulder, but his arms are strong. Solid.

Safe.

You lean into him, just for a second. Just long enough to feel like maybe… maybe you can breathe again.

“I still got you,” he says “No matter what.”

The next morning, you’re quiet at breakfast.

Not sad, just full in a way that makes your chest feel warm. Luffy sits beside you like always, stealing half your toast without asking.

You don’t stop him. You just shake your head like you always do and let your knee rest against his under the table.

“Oi, Luffy, chew!” Sanji shouts from the stove “Don’t scare them off with your lizard face.”

Luffy puffs out his cheeks “I am chewing!”

You shake your head “Barely.”

He grins at you with crumbs on his lips “You finally smiled.”

“Huh?”

“You smiled at me,” he says, like it’s some great discovery “I like that.”

You feel your cheeks heat up.

Chopper climbs onto the bench next to you “You look different today,” he says thoughtfully “Lighter.”

“Maybe you finally slept” Nami adds, sipping her coffee.

“Maybe someone got a good hug last night...” Usopp says, wiggling his eyebrows.

You nearly choke on your juice.

Luffy doesn’t react “I give good hugs.”

Zoro snorts from across the table “Not with those rubbery arms.”

You stare down at your plate, smiling to yourself.

Later, you’re helping Robin tie down books in the library when Luffy finds you again. He peeks in like a kid looking for snacks.

“There you are!” he says “Come with me.”

You follow him without asking where. That’s just how it is with Luffy. You trust him.

He takes you to the upper deck where it’s quieter. The sea stretches out endlessly, sky blue and soft.

He sits on the edge and pats the spot next to him. You sit.

“I was thinking,” he says, picking at the brim of his hat “About last night.”

You look at him, curious.

“You said you didn’t deserve to be happy.”

Your chest tightens again.

He leans back on his hands “But you look happy now.”

You nod slowly “I am.”

He grins “Told you. I’m a good captain.”

You laugh a little “You are.”

Then, softly, you say it “This happiness I have right now… it was gained simply by listening to you and following your lead.”

Luffy tilts his head, eyes wide and bright “Really?”

You nod “You gave me a place. You didn’t even know me, and you still let me stay.”

“I knew enough,” he says “You were lost. I don’t leave lost people behind.”

You look down, fiddling with the seam of your shirt “I think I was scared to feel like this. Like I belong.”

“You do.”

You glance up. His face is open, honest—Luffy in his rare, still moments.

“You really think I belong here?” you whisper.

He nods “You belong with me.”

Your breath catches.

Not “with the crew”.

Not “on the ship”.

With him.

── .✦ Law:

The storm isn’t just outside.

It’s in the way Law walks the deck—slow, sharp steps, as if each one might cut the wood beneath his feet.

You watch from where you sit near the stairs, arms tucked around your knees. He hasn’t spoken in hours.

The sky above is black. Thunder grumbles like it’s trying to decide if it wants to scream.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Go inside” he says suddenly, without looking at you.

You stay where you are.

“I said—”

“I heard you.”

Silence again.

Then: “The wind’s picking up.”

“I’m fine.”

He turns his head just enough to glance at you, eyes narrowing “You’re stubborn.”

You shrug “You’re angry.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Loudly.”

He exhales through his nose—one of those short, sharp sounds that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

You unfold your legs and stand, walking slowly until you’re beside him. Close, but not touching.

Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that if you leaned in just slightly, your shoulder would brush his. But you don’t. Not yet.

“Is it about the intel?”

“No.”

“Then it’s about the crew.”

“No.”

“Then it’s about you.”

He says nothing.

The waves crash hard against the hull. Somewhere below deck, Bepo is probably pacing, waiting for the worst of the storm to pass.

But Law… Law doesn’t wait for anything. He carries storms inside him and tries to outpace them with silence.

You speak softly “Be at ease.”

He turns to look at you now, not annoyed, just… tired.

Your hand drifts to his arm, fingers barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve. You step in, gently, like approaching a wild thing. Like you’ve done this before—offering comfort without taking anything away.

“Let me watch your back now,” you continue, voice steady “My captain.”

His eyes search your face like he’s reading something in a language he forgot long ago.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.”

You take a step closer, your fingers brushing his coat sleeve.

“I’m not offering because you need it. I’m offering because you deserve it.”

His jaw tightens.

You shift your hand just enough to slide your fingers into his, letting them rest there—quiet and warm.

“Someone has to carry the weight when you can’t,” you add “Let it be me, even if it’s just tonight.”

For a long time, he doesn’t respond.

Then finally, he murmurs, “You talk too much.”

You smile “And yet you’re still listening.”

He doesn’t smile back but his shoulders drop, just slightly. And when the next gust of wind hits, he doesn’t flinch.

Because you’re there.

Because someone’s finally watching his back.

You lean in and press a kiss to his shoulder, not dramatic, just grounding. A promise. You feel him shift slightly toward you, almost imperceptibly.

The storm passes, but the cold stays.

You and Law sit under the overhang near the helm, out of the rain but not the wind. The ship creaks with each wave, but now it’s calmer. The kind of quiet that always feels like something is waiting.

He hasn’t spoken since you told him you’d watch his back.

But he’s still here.

You’re still here.

And that’s something.

You let your head rest lightly against his shoulder. His arm doesn’t move for a long moment, then slowly, tentatively, he curls it behind you, just enough that your bodies lean into one another.

“I thought you’d leave” he says at last, voice low.

You glance at him “When?”

“After Dressrosa. After the Doflamingo fight. Most people would’ve.”

“I’m not most people.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, something between agreement and disbelief.

Then he says it.

“I didn’t expect you to stay this long.”

You blink “Did you want me to go?”

“No” he says too quickly. Then quieter “I just thought you would.”

You wrap your arms around your knees, watching the wet deck glisten under the moonlight.

“People leave you a lot, don’t they?”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t need him to.

You reach over and take his hand again, threading your fingers through his with the same steady warmth you always give him. Your thumb traces soft circles over the back of his hand.

You take a slow breath and shift to face him more fully.

“You don’t always have to be the one doing the saving, Law.”

His head tilts, just slightly.

You lean forward but not too close, just enough to be clear.

“I’ll protect you now.”

The wind blows your hair into your face. You don’t move it.

He’s staring at you like he doesn’t understand the words. Like no one’s ever said them to him before and meant it.

“You think I need protection?” he asks, but there’s no bite in it. No challenge.

You smile “I think you’re tired of carrying everything alone.”

For a second, just a second, his expression softens.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like in the stories.

But his eyes lose that sharp edge.

He leans back against the wood behind him, shoulders dropping just a bit more than before. As if, maybe, he’s letting the idea settle.

Letting you settle.

You shift closer again and kiss his cheek, soft and slow, just near the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes like he’s soaking in the quiet.

You don’t push it. You just sit with him, in the silence, your presence a quiet promise:

He’s not alone anymore.

The cold settles around you both like a second skin, but here, pressed close, there’s a different kind of warmth.

You lean into him slowly, head resting against his chest this time, right where you can hear his heartbeat. At first, he’s stiff. Not resisting, but still wired tight, like his body doesn’t quite remember how to relax.

You wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him into a soft, secure hold.

He lets out a breath against your hair. It’s quiet. Almost disbelieving.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” you murmur into his coat “Not with me.”

You feel it when something in him finally begins to loosen. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But like a knot unspooling deep inside.

His hand comes up, hesitant at first, then rests on the back of your head. His fingers thread gently into your hair, and you close your eyes at the feeling.

He doesn’t speak.

You tilt your face up toward him.

His gaze meets yours, wary, but no longer guarded. He’s let you in. At least a little. Enough.

You smile softly “Come here.”

And before he can argue, before he can overthink it, you press your lips to his.

One kiss.

Then another. Then another.

Soft and fast, like raindrops. Like a flurry of promises falling out of you all at once, impossible to hold back.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his top lip, the edge of his jaw, then back to his mouth again.

With each kiss, you whisper:

“I will protect you now”

“My boss”

“My leader”

“My hero”

“My captain”

“My love.”

And something in him just… gives.

His breath hitches. His hands tighten around you, not pulling you away, but drawing you in. Letting you have him like this.

He exhales like surrender. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“…Fine. Do whatever you want.”

You press your forehead to his, smiling against his skin.

“I already am.”

And he doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t retreat behind silence.

He stays.

Wrapped up in your arms. Your warmth. Your words. Your kisses.

For once, Law lets himself be held.

── .✦ Shanks:

The first time you see him, it’s not on purpose.

You’re in a quiet port town, just passing through. Hiding, really. The kind of hiding that doesn’t involve running, it just means standing still long enough for the world to forget you.

Then the bar door opens.

And he walks in like he owns the ocean.

Red hair. Wide grin. A laugh that fills the room before he even speaks.

“Oi, Benn! I told you I could smell meat from a mile off!”

You glance up once and then away. You know who he is. Of course you do. Red-Haired Shanks. One of the Four Emperors. A name that carries storms.

You sip your drink and try not to look again.

It doesn’t work.

He notices.

You end up at the same table, somehow. He’s charming like that, pulls people in like the tide.

“What’s your story?” he asks casually, swirling his drink.

You shake your head “No story.”

“Everyone has one.”

“Not me.”

He smiles “You’re a terrible liar.”

You laugh despite yourself. It’s small. But he hears it.

“You’ve been drifting,” he says “I can tell.”

You pause “That obvious?”

He shrugs “Only to someone who’s done the same.”

Later, you’re sitting with him by the docks, the sea stretching out like a painting. He’s quieter now. Thoughtful.

You speak without meaning to.

“On a sea called loneliness… I’d come to lose my way.”

He turns toward you slowly, listening.

“My vision was dark. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.”

Shanks doesn’t interrupt.

“But a single sailboat came close.”

He smiles faintly.

“And that happy ending became our story.”

He chuckles under his breath “You’re poetic when you’ve had rum.”

You smile, but it doesn’t fade.

“You’re the first person who didn’t ask me to explain why I left. Or who I used to be.”

“I don’t care who you were,” he says gently “Only who you are when you’re with me.”

The sea breeze lifts your hair. His eyes flick to it, and stay there a moment too long.

You don’t speak again for a while. There’s no need.

Two drifters. One sailboat. And, maybe, the start of something that doesn’t have to end in loneliness.

Years Later

The sun hangs low, golden and lazy, casting soft light across the deck of the Red Force.

Shanks is half-asleep in a chair near the railing, hat pulled down over his eyes. You’re sitting not far, feet propped up, notebook balanced on your knee. You don’t write often, at least not like this, but today feels different.

You glance at him. He’s relaxed, arms crossed loosely, the breeze playing with the hem of his coat.

Years ago, he was chaos walking. A whirlwind with a smile.

Now?

He’s still chaos. But he’s yours.

You smile and press your pen to the page.

“On a sea called L-O-V-E,

The sunlight dazzles as it reflects upon the water.

On that sailboat over there, are two people—

Just a captain and a sailor.

And that happy ending is our story.”

You pause.

Then close the notebook, leave it on the small table beside him, and go below deck. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Later, just before dinner, he finds you in the galley. One arm wraps lazily around your waist from behind, pulling you in.

“I read what you wrote” he murmurs near your ear.

“Oh?”

“It was missing one thing.”

You raise a brow, glancing back at him “Yeah?”

He presses his forehead to yours “The part where the sailor becomes captain of the captain.”

You laugh, soft and full.

“In your dreams maybe” you tease.

“In our story” he corrects, grinning.

You shake your head and kiss him anyway.

It’s meant to be quick, teasing, familiar.

But Shanks doesn’t let go. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw as he kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. Like he’s been waiting all day for this one quiet moment.

You melt into him. The galley fades, the ship fades, even the sea feels quieter.

When you finally pull apart, your forehead rests against his. Neither of you speaks right away. You don’t need to.

He closes his eye, brushing his nose against yours “You still take my breath away, you know that?”

You smile against his lips “Even when I’m just trying to steal your coat?”

“Especially then.”

He leans back, just enough to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out something small, wrapped in an old cloth. He unwraps it with care, revealing a silver ring etched with faint waves.

“Was gonna wait,” he says softly, “but then I read what you wrote.”

Your breath catches.

“It’s not a proposal, not exactly,” he continues, “but it’s a promise. That whatever seas we sail, whatever storm hits… I’m yours. No matter what.”

You stare at the ring, heart swelling in your chest “Shanks…”

He slides it onto your finger, his touch feather-light “You don’t need to wear it if you don’t want. I just... I just wanted you to have something that says what I can’t always say.”

You take his hand in yours, kissing his knuckles “You already say it. Every time you look at me like I’m not just part of your crew, but like I'm part of you.”

He chuckles, a little unsteady “You are.”

The kiss you give him now isn’t playful. It’s reverent. Grateful. Fierce and fragile all at once.

Afterward, you whisper, “My captain. My anchor.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead, murmuring between each one:

“My light. My home. My heart.”

Later, beneath a sky dusted with stars, you lie curled in the hammock together—his coat draped over both your shoulders, his hand resting over yours, thumb absently brushing the ring now on your finger.

He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “I used to chase the horizon. But then I found you.”

You smile into his chest.

“I’ll chase it with you,” you say softly “As long as you want.”

He holds you tighter.

“Forever sounds good to me.”

And with the steady lull of the sea beneath you and the warmth of him around you, you sleep in the safest place you’ve ever known.

── .✦ Kid:

The ship is on fire.

Well, not literally. But that’s what it feels like after the ambush.

Scorched sails. Blood on the deck. Your ribs ache, bruised or maybe cracked, and Killer’s bleeding from his arm, trying to stop Heat from collapsing.

Kid is in the middle of it all, rage and metal, torn coat, growling orders no one can follow fast enough.

“Damn it, where’s WIRE?!”

“Dead if we don’t patch him now!” you shout back, dragging your half-burned jacket off to wrap someone else’s wound.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes scanning everything like he’s trying to hold the whole crew together with nothing but anger and magnets.

But you’re not afraid.

You’ve seen him like this before. Broken knuckles. Cracked teeth. And still standing. Still fighting.

Still trying.

He doesn’t realize you’re next to him until your hand grabs his shoulder.

“Kid.”

He glances at you, blood across his cheek, chest rising like a storm trying not to explode.

“We’re not dead,” you say “We’re still here.”

He scoffs “Barely.”

You shake your head “You always think surviving means losing.”

“Because it is,” he snarls “Every fight takes something from us.”

“Now just breath” you snap, stepping closer “Look at me.”

His eyes go wide.

You don’t blink.

“I’ll follow you. I’ll follow you ‘til the end of my days.”

The words hit the air like thunder, loud, real, and permanent.

You lift your chin with your biggest smile.

“YES, SIR.”

Something shifts in his face, not softness, not yet. But a crack. A flicker. The kind of look someone gets when they realize they’re not alone.

His voice is low.

“You’re not scared of me?”

You grin.

“I was.”

“And now?”

“I’m yours.”

And for once, Kid doesn’t argue.

He just takes your hand, calloused and shaking, and holds on like it might be the only thing left that doesn’t burn.

The ship’s quiet now.

Not peaceful but quiet. The kind of silence that settles after screaming, after gunfire, after the medics say “He’s gonna make it” and you finally let yourself breathe.

You check on everyone first. Heat’s stable. Killer’s stitches are clean. Wire’s conscious.

Only after you’ve made sure the others are resting you walk down the hall to his door.

It’s half open.

You knock once anyway.

“…It’s open” Kid’s voice grunts from inside.

You step in.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bunk, shirt off, fresh bandages wrapping his torso and arm. His metal hand is still twitching from leftover stress—little sparks crackling at the edges.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

But he doesn’t tell you to leave.

You shut the door and walk over, slow and calm, like approaching a wild thing that might still bite.

“You good?” you ask softly.

“Peachy” he mutters, eyes on the floor.

You eye the bruise on his jaw “Looks like it.”

He grunts, but says nothing more.

You stand there for a few long seconds. Then you exhale, toss your jacket to the side, and without asking, climb onto his lap, straddling him gently.

He stiffens a little “The hell are you—?”

“Shut up.”

He blinks. You settle your weight down, arms looped around his neck, foreheads almost touching.

His breath slows.

“…You’re gonna make me soft” he mutters, voice rough.

“You are soft” you say, brushing his hair back from his face.

He huffs “Right.”

You smile.

Then, quietly, honestly, you speak “My hero.”

His jaw tenses.

“My captain.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Every day in this world feels like a battle… but you’re the captain who brought me to my victory.”

He looks up at that.

There’s a flicker of pain, disbelief, maybe guilt. He shakes his head.

“We lost.”

You don’t flinch. You bring a hand to his cheek, cupping it firmly.

“We all survived.” You lean in, eyes locked with his “Is it really a loss?”

The words hang between you, heavy and warm.

He stares at you for a long, long moment. Then finally, his voice low, almost gravel, he says “…No.”

You nod.

“Good,” you whisper “Now let me hold you until your stupid brain believes it.”

He lets you.

He even wraps his arms around you, tentative at first, then tight, like maybe you’re the anchor he didn’t know he needed until tonight.

You rest your forehead against his, feeling the tension bleeding out of him inch by inch.

His metal hand settles at your back, warmer than it should be. Steady.

“You always this bossy?” he grumbles, voice low but not annoyed. Almost… fond.

