#and probably would have survived because of it

[sparkplug02]

It’s also showcasing the reality of trying and failing to do something. Why do you need survivors? Why do you need people to keep going and carry on? Because they learned the lessons. Other people paid the price for those lessons, but if you don’t remember them and factor them into your next try, you’ll make he same mistakes, you won’t move forward, and you won’t be better.

IF Haymitch had died in the arena when he meant to, IF Plutarch and Mags and Wiress and Beetee hadn’t gone through the terrible things that mutilated them to what we know them to be in the original trilogy, we don’t have their expertise to rely on. Not just because they’d be dead, but because Snow was actively and successfully rewriting the story to leave out those details. If they hadn’t survived, who would have been able to recount the truth? Probably no one.

Yes, that doesn’t make the mutilation itself good or ‘worth it.’ I know that, and I know Snow tortured them and none of that was necessary or right.

So you know that when Snow told Plutarch that the new Quarter Quell would reap tributes of victors, he started gambling with the idea that this could be a new chance to break the machine. He needs Beetee. He’s broken the arena twice, and they need it a third and final time. Learn from the mistakes of the past, figure out how to make it unsalvageable. Give him the biggest bomb you can think of and all the tools to make it happen.

He needs Wiress. Wiress, who’s smart enough to figure out the machine of the arena and who has a gut good enough to guide her to safety. Wiress, who can’t communicate properly and who has been hurt beyond sanity, but who is still in there enough to help. She does. It takes a while for everyone else to catch on, but she figures it out first.

He needs Mags. Mags who has seen two Quarter Quells to date. Mags who helped him with the rebellion for a long time since and who knows how these things end and what it takes for the rebellion to keep going. She either needs to be a mentor or a tribute, but she ends up being both in a way. She is an archive, she has the memory. A shame she can’t tell those memories anymore, but they’re still there and they’re still valuable and she can protect these young tributes far better inside the arena than outside.

He needs Haymitch. Haymitch, who lost everything AND himself during the last quarter quell, the last big plan to break the machine. He failed, but not completely. Haymitch showed them just how adept Snow was at twisting the story, at hiding the rot within. The rebellion all but killed him, but Plutarch needs him back. He was the face of rebellion, he was the Songbird and the Snake before Katniss and Peeta fell into that mantle. He learned the lessons they will need the hard way.

I’m willing to bet it was a damn miracle that Plutarch got Haymitch on board for Catching Fire. He has these two little ducklings that he cares about whether he wants to or not, and Plutarch is asking him to risk them and himself all over again for a plan that failed the last time it was enacted. He agrees, we know that, but Katniss doesn’t ever know about the rebellion until afterwards, and I’m don’t think Peeta does either.

I’m guessing that was Haymitch’s idea. After having all the pressure on him during his Quarter Quell, he’s not willing to put that on either Katniss or Peeta. They are both smart enough and stubborn enough to say the right things and play the part without realizing their role in all this. They want the Quell to end regardless of their knowledge of a greater rebellion. Haymitch steps in as the buffer between them and Plutarch because they trust Haymitch and he knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch. PLUTARCH knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch.

…actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know that Plutarch would have been able to convince Haymitch. Not after last time. He’s not willing to put those kids through that. He spent so much time trying to protect them from it, I’m not sure he would cave unless he didn’t have a choice.

Was Peeta’s name ever in the bowl for the reaping of the Quell? Could Plutarch have pulled that string to get Haymitch’s name in the bowl twice?

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is they learned from those failures and the failed rebellions were just as important as the successful ones because they wouldn’t have been possible without the lessons learned from past attempts.

SotR is a realisation. A realisation that the rebellion didn’t start with Katniss. That all the people we see supporting her or helping her have all been wanting to fight but they’ve been failing. That there weren’t merely “rumours” of a revolution but there were many active plans playing out and failing.

It’s a reminder that the perfect Hunger Games we saw in the first hg book was an illusion because we had Katniss as our narrator. We didn’t have Haymitch, hell, we didn’t even have someone like Peeta because these people played the games. Katniss didn’t.

Katniss was introduced to us as a mad, simple, naive girl who literally only survived because of others. She didn’t know how much her taking Prim’s place mattered because she didn’t realise what it meant to everyone who came before her. To everyone who had heard rumours of how the last District 12 victor actually fought his games. No, Katniss had just kept her head down, hunting and providing for her family.

See, she grew up way before the Games got to her. She’d already lived through her dad’s death and watched it destroy her once lively mom. Haymitch didn’t have to go through that. Lucy Gray didn’t have to go through that. They were both angry, yes, but at the Capitol. Katniss? She was first and foremost angry at her mom. At her dad. She knew who was to blame but she had too much to do and deal with to think about that. She was already jaded in a way that the Games couldn’t touch.

Peeta? He was Haymitch. He knew what he was getting into and realised he was just on a chess board with no control. So, he adapted. He played the knight, the rook, the king, the pawn. Katniss? She just… did. Changing directions, not playing the piece she was assigned because she didn’t realise that’s what was going on. Remember her surprise at the crown twisting into two after the Games?? She was so oblivious. Until Catching Fire where everything caught up to her. Where everything so many other people had been waiting and working for caught up to her.

SotR is a history book. Rewritten and edited and published as a piece of fact. SotR is a mirror and it’s a reflection of what actually happens vs what ends up being shown. SotR is the playbook of those in control of any and every kind of media that we come in touch with. SotR is a wake up call and I truly don’t know how many will see it as such.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, racing accident (spa 2021 q3), fuck the fia basically, autistic shutdown, angst (!!!!), brief mention of a life-ending accident.

Notes — Ok. Prepare yourselves. This one might hurt.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Chapter Twenty (Spa—Italy) 

The circuit is underwater.

Amelia sits on the low wall in front of the garages, glancing over at the track. Puddled, she thinks. Flooded was probably a better word, but nobody wanted to say it out loud.

A thousand stubborn fans in the grandstands spot her and call her name, undeterred by the downpour. She waves and flashes them a quick smile before hopping down and heading back toward Max’s garage, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands.

“They’ll red flag it,” she says, shrugging as she steps inside. “Even if it means postponing qualifying. It’s not drivable out there.”

Max sighs and glances at his dad, who just gives an unhelpful shrug in return.

GP pops his head around the corner, his expression flat. “Just heard from race control. We’re heading out in twenty minutes.”

Amelia stares at him, aghast. “Are you serious? I mean—do they have a set of working eyes between them? It’s awful out there!”

GP shrugs like it’s out of his hands. “They want to give the fans something. Don’t want the complaints. Plus, some of the teams are pushing, saying it’s just a case of slicks.”

She narrows her eyes at him, unimpressed. “Which teams?” she demands.

GP opens his mouth to answer, but Max cuts him off. “No. Don’t tell her. She’ll only cause a scene.” Max turns to her, giving her arm a squeeze. His touch is meant to be calming, but it feels too light against the storm brewing in her chest. “It’s fine. We’ll all be careful,” he promises. “We’ve driven in worse conditions.”

She blinks, and all she can see is a boy—too young, too trusting—spinning out on this very track, his life taken away from him because someone said it would be fine. “Two years ago…” she starts, voice catching.

Max doesn’t let her finish. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself, zusje.”

She presses her lips together, closing her eyes for a beat, sucking in a trembling breath. When she opens them, she looks past Max—at Jos, then GP. “Christian thinks this is okay?” she asks, voice low.

GP shakes his head immediately. “No. He was one of the team principals against it.”

Oh. That was pleasant surprise.

— 

The rain only got worse once there were cars on track. 

Amelia paced like a caged animal just behind the line of Max’s engineers, arms folded so tight across her chest it felt like she was holding herself together by force alone. The spray was impossible. Drivers couldn’t see five meters ahead, and the aquaplaning was awful. 

Her stomach twisted tighter with every sector.

They were not driving anymore — they were guessing. Hoping.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. 

A car twitched through Eau Rouge and saved it. Barely.

She shot a furious look at GP, who lifted a hand in her direction like he was expecting her to throw something at him and needed to defend from it.

“I swear to god,” she hissed under her breath, “if anyone gets hurt—”

“Amelia,” Jos said sharply. He didn’t look away from the screens. “Don’t.”

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, breathing hard through her nose.

—

Lando thrived in the wet.

Where other drivers hesitated, he attacked, carving through the standing water like it was nothing more than mist. He looked alive out there. 

He was flying.

By the end of Q1, he was at the top of the timesheets, Max just a few hundredths behind him.

Amelia watched from the back of Max’s garage, heart pounding harder with every sector split. She barely registered the noise around her, engineers discussing, the pit wall scrambling as Max came back in for a fresh set. 

By the end of Q2, he was still there.

Still leading. Still flying.

Amelia didn’t even realise she was holding her breath until the session ended, the screen freezing with his name at the top.

Still at the top. Ahead of both Mercedes, ahead of Max. 

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle a noise she didn’t even recognise — part pride, part awe, part something else, raw and endless.

— 

“Did that McLaren make it around the corner?” 

It happened fast. Too fast. A flash of a McLaren on the big screen, the car snapping sideways through Eau Rouge, spinning into the barriers with a violence that made the garage gasp.

The monitors flickered to the crash site. Crumpled carbon. Shattered wings.

No movement.

Amelia didn’t move either.

She stood dead still. Silent. 

And then she started whispering under her breath. "Oversteer mid-corner. Hydroplaned. No visibility. No grip. No correction possible." It wasn’t emotion — it was fact. Cold, clean, merciless.

Someone called her name.

She didn’t react.

Jos appeared a second later, hand reaching for her arm, voice low, concerned, "Amelia—"

She ripped away from him so violently he took a step back. "Don’t touch me!" she snapped, voice too loud, too sharp. "I'm thinking!"

Silence snapped over the garage like a taut wire. Eyes everywhere.

She didn't care. She just stared at the monitor, at the wreckage, at the nothingness.

Then… a voice, through a sudden crackle of radio static. GP had shoved a headset onto her head, barely sliding it into place, as Lando’s voice filled her ears, grainy but alive. "—I’m okay. Sorry about that, boys. Big crash."

She blinked. Stared at the screen. Saw Sebastian pulling up next to him in the Aston, saw Lando wave from inside the cockpit — a shaky, unmistakable sign of life.

Another voice filtered in, maybe GP’s, maybe Will’s. “Driver’s talking. He’s moving. All good.”

Lando again, winded but alive, alive, alive, "Make sure Amelia’s okay. She didn’t see, did she? Fuck, mate, that was bad. Go make sure she’s okay—"

She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. 

She just stared at the footage as it played over and over on the feed, the spray, the blind corner, the sudden absence of the car where it should have been, the brutal, sickening impact against the wall.

Her nails dug into her own forearms hard enough to leave crescent moons.

Her mind blanked.

Detached.

Facts and figures and split times. Angles and force vectors and hydroplaning coefficients.

If she thought about it clinically, if she could just keep it mathematical, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. 

— 

They let her into medical after twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes where she didn't move. Twenty minutes where she counted every breath she took and tried to keep her body from violently trembling. 

When she finally crossed the threshold, Lando was sitting up on the stretcher, hair soaked and matted down from the rain and sweat. His race suit was still zipped up to his neck, damp and dirty from the impact. His left hand was flexing repeatedly like it hurt, but he was smiling at the doctor. A crooked, too-wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

When he saw her, the smile vanished.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

She stopped halfway across the room.

He looked her over once, quick and assessing — and she knew he saw it. The stiffness in her posture. The emptiness in her eyes. The way she was standing like she was still waiting for a second crash, a worse outcome.

He pushed off the stretcher, wincing a little but moving anyway, stubborn and alive, and crossed the room to her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t lift her arms. Didn’t even reach for him.

Lando didn’t seem to care.

He wrapped his arms around her anyway, wet and shivering and still so real, pulling her into his chest. His hand found the back of her head, cradling it against him. "Hey," he murmured, soft enough that only she could hear. "I’m here. I’m okay. You can touch me. I'm real."

She stood frozen for a second longer, and then, slowly, she pressed her hands to his ribs. Felt the rise and fall of his breath. The heat of him under her palms.

"Physics said you should have flipped," she said into his chest.

"Yeah, well," he said, smiling against her hair, "physics can suck it."

She let out a single, sharp breath, not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

Lando's arms tightened.

"You can be mad," he told her, still that same soft, low tone. "You can be scared. You can even punch me if you want. Just... don’t disappear into that pretty head of yours, okay?"

She closed her eyes, finally letting her forehead drop against him, anchoring herself to the solid, beating proof of him.

"I’m trying," she whispered.

"I know," he said. And he just held her

— 

The door cracked open again, and suddenly Max was there.

Still half in his race suit, soaked through from the rain, his hair dripping into his eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of Amelia.

She turned her head slowly. 

Max’s eyes flicked over her quickly, assessing, calculating. "Hey," he said, voice low, controlled. "You’re alright?”