You grin “Only when you’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? I got impaled.”

“And still talking,” you say sweetly, brushing your nose against his “Clearly not fatal.”

A quiet sound escapes him, not quite a laugh, but really close. He pulls you closer, jaw pressing to your shoulder, voice muffled against your skin.

“You scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

You smile “Good. Keeps you on your toes.”

You shift slightly, just enough to ghost a kiss across his cheekbone. Then another, soft at the corner of his mouth. Then one more right on his lips, softer and a bit longer.

He exhales, like you’ve stolen all the fire out of him with that one simple touch.

You whisper against his mouth, “I meant what I said.”

“I know.”

“My hero.”

He groans lightly “You’re gonna kill me with that shit.”

“My captain” you say again, this time planting a kiss under his jaw.

“I’ll throw you overboard” he warns half-heartedly, pulling you tighter.

“No you won’t.”

He doesn’t argue.

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the slow thump of his heart, and he buries his fingers in your hair like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“You’re the only thing that makes this worth it” he mumbles after a while.

You grin again, eyes closed “Took you long enough.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t.

You just nuzzle in closer, his warmth surrounding you, his heartbeat steady against yours, and for once, even on a ship held together by bolts and scars and sheer, everything feels unshakably, impossibly whole.

── .✦ Ace:

The waves crash steady against the ship, stars scattered across the sea like someone spilled the sky.

You’re sitting on the edge of the deck, legs swinging over the side, the ocean dark beneath you. Most of the crew’s asleep. Only you and him are still awake.

Ace drops down beside you, barefoot and shirtless, sea breeze ruffling his hair. He smells like smoke and salt and freedom.

"You're gonna fall in one day" he says, nudging your leg with his knee.

You glance over "Then you better be ready to dive in after me. Oh wait, you can't even swim anymore!"

He grins "I'd like to see you try drowning."

You bump your shoulder into his "I did once, remember? Before you even formed this crew... That's how we met."

He goes quiet.

You weren’t joking.

Neither was he, when he dragged you back to the ship half-dead, coughing seawater, chest heaving as he yelled your name like it was the last thing keeping him afloat.

That was the first time he held you like something fragile.

And the first time you knew he’d never let go.

You look out at the sea again "You saved me."

"Hm?"

"Back then. And now. All the time, really."

He leans back on his hands "You act like I’m some hero."

You shake your head "No. You're not a hero."

He laughs "Gee, thanks."

You turn to him, steady “I'm your sailor. You're the captain. You saved me from drifting.”

He blinks. His grin fades, not in a bad way, just... softer. More real.

“I never saved anyone” he says after a second.

“You did, and I'm not talking about that time...” you whisper “You just don't realise it.”

He doesn’t speak, but you feel his hand brush yours, fingers grazing yours like he wants to hold on, but doesn’t know how.

So you do it first.

You intertwine your fingers with his, firm and warm.

“I didn’t follow you ‘cause you saved me that day” you murmur “I followed you ‘cause I finally felt seen.”

He swallows hard.

Then says your name... just your name, but it sounds like a promise.

Not grand. Not dramatic.

Just true.

And that’s all you ever needed.

Years Later

For once, everything’s quiet. No Marines, no missions. Just you, a sleepy harbor, and one very shirtless fire-user leaning against the rail with a half-eaten orange in hand.

You step outside, towel-drying your hair from the bath, and lean beside him.

He grins at you like always, like you’re his favorite sight in the world.

You smirk.

“Hey, Captain.”

Ace groans immediately, tossing the orange peel at your feet.

“You still call me that?” he says, exasperated “It’s been years since I stopped being a captain, Y/N. Drop it already…”

You shrug innocently “But it suits you.”

Before he can roll his eyes harder, you lean in and plant a quick, soft kiss on his lips.

Then whisper, just close enough for him to feel your breath “My boss. My leader. My hero. My captain.”

Ace exhales like you’ve just made his heart do a backflip, but he plays it cool... barely.

“Ugh,” he groans dramatically, gently pushing your face away with one hand “Can’t you just be a cute lover and call me… I don’t know, boyfriend? Honey? My love?”

You blink at him, lips twitching, then smirk.

“Alright, sure. How about... Flamey Hot Dumbass Supreme?”

He stares at you.

“...That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

You grin wider “What? It’s affectionate.”

Ace covers his face with one hand, groaning “What was I even thinking that day I confessed to you and kissed you...”

You press a kiss to his cheek “That I was the only person who could make your life this fun.”

He huffs but he doesn’t argue.

He just pulls you closer, tucking you under his arm, and lets the sunset burn quietly around you both.

The laughter fades slowly.

Ace still has his arm around your shoulders, thumb brushing slow circles on your upper arm. You rest your head against his bare chest, listening to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat.

The orange-sweet breeze brushes past. The sun’s dipped lower now, gold turning to pink.

He doesn’t speak for a long while.

And then softly, without teasing “You’ve been sitting next to me all this time…”

You glance up, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest squeeze.

“Yeah” you whisper “Where else would I go?”

Ace lets out a breath that almost sounds like disbelief. His fingers move up to touch your cheek, warm and careful.

“I was so busy back then. Fighting. Running. Trying to prove something. I didn’t even see it at first.”

“See what?”

“You” he says “Of course.”

You smile, nudging his nose with yours “Took you long enough.”

His other hand finds your waist, pulling you gently closer until your knees are nearly in his lap. His voice drops “I love you.”

You blink, heart thudding.

He’s said it before, during arguments, in bed, drunk off sake. But this time? This time it’s bare, and slow, and steady.

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper against his lips:

“I love you too, firebrain.”

You’re both smiling into the kiss when—

“Yo.”

You freeze.

Ace groans out loud, forehead thudding against your shoulder as Marco’s voice cuts you.

You both turn, Ace’s hand still on your thigh, your face flushed, as Marco stands with a completely deadpan expression.

“Am I interrupting?”

Ace doesn’t even lift his head “You think?”

Marco shrugs “Well, you're not in your room, you know? That’s basically an invitation.”

You’re trying not to laugh as Ace flips him off without looking.

“Five minutes, Marco” you plead.

Marco holds up his hands, already walking off “Sure, sure. Just letting you know dinner’s ready... lovebirds.”

Ace groans again, shoving his face into your neck as you laugh harder.

“I swear I’m gonna set that pineapple on fire.”

“Sure you are, Captain.”

“…Don’t start.”

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cressidagrey · 1 day ago

Text

A McLaren Meltdown

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Mclaren’s staff reactions to Oscar Piastri’s surprise marriage reveal.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Sophie had three rules for race weekend PR.

Control the narrative.

Anticipate the chaos.

Never trust a “quick” fan stage.

She was halfway through writing a press release about tire strategy when her phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then thirty-seven times in under two minutes.

The group chat with the digital media team had caught fire.

[McLaren Media 🔥] 💬 “OH MY GOD.” 💬 “HE SAID HE’S BEEN MARRIED SINCE HE WAS EIGHTEEN.” 💬 “WE NEED A STATEMENT.” 💬 “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘MARRIED’???” 💬 “Lando spat water. There is video.”

Sophie blinked at her phone, stunned.

Then came the link.

She clicked. Watched. Listened.

Oscar, calm as ever:

“Well, I already did one of those things.” Lando, shrieking: “YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

Sophie made a sound not unlike a dying animal.

She stood, tablet in hand, walked to the nearest wall in the media trailer, and very calmly banged her forehead against it.

Twice.

Across the room, one of the interns whispered, “Is she okay?”

“No,” someone else replied.

Sophie turned to the team.

“Does anyone have a marriage certificate? A formal quote? A—a photo? Anything we can use?”

Her email pinged.

Subject line: Netflix Inquiry — Episode Rights: Oscar Piastri Reveal

Another ping.

BBC Radio Request: “Interview With the Most Mysterious Woman in Motorsport.”

And then, like he’d been summoned by sheer rage, Zak Brown strolled in, looking far too calm.

“Hey team. Saw the fan stage. Oscar’s married, huh? Wild stuff.”

Sophie slowly turned. “You knew.”

Zak gave her a sheepish smile. “Mark Webber mentioned it once. Years ago. Said she was great. Didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

“ZAK.”

“What?”

“HE’S BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS.” Sophie was dangerously close to combusting. “He’s our youngest driver and he eloped at eighteen. That’s relevant!”

Zak held up his hands. “I didn’t think it was a secret. Oscar’s a private guy.”

“Private guy?! He said ‘on the bed’ like it was a normal engagement location!” Sophie nearly shrieked. “Do you know how many headline puns they’ve made about that already?!”

Someone from graphics called out, “Can we use ‘Lights Out and Vows Away’ or is that too much?”

“It’s not damage,” Zak said helpfully. “It’s engagement.”

“I swear to God, Zak,” Sophie hissed.

Slack was already full of memes. Someone had gif’d Lando’s meltdown with the caption “Me finding out my best friend is secretly married like it’s a normal Thursday.”

The press inbox was collapsing under subject lines like:

“IS SHE A CELEBRITY?” “DO THEY HAVE A CHILD?” “LAN-DRAMA: Norris Betrayed???” “Can we get her on The Paddock Panel?”

Sophie clutched her forehead. “Okay. Okay. Deep breath.”

“We need Oscar to post something,” she declared, her voice rising above the din.

Zak tilted his head. “You sure? That might just fuel it more.”

“He already fueled it, Zak. He turbocharged it and strapped fireworks to the back.”

“Fair point.”

Sophie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m going to have to rewrite everything. Update the media deck. Issue a statement. Reprint bios. Plan a WAG-friendly feature piece. And deal with Lando, who’s spiraling like his best friend betrayed him.”

A pause.

“And someone call Netflix,” she added darkly. “Tell them they just got their best episode of the season. No edits required.”

***

Andrea Stella prided himself on knowing his drivers.

Their tells, their ticks, the way they thought—how they braked, how they communicated, when they needed space and when they needed a push. It was part of his job. But it was also personal. He’d always believed that good leadership came from paying attention to the whole person, not just the lap time.

Which is why the events of this morning left him quietly, genuinely stunned.

He hadn't seen the fan stage live—he’d been in an engineering debrief—but by the time he stepped into the media office, it was all anyone could talk about.

Oscar. Married. For five years. Since he was eighteen.

The video played on loop in the corner of the room, muted but unmistakable. Oscar’s dry calm. Lando’s shocked scream. The social media team was in shambles. The PR team looked like they were trying not to hyperventilate.

Andrea just… stood there for a moment.

Watching.

Processing.

He felt the frown settle between his brows. Not anger. Not exactly disappointment. Just… a quiet ache in the chest of someone who’d thought he was closer to one of his drivers than maybe he actually was.

Oscar had been married. For five years. And Andrea hadn't known. Not even a hint.

He stepped out of the room, calm as ever, but his mind raced.

And then, with all the subtlety of a man who’d been blindsided one too many times today, Andrea found himself heading toward the physio area—toward Kim.

Kim Keedle was Oscar’s trainer, his shadow, his constant presence in the garage. If anyone knew Oscar better than Andrea, it was probably Kim.

Andrea found him in the paddock gym, casually adjusting a resistance band on the wall.

“Kim,” Andrea said, voice even. “Quick question.”

Kim turned, cheerful as always. “Hey, boss. What’s up?”

Andrea tilted his head, arms crossing. “Did you know Oscar was married?”

Kim blinked. Then blinked again. “Uh… yeah?”

Andrea waited.

Kim scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah. They’ve been married since—what—just after graduation? Felicity’s great. ”

Andrea was silent for a beat too long.

Kim winced slightly. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Andrea said softly. “I didn’t.”

And that—that was the part that surprised him the most. Not the marriage.

But the fact that Oscar, his driver, his stone-faced, brilliantly strategic driver, had managed to keep an entire wife away from the paddock spotlight… and never once let it slip.

He thought about all the long flights, the post-race reviews, the hours spent talking about the future. He had asked Oscar about his offseason plans, his training routines, even his travel preferences.

Never once had he thought to ask if Oscar had someone waiting at home.

And Oscar, ever calm, had never offered.

Andrea nodded slowly. “Thank you, Kim.”

Kim gave him a sympathetic smile. “He didn’t mean to keep it from you, you know. He’s just… private. He thinks if something doesn’t affect the job, it doesn’t need mentioning.”

Andrea looked away, exhaling through his nose. “Still. I would’ve liked to have known.”

“Yeah,” Kim said, voice gentler now. “I think he’ll understand that.”

Andrea gave a small nod, but the sting remained.

He wasn’t angry.

Just... quietly hurt.

Because he cared about his drivers—not just the helmets and telemetry and podium stats, but the people beneath all that.

And maybe, just maybe, he thought they cared enough to let him in too.

***

The room had all the energy of a bunker mid-airstrike.

Half the PR team was gathered around the conference table in McLaren hospitality, the other half hovering behind Sophie, who had summoned Oscar with the same tone one might use for code red, house on fire, or Lando’s Instagram Live just crashed the website again.

Oscar walked in like it was any other media meeting.

He sat down. Calm. Collected. Completely unaware that his entire personal life had set the internet on fire six hours ago.

Sophie didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Okay,” she said, voice clipped. “Let’s talk about The Reveal.”

Oscar blinked. “The what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Zak leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying himself. “You nuked the internet with six words.”

Andrea Stella, unusually quiet, just sat with his arms crossed. Still processing. Still mildly wounded.

“‘Well, I already did one of those things,’” Sophie quoted flatly. “That’s what you said.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Because I did.”

“You have been married for five years,” Sophie said, very slowly, “and you did not think that was something the team—your teammate, your PR department, the people who make the media decks—should know?”

Oscar gave her a polite shrug. “I didn’t hide it.”

Sophie made a strangled noise. “You also didn’t say a word.”

“Different issue,” Oscar said mildly.

Andrea exhaled sharply through his nose.

Zak smirked. “To be fair, he has a point.”

Sophie gave him a look that could kill.

“We need a response,” she snapped. “A controlled response. Instagram. Twitter. Something that gives people what they want without fueling every gossip rag on Earth.”

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “Okay.”

Sophie blinked. “Okay?”

“I already have a draft.”

The room fell silent.

“You what?” Sophie asked.

Oscar reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out his phone, and calmly opened his Notes app. “Wrote it earlier,” he said. “Figured you’d ask.”

He passed the phone to Sophie.

She scrolled.

Stopped.

Scrolled again.

By the third paragraph, she was blinking fast and biting the inside of her cheek. By the end, she was holding the phone with both hands like it was a fragile heirloom.

One of the interns leaned over her shoulder. “Did he just… write a romance novel in his Notes app?”

Oscar shrugged. “Seemed easier than a press conference.”

Andrea, still quiet, tilted his head. “You wrote this yourself?”

Oscar looked at him. “Yeah.”

Andrea just gave a small nod. No words. But something in his expression shifted. A little less hurt. A little more understanding.

Sophie passed the phone to Zak.

Zak read three lines, then huffed. “Jesus. You really are a wife guy.”

Oscar shrugged again.

“Well,” Sophie said faintly. “It’s perfect.”

Oscar took his phone back. “Should I post it now or wait until after FP2?”

Sophie threw her hands in the air. “How are you so calm about this?!”

Oscar looked up, deadpan. “Because I’ve been married for five years.”

And there it was again—that maddening, infuriating, charmingly psychotic Oscar Piastri calm.

Sophie sat down, defeated. “Fine. Post it. Pray Lando doesn’t say anything unhinged in the comments.”

Andrea glanced at him one more time. “Next time, Oscar,” he said softly, “you can tell us. It doesn’t have to be relevant to the car.”

Oscar looked at him, then nodded. “Noted.”

And with that, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and hit post—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

(Which, to him, it probably was.)

Ten seconds later, Sophie’s phone buzzed again.

And again.

“Buckle up,” she muttered. “Here we go again.”

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 days ago

Text

A little bit of jam [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!mutant!reader

wc: 2.5k

Marvel and I are so fucking back, baby!! I think this mass love hysteria toward Bob is the best, and I honestly wanted to play with the "found family" trope a little because I love it so much. I hope you like it!

and if u have any idea, let me know ;)

Two months had already passed.

Two months since the sky split in two, since the world almost went to hell—again—and since a dysfunctional group of dangerously competent people were thrust into the headlines as the new “heroes.” No one was sure if the title was too big or too accurate. The only clear thing was that, after surviving hell together, you had ended up sharing something more than a mission.

Now you lived in the old Avengers Tower. Together.

It wasn't an official government decision or part of any rehabilitation protocol. It just happened. Most of you didn't have a fixed place to return to, and the few who did... didn't want to return at all. So, without saying it out loud, you started staying. One night. Then a week. Then a sofa became a bed, a kitchen became a habit, and lights left on at all hours stopped seeming strange. Without seeking it, you had made it work. As if the disaster had woven an impossible routine between people who, otherwise, would never have shared more than one mission.

Nobody said it, but you knew it.

You finally, amid all that chaos, felt like you fit in somewhere. You weren’t an Avenger, you weren’t an X-Men, you were never officially from anywhere. You’d grown up far from anyone who could explain to you what to do about your mutation, and you’d spent more time evading labels than claiming them. But now… now you had a room with your name written on the door in permanent marker (thanks to Yelena), a mug for your coffee (which sometimes Alexei stole from you), and an old Bob sweatshirt that you’d sometimes find hanging on your desk chair for no reason; as if someone knew when you needed it more than you did.