Amelia didn’t respond. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t doing anything, really, just sitting there in Lando’s lap, stiff, her hands still twisted in the fabric of his fireproofs like she was the one holding him together and not the other way around.

Max exhaled, long and slow. Then, without asking, he reached out and cupped the back of her head, pulling her gently forward until her forehead bumped against his.

"Listen to me," he said quietly, his voice rough with feeling. "You did everything right. You are alright. Lando is alright. I'm here. We’re all still here, okay?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing finally hitching a little.

Max just held her there, forehead to forehead, grounding her with the solid weight of his presence.

"You’re safe, zusje," he murmured, almost too softly to hear. “And so are we. Everyone made it out alive, okay? Is that what you need to hear? Nobody died today.” 

A shaky little sound escaped her, halfway between a sigh and a sob.

Lando tightened his arms around her from behind, his chin pressing into her shoulder, anchoring her.

Max pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “I got pole.” 

She manages a tiny, proud smile. “Well done.” 

— 

@/f1girlies: Amelia not even flinching when they showed Lando's crash... just staring at the screen like she's trying to solve it. There is a terrifying amount of love between them. 🥲💔 #F1 #BelgianGP

@/landozluvbot: idk what broke me more. Lando's crash or seeing Amelia looking like a ghost in the garage after. she didn’t even cry she just shut down 😭😭

@/redbullmax: Max asking if Amelia was okay over the radio after the red flag… this fcking team is going to kill me #BelgianGP

@/McLarenUpdates: The way Amelia was repeating technical data out loud after the crash... pure survival mode. That’s an engineer trying not to lose it over the boy she loves getting hurt 😭 #BelgianGP

@/softforf1: Seb pulling up next to Lando to check on him. Max worrying about Amelia. Everyone looking after each other. F1 can be brutal but it’s a family too 🧡 #F1Family

@/verstappencharts: “don’t touch me, i’m thinking!” amelia shouting at jos verstappen 😭😭 girl was fighting for her life. i was genuinely in tears watching her. my fellow neurodivergent girlies understand that she was fully shutting down 

@/mclarensun: saying "make sure amelia’s okay" while he's still in the car wreckage was the most heartbreaking thing i’ve ever heard no i'm not okay

—

She feels broken.

A shell of herself.

Curled up on her side in her dad’s hotel suite, knees tucked against her chest, face buried in the pillow that still smelled like him — his shampoo, his aftershave, something warm and familiar and safe.

Lando was sleeping.

Bruised, sore, but breathing. Alive.

She’d left him there, in their hotel room, the weight of everything pressing too heavy on her chest to stay. She couldn't hold herself together, not even for him.

Her dad had found her at the rooftop bar, sitting alone in a corner, staring blankly into a glass of Sprite. He hadn’t said anything, just crouched down, touched her hand, and guided her gently to her feet.

He’d led her here, to his suite. Set her down on the bed like she was something fragile. Like if he said the wrong thing, she might shatter completely.

Then he’d stepped outside into the hallway.

She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, breathing in the scent of him, wishing she could crawl into her childhood and never have to leave again.

She felt selfish.

Selfish for making this about her when Lando was the one who’d crashed.

Selfish for being weak.

Selfish for needing someone, when Lando needed her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her body stiff and aching, and tried not to think.

Tried not to feel.

Tried, and failed.

— 

Her dad returned, a quiet figure in the doorway before stepping inside. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed with a soft sigh. “Fernando is here, sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle, trying to ease something too big for him to handle alone. “I thought he might be able to help.”

Fernando sat beside her, his presence grounding, steady. He didn’t rush into conversation, simply waiting. His eyes softened as they met hers.

After a long, thoughtful pause, he spoke, his voice low, weighted with experience. “I’ve had a lot of crashes, niña,” he began. “Big ones. Ones where I didn’t know if I was going to make it out alive.”

Amelia, still frozen, slowly turned her head to look at him.

“In 2010, I crashed in Canada,” he continued, his hands folded in his lap. “The wall hit me hard. The car was destroyed. I remember seeing the barrier coming and thinking, ‘This is it. I’m not going to get out of this one.’”

Amelia’s breath hitched. She searched his face for any sign of what he’d felt, but his expression was calm. 

“I remember sitting there afterward,” he said, “and not feeling pain at first. It was like everything just shut down. I was alive, but I couldn’t process what happened. I didn’t know what came next.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room.

“Then, in 2016, another crash—this time in Baku. The impact was hard, but what scared me the most was the silence. After the crash, there was this stillness. I didn’t know if I could move, if I could breathe properly. And all I could think was, ‘What if I can’t get out of here?’”

Amelia’s lips parted, her hands trembling in her lap as the emotions she’d buried began to rise.

“I’ve been through a lot, niña,” Fernando said, his voice steady but compassionate. “But every time, you trust that the team, the doctors will pull you out. Even when you can’t feel it. And when it’s over, you’re just thankful. So thankful.”

He looked at her with intensity, his gaze warm. “Lando will feel the same. Thankful he made it out. Thankful he can return to you.”

Amelia’s walls cracked. Her breath quickened, uneven, as emotions she’d kept buried threatened to break free. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Nando, I was so scared.”

Fernando pulled her into a tight hug, his voice soft yet firm. “Ah, niña... fear is part of this sport. You know that. You know about all the crashes I’ve been through, probably with more detail than I can remember. Use that smart brain of yours. Let yourself feel the fear. But don’t feel shame for it.”

Amelia clung to him, then turned to her dad. She managed a small, broken smile, a silent ‘thank you’ for bringing Fernando to her.

— 

She tiptoed back into their hotel room, shedding her clothes and slipping into bed in just her underwear. She pressed herself against Lando's warmth, inhaling a shaky breath.

His arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her closer. “Where’d you go, baby? You’re freezing,” he murmured against her ear, tucking the blanket around them both.

“Just needed to talk to Fernando,” she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Go back to sleep, Lan.”

She watched him sleep for a while, his breathing steady and calm. Her fingers gently brushed his neck, resting there, feeling the steady pulse beneath her touch. With a quiet exhale, she let herself drift off, comforted by the rhythm of his heartbeat.

— 

“They should’ve suspended the session the second the aquaplaning became a problem and the drivers started to make it clear that the conditions were too dangerous,” Amelia said, her voice low but firm.

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.”

Amelia crossed her arms, leaning against the table as she glanced down at the papers in front of them. They were in a small, quiet back room in the Aston Martin hospitality, away from the noise of the paddock. Sebastian had been working on the official complaint for the GPDA, and Amelia had come in to help finalise a few things.