So, little by little, you began to look more like a team, a real team. But also, in a way, you shared a certain familiarity that all of you definitely needed in your lives.

Weekends were occasions, without explicitly stating it, to spend time together. Sometimes you'd just gather in the living room, put on a movie, and the rest would join in, or someone would start drinking, and soon you were all doing it.

Speaking of which, that day you had decided that a few boxes of donuts wouldn't hurt you and your friends. Maybe you could even make some coffee, since with the rain that had started to fall in the city, that seemed like a good plan.

When you walked in, you could see most of them. Yelena was sitting on the floor, completely wrapped in a huge blanket, eating a bag of chips with her feet up on the coffee table. Ava was leaning against the wall, silently observing everything, her arms crossed and a neutral expression that didn't quite hide her curiosity. John Walker was flipping through a magazine upside down, clearly just pretending to read while he kept an eye on what you had brought. Alexei was snoring in the largest armchair, face up, a remote control resting on his chest, as if it were a sacred artifact. Bucky was leaning against the counter, probably making himself a drink or reviewing policy documents.

And Bob… Bob was probably in his room. You noticed he was sleeping a lot lately. Not because he was lazy, not because he was idle, but because he was carrying his own mind, his memories, The Void… exhausted him in ways the others could barely understand. So none of you blamed him for taking long naps.

“I brought donuts,” you announced, in case anyone hadn’t noticed the packages you were holding.

NO one refused the food, and even Alexei, who seemed to be asleep, got up to get a couple upon hearing your announcement. You'd bought a variety of flavors, a box of classics and some more sophisticated ones, so almost all of you sat down at the coffee table to enjoy.

You exchanged a few pleasantries, talked about things that had happened and possible future missions. At one point, when everyone had already eaten at least two pieces, you saw Walker's hand reach for the box of donuts.

Serious mistake.

“NO!” you screamed, almost like a spring.

John froze, his finger brushing the blackberry's glossy glaze.

“Why not?” he asked, offended, as if you had denied him the last glass of water on the planet.

“That one’s for Bob.”

“But Bob isn’t here.”

“But it’s for him!” you insisted, crossing your arms, as if that closed the case.

“There’s more!”

“But don’t eat that one. Eat anything else.”

“It’s my favorite!”

“Well, what a shame, there’s only one and it’s not yours.”

Suddenly, everyone seemed interested in the donut. It was a blackberry donut with vanilla glaze, a small work of art in dessert form. The fluffy, lightly browned dough was covered in a smooth, glossy glaze that smelled of natural vanilla extract, not the cheap, cloying imitation. Above the glaze, a purple swirl of homemade jam snaked like a miniature galaxy, with tiny pieces of blackberry peeking out here and there like barely revealed secrets.

“I saw it first,” he replied, his hand now closer to the box.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!”

By then, Ghost had already materialized behind John, her head peeking out from over his shoulder.

"What if I cut it into two equal parts? Half for each of you."

“I said no!” you shouted.

“Do it,” John concluded, lifting the box to give it to Ava.

Yelena, sitting on the couch, gave a curious look while she chewed her third donut with total shamelessness.

"Why don't we just hide it and see who finds it first? Like a stupid, grown-up version of a treasure hunt?"

“No one’s going to hide that donut. I already told you it’s Bob’s,” you complained, twisting around to shield the box with your body as if it were a nuclear device.

Alexei, sitting at the bar with a beer in his hand, licked his lips.

"I say the only fair solution is hand-to-hand combat. Whoever wins keeps it!"

“No!” you shouted, and Bucky joined in. However, your friends had a different opinion.

“I fight,” Ghost said.

“You didn’t even want it in the first place!”

“Me too,” Walker said, already taking off his jacket.

“I can eat it while you guys fight!” Yelena said, but you had already thrown a pillow at her with surgical precision.

The room became a chaotic choreography: Walker dodging Ava, Yelena climbing the back of the couch like a cat on sugar overload, you trying to put the box on top of the cupboard, Ghost dematerializing mid-leap.

From his position, Bucky watched you like an exhausted dad and issued a warning about not breaking any of the furniture. Alexei, at his side, was shouting to encourage the fight.

Peace only returned when a sleepy voice was heard from the hallway:

“Why are you shouting? What time is it?”

Bob peeked out, his hair a mess and his eyes still squinting from his nap. The chaos stopped. You all looked at him. And you held the box up in the air like it was a trophy.

“Take it away!”

"What?"

“Take it!” you practically ordered him.

The poor man stumbled over to you and snatched the box from you, hearing a collective sigh. You were relieved, the others were annoyed.

"What is this?"

“I bought you a donut,” you explained simply.

Then he frowned and opened the box. It was a little squashed, but the blackberry dessert was still in one piece.

Bob blinked.

“Were you all killing each other over a donut?”

Perhaps it was the incredulous tone of voice, or how ridiculous the situation sounded when said out loud, but suddenly all of you found yourself holding back a laugh. A few seconds later, laughter erupted.

“What a shitty team we are.”

“We can share it, if you want…”

"Yes!"

“No!” you shouted in unison. Bob flinched slightly at the tone of your voice. “Walker can choke on all that’s left, but that one’s for you.”

You said it in a way that left no room for argument and he smiled slightly.

“It’s my favorite.”

“That’s what I said!” John complained. However, he didn’t pursue the matter further and approached the others, taking two more donuts as a sign of resignation.

As quickly as chaos had appeared, it was gone.

Alexei occasionally expressed his approval of what had just happened, arguing that this kind of situation was an exercise in group bonding. You thought you heard Bucky call you idiots, but in a tone that made it clear he didn't mean it.

"Here"

Your murmur brought Bob out of his thoughts, and he smiled broadly when you placed a mug in his hand. It was a gift from Yelena and was inscribed with: Today is a good day. Very appropriate, in your opinion.

"Thanks”

“Two of milk and one of sugar,” you announced with satisfaction.

His happiness only increased when he realized that you were actually paying attention to him.

You plopped down next to him on the soft couch—most people's favorite when it came to a nap—and he shrank down to give you space, sitting in the lotus position as he always did.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. That day, he was wearing a thick, slightly baggy olive-green sweater with slightly long sleeves. The color had a muted hue, like moss or old pine, which brought out the sparkle in his eyes.

There was a white T-shirt underneath, barely visible at the neck. A pair of soft, dark gray sweatpants, the kind with drawstrings and deep pockets. And on his feet, a pair of dark socks with which he glided around the tower.

He didn't look scruffy, just comfortable.

“I got scared a little while ago. I thought something bad was happening.”

You let out a soft chuckle at his confession, feeling the tension in the air melt away.

“I’m sorry we woke you up.”

“Don’t worry. At least it wasn’t in vain,” he smiled reassuringly, taking a sip of his hot drink. The steam brushed his face before he opened the dessert box and looked at him with more than just hunger.

“How did you know this was my favorite?” he asked, surprised, as he carefully turned the box over in his hands.

“You told me.”

He looked up at you, clearly confused.

“Well… you didn’t tell me directly. I heard you muttering it in your sleep.”

“Do I talk in my sleep?”

“Apparently so. And you actually answer. Because when you said I'd give you a donut, I asked you what you were talking about… and you said you wanted this one.”

"How embarrassing.”

“It’s kinda cute, if you think about it.”

The rest of the group was absorbed in their conversations, muted laughter, and the occasional impromptu board game. Between you, the air felt more intimate, softer.

Bob took a bite of the donut. The slight crackle of the glaze broke with the sound of a deep sigh, as if something inside had loosened.

“When I was a good kid, my mom used to give me money to buy one of these,” his voice lowered slightly, almost as if he wasn’t sure if he should share “It wasn’t all the time, of course. And sometimes we went together, on the… the better days, you know. I think everything seemed simpler back then.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, maybe that’s why I mentioned it in my sleep.”

“Oh… I… had no idea.”

“But it's a good thing. I forgot how good it tastes” a soft, nostalgic smile spread across his face. “I always liked this flavor because it has just the right amount of sweetness, with a hint of sourness. “I feel like it’s very similar to what life is like.”

He was silent again for a second, fiddling with the napkin between his fingers.

“It’s probably not something you’re interested in, but…”

“Yes, I’m interested,” you quickly interrupted “Any story you want to tell us will interest us, Bob. There’s Alexei with all his anecdotes from his years in the service… we’ve never complained, even though he tells them over and over again.”

He laughed a little, brief but genuine.

“Do you want to try some?”

“But it’s yours”

“I'd like you to try it. It's something I want to share.”

You hesitated for only a second before accepting. You leaned closer and took a small bite from the side opposite the one he'd tried. The flavor was more intense than you expected: sweet, sour, and smooth all at the same time.

Bob watched you silently, as if observing your reactions was more important than the dessert itself. When your lips curved into a smile, he nodded, satisfied.

“It's delicious.”

“Um, you have a little bit of jam left…” he said softly, leaning slightly towards you. He raised a hand, hesitant, then pointed a finger at your lower lip “This way.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. The air seemed to stop for a moment.

For a moment, just a moment, it seemed as if he was going to lean closer. That he was going to wipe the jam off with his lips instead of his hand.

His eyes searched yours. And then, he took a deep breath. He lowered his hand, barely brushing your chin with his fingertips, and pulled away with a shy smile.

"That's it."

You didn't say anything at first. The warmth was still there, floating in the air, unnamed.

“You should, uh, drink your coffee. Before it gets cold.”

Your friend nodded at your suggestion and after that you tried to shake the nervousness from your mind, ignoring the sting that still burned where he had touched you.

Minutes later, fatigue began to take its toll. The noise of the group became a distant murmur, almost like a lullaby in the background. Bob leaned back slightly on the couch, still holding his cup in one hand. Without thinking twice, you approached and rested your head on his shoulder.

“Do you mind if I stay like this for a while?” you asked quietly.

“No. Stay”

His words were gentle. There was something so serene about him that made you close your eyes. Your arm instinctively reached for his, wrapping it around him in a gesture that didn't ask for permission, only offered shelter.

Bob stayed still, careful with every movement, as if breathing deeply could bother you. He felt your weight against his side, your breathing slowing. The warmth of your body was unlike any blanket; it was human, alive.

He felt held, loved, in a way he hadn't known he needed so much.

The team was always affectionate toward him. Many patted him on the back, hugged him unexpectedly, or sat very close without question. But this… this was different. It wasn't a casual display of affection. It was something that asked him to stay. Something that said: you're safe here.

He looked at you once more. You were already asleep, your lips parted and your brow barely relaxed. And although the chair wasn't entirely comfortable, and the noise continued in the background, Bob didn't want to move.

Not that night.

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kxsagi · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii I love your writing!! Can I request bllk boys going to the beach with reader and seeing her in a bikini for the first time? If you don’t feel comfortable doing it this ignore it.

“𝐎𝐇 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒”

a/n: thank you so much!!! i loved this idea because reader is truly that girl 🙂‍↕️

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, bachira meguru

isagi yoichi

this man was minding his business. sipping on juice, building a terrible sandcastle, humming some tune he half-remembered from the radio.

and then you walked out from behind the cabana like you were the main character in a summer rom-com. in slow motion. with the wind doing a full-blown l’oreal ad through your hair. bikini shining. legs shining. the sun personally blessed you.

and isagi? dropped his juice box. the straw stabbed him in the leg. he didn’t feel a thing.

“uhh… y-you look– i mean– wow– sand is hot. hot. you look hot. i mean, the weather. yeah, the weather's hot.”

man is fully buffering like a busted wifi router. his internal monologue is just static and the phrase “do not stare at her boobs. do not stare at her boobs.”

spoiler: he stared. and at your thighs especially, too.

then tripped over a beach chair.

then said “i meant to fall.”

itoshi rin

you took your cover-up off and rin visibly blue-screened. he was standing there with his arms crossed, glaring at a crab for getting too close to his towel, and then his whole demeanor shifted like someone flipped his switch. his mouth opened like he was gonna say something… but instead he just stood there, blinking.

“… that’s your swimsuit?”

“you don’t like it?”

“… no, i like it. i just wasn’t ready to be spiritually attacked today.”

he spends the entire day pretending he’s not looking, but his peripheral vision is working overtime. he’s squinting at you from behind his sunglasses like he’s trying to calculate the trajectory of a meteor strike, but it’s just your hips swaying as you walk past.

he tries to distract himself by kicking a ball around, but immediately kicks it into a child’s sandcastle and gets called a “meanie.” karma fr.

itoshi sae

smirked like the villain in a summer drama.

you stepped out in your bikini, and sae leaned back in his beach chair like: “damn. you’re trying to ruin lives today, huh?”

he’s not flustered, you are. because he’s looking at you with the most unbothered, devastatingly smug expression. head tilted, lip curled, straight-up mentally printing a 'do not touch' warning sign over your body.

“don’t wander off too far,” he hums.

“why? scared someone’ll flirt with me?”

“no. scared i’ll have to knock them out and get banned from the beach.”

says it casually. while applying your sunscreen for you with very slow, deliberate movements.

you never finish the bottle. he ‘accidentally’ squirts too much. every time.

kaiser michael

dramatic gasp.

literally takes off his sunglasses, wipes them, puts them back on, and gasps again.

“liebling… you did this on purpose.”

you: “what?”

him: “don’t play innocent with me. you walked out here looking like a summer fantasy, and i’m just supposed to be normal?”

immediately claims you like he’s a rich husband at a yacht party. he throws a towel over your shoulders like a cape and holds your waist in full view of everyone.

kaiser, loudly to strangers: “yes, this is MY girlfriend. no photos please. unless you're asking for a selfie of how fine she looks. i’m selling them for 100 euros.”

gives you a shell and says, “this is the only other beautiful thing i found here.”

you: “did you buy this from the gift shop?”

him: “no. shut up.”

nagi seishiro

was 95% asleep under an umbrella. sand on his chest. half a chip on his cheek.

you walked over and softly said his name.

he opened one eye. blinked. “woah.”

then fully sat up like a zombie rising from the dead. “you look like a dream.”

you: “you think i look good?”

“no, i mean i thought i was still asleep. you look too hot for real life.”

immediately refuses to let you walk away. attaches himself to your leg like a sleepy cat.

"nooo... don’t go into the water yet, just sit here and let me look at you. i’m tired. your body’s energizing.”

tries to carry you bridal-style to the shore and immediately trips because he didn’t think that far ahead.

sulks about it all day. still won’t let go of your hand.

mikage reo

short-circuits.

genuinely might’ve combusted. one minute he’s hyping himself up to go jet skiing, next minute you come out and he forgets how to breathe.

“… okay but like. why do you look like that. why is this happening to me.”

becomes your personal assistant for the day. adjusts your towel. fans you. cuts up fruit like it’s a spa retreat.

“do you need a drink? sunscreen? massage? foot rub? new life insurance plan???”

you: “reo, calm down.”

him, flustered: “I CAN’T. YOU’RE TOO POWERFUL.”

tries to distract himself by doing flips in the water. nearly drowns. gets saved by a lifeguard. tells everyone it was part of his workout.

shidou ryusei

lets out a wolf whistle so loud it startles a seagull.

“ZOO. WEE. MAMA. who gave you permission to look like that?”

starts clapping like you just won a beauty pageant.

“give it up for my girlfriend, everybody! queen of the beach! hottest thing since global warming!”

tries to spray sunscreen on you but ends up drawing a smiley face on your stomach instead.

laughs. takes a picture. sets it as his home screen.

calls you “beach baddie” the whole day and won’t shut up about how he “manifested” you.

“you’re not allowed to leave my side. i’m your emotional support freak.”

narrates everything you do like it’s a nature documentary. “and here we see the bikini goddess in her natural habitat, slaying effortlessly.”

karasu tabito

looked at you once and said: “damn, i gotta sit down.”

he was already sitting down. spilled his drink. spilled his soul.

“listen, i’m tryna be chill but you just walked out here looking like a thirst trap and i’m a weak man.”

goes from funny to protective real fast. you bent over to grab your bag and he almost threw a towel over you like a dad at a middle school dance.

“yo, save some beauty for the rest of the beach, please.”

grabs your waist every time another guy even thinks about looking.

his flirting turns into roast battles real quick.

you: “you’re drooling.”

him: “you’re hallucinating from how fine you are. get help.”

bachira meguru

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH–” that was the first thing he said.

man started running around in circles like he just won the lottery.

“you’re real!! you’re really my girlfriend!! and you’re so hot i think i just blacked out for a second!!”

jumps into the water and starts doing synchronized swimming moves. alone.

offers to make you a crown out of seaweed. calls you “bikini royalty.”

clings to you like a magnet. literally clutches your waist and growls at anyone who comes too close.

“mine. back off. i will bite.” says it with a smile.

he’s so proud it’s insane. he does not shut up about you for even one second.

at one point he just yells, “I LOVE HER!!!” to the whole beach.

somebody claps. he bows.

604 notes · View notes

fic-girlie · 3 days ago

Text

Say It Louder

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You met Pedro through work, never expecting to fall in love. Years later, insecurity drives you apart—until SNL50, where he finds you again, confesses everything, and proposes. That night, in a quiet hotel room, he shows you just how deeply he loves you.