“I really appreciate you checking on Lando after the crash,” Amelia told him, after a lapse of silence. "It meant a lot. To him and to me.” 

Sebastian gave a small nod. “Of course. And how are you doing? You have had a rough few races, huh.” 

She nodded, itching the back of her neck. “Yeah. It’s— it’s been a lot to deal with. But yesterday could’ve been prevented. That’s why I’m so mad, I think.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “That’s why the GPDA matters. We have to keep pushing for better safety measures, for the drivers to be heard." He paused, glancing at her with a thoughtful expression. "You’ve got the right mind for this, Amelia. I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now, but how would you feel about joining me on the panel? You’d bring a fresh perspective, especially with everything you do behind the scenes. You’d make a real impact."

Amelia raised an eyebrow, a bit taken aback by the offer. "I don’t know…”

“Of course, I get it,” Sebastian said quickly, giving her a reassuring smile. “No pressure. But think about it, yes?”

Amelia nodded. "I will. I just— I already feel like I’m being split in a million directions.” 

Sebastian gave a knowing smile. “No pressure. The offer will still be there if you ever change your mind.” He glanced down at the page. “So, you think we’ve got the final draft ready to send off?”

Amelia glanced at the papers again, nodding. “Yeah, I think this should do it. We’ve got a strong case. Now, we just need to make sure it’s heard.”

Sebastian gave a small smile, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Alright. Let’s get it to the drivers then. Thank you for helping out, Amelia. This wouldn’t be as strong without your input.”

She smiled back, feeling a little lighter. “Of course.” 

— 

They suspended the Grand Prix after one lap.

Amelia was selfishly relieved. She left GP with a quick smile and made her way across to the McLaren garages.

She waited as Lando climbed out of the car, got weighed, and finally spotted her — standing there with a cookie she’d swiped from the hotel breakfast, held out like a peace offering.

His face lit up, the disappointment of the day forgotten in an instant.

“God, I love you,” he said, grinning as he took the cookie.

She just grinned back. 

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Sebastian V.

Please can everyone sign this document and send it back to me? Thanks!

Max V.

GDPA?

Sebastian V.

Yes, mate.

Lando N.

Wait, did Amelia help you with that Her name’s at the bottom

Sebastian V.

Your girlfriend is very smart, Norris. She also believes that driver safety should take precedence over the entertainment value of a dangerous session.

Lewis H.

She’s a good kid. @Lando I tried to talk to her after Silverstone, but she brushed me off.

Lando N.

Yeah mate, not being funny, but you were part of the reason the guy she sees as a brother ended up in the tyre barrier You can’t be surprised she’s a bit pissed

Max V.

She ignored you, Lewis? LOL

George R.

Alright, let’s not do this here. Groupchat is for racing talk only. And Amelia, if necessary. This is not necessary.

Yuki T

.I have signed! I didn’t read it first. What did I just sign?

Esteban O.

Contract extension.

Yuki T.

HOLY SHIT, REALLY?

Esteban O.

No. Start reading things before you sign them.

— 

Max wins his home race.

The Dutch fans go insane for it. Orange smoke suffocates the track before he even crosses the line — it’s like a living, breathing thing, filling the air, staining the sky. The stands are roaring, a wall of noise and cheers that doesn’t seem to let up.

She can’t stop smiling.

This will mean everything to him.

The whole weekend had been madness; the crowd, the pressure, the constant buzz that hummed around Max like static. She’d worried, in a quiet, gnawing way, that it would be too much. That the expectation would crush him.

Instead, he rose to meet it, higher and higher, like he’d been made for this. He had, probably. He was controlled. Fast. Untouchable.

In the paddock after the race, everything feels a little magical. 

She and Lando are making their way toward the exit, half-holding hands, half-dragging their feet because nobody really wants to leave the energy behind yet, when a member of the Dutch media steps in front of them.

“Are you proud of Max’s win?” the reporter asks, microphone shoved toward her, as if there’s any possible answer but the obvious.

She beams; can’t help it, even if she wanted to. “I’m incredibly proud,” she says, heart in it completely.

Behind her, Lando chuckles low in his throat. She feels his hand tighten around hers, warm and steady. When she glances back at him, he’s looking at her like she hung the stars, his smile fond, just for her.

— 

There’s no time between leaving the Netherlands and travelling straight to Italy, but somehow Amelia still manages to carve out enough of it to throw together a Pinterest board titled ‘Monaco Apartment’.

She shows Lando every phase she goes through — minimalist, then eclectic, then back again — and he just laughs, indulging her with amused commentary and the occasional veto when something was just a bit too extreme.

Eventually, she settles on something halfway between bohemian and modern; clean lines and light, natural colours, but still full of texture and life. Cozy, but grown-up.

She picks out paint colours while they’re waiting in airport lounges, scrolling through endless swatches. Lando gives his opinions on furniture when she nudges her phone under his nose — usually something like, “That’s too white, I’ll spill something on it,” or “I like that, it looks comfy.”

He has only one real request: that the spare room be turned into a streaming room for him, and she could take the bigger office.

It’s a no-brainer.

The office is huge, the window overlooks the street below, and she can already imagine herself there; late nights, sketching out ideas with music playing softly in the background.

He grins at her when she agrees without hesitation, bumping their shoulders together as if to say 'teamwork.'

The new chapter of their life together starts to take shape, little by little, through swatches, and wishlists. 

In a few months, they’ll move in for real.

Maybe then it’ll finally feel like something tangible.  

— 

WhatsApp — 2021 F1 Groupchat

Lando N.

Quick question

Max V.

Already found it, mate. She left it in the strat room.

Lando N.

👍

George R.

That was quicker than usual.

Charles L.

I see Lando’s name pop up and immediately start looking for an iPad. Is that Pavlovian?

Checo P.

Yes.

— 

On the jet, she finishes it.

Not just a rough sketch of the chassis — the whole package.

Every line, every angle calculated. Suspension geometry, underfloor shaping, cooling architecture. Aero efficiency balanced with mechanical grip.

She closes the sketchbook slowly, fingertips brushing the page like she’s sealing a secret inside.

A complete concept. Theoretical, but sound.

She glances at Max across the aisle, wondering briefly if he’ll resent her for it someday.

But she’s already done it for him. Designed the core philosophy that would carry him through 2022 and 2023, championships won before the seasons have even begun.

She isn’t thinking about just the next two years, though.

She’s thinking beyond that. She's thinking about evolution, dominance. . . legacy.

A future she could build, one millimetre at a time.

[revelboo]

You've made several of us obsessed with the male wife...so, may I request–on behalf of many, many of us simps–more of your handsome, incredibly written Jazz?