Warnings: fluff and angst, emotional insecurity, self-worth struggles, miscommunication, breakup, protective Pedro, proposal, mild alcohol use, explicit smut (18+), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, established relationship

A/N: Huge thanks to @kellyxo1 for giving me these amazing ideas! And also huge thanks for the support and positive feedbacks!

!made by request!

You’d always found solace in the quiet hum of the archives.

Three floors below the bustling exhibits and curated glamour of the museum’s public face, the lower wing was its opposite—unadorned, institutional, a sanctuary of cold concrete and locked humidity controls. Down here, the scent of old paper hung heavy in the air, earthy and delicate, like time itself had soaked into the walls.

You liked the solitude. Loved it, even. It was a kind of sacred hush that belonged only to the forgotten—the unseen parts of the world most people never noticed. In that stillness, among shelves crammed with labelled boxes and forgotten correspondence, you felt most like yourself. Clear-headed. Invisible. Steady.

You were balancing on a stool, arms stretching overhead as you carefully wrestled a carton labelled 1912-1915 fromthe highest shelf. Your gloves itched slightly under the fluorescent lights, but you didn’t mind. They were the only layer between your skin and someone else’s past—a thin cotton promise to preserve the stories that time tried to erase.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Just the gentle click of the heavy door creaking open, followed by a hesitant voice breaking the silence like a dropped glass.

“Uh… hi? Excuse me—I might be really lost.”

Your fingers froze around the edge of the box.

You turned slowly, stepping off the stool with care, the carton still cradled against your chest. The man in the doorway blinked at you, equally frozen, framed by the sterile hallway light behind him.

He looked… bewildered. Not panicked, not demanding. Just like someone who’d taken one wrong turn too many times and realized he was no longer anywhere near the gift shop.

“I was supposed to meet someone,” he said, a little sheepish now, his voice low and rough in a way that didn’t seem forced. “Dr. Koenig? He told me to check out some old historical stuff but… I think I might’ve gone too far.”

You adjusted your grip on the box, eyeing him with a touch of amusement. “You’re about two staircases and a hallway past where you should be. This is the archives department.”

His brows lifted. “And I’ve clearly entered the sacred chamber.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth. “Most people don’t make it this far. It’s usually just me, a space heater, and a few hundred boxes of old letters.”

He stepped into the room cautiously, as though expecting some trapdoor to open beneath him. The movement allowed the light to catch his face more clearly—warm brown eyes, an unruly scatter of dark curls, a slightly crooked nose that somehow made him look more familiar, not less. There was something in the way he carried himself, like he wasn’t trying to be noticed, but you couldn’t help noticing anyway.

“This place is…” he turned in a slow circle, eyes skimming the endless rows of shelves, “kind of magical, in a dusty, paper-cut kind of way.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “that’s one of out taglines. Right behind ‘where sunlight fears to thread.’”

He looked back at you, smiling like you’d just shared a secret. There was something warm in that gaze. Curious. Unpretentious.

“I’m Pedro,” he offered, extending a hand before glancing at your gloved ones. “Or, uh… I guess shaking hands is against protocol here?”

“Only if you’re handling materials,” you said, setting the box gently on the nearest table. You pulled off one glove before accepting his handshake, his palm warm against yours, firm but not forced.

You told him your name, and he repeated it back under his breath, like he wanted to remember it.

“I swear, Koenig just said to ‘go down to the lower level.’ He didn’t mention the librarian guardian of time and mystery.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Guardian?”

“Definitely,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “You look like someone who knows the weight of centuries.”

You huffed a small breath of laughter, not quite used to people talking to you like this—like you were fascinating instead of just useful.

“You’re lucky I’m not more territorial,” you said dryly. “Or I’d demand a toll.”

He tilted his head. “What kind of toll?”

“Historical appreciation. Maybe some decent questions. Bonus points if you can name a labour movement from before 1920.”

He squinted, mock-pained. “That sounds a little academic. Got anything easier?”

“I could show you something,” you said before you even fully thought it through. “Something most people never see.”

His eyebrows raised. “Is that another trap?”

“No,” you said with a smirk. “That comes later.”

You gestured to a nearby table, carefully untying the cotton ribbon around a faded folder. The paper inside was fragile, yellowed but not crumbling—handwritten letters in dark ink that curled like ivy. You slid one out and placed it beneath the protective sleeve.

“This is from 1914,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “He wrote to her every week for four years. She was engaged to someone else. Said she couldn’t love him back. But he kept writing.”

Pedro leaned in, his breath hitching slightly as he read over your shoulder without touching anything.

“She ever wrote back?”

“Eventually. Right before the war ended.” You looked up at him, your chest tighter than it had been moments ago. “They got married in 1920. Lived to their nineties. She kept every letter.”

Pedro exhaled. “Jesus.”

You didn’t respond. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was reverent. Still. Like the old words on the paper had pulled something still-beating into the room with you.

He looked at you then, more intently. “You really love this, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s like listening to people whisper across time. Like proof that something mattered, even if nobody else remembers it now.”

He looked away for a moment. Like he was trying to find the rights words to say. “That’s… really beautiful.”

No one had ever looked at the archives that way with you. Not even your coworkers. And something about the way he lingered—not for show, not out of politeness—made something deep in your chest shift slightly off-centre.

“Let me walk you to Koenig,” you said eventually, gently closing the folder. “Before you end up in the preservation lab and get chased out by Gwen.”

He chuckled and followed, still casting glances over his shoulder at the rows of secrets behind you.

“Hey,” he said as you reached the elevator. “If I wanted to see more… would that be okay?”

You looked at him—this stranger who’d wandered in from the wrong hallway, who listened like every word mattered.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But only if you stop calling me a guardian.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

——

It started innocently enough.

Pedro came back the following week—not with an entourage or anything remotely flashy, just with a takeaway coffee cupped in both hands and a hopeful look in his eyes. He paused at your desk like he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome, but there was something about the way he leaned in, casual and tentative all at once, that told you he’d hoped to find you here again. You raised an eyebrow when he gently slid the cup across the desk toward you.

“Got anything sad and beautiful today?” he asked, his voice as soft as the faded paper between your gloved hands.

The corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Bribing archivists now?”

“Only the best ones,” he said with that crooked smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes just a little.

You studied him for a second—longer than you meant to—and nodded toward the empty chair across from you. “Fine.”

That was the beginning of something neither of you had a name for.

Over the next several weeks, Pedro started sowing up during his downtime—always respectful, never assuming too much. Sometimes he brought coffee, sometimes pastries from bakeries he said had charmed him that morning. Other times he came empty-handed, just genuinely curious and quiet, content to sit across from you and ask questions that weren’t about your personal life, but somehow still made you feel seen.

He asked about the paper—why it felt so soft in some letters, so brittle in others. He asked about handwriting styles, about the way ink bled on wartimes parchment. He asked what story had stuck with you the most, and when you hesitated, uncertain whether to answer or deflect, he simply waited, as if silence didn’t make him nervous.

You didn’t tell him much at first. You weren’t in the habit of sharing. But something about the way he listened made you want to fill the space between words. You told him about a letter from 1916, how the writer had drawn tiny hearts in the margins and sealed it with dried violets. He asked what happened to her. You told him the war took her husband before the letter ever arrived.

He looked down for a long time and said quietly, “Feels like holding someone’s heart in your hands.”

The way he said it made you ache a little. Not because it was dramatic—but because it was honest.

And that’s what he was. Always.

He never mentioned who he was, not even once. Not in the way that people with notoriety often do, quietly slipping their resumes into conversation. You wouldn’t have known he was famous if not for the way people sometimes stared when you passed him in the little café in the corner of the library. Or the hushed murmurs you started to notice after a while, the quick, whispered mentions of his name.

But Pedro never acted like someone who needed attention. If anything, he looked almost relieved when you treated him like he was just another curious soul fascinated by the lives left behind on paper.

Then one afternoon, when he was thumbing carefully through a fragile bound ledger of Depression-era depts, he went very still. His eyes softened at the worn ink and tired, shaky handwriting, and his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and laced with something old and personal.

“My Abuela used to write like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Not ledgers. She kept notebooks—full of stories, prayers, bits of poems. Her pen would skip in this same kind of rhythm. I haven’t seen it in years.”

You glanced over at him, unsure whether to say anything, but you turned the page gently, letting the silence wrap around the moment. There was something reverent about how he looked at the page—like the paper itself might carry her voice if he listened hard enough.

He exhaled and looked at you, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You remind me of her.”

You blinked. “Because I hoard forgotten things and whisper to ghosts?”

He laughed under his breath, then shook his head. “Because she never spoke unless she meant it. But when she did, it was always something worth remembering.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you simply let the quiet stretch between you, warm and unspoken. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Familiar.

And maybe that’s what scared you a little.

Pedro started waiting for you after work on the steps of the building sometimes, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. He never pushed, never sked for more than you were ready to give. Sometimes you’d go for walks through the quieter parts of the city, and he’d listen as you talked about forgotten writers or the smell of old glue in t1930s bindings. Other times he’d tell you about the places he’d travelled—his description rich and textured, filled with colour and warmth.

One rainy evening, when you were both tucked into the back corner of a tiny, hidden wine bar he’d found, you realized you hadn’t looked at your watch once. He was talking about the way Madrid smelled after a summer storm, how the rain clung to the orange trees, and you found yourself staring at his hands as he gestured, warm and expressive, then at his mouth as he smiled, and for a moment the realization hit you like a shiver down your spine.

You liked him.

Not just like—you felt something for him. And it terrified you.

You tried to pretend it wasn’t real. That he was just a friend. A comforting presence who felt too good to be true. But the truth unravelled quietly.

The day it all clicked was when you were walking down a quiet street, sipping coffee from mismatched cups he’d convinced the barista to let you take just this once. He’d said something absurd—something about how you probably secretly trained pigeons to deliver forgotten letters to you like a historical Batman—and you laughed so hard you had to lean against a streetlamp to catch your breath. When you looked up, he was already watching you with this soft, almost reverent smile. And he said, “I love seeing you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

He realized he’d said it out loud a second too late, eyes widening just slightly, his mouth opening to soften the words—but you didn’t let him.”

Right there on the sidewalk, the wind threading through your coat and the sound of distant traffic humming behind you, you kissed him like the last page of a story that had been building chapter by chapter.

His hand rose to your jaw, gentle but certain, like he’d imagined this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it. When you pulled back, your lips trembling and breath shallow, he looked at you like the world had just tilted on its axis.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to rush it. Not with you.”

And just like that, something inside you gave way.

The quiet turned into something intimate. The waiting became a shared rhythm. And the distance you’d both carefully kept dissolved like mist between your hands.

From that night on, everything changed—but not in a way that disrupted what you had. It just deepened. Solidified. Like the slow layering of paint on a masterpiece, stroke by patient stroke.

You didn’t rush into titles or declarations. You didn’t need to. What you had was steady and slow and honest, like the work you’d built your life around.

He kept coming back. He stayed.

And little by little, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you were enough for someone like him.

——

Three years didn’t rush by. They unfolded—soft, deliberate, and rich with the kind of comfort that never needed to announce itself.

The early days of being together felt like slipping into a song you’d somehow always known the words to. You didn’t have to explain much to Pedro; he just seemed to know when silence was needed, when a look said more than words, and when to reach for your hand without making a show of it. He didn’t flood your life with grandeur or spectacle—he wove himself into it, piece by piece, like he was stitching something permanent, something sacred.

He learned your routines like second nature. He knew that Sunday mornings were your time—tea, blankets, the soft hum of something classical playing in the background as you read or worked on research for no one but yourself. And instead of disrupting it, he found his way in quietly. He’d come by with something warm from the little bakery two blocks away, curl up next to you without needing to speak, and read a dog-eared paperback he kept forgetting to finish. He was content just to be near you, to exist in the quiet alongside you.

You grew used to finding notes in your jacket pockets—little things, scribbled on old receipts or the backs of museum flyers. You’re the best part of my day. Can’t stop thinking about the way you said “phonograph” today, you absolute nerd. Home smells like your shampoo now. Never leave. They made you laugh, blush, ache in the sweetest way.

And then came the nights.

Not always perfect. But soft. Full of unspoken tenderness. The first time he cooked for you, he burned the rice and cursed in a mix of English and Spanish until you doubled over laughing at how seriously he took it. He swore to redeem himself, and when he did—slow, roasted comfort food he said his mother used to make—you kissed his cheek and whispered that he didn’t have to prove anything. Not to you.

Eventually, you started travelling with him when you could. Just small visits—set weekends here and there, when your work allowed. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That you were just being supportive. But there was something different about those trips. A strange tension that curled low in your stomach, quiet and persistent.

He was still Pedro—the same man who laughed at your sleepy mumbling, who carried your bag without asking, who called you mi corazón like it was just part of breathing—but the moment you stepped into his world, something shifted.

You’d arrive on set, and the air around him changed.

It wasn’t him, not really. He was still kind. Attentive. He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were okay, that you’d eaten, that you weren’t too cold or bored or tired. But he was surrounded by people who looked like they lived in magazines. Effortless beauty. Confident charm. Charisma that dripped from every angle.

The women on set were striking—graceful and poised, wearing casual tank tops that still looked designer, laughing too loudly at things he said. Some of them had known him for years. You saw the way they touched his arm when they talked to him, leaned against him as they laughed. It wasn’t his fault. He was friendly. He didn’t notice. But you did.

You weren’t jealous of them—not really. It wasn’t about them. It was about the way you started to feel smaller in those spaces. Like you were out of place. Like you were the quiet shadow in the corner with nothing in common with the world around him. You weren’t glamorous. You didn’t have a personal trainer or stylist or a face that people stopped to recognize. You were just… you.

Pedro never made you feel unworthy. Not once. But the longer you stood next to him in those glittering places—on red carpets where you clung to his arm and smiled politely as cameras flashed in your eyes—the more the voice in your head began to whisper: You’re holding him back.

You buried it. For as long as you could, you buried it.

He took you to premieres. You wore dresses you were never sure looked right. He told you they were perfect, that you were breathtaking. He held your hand like it grounded him, and when he looked at you in his interviews, his eyes never strayed. But still—there were moments. Quiet ones. You’d catch your reflection in the mirror beside him, in the corner of some behind-the-scenes photo, and your heart would falter.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to make it about you. He had enough pressure on him without your fears spilling into the mix. So you smiled. You stayed quiet. And the weight of that silence began to grow, pressing in at the edges.

Then came the night of the latest premiere.

You had arrived separately, He’d had press duties earlier in the day, and by the time you entered the venue, the room was already buzzing. The energy was thick with champagne and nerves and smiles that didn’t quiet reach the eyes. You found him near the back, flanked by a group of castmates, all mid-conversation.

That’s when you saw her.

She was stunning in that almost untouchable way—eyes lined sharp, hair cascading down in perfect waves. An actress from the film. She was standing far too close, laughing just a beat too long, touching his arm every time she made a point. Pedro, to his credit, was nodding, smiling politely, completely unaware of the attention curling around him like perfume.

You stood still for a long moment, watching. Telling yourself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t mean anything.

But something in your chest cracked a little.

You didn’t bring it up. Not that night. Not the day after. Instead, you carried it with you like a stone tucked in your pocket. He noticed something was off—of course he did—but you waved it off. Said you were tired. Said work was stressful.

And then, days later, he showed up at your little kingdom—his familiar knock against the frame, hopeful smile curling at the edges of his mouth—and everything in you gave out.

You looked at him, standing there like he always had, coffee in hand, gentle and warm and yours, and something splintered. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out—sharp, breathless, final.

“I don’t love you anymore, Pedro.”

His face froze. The smile fell. The silence that followed was heavy, stunned.

You wanted to take it back. The second it passed your lips, you wanted to scream. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because if you said what you really felt—that you were scared, that you felt like you were standing in the wrong life, that you didn’t know how to be enough for someone like him—you were afraid you’d fall apart completely.

So you let him believe it.

You let him leave.

And then you collapsed into yourself, wondering if you’d just made the biggest mistake of your life.

——

The days after the breakup unfold like pages soaked in water—warped, unreadable, dragging time through a haze of quiet misery.

Each morning starts the same: you wake up before your alarm, still tangled in the sheets you used to share with him, the impression of his body in the mattress long gone but still imagined. The room is silent in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels abandoned. You lie still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the grief to crest like a wave. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it just hovers beneath your ribs, thick and unspoken.

You still go to work. Still carry yourself like a person who isn’t unravelling. Your coworkers don’t ask questions, and you’re grateful for that. They only know the version of you who was dating a celebrity. They don’t know about the quiet mornings, the shared coffee cups, the way he would press a kiss to the back of your neck before leaving for set. They don’t know how he would whisper stupid jokes just to make you laugh when you couldn’t sleep. They didn’t see how gently he held you when you were anxious, how fiercely he loved.

They don’t know what you lost.

And you try not to think about what he must be doing now. Whether he’s back in L.A., or in New York already, preparing for SNL. Whether he’s sleeping. Eating. Laughing.

Whether he’s thinking about you.

You’ve left everything of his untouched. His toothbrush still sits in the bathroom drawer, tucked behind yours. His favourite sweater—the one you always teased him for because it was hideous but soft—lies draped over the back of the chair in your bedroom, exactly where he left it the last time he stayed over. You should put it away. Or throw it out. But you can’t. Your body won’t let you. It’s like every cell is still trying to hold onto him.

You check your phone too often. Not because you expect him to text. But because a part of you wants to imagine that he’s on the other side of the silence, typing and deleting. Feeling the same ache in his chest.

When your phone finally buzzes, you’re curled on the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, eating cereal from the box because you can’t be bothered to make anything real. You wipe your hand on a napkin, reach for the phone, and nearly drop it when you see the name:

Javiera.

It’s like a stone in your stomach. You stare at it, heartbeat slowing to a crawl. For a second, you’re too stunned to react.

You haven’t spoken to her since… well, since you ended it. Since you tore everything down with a lie you still taste on your tongue.

When you finally accept the call, your voice is a whisper.

“Hello?”

“Hola, cariño,” comes the familiar warmth of Javiera’s voice, soft and rich, like a cup of something hot pressed into cold hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, not at all,” you say to quickly, sitting up straighter on the couch like she can somehow see you.

There’s a pause. You hear the city faintly behind her—traffic, wind, maybe the sound of her keys jingling in her purse.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” she admits. “But I’ve been thinking about you. And I just… I wanted to reach out. Not to pry. Bot to get in the middle. Just… to talk.”

You close your eyes. A lump forms in your throat.

“I appreciate that,” you say, your voice thick. “Really.”

She hesitates for only a second before saying. “I have an extra ticket to SNL50. Pedro has been rehearsing all week. It’s going to be a big night. I’d like you to come with me.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I—Javi, I don’t think that’s—”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” she says gently but firmly. “I won’t push. I know you’re hurting. I know you needed space. But I also know you still love him. And I don’t want you to wake up one day wishing you had gone. Even if it’s just to see him shine.”

Her words strike somewhere deep inside you, cutting through the armour you’ve built over the past week.

“I don’t think I could handle seeing him,” you murmur. “Not when it’s still like this.”

“I understand,” she says. “But cariño, you don’t have to stay invisible just because you’re in pain. Come with me. If it’s too much, we leave early. No pressure. No expectations.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. A part of you screams no. But another part—a quieter, trembling part that hasn’t stopped loving him for even one second—whispers yes.

And that voice is the only one you listen to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll come.”

There’s a soft smile in Javiera’s voice. “Good. I’ll send you the details. And I’ll be right beside you the whole night. Promise.”

You nod, swallowing the emotion that’s started to rise. “Thank you.”

“Of course, mi amor. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up, and the apartment goes quiet again. Only this time, it doesn’t feel quite so cold.

——

The city vibrates with its usual frenetic energy as you’re escorted by Javiera in a sleek black car, making your way to the venue for SNL50. Every passing block blurs into the next, the lights from the streets creating an almost surreal atmosphere. Your stomach twists with anticipation, a knot of unease lodged deep in your gut. The air outside is crisp, the night carrying a bite of winter, but your nerves simmer beneath the surface, warmer than they should be. You’ve barely said anything in the car, lost in your own mind, and Javiera seems to sense it, occasionally glancing at you with a soft, understanding smile.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says, her voice light, but you can hear the concern in it. “It’ll just be us. We’ll enjoy it together. No pressure.”

You nod faintly, though the truth is, your mind races with worries you haven’t voiced. That aching, nagging feeling is still there, lurking just beneath the surface. You’ve been holding it in foe day now—weeks, even—and tonight is no different.

Once you arrive, the energy shifts. The bright lights and the excitement of the crowd surrounding the entrance to the studio give the whole evening a sense of overwhelming, so larger than life. You feel a tightness in your chest that you can’t shake. The photographers and assistants rush about, and even though you’ve been to similar events with Pedro before, tonight it feels different. The hum of the crowd feels louder, the whispers and flashes more intense.

Javiera walks with you through the back entrance, leading you past a sea of dressed-up stars, all impeccably groomed, their smiles perfect, their laughter like music, but it doesn’t ease the weight on your chest. Your mind circles in the same direction it always does.

What am I doing here?

You don’t belong. The realization stabs at you like a bitter truth you’ve known all along. You don’t belong in this world, where every face is brighter, more polished. But then you see him.

Pedro.

He’s standing at the bar, chatting with someone, but your eyes lock instantly. The familiar warmth of his smile spreads across his face as he laughs, his eyes crinkling, the softness of him radiating across the room like a magnet. It almost feels like time slows as you watch him. His effortless charm, the way he’s so at ease, his body language welcoming to everyone around him—it all reminds you of everything you’ve lost.

God, I miss him.

You’ve avoided him for weeks, kept your distance, but now he’s here, so real, so tangible, in a place full of people. His presence fills the space in ways that make everything else fade into background noise.

The weight in your chest grows, and you feel yourself retreating back into the shadows of the room. It’s not just that you feel lost in this overwhelming environment—it’s that now, in this moment, standing in front of him again, you feel like nothing. Not in a self-loathing way, but in the sense that you don’t fit. You don’t measure up. He’s in his element, surrounded by people who adore him. And you, well… you’re just the one who loved him. The one who couldn’t handle it.

Javiera’s gentle hand touches your arm, grounding you for a moment. “Hey, you’re okay,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not invisible. You’re not nothing. He’ll be happy to see you.”

But you’re not sure you can handle it. Not sure you can handle him being surrounded by all of this—by his world.

You take a breath and try to steady yourself.

“We should get a drink,” you offer, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears. You need to find something to hold onto before you break under the weight of everything.

Javiera leads you to a quieter corner of the room. The low murmur of conversations around you, the clink of glasses, and the rhythmic hum of music helps you calm the rapid beat of your heart, but only slightly. She orders something light, and you sip slowly, trying to focus on the citrusy tang of your drink, trying to convince yourself that you’re okay, that it’s all fine.

But then, like fate itself is out to make things harder for you, you feel a gaze settling on you. A presence too close, too lingering.

You look up, and there is a man you don’t know, but who’s clearly been eyeing you for longer than you’d like. His smile is charming, though it feels a little too practiced, his eyes far too intense. His gaze travels over you in a way that feels invasive.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, a little too smooth for comfort. “Is this seat taken?”

You blink in surprise. “Um, yes, actually,” you reply, hoping to get rid of him without confrontation.

But he’s insistent, sliding into the seat beside you before you can protest. “You sure? Because I don’t see anyone else with you.” He leans just a little too close, his presence crowding you like a heavy fog.

“I’m waiting for my friend,” you say, your tone firm, trying to assert yourself without being rude.

The man only laughs, a soft chuckle that you can’t quite place. “She’s taking her time, huh? I don’t mind keeping you company.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, but before you can speak up again, he places his arm on the back of your chair. The walls inside you go up immediately.

“Look, I’m not interested,” you say, your voice clipped. But it’s not enough. His smile only widens.

You look desperately over at Javiera, but she’s still by the bar, talking with someone you don’t know. You’re alone with this man, and it makes your skin crawl.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he persists. “Just let me—”

Before he can finish you hear it.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cuts through the noise, freezing you in place.

Pedro.

You almost don’t believe it. You turn your head slowly, and there he is, standing in front of you, his face tight, his brow furrowed as he looks at the man who’s still too close for comfort.

“I think she said she’s fine,” Pedro says, his tone controlled, but there’s something fierce beneath it.

The man immediately stiffens, looking up at Pedro with wide eyes. Recognition flashes across his face, the pieces clicking into place.

Pedro doesn’t flinch. His gaze doesn’t waver, and his posture remains firm, protective.

The man stammers a half-hearted apology, too embarrassed to even try anymore. “Sorry, I didn’t know…”

Pedro doesn’t say anything else. He just steps forward, his presence creating an invisible barrier between you and the stranger, effectively sending him on his way with nothing but a few muttered words.

And just like that, only the two of you remain.

Pedro doesn’t look at you right away. He watches the man disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of his barely restrained anger. You’re still holding your breath when his eyes finally turn to you, softer now, but still heavy with emotion.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentler this time. But you can hear what’s layered beneath the question. I’m sorry. I’m here. I shouldn’t have let things get this far.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect that.”

Pedro hesitates for half a second, then takes a step closer, his voice low enough now that only you can hear it. “He shouldn’t have touched you. Shouldn’t even looked at you like that.”

His protectiveness catches you off guard. It always has. Even now, after everything, it tugs at your chest in ways you’re not ready to face.

“I handled it,” you say, trying to sound steady. “But thank you.”

The words hang awkwardly between you, too formal for everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. You look down at your glass, fingers tightening around the stem. You can feel him watching you, feel the heat of his presence, so close and yet so far from where you used to be.

Pedro shifts slightly, like he’s unsure if he should stay or give you space. “Can we talk?” he asks after a beat. “Somewhere quiet?”

Your heart twists again, but you nod.

He leads you away from the noise, the buzz of the party fading as you walk down a side hallway. It’s quieter here. The lighting is dim, warm, soft enough that it almost feels like you’ve stepped outside of time. He pauses beside a closed dressing room door and gently pushes it open. It’s empty. A private space with a couch, a low coffee table, a few scattered scripts and makeup brushes—quiet and far enough away from the laughter and lights.

You step inside first, and Pedro closes the door behind you, sealing the room in a thick, aching silence. You don’t sit. Neither does he.

For a moment, the air is filled only with the low hum of distant soundproofed music and your breath catching just slightly in your chest.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says softly, breaking the silence. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders tense. “I was hoping, but I didn’t think—after what happened…”

He trails off, leaving the rest unspoken. You know what he means. You’ve lived it every single day since.

“I didn’t think I could come,” you admit, voice quiet and raw. “I almost didn’t. But… something told me I had to. That I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Pedro nods slowly, taking a step toward you. “I thought about you every single day,” he says, his voice tight. “I wanted to call. I wanted to ask you what I did wrong, where I went wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt suddenly, the words sharp and raw and unfiltered. Pedro’s brows furrow slightly, surprised. “For how I ended things. For not telling you how I really felt. I thought… I thought I was doing the right things. I thought I was protecting both of us.”

His expression shifts, softens, but his body stays still.

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “Scared that I wasn’t enough. That one day, you’d realize you wanted someone who could be more for you. Someone who wasn’t scared every time a camera turned her way. Someone who could glide through all of it beside you, instead of clinging to the edges. Someone who fit better into your world. And when I saw how easily she flirted with you, how effortless it seemed… I panicked. I convinced myself I was holding you back. That letting you go would give you a chance to be happy.”

Pedro takes a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “And you thought I’d be happy without you?”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t want to think that. But I kept hearing it in my own head. All the doubts I tried to bury for the past three years. They just got louder. I didn’t want to break up with you, Pedro. I just… didn’t know how to stay when I felt so small.”

He looks at you like his heart is breaking all over again.

“I never wanted someone to glide beside me. I wanted someone real. Someone who tells me when I’m being and idiot, who doesn’t care about cameras or premieres or any other bullshit—someone who looks at me like I’m still the guy who spills coffee on his scripts and loses his keys three times a week.” he says, voice low and thick with emotion. Your lip trembles, and he reaches for your hands. His grip warm, grounding.

“I don’t need someone polished and perfect. I need you. The woman who reads in bed with one leg out of the covers. The one who leaves me voice messages during the day about stray cats she saw. The one who makes everything feel like home—even the worst hotel room, even the loneliest night.”

He steps back a little, just enough to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. Your heart stops. You watch his fingers wrap around something.

“I’ve had this with me for months. I was hoping you’d come tonight,” he admits, voice quiet but steady. “I kept telling myself I was waiting for the right moment. Some perfect backdrop. But the truth is, every time I thought about asking, I got scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, stunned.

He nods slowly. “Scared you’d say no. Not because you didn’t love me. But because I hadn’t done enough to make you feel like you were safe with me. Like you belonged, not just beside me—but inside this whole messy world of mine.”

He drops to one knee, not dramatically, but with a kind of reverent softness. He pulls a velvet box out of the little pocket and opens it with a quiet snap. The ring inside is timeless—delicate, graceful, the kind of beauty that doesn’t shout, just shines.

“I love you,” Pedro says, voice trembling now. “I love you so damn much it knocks the wind out of me some days. And I never want to go another morning without hearing your voice first thing. I never want to walk into a room and not know whether you’ll be waiting for me at the end of the day.”

Your eyes fill with tears. He looks up at you, and there’s no glitz, no performance. Just love—raw and endless and unfiltered.

“I want to build a life with you that isn’t built on red carpets or scripts or premieres. I want late Sunday mornings and burnt pancakes and quiet walks where no one sees us. I want laughter in the kitchen, arguments about what to watch, lazy evenings tangled up on the couch. I want you. All of you.”

Your breath shudders out.

“I know I’m not perfect,” he continues, barely holding it together, “but I swear to you—I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man who deserves to stand next to you. The one who lifts you when you’re falling. Who sees you when the world forgets. Who reminds you every day that you are never, ever a shadow. You’re my sun.”

His eyes are glossy now, a trembling smile on his lips as he raises the ring slightly.

“So,” he finishes, his voice barely above a whisper, “will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that you were never holding me back—that you were the one carrying me forward all along?”

You’re already crying, knees giving out beneath you as you sink down to meet him. Your hands wrap around his face, your forehead pressed to his, your voice thick with emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Pedro pulls you into his arms, laughter and relief escaping his chest as he buries his face in your neck. The ring is forgotten for a moment still nestled in the box on the floor beside you, because right now nothing matters more than the way you’re holding each other like the world had just started over.

——

The hallway hums softly behind you as you and Pedro step out of the quiet dressing room, the door gently clicking shut in your wake. Your hand is still wrapped tightly in his, the warmth of his skin grounding you even as your heart floats several inches off the ground. The diamond on your finger catches the light with every step, a small, breathtaking promise nestled against your skin. You glance down at it, then up at Pedro—and he’s already looking at you, eyes wide with awe and love and something unspoken that glows like starlight in his expression.

Neither of you speak. You just walk slowly, the sounds of the party growing louder as you approach the main area again, laughter and music swelling like a heartbeat.

That’s when you hear her voice.

“There you two are.”

Javiera stands just a few feet away, a half-full glass of white wine in her hand, her dark eyes sharp as she looks between the two of you. The curve of her smile is suspicious, her gaze flicking from Pedro’s flushed face to the way his hand clutches yours like it’s a lifeline. And then she sees it—the ring.

Her wine glass lowers. Her mouth parts.

“Wait…” she says, blinking once, then again. “What’s… what’s going on?”

Pedro doesn’t answer her with words. Instead, he lifts your intertwined hands, palm up, and lets her see it clearly: the quiet shimmer of the ring nestled against your skin, the unmistakable intimacy of it. You don’t say anything either, your breath caught in your throat, a small, stunned smile blooming helplessly on your face.

And then Javiera gasps. Loudly.

“You didn’t,” she breathes, eyes going wide.

“She did,” Pedro replies, his voice warm and steady. “She said yes.”

Javiera’s response is instant. She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a squeal and a laugh and sets her wine down blindly on the edge of a nearby console table. Then she launches toward you, her arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that’s so fierce and joyful it nearly knocks you off balance.

“Oh my God,” she whispers against your ear, voice shaking. “You guys—oh my God. You really did it.”

You’re laughing, a little breathless, your eyes prickling. “We really did.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “You made him so happy. You make him so, so happy, do you know that?”

You nod, heart swelling with something that tastes like gratitude and disbelief all at once. She turns then and gives Pedro a light smack on the chest. “And you—you didn’t even tell me you were gonna do it tonight!”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to,” Pedro admits with a sheepish half-smile. “I’ve had the ring for months. It was just… something about tonight felt right. I saw her waiting for me, and I thought, why am I waiting?”

Javiera gives a small huff, but it’s fond. “You dramatic bastard. Of course you would propose at the SNL 50th.”

“Gotta keep things memorable,” he says with a grin. You laugh and hook your arm around his waist, leaning into the solid warmth of him. Javiera’s eyes soften again, and she shakes her head with a gentle, overwhelmed expression.

“I’m so happy for you two,” she says sincerely. “You already feel like family, but now it’s official.”

Pedro clears his throat. “You think we can skip the afterparty and celebrate somewhere quiet? Just us?”

Javiera arches an eyebrow. “Already reading my mind. Come on—I saw a quiet corner near a dressing room upstairs. We can raid the minibar and drink champagne off the network’s dime.”

Pedro snorts and mutters something about that being that real dream, and the three of you sneak away like teenagers skipping curfew.

——

The room is warm and quiet when you arrive, tucked high above the noise of the afterparty. Javiera kicks off her heels and flops dramatically onto the velvet sofa. Pedro follows behind with a bottle of champagne he charmed off a staff member and three mismatched glasses he dug up from the cabinet.

“No fancy toast?” you tease, settling beside him.

He grins, popping the cork and catching the foam like it’s second nature. “Only this: to love, to surviving premieres, and to you agreeing to marry my dumb ass.”

“Cheers,” Javiera chimes, clinking her glass against yours then Pedro’s before sipping. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen him this happy. Like, ever.”

Pedro leans back, stretching his arm behind you on the couch, pulling you in closer until your head rests against his shoulder. “That’s because I wasn’t.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on you, deep and fond and full of things you don’t have words for. But his hand squeezes your shoulders, and it’s enough. You know.