Thank you!

Sure!

Over It Now Pt 26

Jazz x Reader

• “For us it’s usually a private affair between partners, doll,” he murmurs, trying to focus on your question instead of your wet skin. “There are four parts. The acts of intimacy, disclosure, profference, and devotion.” Reaching to cup your cheek, his servos tremble faintly as he realizes you’ve both already walked those steps. Gone through those trials in your own ways. Smiling, he rests his head against yours. “You’re already my conjunx, my spark mate.”

• But he still wants to honor your traditions, too and that means so much. Even if you’re not entirely sure how it would work. Certainly can’t imagine walking down the aisle with him mass displaced. Not without your family running away screaming. Laughing despite yourself, he tips your face up and kisses you.

• “Share with the class, kitten,” he says against your lips. Loving when you smile up at him and nip his bottom lip instead. And his spike is stirring behind his plating as he clears his vents. “Tell me,” he insists as you stretch your arms up for him to haul you up against him.

• “Just imagining trying to introduce you to my family. The real you, not the avatar,” you whisper. Because the avatar’s fine for your family, but after? You want to go somewhere, just the two of you and say the words even if there are no witnesses. Want to pledge yourself to this charming, broken bot and claim him as yours. Keep him. “I mean, I could probably make you a tie. I think a suit would be beyond my sewing skills, though.”

• Smiling as you tease him, his mouth covers yours again. Still can’t believe the chain of events that brought him here, to this moment. Never would have imagined falling in love with an alien and now you’re all he can think of. Needs you like energon to survive. Healing those broken parts of him even if there’ll always be scars, seeing his worst and not running. Pressing his face against your neck, he vents to pull the scent off you deep into himself. And you gasp as the hot water suddenly becomes cold, laughing and reaching back to try and fumble it off. But he’ll keep you warm.

Previous

[kquil]

REMUS LUPIN | 19:53 — BARISTA BOYFRIEND

SUM. : you suddenly gain a boyfriend after a beautiful but annoying creep flirts with you

TAGS : barista remus ; cafe regular reader ; modern au ; muggle au ; fluff ; very fluffy ; everyone loves hot chocolate ; remus makes great hot chocolate ; protective remus ; secret pining ; creepy but beautiful stranger

LENGTH : 1.4k

NAVI. | MORE REMUS

You’re a regular at a coffee shop that serves a variety of blends, so much so that the air almost always smells of ground coffee and is only slightly entwined with the sweetness of baked goods. However, you weren’t a regular for their coffee or treats, you were a regular for their hot chocolate, made by a specific barista.  

“Hello again,” Remus (the barista in question) greets fondly as you come up to the counter, ready to order. He’s a tall brunette with a gorgeous smile and a talent for making hot chocolate. “The usual?” 

“Only if it’s you’re making it, Remus,” you chirp, smiling up at him as he chuckles—it still astounds you that you’ve become such a regular customer that you’re comfortable calling him by name. You note the incredible length of his lashes as they brush against his cheekbone and admire the faded scar marking his jawline. He’s the perfect model-looking-barista archetype that pulls in customers with a simple glance, and you’re embarrassed to admit that you were one such weak-willed individual: shyly stepping into the cafe for the first time without anything in mind to order until he suggested the hot chocolate, and you were hooked ever since. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t let anyone else touch your hot chocolate, love.” It makes your heart flutter every time he calls you that fond endearment, and you’re sure he knows it too—he probably calls all the lady customers by that name. But no matter what you tell yourself, you weren’t just there for the hot chocolate… “Would you be interested in a sweet treat to go with it this time? Everything’s baked fresh,” he gestures to the array of baked goodies on display, and you try not to drool at the selection openly. Remus has made this offer so often that you don’t think it’s simply him trying to generate more profit for the cafe anymore. But because of his consistent assertions and soft eyes, you finally cave, worn down like the cliff edge by the ocean, sending you crumbling down and into its depths. “I’ll make sure to give you a discount.”

“Alright, alright.” Side-stepping, you lean over to inspect the display case and the delicious array of treats it holds. “It’s kind of a hard choice…”

Remus laughs and nods in understanding, “I don’t blame you. Please take your time, it’s a slow hour.” 

Despite his reassurance, you continue to struggle and soon get anxious over not having made your pick yet. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“Of course!” Stepping away from the coffee machines he preoccupied himself with, Remus gestures to his personal picks, “If you want to satiate that sweet tooth more, you can’t go wrong with our chocolate chip cookies. But if you want something a little less sweet to go with your hot chocolate, our all-butter shortbreads are also a good choice.” With his help, you’re finally able to choose and watch as he selects the biggest, most delectable-looking one in the display—you try not to smile too hard at that; he’s the sweetest. “I’ll have your hot chocolate ready for you soon, love.” Not only did he give you a discount, but he didn’t charge you a single penny.

“Thank you so much, Remus.” He sends you away with a charming smile and your plated treat. When you eventually choose a window seat, you decide to wait until your hot chocolate is done to indulge in your snack pairing and take to observing the city scene outside. 

With a sigh of gratitude, you quietly thank the cafe walls for providing you with such peace. This has become such a safe corner for you in the city that you couldn’t believe you survived so long without it. And it was all thanks to glimpsing Remus’ gorgeous face and sweet nature by chance. The memory made you want to giggle, but you’re soon pulled from such thoughts by the obnoxious clearing of a throat beside you. 

When you turn, you find the source to be the most annoying man you’ve ever met, already introducing himself and quickly beginning to ramble obnoxiously. (What did he say his name was?) He had an ethereal type of beauty with his pale skin, grey eyes and midnight-black hair, dressed in leather like a biker from the 80s, but with a voice that itched your brain in the worst way possible. Was he trying to flirt with you? 

“I’m sorry?” you ask, just to be polite and also to test if this guy was being serious or not about his brazen behaviour. 

“Oh, don’t be sorry, dollface~” he leans in uncomfortably close, “I know I’m a looker, so there’s no need to be shy, you can look at me all you want—all day long if you must.” The stranger flutters his lashes at you, and you swear that you have the most confused and aghast expression on your face. You’re staring at him like he’s grown two extra heads, but he doesn’t stop and continues with his ‘flirting’. “Anyway~ I’m a looker and you’re a looker, why don’t we be lookers together and go for a date?” he wiggles his brows with a smug smirk on his lips, and you try your best not to gag, giving him enough breathing room to continue without an answer. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Before you could respond and politely try to shoo him away, a dark, coarse and almost familiar voice answers for you from where it looms over your figure, “Yes, she does,” Blinking in surprise, your voice gets stuck in your throat with your breath when you look over your shoulder and up to find Remus with a menacing look on his face, one that you couldn’t believe he was capable of ever expressing.