For the next hour, you talk and laugh and let the world fall away. Javiera tells stories about Pedro when they were teenagers—how moody he got when he went to high school, how dramatic he was in college theatre when he called her up on the phone. Pedro groans and groans, but he doesn’t stop her. He just keeps sneaking glances at you. Like you’re a secret he still can’t believe he gets to keep.

Eventually, Javiera tops off her wine, toasts the air, and says, “I always knew it would be you.”

You blink, a little flushed from the champagne. “Me?”

She nods. “You anchored him. Not in the way that held him back. In the way that reminded him where home is.”

Your throat tightens. Pedro reaches for your hand again. You let your fingers thread through his without a second thought.

“Well,” Javiera says, standing and stretching, “I should probably leave the lovebirds alone before Pedro starts making out with his fiancée in front of me.”

You laugh. “You mean again?”

She points at you with a grin. “See? She gets me.”

Pedro just throws his head back and groans, but you can see the light in his eyes—soft, safe, proud. The second the door clicks shut behind his sister, he turns toward you, both hands now cradling your face.

“You sure this is real?” he whispers, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You sure you want all of it—me, the chaos, the cameras, the weird hours?”

“I don’t want all of it,” you murmur. “I want you. And that just happens to come with the rest.”

His lips part like he’s about to say something—then closes them again. Instead, he kisses you slow and long, and when he pulls away, you’re both breathless and smiling.

“Then let’s go back to the hotel.”

——

The city had quieted, its pulse dimmed to a slow, golden heartbeat. New York at night was always full of chatter and laughter, but here—on this particularly little street—it felt like the whole world had paused just for the two of you.

Your heels tapped softly on the pavement, your arm tucked securely into Pedro’s. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze. The streets still shimmered faintly from earlier rainfall, reflecting the haloed glow of streetlamps and the soft lights from windows overhead. Everything around you felt suspended in amber, dreamlike and impossibly still, except for the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

Pedro swayed ever so slightly with each step, not drunk, but warm and light in that way that only a couple glasses of champagne, good company, and the high of love can make a man. His fingers brushed against yours over and over until he finally laced them tightly, like he couldn’t stand the space between you even for a breath.

You caught yourself glancing again—at your hand in his, at the ring that glinted beneath the streetlight with every tiny movement. Your chest fluttered every time your gaze landed on it, like it was still sinking in. That it was real. That it happened. That he happened.

Pedro noticed your silence and slowed slightly. “You okay?” he asked softly, tugging your joined hands toward his chest.

You nodded, lips curling into a stunned, dazed smile. “Yeah. Just… it still doesn’t feel real.”

Pedro stopped walking entirely.

The sudden stillness made your pulse skip, and you looked up at him, curious. He was watching you with that soft, unreadable expression—like you were some incredible piece of art that he’d stumbled upon and was trying to memorize before it disappeared.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “That it doesn’t feel real.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Like—like someone actually chose me. Wants me.”

Pedro reached for your other hand and held them both between his. “I didn’t just choose you. I found you. The realest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the prickle of tears press against the corners of your eyes, but Pedro leaned in, kissed your knuckles, and said, “But you know what? I get it. Sometimes when something feels that big, that good… it’s hard to believe it’s really yours.”

He smiled, crooked and conspiratorial. “So I think we need to do something about that.”

“Like what?” you asked, blinking back emotion.

Pedro looked around, then—without warning—stepped out into the middle of the street, planting his feet right beneath the glowing streetlamp. You froze on the sidewalk, watching him in stunned disbelief.

“Pedro… no,” you warned, already sensing what was coming.

“Yes,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely, yes.”

He the raised both arms wide to the sky and shouted from the top of his lungs with unabashed joy, “Hey, New York! She said yes!”

The words echoed through the street, bouncing off brick walls, slipping into alleyways, startling a bird from a nearby tree.

You covered your mouth, heart leaping in your throat.

“I’m gonna marry her!” he yelled again, spinning once in the street with outstretched arms. “She said yes to me!”

You half-ran to him, trying to grab his coat sleeve. “Pedro! Stop!”

But he was grinning too hard, his voice still ringing with giddy disbelief. “I’m gonna marry the love of my life and I want the whole world to know!”

Your laugh escaped before you could supress it, bright and surprised and full of love.

He turned toward you, his voice dropping into something warmer and quieter. “You’ve been wondering if it’s real?” he asked. “Well, now the entire city knows. The whole damn world, if I have anything to say about it.”

You looked up at him, heart nearly bursting. “You’re impossible.”

Pedro stepped closer, cupped your face in both hands, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

Then, from above, the creak of a window made you both glance up.

An elderly woman with a crown of silver curls appeared in a second-story window, bundled in a pale blue robe, peering out into the street with a sleepy but intrigued expression.

“What on earth’s going on down there?” she asked, squinting slightly.

Pedro waved up at her like a kid caught sneaking cookies. “Sorry, ma’am! I proposed to the love of my life and she said yes. I got a little too excited.”

Her face slowly broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Is that right?”

Pedro nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman chuckled and leaned out just a bit further. “Well then—congratulations to you both. That’s a beautiful thing.”

“Thank you,” you called up with flushed cheeks.

“But maybe…” she added with a soft twinkle in her eyes, “…save the yelling for the honeymoon, alright?”

Pedro threw his head back and laughed, genuine and unashamed. “You got it.”

She gave a playful little salute before pulling back inside, and the window eased shut once again. The warm glow behind the glass flickered off, leaving you both in the quiet golden hush of the streetlight once more.

Pedro turned back to you, hands out. “See? Even she thinks it’s a beautiful thing.”

You walked into his arms without hesitation, your face burying into the space between his shoulder and neck. He held you tightly, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he murmured. “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

You leaned back, hands curling into the lapels of his coat. “I was really scared, you know. When we weren’t… when I thought I lost you.”

Pedro’s thumb brushed your cheek. “I was scared too. But I’d lose everything before I lost you again. I won’t ever stop showing you how much I love you.”

Your throat felt thick again, voice catching. “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed you softly, slowly, reverently—beneath the soft glow of the city, as a new chapter began with nothing but love, the night, and the echo of joy in your joined hands.

——

The door to the suite whispered shut behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet like the final note of a song. Stillness settled around you like a silk sheet, thick with anticipation and warmth. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers, strong and a little rough from years of training and working out, curled tightly around yours—like letting go even for a moment wasn’t an option.

The light from the streetlamp slipped into the room through the open curtains, soft shadows dancing on the walls, but Pedro’s eyes never left your face.

He studied you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. As if the whole night had led to this moment—just the two of you, no red carpets, no camera flashes, no careful interviews or tailored suits. Just him, in his slightly wrinkled brown long sleeves under his brown jacket, and you, now barefoot on the hotel carpet with your heart thudding like a second heartbeat in your throat.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, lifting your joined hands and brushing his lips across your knuckles.

“From what?” you whispered.

He smiled, barely, a quiet tug at the corner of his mouth. “From everything. From me asking you to be mine forever. From you saying yes.”

Your breath caught at the sound of it again—yes. That word had never felt like enough before, but tonight, it had cracked your world wide open.

Pedro stepped forward, one hand reaching to cup the side of your face, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His touch was reverent, feather-light, as if you might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“Can I take care of you tonight?” he asked, voice deep and low, a little hoarse with emotion. “Not just touch you… but love you. Slowly. Fully. The way I’ve been wanting to all night.”

You could only nod. You were already melting from the look in his eyes alone.

His kiss was soft at first—just a meeting of lips, a shared breath, a question. But when your arms slid up around his neck and your fingers aliped into the curls at the nape of his neck, he deepened it, tilting your head, kissing you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life.

The kiss turned unhurried and tender, his lips moving with purpose, coaxing yours open with a slow, aching sweetness. His hands moved—over your back, your waist, your hips—tracing familiar paths with new intensity. Every brush of his skin against yours sent heat coiling low in your belly.

When he stepped back to unzip your dress, it wasn’t rushed. He held your gaze the entire time, dragging the zipper down slowly, like each inch was a revelation. The fabric slipped off your shoulders and pooled at your feet, and Pedro’s breath caught audibly in his throat.

His eyes trailed down your body, hungry but awed—like he was taking in a painting he could never quite believe was real.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, brushing his hands along your sides, as though grounding himself in your warmth.

You helped him out of his jacket, his long sleeves, his pants with his belt—each layer discarded with purpose, not urgency. When your hands met his skin, he shivered. His body was warm and solid beneath your touch, and you traced every plane and dip with slow curiosity, like you were memorizing him all over again.

When he finally lowered you on the bed, it wasn’t with dominance or urgency, but with something softer. He followed you down, his body hovering over yours, his gaze locked on your face.

“I don’t want to go fast,” he whispered against your lips. “I just want to feel you. Every single part of you.”

You nodded, voice lost. Your legs parted to cradle him, and he settled between them, his chest pressing to yours, skin on skin. The heat of him made you stutter, your body already aching for more.

His kisses trailed down your neck, your collarbone, the soft rise of your breasts. He took his time—kissing, stroking, murmuring soft words of love against your skin. Each touch was like a promise. Every kiss felt like it carried years of devotion behind it.

When he took one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue slow and warm, your back arched instinctively, a moan spilling from your lips. Then he soothed it with his hand, worshipping you with the kind of patience that made you ache.

“Let me take my time with you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Not tonight.”

When his mouth moved lower, pausing at your navel, your thighs trembled underneath his touch. With a questioning look he held his hands on your hips, not going further without your permission. When you gave him a slow nod, he pulled your underwear down with careful movements, and as the piece of garment fell on the floor next to the bed, he was already between your legs again. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, his beard brushing sensitive skin and making your whole body shiver.

Then his tongue met you—gentle, slow, savouring. He moved like he knew every sound you’d make before you did, every place to kiss and lick and flip to bring you closer, then pull you back, only to start again. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, holding you steady, as he coaxed you to the edge with infinite care.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name and your fingers tightening in his curls. He didn’t stop until the tremors passed, until your breath started to even again. He kissed his way back up your body, the taste of you still on his lips, and you met him with a kiss that was more desperate now, full of need and gratitude and love.

“Please,” you whispered against his mouth. “I need you inside me.”

Pedro reached between you, aligning himself slowly, and when he pushed in, your whole body curved into him. The stretch was delicious, the pressure grounding, and the groan he let out as he sank into you made your head spin. He stayed still for a long minute, just holding you, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.

“You feel like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispered.

Then he began to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that made your body hum. He kissed you between every roll of his hips, told you how much he loved you with every stroke.

The build was slow. Deep. He never lost eye contact. His hand stayed laced with yours, his body cradling yours as if he needed you as much as he needed air.

When your second high came, you felt it rise like a tide, sweeping over you as you clung to him. Pedro buried himself deep, his movements growing a little more urgent, his voice shaking as he whispered your name into your neck.

He followed you seconds late, pulsing inside you with a low, shuddering moan, his body trembling with the force of it. When he collapsed against you, it was with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like he couldn’t let go. His breath warmed your skin as he kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your jaw.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he murmured softly, reverently. “God, I’m so lucky. I love you so damn much.”

You turned your face to his, pressed a kiss to his temple. “Forever,” you whispered. “I’m yours.”

And wrapped in his arms, you believed it. Down to your bones, you believed it.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fluff

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thydungeongal · 2 days ago

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Anyway this is relatively minor in the greater context of transmisogyny but sort of a demonstration of the fact that having good and inclusive policies only means so much when put up against all the rest of society being nakedly transmisogynistic.

I have been working out at a gym lately because it helps with my physical and mental health both. At this point in my transition I pretty much exclusively boymode in public and thus far the whole dressing room issue has not been an issue for me. But I recognize that at some point it is going to be both a comfort and a safety issue for me, so I've been looking for information about you know. What the policies of various service providers here in the metropolitan region of Finland are.

And the thing is, that information just isn't anywhere to be found. Like, that information does exist, but it simply isn't posted anywhere publicly. I know that the city of Helsinki has extremely inclusive and affirming policies when it comes to the use of gendered spaces in their sports and recreation services. Because I asked them through private channels (thus technically also outing myself to the person who answered my email, which just adds another layer of messed-up-ness to it). But because that information isn't posted anywhere it just doesn't actually do anything, right?

Like, I've been reading lots of literature about how trans folks, especially trans women, often don't feel comfortable in sports and recreation services for various reasons, and like I can't help but think of the fact that so much public discourse circles around how we're seen as invaders in gendered spaces, how other customers will target us with abuse and how service providers will often do very little to help us in the face of that abuse (and will often actively side with the person who finds out existence to be a threat). That is the ambient background noise we constantly live under, so we're inclined to believe that most service providers would, if a conflict should arise, take the side of a cis person who found our presence objectionable. This has actual measurable effects on trans people's health outcomes and we know a lot of the obstacles are not due to direct discrimination but due to structural and cultural obstacles.

So when some place actually does have an extremely inclusive and accommodating policy and their internal policies make it clear that their support for trans people is unequivocal and uncompromising and you know that their actual policy has got your back. It still doesn't help when that policy is nowhere to be seen.

It's always good to be critical of performative allyship. If a gym says that they welcome everyone and puts up pride flags for one month every year and then still asks a trans woman to leave the women's dressing room because a cis woman got scared, that's performative allyship. This is the opposite. These people have a clearly articulated policy that confirms that they will have your back if you're caught Exercising While Trans, but that information is nowhere to be found. I do think part of it is caution: they can't advertise that trannies are not shot on sight at their gyms because that would draw the ire of the right wing hate mob.

Anyway I'm glad the city of Helsinki is Woke and I have also relayed this information to some of the other dolls in the area, and apparently it's found its way to other queer groups here. But I have also told the lovely city employee I was in contact with that they should really have this information available somewhere, because not having it out there does represent an obstacle.

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irinochka25 · 2 days ago

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PINKERTON'S FAVORITE WHORE

He Paid to Be Betrayed

I can’t stop thinking about that girl. That shot from the credits — where the Pinkertons approach her with a casual smile, while she’s servicing another client. I’m absolutely sure Charles had been with her more than once, not just during that mission in the Valentine saloon. We’re not shown everything, right? We don’t see how the gang members spend their downtime, when they go into town, who they spend it with.

I’m almost certain Charles wasn’t the only one. Half the guys in the gang clearly had a thing for whores. And that woman — that prostitute — I’m sure she was one of the people who gave information to the Pinkertons. Maybe even about Charles himself, though he managed to leave Beecher’s Hope. In the end, she definitely helped lead them to John.

Working girls don’t care what they get paid for — whether it’s to spread their legs or spill someone’s secrets. Especially if they get paid twice as much. And her clients — even Charles — couldn’t really hide their identity from her. Sure, he’s the quiet type, but if you watch that saloon scene before the cutscene triggers, you can clearly see him talking nonstop to the girls — his mouth never stops moving. We don’t hear any of it, but his lips are constantly moving, like he’s deep in conversation. Javier, by comparison, barely moves his mouth.

Prostitutes aren’t stupid. They take mental notes on their clients — who they are, how much they’re worth, and whether there’s more to gain than just cash. So here’s what I’m thinking… I once read this crackpot theory that Charles was the real rat in the gang. Probably a joke, because the arguments were like: “He drinks coffee. Dutch drinks coffee. Boom — traitor.” Seriously.

But my theory? The girls — the prostitutes — were the real rats. Or at least, they played a way bigger role than anyone realizes. Maybe that sounds even more insane, because I’ve got no hard evidence — except for that one frame in the credits, where she’s clearly giving information to the agents. Maybe not directly about John, but about Charles and Javier? Very likely. And if so, all she did was pass along what the guys themselves told her — in drunken confidence, far too trusting of their smugly satisfied, rented companion for the night.

Where the Gang Fell Apart

We only see things through Arthur’s eyes, but we have no idea what the others are doing. Dutch told them to blend in, act like civilized workers, and find ways to make an honest living. But he didn’t tell them to get black-out drunk, hire whores, and start bar fights. And yet that’s exactly what they did — so recklessly it borders on stupidity. When you’re that drunk, you don’t care who’s listening or what you’re saying.

There’s even a line in a conversation between O’Driscoll members, where they say Colm ordered them not to mess with whores until their job was done. And honestly? He was right. A drunk man whose dick is doing the thinking is no friend to his own brain. And yes — scientific studies confirm that sexual hormones impair both cognitive and physical performance. Aroused men are less rational, more impulsive, and their coordination drops. (This is a bit of a tangent, but it fits.)

So, is it possible that one of the biggest reasons behind the gang’s constant failures wasn’t just Dutch’s madness or Micah’s betrayal — but the reckless, indulgent lifestyle of its men? I’m not blaming them for wanting to satisfy basic urges. But, seriously — showing up as a group of four (Arthur, Javier, Charles, Bill) at the saloon, all of them among the most wanted criminals in the country, openly using their real names, and then starting a fight?

That’s not just carelessness. That’s self-destruction.

#charles smith #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #javier escuella #bill williamson #dutch van der linde #van der linde gang #rdr2 community #red dead redemption #irinap25 #john marston #Pinkerton #charles smith x arthur morgan #charles smith x you #charles smith x reader #charles smith rdr2 #charles smith fanart

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onsomenewsht · 3 days ago

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I feel like this is the beginning, though I've loved you for a million years

About when your daughter takes a vow of silence and Alexia takes it better than you

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: +1.7k

》 babies cry with an accent [fun fact]: studies suggest that newborns cry with a certain "prosody", to imitate the prevailing intonation patterns of the language they heard while still in the womb

“Diana, go wash your hands, dinner is ready”

The little girl doesn’t dignify you with a verbal answer, her small chin set in a familiar, stubborn line – a clear declaration of intent.