“You’re her—”

“I’m her boyfriend.” Remus reaffirms matter-of-factly, and you try to pretend that your face doesn’t feel like it’s suddenly been set on fire as he turns his icy glare from the stranger and onto you. The instant his eyes met yours, Remus was back to his kind and gentle self, with an additional warmth in his gaze as he placed your hot chocolate on the table in front of you. “Here’s your hot chocolate, my love.” He gently presses his nose against your hair and allows his lips to lightly brush against your temple. “I’m sorry it took so long…I had to redo it.” You don’t know what happened—still spiralling from the dreamy scene happening around you—but the creepy man dressed in leather quickly scampers off. 

Breathing a heavy sigh, Remus sinks into the unoccupied chair next to you. “Th-thanks for that Rem–” to your embarrassment, despite the justified reaction, you let out a small yelp when the barista in question takes the leg of your seat and pulls you closer, his thighs spread apart so you could be as close as possible. When your head was a few inches from his chin, he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable…” 

You wait until your heart rate slows to a normal pace before answering, smiling softly at his considerateness, “I wasn’t uncomfortable at all, not by you at least. Thank you for saving me, Remus.” It was quite adorable how soft he had become, nuzzling into your shoulder to apologise. You couldn’t help but think that he was like an affectionate dog trying to act sweet to express its regret, which you were very weakhearted for. Unable to help yourself, your hand comes up to gently comb through his hair—you can’t believe how soft it is! 

“No. I didn’t save you.”

“What do you mean?”

“...You have to deal with me now…” 

OUTTAKE :

“Remus was so mean, Jamie! And after the sacrifice I took for him!” Sirius whines as James rolls his eyes and shares an amused look with Lily, who sips at her tea while his arm slings over the back of the sofa behind her. “I was only trying to get him together with his lady! It was a success, but I can’t believe that this is the ‘thanks’ I get! Me! The perfect wingman, but glared at, like I’m some sort of villain!” 

“Perfect wingman, more like perfect creep—” 

“Not you too, James!” Sirius shouts, the agony rich in his voice and falls back into his loveseat dramatically, as if struck by an arrow, “I can’t believe you would mock my genius acting like that!” 

“Get over yourself, Sirius.” Lily comments, hiding her smirk behind the lip of her teacup. “What matters is that Remus is finally with his favourite regular.”

“Yeah~ Get over yourself, Sirius~” James teases mockingly, narrowing his eyes at his friend, still smirking in amusement before he drops the jeering facade. “Moony’s with his lady now, ain’t he? He’ll stop giving you the silent treatment soon enough”

Sirius huffs, arms crossed, “I never get any praise around here! A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice!” 

NAVI. | MORE REMUS

A/N : god...i missed writing for sirius XD and remus and james too of course! it's been a while since I've written a timestamp but i hope you darlings enjoyed the read hehe~

[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 4: Don’t You Find It Strange? The Only Thing We Share Is One Last Name

Water is meant to be clean. Its main purpose is to sustain the human body, which cannot survive without it. People have also given water many meanings and symbols throughout the centuries.

Purification. Life. Transformation. Change. Fluidity. Nurishment.

Water is meant to be something that heals.

Which is why Jason Todd felt unsettled by the dark brown pool in front of him.

Oracle had sent him the coordinates she managed to find from the police report Chief Gordon had given her later that night. He had found her near Grant Park, walking out of an empty alley and without a phone or a schoolbag. Confused, out of it, uniform drenched and ruined, and wound on the head.

He kicked a crushed soda can out of his way, landing in the murky water and making ripples on the surface. 

The nauseating feeling of disgust clawed at his stomach the more he looked at the pool.

It brought back memories. Memories he would rather keep buried.

‘She crawled out,’ he analyzed, flashlight pointed at the dried footsteps, wandering from the huge water print and towards the hole in the wired fence.

The flashlight was moved around, viewed on the ground, and over the bushes.

A sparkly glint that clashed with the light between the unkept leaves caught his attention. Crouching in front of the bushes, he reached out. Grabbing and pulling out the item so he could see it up close.

A purple, drenched schoolbag with silver charms hanging from its zipper. By how heavy it was, Jason figured out that the books and contents inside it were drenched as well.

“The bag fell into the pool as well.” he stood up, bag in hand, and looked back at the pool.

“But she didn’t fall with it. It was thrown after.” 

His boots crunched over broken glass, making him look down. There were two head bottles laid near the mess. They were probably thrown or fell by accident. It was recent, too, by how clean the glass looked. 

“Somebody came back…” he muttered to himself, moving what was left of the bottles with the front of his boot.

He lifted the bag, noticing how it still dripped heavily with water. It was too wet to have been taken out around the time of the event.

The bag had been taken out later. Way later. Probably a few minutes before he reached the place, if his instincts were to be trusted. It made his blood spike up underneath his veins, a heavy grunt pushed out of his modulator.

Someone had waited hours to get rid of the evidence.

Someone tried to get rid of her.

Someone tried to kill-

A distant voice interrupted his dark musings. Then, the sounds of shoes slipping and footsteps running off.

Jason didn’t hesitate to drop the bag and take out his gun, sprinting and jumping over the fence. Taking off towards whoever was trying to escape from him. Pulse palpitating, a dark feeling invading his chest as the thoughts of what he was going to do once he caught the bastard that dared to even look at her way.

It didn’t take long for gunshots, a body slamming against a metal dumpster, accompanied by grunts of pain, to be heard on a dark, blocked alley.

The person, a boy not older than eighteen, tried to crawl back as he yelled and cried from the pain in his leg. His jeans were turning dark from the blood and other fluids as the tall, imposing figure of Red Hood walked calmly towards him.

“Ple-please,” the boy whimpered out, body trembling, and a high-pitched noise escaping from his mouth once the vigilante crouched right by his side.

“It was just a prank! We swear!” he tried to cover his face, but Red shoved the gun in his face, making him stop.

“We? So there’s more of you?”

The boy went pale. Lips shaking. His head moved from different sides as if he couldn’t say yes or no to the questions of the masked man.

The gun was then shoved in his mouth, making him choke out a scream.

“Better start talkin’, boy.”

“Because you just made my night a fuckin’ hell.”

• • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

From the moment she woke up that morning, she should have known fate had it out for her. 

And given that it was also her first day in a new family, she should have been prepared for the absolute madness that went down that morning.

She knows someone down in hell had it out for her and was laughing their ass off.

Let’s divide the events so it can be easier to understand.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Falling back to sleep turned out to be a chore.

She was exhausted; that was given. And the soup and tea had been more than enough to put her in a very sleepy state. And she was knocked out the moment her head hit the pillow!

But, for some bullshit reasoning, her body decided that five hours of sleep was enough for her to regain her strenght after the whole thing that happened.

And to top it all, she felt alright. Even energized, to her shock! 

Her skin was strumming with adrenaline underneath, making her walk around the bedroom in circles to burn off some of the restlessness inside her body. It felt like a need, even. Just to do something with her legs.

Walk. Jump around. Bounce them while sitting down. Even try to jog in the same spot.

She tried to run around, but the limited space and almost knocking down the bookshelf put a quick stop to that. It was becoming annoying to the point that even her fingers drummed against the hardwood floor as she lay all sprawled out while staring at the ceiling. Soaking in the coldness so the uncomfortable sensation would calm down.

And why lie on the floor instead of walking around the halls where there was more space, or exploring her bedroom more thoroughly? Simple answer. 

Number 1: Because ain’t no way she's walking in the dark in a very obvious haunted house. She ain’t that dumb.

And number 2: It didn’t feel right to search someone’s belongings without permission. Even when that someone was no longer among the living.

Inhaling deeply, her gaze moved towards the stained glass window. Its colors painted across the room as the rising sunlight shone through the glass. Small particles of dust, changing between the colors as they floated around the air.

‘For such a lively room, it feels so lonely here…’

Her mind mused, a sudden sense of calm coming over her, and taking off some of the intensity of the restless feeling. She could feel like breathing again, eyes sliding closed slowly. 

The sensation of hands caressing her hair made her slip under more quickly.

Sweet sleep, finally…

Then her stomach decided to growl as if a freaking bear was inside of it.

2. Walking on dark halls should count as a sport.

Remembering her way to the kitchen wasn’t hard. Alfred had given her different clues on how to tell apart the halls, but he told her that he would fetch her the next morning for breakfast, and he would continue to do so until her head healed.

‘Well, too bad, Alfred. My stomach ain’t waiting any longer.’

Her thoughts complained, eyes bouncing from portrait to portrait. Arms wrapped around herself to keep the cold out. Because somehow, even while still wearing the thick sweats from the police station (they were comfy and she wasn’t touching the wardrobe unless she got some divine permission), the manor still managed to chill her to the bone.

Going back to the warm room was very tempting. Truly. But her stomach was almost eating itself in hunger. It was almost painful.

Why was she so hungry? She ate a few hours ago, and it feels like ages to her stomach.

Grumbling under her breath as she took a turn to the left, her body froze on the spot once her stare landed on the end of the hallway. Her heart almost going between coming to a stop or dropping to her feet.

There, in the hall, a tall, hunched figure walked slowly with a thick cloth over them. They were holding something between their hands, close to their chest. Pale hands standing out amongst the dark hallway.

She took a slow step back, wincing too loudly when the floor creaked under her weight.

Their head snapped toward the noise. Cornflower blue eyes with heavy, dark bags underneath and a very exhausted stare.

They stared at each other, neither moving nor even breathing. Until a male, confused voice came from the cloaked figure.

“You are not supposed to be up yet.”

His words snapped her out of the sudden scare, cold sweat going down her neck as she let out a heavy sigh. The cold hand of last night gripped her shoulder as she calmed down her heart palpitations.

Empty words. Ignored questions. Double-handed comments. Sarcastic answers. So much doubt. Condescending tones. Feeling dumb and stupid, and it hurts so much. You must have thought so hard about that. And why would I care? God, leave the thinking to someone else. Are you even trying? Surely you aren’t that stupid? I don't have time for that. Maybe if you used your head every once in a while, you wouldn’t be such a pain for us. Stupid. Dumb. Slow. Stop taLKING-

Cold lips whispered in her ear.

“Timothy. Know-it-all. Cold. Sarcastic. Condescending. And a coffee addict.”

Don’t let down your gaze

The cold hand slipped off slowly from the shirt, and then she was back in the hall with the freaking guy that almost gave her a heart attack on the spot.

Something akin to anger invaded her body. Sinking right through her back.

She straightened up and just stomped down the hallway, shaking her head as she muttered angrily under her breath. Her hands curled into fists on her sides. Her stomach growled in agreement for the first time since she stepped out.

“Not supposed to be up. Looking in the fucking mirror for once and then you can talk,” she said between her teeth as she passed right by him and taking two stairs at a time and disappearing by taking the hall to the left.

Anger, hunger, and fear ran through her blood. Anger from somebody else. Hunger that was becoming starvation. And fear, well, she was angry from getting scared like that by a dude with eyebags for his eyebags.

‘Fuck this house. Can’t normal people live under this roof?!’

Meanwhile, Drake just stood there. Eyes wide and mouth forming words, but no sound coming out. He was pretty sure he was having a hallucination from his lack of sleep.

“...since when does she move so fast?”

3. And then, the kitchen, her only salvation. Now turned into a gathering point.

Not only did she not find Alfred in the kitchen, but the little gremlin was having breakfast already at the dinner table.

He was wearing a school uniform, very similar to her own. Or what she thought her uniform used to look like. His schoolbag sat on the chair next to him, all pristine and expensive-looking. His plate was almost empty, just some scrambled eggs and untouched bacon strips that were snatched up by the smiling man sitting in front of him as they talked.

A man who left a sinking feeling on her suddenly quiet stomach.

The man had black hair and sparkling blue eyes, bright with joy and fondness as he listened to Damian complain about something she couldn’t bother to tune in as her ears started to ring. He wore a thick black jacket, a bluish grey shirt, and jeans. 

Before she took another step as quietly as possible (because she had convinced herself that if she moved as quietly and as fast as possible, she wouldn’t have to even interact with another random guy so early in the morning.), a youthful voice that felt like nails on a chalkboard to her called for her attention.

“Hey! You’re awake early!” The cheery tone made goosebumps break out on her skin, making her hiss under her breath.

Turning her head towards the man, she took notice of how he was already standing up and walking towards her. An easy smile on his face.

It irked her, for some reason. That smile.

“Here I thought you were sleeping in until late in the afternoon after what happened yesterday.”

With every step and word that came out of him, the more her shoulders moved up as an upsetting feeling churned inside of her.

Why is he smiling so much? And this early, too? It’s unsettling

Then, he put his hand on her shoulder. It felt so wrong and odd. And when her gaze found his, the only emotions she could find on his stare were pity and something similar to concern. But mainly pity. It made her feel cold and heavy.