The vow of silence stretches into its third day, the longest one so far in her short life.

The quiet atmosphere of the apartment, filled with the child-approved playlist you put on, is interrupted by the unexpected sound of the bell.

You barely see your daughter sprinting toward the bathroom as you go check the door, wondering who could be at this time of day, unannounced.

“Alexia?”, you can’t hide the surprise in your voice.

The footballer, your fuck buddy for the past couple of months, surely the last person you expected to find behind the door.

Her bright smile dims a little at your slightly panicked reaction, effectively blocking her view of your home’s entrance. The blonde’s gaze drops to the vibrant bouquet she’s tightly holding in her hand.

“Hi”

“What are you doing here?”

“I– ehm, I wanted to surprise you”, she admits shyly, her voice strained to reveal the underlying tension of the situation, “And I can see you’re surprised”

“Sorry, I just–”

The attempt to explain is cut short by a running kid crushing the back of your legs with all the force a four-year-old can manage.

A lot, apparently.

Your hand reaches for the head of your daughter, affectionately ruffling her dark hair as she hides her face behind you when she notices the stranger at the door.

The warmth of her small body pressing against you is grounding, familiar weight bringing you back to the present as the scent of a fruit-flavoured soap fills your senses and anchors you in the moment.

When you finally meet Alexia’s eyes again, she’s looking at you like she’s seeing you for the first time.

In a way, it’s true.

Meeting her in a club a couple of months ago was fun and thrilling, one of the best nights you had in a long time.

Not that you will tell your best friend that, since she had to drag you out to take advantage of Diana sleeping at your mom’s house.

One night with Alexia turns into two, and from there, you lose count pretty easily.

It starts without much thinking, for both of you, as a way to de-stress and drop the responsibilities and the weight you felt on your shoulders. A shared escape from the demands of two very different lives.

It starts as a fun time, but it turns a bit more serious as coffee dates and movie marathons added up to the late-night meetings.

Most of the time, you spend the night at her place, having a couple of days by yourself when Diana is with her father and you don’t have to worry about coming up with a new bedtime story.

Sometimes Alexia drops you off right outside of your apartment’s building, wondering, with a hint of doubt and maybe even disappointment, why you never invited her over.

The answer, small and still silent, peeks out from behind your legs with curious eyes.

“Ale–”

“Sorry, this was a bad idea”, she mutters when she notices Diana tugging at your shirt to get your attention.

“Diana, thank Alexia for the flowers”, you prompt hopefully.

The footballer takes a couple of steps away, stopping suddenly and turning around to hand you the bouquet.

The little girl snatches the flowers before you can even react, burying her nose in the blooms dramatically. A scene that makes both you and Alexia genuinely smile.

The silence vow still unbroken, but it gives you time to come up with a decision.

You shake your head, amused, as your daughter goes for a timid and quick hug, her dark curls brushing against the Catalan’s legs as she drops her short arms around them.

She’s retreating behind you just as fast.

Bending down with a smile, you make sure the kid understands what you ask is completely up to her, “Is it okay if Alexia joins us for dinner?”

Your daughter fixes her eyes on the blonde woman for what feels like the longest 10 seconds of your life, studying her with an intensity that makes you slightly nervous.

Under the pointed gaze, the footballer never looked this shy and unsure. As if your daughter can uncover her biggest secrets and deepest fears.

Diana simply nods, her vibrant eyes fixed on Alexia with a hit of curiosity.

“You have her blessing, I guess that’s all we can get from her since she’s on silent strike”

“What?”, the blonde asks, her head snapping up so quickly she almost gets whiplash.

You don’t miss the smile blooming on her face as she meets your eyes.

“Join us for dinner, I made lasagna”

At the reminder, Diana effectively drags you inside the house, one hand firmly holding your shirt and eagerly gesturing for your guest to come in while still clutching the flowers in the other.

You breathe out in relief when you hear the door closing and the blonde woman following you. The little girl is so impatient to eat that she has added a seat on the table even before you two enter the kitchen.

The dinner is filled with your daughter’s stories, told through rushed waves and expressive glances, even without her uttering a single word. Her small fingers move faster and messily, making you and Alexia try to guess what she’s saying, glaring at you both when you fail to understand her seemingly clear gestures.

The kid is usually really talkative, never backing down from an opportunity to fill your ears with her adventures and ideas. The silent vow had been a welcoming change for the first couple of hours, but it turned alarming after a full day.

At this point you’re just going with the flow.

You’re truly amused by Alexia, who quickly overcomes her initial shock and manages to become the girl’s favorite person in a confusing exchange of hand gestures.

She’s going with the flow too.

“It’s obvious, the green lime dog ate the cookies”

“I don’t know Ale, I think she did”

“Trust me, this definitely means the green lime dog stole the cookies”

They even high five right on your face, teaming up way too soon, as you pretend to fall for their lies.

You can’t hold back a laugh as you watch the usually composed Alexia, a two-time Ballon d’Or winner, throw her hands up in the air, exaggerating a dramatic gasp just as Diana had done, perfectly capturing the little girl’s theatrical story.

A compelling explanation to assure you she hadn't been the one to eat the chocolate treats from the jar she knows she’s not supposed to reach on her own.

After dinner, Diana convinces the captain to join her in the living room’s floor to play with her impressive collection of lion-shaped toys – without even that much of a fight from the older woman. Eager eyes constantly seeking Alexia’s, you sit with them a bit aside, to contribute to their playtime without really interfering.

You clearly notice the kid’s struggle to not speak, a visible effort in her tight lips and the way she holds her tongue, resorting to bursts of laughter and exaggerated lion roars.

She’s showcasing an impressive autocontrol, you have to admit.

“Let me just get her in bed and we can talk”

The Catalan simply nods, a soft smile on her lips as you guide a sleepy Diana toward the bathroom, her head already starting to droop on your shoulder. Your daughter insists on saying goodbye to her new friend, and you don’t fight back, watching as they share a warm hug and, you’re quite sure, some secret whispered words.

When you meet Alexia back in the living room, the kid tucked in without too much of a trouble, you notice she has meticulously put away the toys in the box they came from.

“She’s Diana, she’s four and she’s my daughter”, you state as you drop next to her on the couch.

“I could tell, she’s like a mini version of you”

She doesn’t look angry.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before”, the words feel wrong, inadequate to really explain your decision.

She looks hurt, and that’s worse.

“It’s okay, I can understand you wanted to protect her”, she reaches for your hand, “It’s not like I can see you tell me about her as we are having casual sex”

“It hasn’t been casual for a while, for me”, you admit, your gaze softening.

“I came here to ask you out on a proper date”

Well, the night had taken an unexpected turn for both of you.

“She’s my priority, Alexia”, you begin, your voice soft but firm, squeezing her hand when her gaze drops, a shadow of uncertainty crossing your face.

“Of course, I–”

“She’s my priority, but I can’t and I don’t want to deny how much I’d like to go on a proper date with you”

“But you wanted to ask me out before you knew about Diana, I understand if you don’t–”

It’s not the first time Alexia’s laugh fills your home, but you’re pretty sure each one has been better than the previous.

Maybe you’re a bit too scared of the possibility of losing this, losing her already.

“Stop right there, I still want to go on a proper date with you”, she looks pretty frustrated, trying to explain herself while being considerate of your feelings and the situation, “I think I like you even more”

“Are you sure?”

“Diana is a wonderful kid, and I met her just a couple of hours ago during her silent strike”, the blonde says, and you both giggle at the little girl’s antics, the tension in the room easing.

“She’s everything for me, Ale”

“You want to protect her, I respect that”

You’re getting quite emotional, overwhelmed by Alexia’s understanding and your selfish desire to keep her in your life without hurting hers or your feelings in the process.

Or worse, your daughter’s.

“I’m willing to see what happens if you are too, no pressure”

“Alexia, I have a daughter you just find out about”

“Don’t worry, I will win her over too when the time comes”

#alexia putellas x reader #woso x reader #woso #alexia putellas #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso community #my wo(rd)so #waiting in line

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tarbuchyloewenthal · 10 hours ago

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Questions About Creating Your OCs - Envoy Idunn

‘Cause sometimes the stories of how OCs come to be are just as interesting as the OCs, themselves. Tell me how your virtual kids came into the world.

What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering (name, appearance, backstory, etc.)? - absolutely the name. i usually go through phases where i name every new rpg character i make the same name, and in the run up to avowed's release i zeroed in on idunn, the norse goddess who tended the gods' immortality granting apples.

Did you design them with any other characters/OCs from their universe in mind? - not particulary. i've toyed with the idea of her being acquainted in some way with my watcher, wulfrun

How did you choose their name? - jumped the gun on this one lol

In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts? - her relationship with empire. she was always going to end up breaking her oath to her homeland. but as the personal envoy of the emperor, who personally pardoned her crimes and recruited her, i needed to come up with reasons why that wouldn't be enough to keep her loyalty.

Is there any significance behind their hair color? - i just like dark brown hair because i have dark brown hair.

Is there any significance behind their eye color? - same as above but w/ blue eyes

Is there any significance behind their height? - same again because i am tall

What (if anything) do you relate to within their character/story? - her feelings on empire are meant to be directly correlated with my own realization of what it means to be a citizen of empire

Are they based off of you, in some way? - ^

If they have an LI, how much of their character is tailored to be compatible to that person? - no love interest, really. maybe she'll romance kai in a couple playthroughs idk

Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation? - all my oc's are vaguely bisexual lol

What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: writing, drawing, edits, etc.)? - haven't gotten around to making any sort of fic or art for her

How far past the canon events that take place in their world have you extended their story, if at all? - might take her into the next few months/years post campaign

If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be? - her sense of isolation and alienation & her evolving views on her homeland

What is something about your OC can make you laugh? - she is *very* sarcastic

What is something about your OC can make you cry? - she feels deeply the pain of sapadal and the ekida

Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story? - nah :^]

What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC? - i mean, i've always had her look more or less sketched out but i think i've really refined it.

What is your favorite fact about your OC? - aedyr is known to be a tropical empire, but it spans a whole continent. my envoy is from a rural region on the edges of the empire that's more arid/high desert in climate. because she is a self-insert in a lot of ways and that climate is the one i grew up in.

Questions About Creating Your OCs

‘Cause sometimes the stories of how OCs come to be are just as interesting as the OCs, themselves. Tell me how your virtual kids came into the world.

What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering (name, appearance, backstory, etc.)?

Did you design them with any other characters/OCs from their universe in mind?

How did you choose their name?

In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts?

Is there any significance behind their hair color?

Is there any significance behind their eye color?

Is there any significance behind their height?

What (if anything) do you relate to within their character/story?

Are they based off of you, in some way?

If they have an LI, how much of their character is tailored to be compatible to that person?

Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: writing, drawing, edits, etc.)?

How far past the canon events that take place in their world have you extended their story, if at all?

If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

What is something about your OC can make you laugh?

What is something about your OC can make you cry?

Is there some element you regret adding to your OC or their story?

What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC?

What is your favorite fact about your OC?

#avowed #avowed spoilers #envoy idunn #envoy of aedyr #oc questions #oc questionnaire

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helen-with-an-a · 2 days ago

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Nerves pt 2

Hiiii, so here is pt 2 of Nerves that came out last week.

Part 1 : Part 2

Ingrid Engen x Reader

Description: It's R's first time

Word Count: 5.7k

TW: Smut, 18+, cunnilingus (R receiving)

Ingrid felt like she was going to have a heart attack. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but she definitely felt her heart hammering away against her chest, threatening to burst. She had never done this before. You had come to her a few weeks ago, all innocent eyes and soft smiles and whispered in the most adorable way that you were ready to go further. To go further than just a steamy make out session on the sofa. Why was she so terrified? She had had sex. Lots of sex. She was good at sex. But something about being your first. She told you she didn’t care about it being your first time, and that was true, she honestly didn’t. But it was just the fact it was you. She might have had sex before, but she had never had sex with you. And she was terrified.

She was glad you both still had your separate flats. No matter how much she loved waking up with you resting on her chest, or seeing you wearing one of her shirts as you cooked up a storm, or driving to training with you, one hand perched on your thigh, she was glad that she was able to kiss you goodbye so you could both get ready for your date in private.

Ingrid felt more nervous than your actual first date. She had spent over an hour in the bathroom, shaving, waxing, plucking every unwanted hair. She had used not one, not two, but three different body washes, two hair masks and a body scrub. She had busted out her old blow dryer and spent far too long with her head flipped and her arms hurting as she waited for the mass of dark hair to be dry. Ingrid had agonised over her outfit, stressed over the neatness of the flat and fussed over her makeup.

Little did she know that you were just as nervous. What did you wear? Should you shave? What about lotion? Did you pack an overnight back? Would she be expecting some fancy lingerie? Would she be wearing some fancy lingerie? How would it work? You were only going to hers, not some fancy restaurant or anything. Both of you, in her flat, having a meal … and then … other things.

God, you couldn’t even say it. Sex, it was only sex. People have sex all the time. But you weren’t people. You were you. And Ingrid was Ingrid. And you were going to be having sex. Together. You were going to have sex with Ingrid. You blushed at the thought.

You had seen her in a bikini before. Her long legs and pale skin, water trickling down her chest as she climbed back on board … you swallowed at the memory.

Before you knew it, it was 7 pm and you were walking up the stairs to her flat. You had done this walk countless of times, even before you started dating. 10 steps from the parking space, 13 across the welcome area, 27 steps up the stairs, 14 down the corridor. It was all familiar, all a part of your routine. Butterflies stirred in your tummy.

“Hei, kjære.” Ingrid’s voice was smooth as honey. You looked up, staring straight at the beautiful green of her eyes.

“H-hi,” you whispered, a blush rising to your cheeks.

Settling into the sofa felt normal. And it felt odd, that it was normal. Everyone had made this big thing about losing your virginity. Yes, alright, you were really nervous about it, but more so because it was the first time anyone would see you in that way. You had no doubt that Ingrid would be soft and sweet. That she would guide you and do exactly what you wanted. That she would …

“I was thinking we order food?” Ingrid smiled, relaxing next to you.

“S-sounds good.” You hated that your voice was so quiet. God, this was just a date. A totally normal date. You had had dates before. Had dates that never led to sex. This was your girlfriend for fuck’s sake.

“So what-”

“What are you want-” You both said at the same time, breaking off into giggles.

“What do you want to order?” You asked, leaning into her side.

“Sushi?”

“No,” you whined. “We had that like, two days ago.” Ingrid smiled at you, a love-sick expression on her face.

“Ok, Thai?” She suggested, knowing that the Thai place down the road was your go-to place, claiming that it refused to do deliveries for your flat so you just had to come to hers to eat it.

“Ooh, yeah. Can we get the spring rolls too, and the curry. And what was that thing Olga said we had to get? The skewer things?”

10 minutes later and the order had been placed, the idea of a quiet night with Thai food and Ingrid sounded fantastic. “Sorry, kjære. They said it’ll be like two hours before it gets here.” Ingrid winced, slumping back against the sofa.

“That’s ok. We’ve got a movie. And it’s not like I don’t wanna talk to you.” You teased, staring up at her.

“Oh, really? I’m important enough to talk to, am I?” She smirked down at you, her eyes flicking between your and your lips.

“Uh huh. Incredibly important.” You kept up the teasing tone, but the words could not have been more true. She sighed happily, pushing you down to lie back against the arm as she settled on your chest.

You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes. Twenty long agonising minutes where you kept flitting your eyes down to look at her. She looked comfortable, cozy even, yet perfectly dressed all at the same time. Soft trousers made from some stretchy fabric that just exuded quiet elegance and a plain top that screamed sophistication. God, why was she with you? Out of everyone on the planet, she had chosen you? You knew you weren’t ugly, not by any means. You were a professional footballer on the top of your game. You knew you looked good, but it was more the undertones that Ingrid gave that set you worlds apart. She was elegant and gentle and wonderful and had this confidence about her that, even when lying here, curled up on your chest, gave her a glow the radiated from within. You had none of that. You were just an anxious girl. Shy, awkward, timid girl who had somehow managed to catch the attention of the most perfect person in the world.

You felt Ingrid’s lips move against your neck, placing a few careful kisses, testing the waters. “Stop,” Ingrid whined gently.

“Huh?” You struggled to look down at her, torn between your inner monologue berating you and the feel of her lips against your skin.

“I can hear your brain working overtime from here, stop it.” She pulled back to stare into your eyes.

“I-I didn’t mean,” you stammered, a blush rising to your cheeks.

“Hey, it’s ok. I know you, your mind is running a thousand miles an hour, you’re overthinking everything. And that’s ok. We don’t have to do anything. Not tonight, not ever if you don’t want to. It’s just me and you.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I’m just nervous,” you breathed.

“So am I.” The confession was a hushed whisper, so quiet you barely heard it.

“Y-you’re? You’re nervous?” You blinked, what could she possibly be nervous about?

“Of course, I am. We might have sex tonight.” She rolled her eyes.

“But you’ve had sex before.” You looked at her, confused.

“Yeh, but I’ve never had sex with you. It’s new for both of us. This is our first time. I know what I like, but I don’t know what you do. I don’t know if I’ll live up to your expectations, y’know.” Ingrid looked down shyly. Your heart swelled, a small smile dancing on your lips.

“Oh,” you paused. “Well, I know I like kissing you,” you stated matter-of-factly. She let out a melodical laugh. “What?” You couldn’t help but join in.

“I like kissing you too.” She said, emphasising her point by planting a swift peck on your lips.

“Why don’t we start there?” You suggested, eyes wide.

“That sounds like a fantastic place to start,” she whispered, leaning in and giving you a slow kiss. The first touch of her lips against yours was everything – so soft they felt like silk. Her lips moved against yours with an aching tenderness, igniting a charge that left you dizzy. Her teeth grazed your lower lip, sending a thrill through you, and you leaned in closer, unable to hold yourself back. You could feel her smile against your mouth, the way her body pressed against yours.

You weren’t quite sure how long you made out on the sofa … long enough to feel like teenagers, making out on their parents couch when they finally had the place to themselves. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?” Ingrid whispered against your lips, breathing shallow.

“Can we stay here?” You asked, confused as to why the couch wasn’t a perfectly good space.

“I mean, we can. It’s just more space on the bed. We can spread out a bit, and there’s not a giant window.” She jerked her head back towards the large window where the light from the street below was streaming into the living room.

“Oh, yeah.” You blushed, feeling embarrassed.

“But, I am totally down for a quickie on the couch, whenever you want it. Or in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the shower, or the changing rooms, or the cupboard next to the medical room that no one uses.” You let out a laugh, arching into her at the thought of all the places she wanted to have sex.

“Let’s just conquer the bedroom first?” You suggested, smiling up at her.

Ingrid paused, her eyes blinking slowly as she looked down at you. “You are so beautiful, especially when you laugh.” You felt your cheeks warm.

Ingrid’s bed was wide and welcoming, her soft scent enveloping you as you settled against the pillows. She kissed you softly again, her lips like velvet as they moved against yours. You felt her hands move up your body, her nails scratching against your stomach. “Is … is this ok?” she asked timidly.

“More than,” you breathed, arching as her hand reached your bra. She squeezed gently, smiling into another kiss.

Kissing Ingrid was magical, when her lips were against yours, the voices in your head quietened, leaving only happiness running through your veins. You let your hand tangle in her hair. She moaned gently as you tugged at her roots, your legs looping around her waist. With a soft sigh, you shifted your hips against hers, testing the waters, moving in a way that felt natural, instinctive. The movement brought a warmth to your cheeks and made your breath hitch, and from the soft gasp that left Ingrid’s lips, you could tell she felt it too.

“Please, Ingrid,” you whined, the words slipping out in a soft, desperate tone when it became clear she wasn’t letting you set the pace. She was holding back, making you ask, making you wait – and it was driving you crazy.

“Please, what, kjære?” she teased, her lips brushing close enough that you could feel her warm breath against your skin, her hand squeezing your breast again.

“Please,” you whimpered again. You captured her lips again in a kiss, soft and insistent, hoping it would convey the plea that words couldn’t seem to express.

“Please, what?” Her voice was maddeningly patient, eyes warm and soft as they met yours, but there was a glint in her gaze – a playful edge that hinted at just how much she was enjoying this, watching you unravel.

“Ingrid, baby,” you murmured, your voice trembling, nearly breathless, “I’m begging you here…”

She arched a brow, her lips quirking up in a teasing smirk. “Kjære, if this is you begging,” she said, her voice a low purr, “we’ll have to work on that.” The flush that crept over your cheeks only seemed to amuse her further.

“Please…” you whimpered again, voice barely a whisper. You could see the exact moment her resolve softened, her eyes gentle as she took in your expression.

With a sigh, she rolled her eyes affectionately and cupped your face in her hands, her thumb tracing soft circles over your cheek.

“Say the words, kjæreste,” she murmured. “Say it, and it’s yours.”

“Ingrid…” Your heart was racing, a frantic drumbeat against your ribs, your breath catching as you tried to form the words. “I want you … I need you. Please, make me yours.” You shocked yourself. You had never imagined that you would be able to say anything in the bedroom, let alone something so … well it wasn’t exactly dirty talk but it was definitely more than you were expecting.

“Good girl,” Ingrid smirked, kissing you again. Warmth flooded your body, you hips lifting against hers.

“How do we… how do we do this?” you asked, he nerves creeping back in despite how much you wanted this.

“Well … have … have you ever touched yourself?” Ingrid questioned, her voice gently. You swallowed, feeling warmth rise in your cheeks as you nodded.

“I’m not that much of a prude,” you replied, trying to hide the flush with a little humour, though it came out more vulnerable than you’d intended.

She chuckled softly, her fingers tracing a soothing pattern along your ribs. “I didn’t mean it like that, kjære,” she murmured, her tone gentle. “I meant… do you know what you like? Or what you don’t like?” Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending another thrill down your spine, and you felt your fingers unconsciously fidget with the fabric of her top, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“Oh.” You felt your blush deepen as you realised what she was asking. “Yes,” you whispered, finding her gaze with an honesty that felt liberating.

“And what do you like?” she asked, her voice low and velvety

Your voice faltered for a moment, but you pushed past the nerves. “I… I have a vibrator,” you admitted, words a shy murmur. “I like that.”

She hummed in approval, her hand continuing its gentle exploration across your body

“What about… inside?” she asked, her question as natural as if you were talking about a favourite movie.

You bit your lip, giving a small shake of your head. “I’ve tried… but I couldn’t get the angle right. It felt… weird.” You watched her nod and felt her press a kiss to your cheek.

“W-what about you?” you managed, your eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, her jaw, marvelling at how beautiful she was from so close.

“Don’t worry about me, kjære,” she replied softly, her gaze tender. “Tonight is all about you.” She leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that made your heart stutter.

As the kiss broke, you couldn’t help but murmur, “I still want to know…”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips “Well, I definitely prefer being on top… or at least in charge.” A smirk danced across her face, her eyes flickering with heat as she held your gaze. “And I’ve definitely pictured you beneath me,” she added, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering as another blush rose on your skin. “But for me, I like more attention on my clit… penetration alone doesn’t really do it.” Her words were so matter of fact, yet her eyes softened as she watched you take them in.

“But,” she murmured, her voice gentle again, “we can explore that another night.” Her thumb brushed your cheek as she spoke, her expression filled with a love that took your breath away. “Tonight, I want you… in every way you’ll let me.” The heat in her voice sent a rush through you, your breath catching, and you felt yourself grow wetter, the ache of wanting her growing with every word, every touch.

“O-okay.”

“Good girl,” Ingrid smirked, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your hips bucked involuntarily.

“If … if it’s alright with you.” She took another steadying breath. “Ireallywanttotasteyou … please.” You blinked, her words coming out so fast you missed it.

“Huh?” You laughed at yourself, the bluntness of your confusion breaking through the heated moment. Your laughter mixed with Ingrid’s, her head flopping down against your shoulder as she buried her head in embarrassment.

“Ask me again? I missed it. Slowly, this time,” you smiled, hand brushing her hair out of her face. She blushed heavily, but her eyes remained light and smiling.

“I really want to taste you.” She whispered.

“Louder,” you cocked your ear towards her.

“You are mean, kjære.” Ingrid raised her eyebrows. “I’ll get you back for this.” She teased, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Not … not tonight, though, right?” You double checked. You quite liked the idea of Ingrid maybe punishing you for something … but that was a bridge to be crossed at a later date.

“No, baby. Not tonight.” She reassured you. “Tonight, I want to taste you, if that’s ok with you, of course.”

“Good,” she said, her tone low and sultry, and she wasted no time. Her lips pressed a trail of soft kisses along your body, each touch igniting a fire within you. The world around you faded away, and all you could focus on was her – her warmth as she moved along your body, her touch as she shed both your and her clothes. As she moved, her hands slid along your sides, caressing your skin, memorising every inch of you. Your heart raced, every nerve ending alive with need.

It was an odd sensation, the way Ingrid's tongue moved against you was electric. The warmth of her mouth was more intense than you had anticipated, the way her fingers gripped at your hips added something you never knew was missing.

Your breath hitched a little as she circled your clit, her movements both teasing and deliberate, as if she were savouring every moment. “Down,” you gasped, your hands twisting in the sheets beneath you, gripping them tightly as a wave of pleasure coursed through you.

Ingrid listened intently, her tongue inching down just a fraction, perfectly attuned to your body and your needs. “To the left – there,” you directed, your voice breathless and trembling with anticipation. And then, as her tongue finally ran over your clit, a gasp escaped your lips, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you. It was as if she had found the key to a door you never knew existed, unlocking a flood of sensations that had your body arching toward her, craving more. The way her tongue moved, skilled and confident, sent you spiralling closer to the stars.

Ingrid’s mouth was warm and inviting, her rhythm steady as she explored, each flick of her tongue sending you higher and higher. You could feel the tension building within you, coiling tighter, threatening to break free with each tantalising stroke. The world outside faded away, leaving only the delicious heat between your legs and the sweet sound of your breaths mingling with the soft, wet sounds of her pleasure.

“Just like that,” you managed to whisper, your voice a mere tremor as your body responded instinctively to her touch. The way she focused on you, her eyes flickering up to meet yours, filled you with an overwhelming sense of intimacy. It felt surreal – raw, tender, and utterly consuming.

Your body was alive, electric with need, and you could feel the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter, ready to snap. With each flick and stroke, she guided you closer to that edge, and you knew you were teetering, ready to fall into bliss.

“Please,” you whined out, the word slipping from your lips in a breathless plea, desperate for release. Ingrid showed no sign of stopping; instead, she responded with a low, approving hum that sent shivers down your spine. Each stroke of her tongue had you creeping closer and closer to that sweet, euphoric edge.

“Oh, my god, Ingrid,” you gasped, your hips grinding wildly against her mouth, seeking more friction, more sensation. You could hardly contain the wave of pleasure building within you. Instinctively, your hand flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands.

“Don’t, don’t stop. Holy shit,” you groaned, your voice thick “Just like that,” you moaned again, feeling your back arch as each flick of her tongue sent electric pulses radiating through your core.

Ingrid’s movements were relentless, her focus unwavering as she worked to bring you closer to that blissful release.

“Fuck, shit. Fuck, I’m cumming,” you announced, the words spilling out before you could even process them. The bubble inside you burst, a wave of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, enveloping you completely. “Ingrid,” you shouted.

You felt your body tremble as the intensity washed over you, your back arching higher as you surrendered to the bliss. The room around you blurred, and all that existed was the exquisite sensation of Ingrid’s mouth and the intoxicating connection that enveloped you both. You had had orgasms before, but never one like that. Never ones that had you shaking, your thighs quivering around Ingrid’s head.

“Holy – ” you gasped, as the waves finally began to recede, you collapsed back onto the bed, panting for breath, a soft smile playing on your lips as you basked in the afterglow.

“That… was fucking hot,” Ingrid announced as she moved back up your body, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You were so loud, holy shit. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief and delight as she smoothed your sweaty hair back off your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a rush of warmth through you. “S-sorry,” you stammered, mortified at the noise you’d made.

“Kjære,” she paused, her tone shifting to something softer, more serious as she waited for you to meet her gaze. The warmth in her eyes was undeniable, and you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your chest. “Don’t ever apologise. That was so unbelievably sexy.” Her words wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, and you felt the tension ease from your body. “Herregud, I thought I was going to cum from the noises you were making.”

Ingrid leaned closer, her lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, tasting yourself on her lips. “You don’t know how hot you looked, completely lost in pleasure,” she continued, her voice low and sultry. “It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.” You couldn’t help but smile at her words, a wave of warmth flooding through you. “I… I didn’t mean to be so loud,” you admitted, though the embarrassment was quickly fading.

“Good,” she replied, a playful grin spreading across her face. “I want you to be loud. I want to hear you. I want to know just how good it feels.” Her fingers traced delicate patterns along your arm, sending little shivers of excitement through you.

Ingrid settled down next to you, her hands smoothing soft patterns along your stomach.

“So …” You smirked. “All of that and I wasn’t even wined and dined.” You teased, your laughter mixing with hers.

“Just you wait, Kjære. I’ll wine and dine you for the rest of our lives, don’t you worry.”

“Rest of our lives, hey?”

“If you want,” She shrugged non-committally, but you could see the nerves in her eyes.

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lover-of-mine · 2 days ago

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Here are all the callbacks buddie in 817 had to previous scenes I have found so far.

First off, obviously the grocery store fight in 306.

The scene also calls back to the fight before Shannon leaves in 315. The way it was filmed calls back to the breakup with Ana in 503.

It also calls back to the other 2 fights Buck and Eddie had, gym scene in 201, and the 809 one, because Eddie in black and the angles.

Color-wise, Buck's orange is similar to the one Shannon is wearing when she comes back in 207 ("what did you need that I didn't give you" "you") and Shannon and Eddie are in orange and black in 213.

Buck himself is wearing a similar shade of orange when he starts the lawsuit in 304, when he stops the car that fixes the lawsuit in 306, when he finds out about Daniel in 404, when he talks to Chris in 701. He's in a brighter version of it when he tells Maddie and Chim about therapy in 403.

There's the actual dialogue of Eddie calling back to his breakdown. That's the description of what happened to Eddie in 513.

Waking up in the middle of the night, to that news. Sitting alone in the dark. Trying to keep it together so I don't scare the crap out of my kid.

Eddie walking in has similar visual cues to Eddie walking in after his therapy session in 514, from different angles.

The kitchen of it all calls back to Buck asking about Kim in 709, Buck finding out about Texas in 808, the talk in 612 if we decide to push it a little lol, granted the kitchen was a lot colder in 817 that we've ever seen it before.

Buck finding the note, obviously calls back to Shannon leaving. (Couch theory, you will forever be famous).

Buck is in that forest green we nicknamed the breakup green (even though the green is mostly about Buck being misguided in his own feelings, this is more about Buck jumping to conclusions, meta on the green here, please see the full picture of the use of green with Buck because it's fascinating), so call back that feeling.

I'm gonna treat Buck's shirt as both grey and blue because it looks bluer in some bits of the scene and greyer in others, just go with it for the sake of this exercise.

Most importantly, this scene calls back to the post-tsunami talk.

Inverted colors, but the same feeling, Eddie is using Chris to snap Buck out of it. This is a mirror if we count Buck's shirt as blue.

But if we count his shirt as grey, this is the mirror, 612. Both moments where Eddie is offering Buck something Buck doesn't know how to ask for.

The Chris of it all also calls back to 301, when Eddie storms into the loft to leave Chris with him. Eddie already being in the house also calls back to this.

If we count Buck's shirt as grey, we are calling back to the moments Buck is casually parenting Chris, like in 408 when Chris runs to the loft and when they are making the cookies in 613.

The scene as a whole calls back to after the earthquake, this one more if we count the shirt as blue, after the tsunami, after the shooting, but inverted, since Eddie is the one watching Chris with Buck this time.

The whole thing also calls back to 408 with Eddie coming home from the date with Ana (construction on sunset, baby), color-wise too since Eddie is that rust type color in both scenes.

Buck teasing Eddie about ordering pizza made me think of 707 after Buck burns the lasagna and the "20 Buck's for pizza" in 303, but that's a me thing.

Buck offering to cook in an ambiguous blueish-grey shirt calls back to Buck making them dinner in 601. (Couch theory conversation, anyone?)

Buck walking in visually calls back to the fight in 809. Eddie is leaning against the wall Buck wanted to tear down.

The Pepa of it all calls back to 204, with Buck watching Eddie and Chris and the actual conversation about "our Eddie". The conversation then evolves to something that reminds me of the conversation buddie had in 612. Eddie matches the couch.

Buck watching Eddie and Chris visually calls back to quite a few scenes. The facetime call with Chris and the Texas talk in 808 and Buck settling in in 811.

It also calls back to Eddie watching Buck and Chris on the couch in 612 and 615, and Eddie moving around them as they play in 403.

Now for the ones I'm less confident on, it's the wrong shades, but Chris leaving is Buck is in blue and Eddie is red.

And the groceries of it all made me think about 604 when Chris is helping Eddie with the groceries and they get the call that Chris has been lying about the science club. Mostly because Chris is holding the same brand of cereal that Buck is putting away.

I think this is all, I will come back if my brain gives me more.

As always, if you read this I love you 💜

#ooooof #its a lot #my brain is in overdrive #i cannot even begin to explain the shit going on here oaksasoaksas #911 #911 spoilers #911 meta #thoughts thoughts thoughts

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ittybittyfanblog · 2 days ago

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Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

Pt 1

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in.

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since Sylus crossed the threshold, through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality, just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment.

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being.

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would.

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are.

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance.

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips.

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling.

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place.

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears.

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement.

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house.

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies.

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew.

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again.

Rinse, repeat.

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant.

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range.

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard.

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg.

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need.

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen.

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing.

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter.

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine.

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure.

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt.

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy.

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in.

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself.

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow.

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes.

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being.

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have.

…

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute.

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life.

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way.

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could.

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier.

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here – tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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