“Did you rest? You need to-”

Sorry excuses. Soft avoidance. Pitiful glances. Forgotten recitals. Empty promises. So many empty chairs in recitals. Photos of her alone. Unanswered calls. Unseen messages. I can’t today, I’m too tired. Sorry, gotta go help with a case. Sure, I’ll see if I can go. Sorry, I’m going out with Damian. I promised Tim that I would help him with something. Can’t you ask Bruce? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’T. I CAN’TIMSORRYICANTIMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRY ARE YOU SORRY-

“Can you not?” she snapped, pulling her shoulder away from his grasp. Almost as if his touch burned her.

He recoiled, startled at the sudden action. Eyes widening in confusion and surprise. He put both of his hands up, trying to look defenseless.

“Oh, um, sorry. I didn’t think-” he tried to talk, but she just brushed him off and moved towards the fridge to look for something to take away the head-shattering migraine that was pounding between her ears.

Except the whispers were back. Again. 

‘Can you also not? Let me at least eat something, Jesus.’

She complained to herself, feeling a bit crazy while doing so. But the coldness settled for a moment. And the headache, too.

‘So maybe I am not going that crazy…’ She thought as she picked up a crystal jug filled with what she assumed was orange juice and some protein bars she found on the fridge door before closing it with her knee.

The man had not moved from his position, still staring at her as if she had grown a second head. His hands were even still up in the air, frozen.

Even the gremlin was staring at her with a calculating glare. But something was assuring her that it was just his face.

She didn’t say a single thing to them, sticking to serving some juice to drink. Finding a cup wasn’t so hard, just taking a clean one from the drying rack as she muttered under her breath. Maybe staying a few more hours holed up in a dead girl’s bedroom wasn’t such a bad idea if it meant she could have avoided meeting the ghost of the hallways and Mister touchy feelings over there.

“Richard Grayson,” The sudden cold lips at her ear made her almost choke on her juice, but she managed to hold it back.

‘What’s up with your fucking timing?!’

The ghost on her shoulder ignored her (because she was 100% sure it was a ghost, fight her on that).

“Liar. Pitiful. Avoidant. Fake. Liar. Liar. LiaR. LiAR. LIAR-”

“How hard did you hit your head to be acting like a savage animal?” the snobbish gremlin said with his nose turned up, glaring at the empty cup in her hand.

Looks like she downed it so fast that she didn’t even notice it. A small hiccup left her throat, making her flush a bit in embarrassment.

“Now, Dami, that’s not nice,” the man, Richard, said as he walked towards her. 

But she moved away from him with a grimace, avoiding his extended hand again. He probably intended to pat her back or something, but she wasn’t feeling like it. So she took a sharp curve to the left and put the cup in the dishwasher to wash it.

Richard looked almost offended at that, staring at her with a hurt look and looking down at his hand. Did he do something wrong? Are his hands dirty or something?

Why is she avoiding him? Why won’t she let him hold her? She used to even preen over a simple pat!

“So,” he clapped his hands awkwardly, trying to disguise a bit the tense situation. “How’s the wound? Heard it wasn’t pretty.”

Such a smooth move, Dick.

Both Damian and her turned to look at him in disbelief.

She scoffed, a sarcastic laugh as she slammed down the now clean cup in the drying rack. Her eyes gave a bit of a maniacal glint that made him click his mouth shut.

That was… new.

“Yeah, having my head cracked open on the pavement is not a pretty sight. Such an outstanding observation!”

Her tone made him wince, and even Damian looked a bit surprised at her biting answer. But he mostly seemed entertained by the drama unfolding in front of him.

Richard sighed deeply at that, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was digging a deeper hole.

“I didn’t mean like that,” he uttered out before gesturing towards her. “You’re just so sensitive today, and I’m-”

“Excuse me, the fuck you mean by ‘I’m being sensitive’?”

Suddenly, Damian’s empty plate looked a lot more interesting to him.

Pure irritation and indignation were oozing from her body, making Richard lift his hands up and close and open his mouth like a gaping fish. He took a few steps forward, slowly.

“Wooh, I meant that you-’

But she was not having it.

“You just waltz back in here, acting all concerned, and tell me how I’m supposed to be acting like it’s something kind of play? Is that it?”

“No! Is just that you are not reacting-”

“Reacting like what? Like I should be sooo glad that you are cutting some of your time to show you care?” Her face was twisted in a snarl. So much indignation was bubbling from inside her chest and making her fists shake by her sides.

His expression was similar to as if he had gotten the air punched out of him. Those words hit a bit too close. 

“Hun, that’s not what I-” his hand went to grab her forearm. But it got slapped away.

Suddenly, he had a pointed finger up in his face and a fuming teenage girl glaring at him from hell and back.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” She spat out. Turning around and picking her protein bars, she stomped towards the entrance of the kitchen and yelled over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

“ Ever Again! ”

The uncomfortable silence reigned over the kitchen for a long time. Neither of the two people there said a thing until the butler of the family made his way into the room, carrying some plastic bags from the grocery store trip he had made to make something more nutritious for the young lady, which would help her get some more energy. But the tense air made him raise an eyebrow, taking notice of the grieving expression on Master Dick’s face and the thoughtful expression on Master Damian’s.

“Everything alright with breakfast, Masters?” he asked while putting away the groceries.

Damian picked up his dishes and began to wash them in the sink, not paying any attention to Grayson’s obvious crisis.

“I think Embarrassment is going through her rebellious stage… or puberty.”

“...I see.”

Dick just started sobbing against the counter.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

And that would summarize the hellish morning she just had.

Nobody had come to bother her, thank God. Alfred even brought her a complete breakfast to her room and didn’t ask any questions about why she lay on the floor while glaring at the ceiling as if it had offended her in the worst way possible. If only the people around were more like him, she wouldn’t have gone all berserk on the touchy guy.

She felt a bit bad over snapping that way, but he wouldn’t stop trying to touch her. And let’s say that the odd vibrating sensation under her skin was not helping with receiving touch.

It hurt. It honestly hurt. It felt like burning branding, and it hurt.

Even her clothes felt like needles against her skin. It was very uncomfortable, and it was driving her insane. The only thing that could soothe it was the coldness from the ghost that followed her everywhere.

Oh, right. The ghost.

She had a few impressions of who it could be, since she had made it pretty obvious with all the clues she had been getting from way back at the police station. And all those memories and feelings and outbursts (okay, the outbursts were all her own, but she certainly gave the push), it wasn’t that hard to put two and two together.

The real (Y/N) Wayne was haunting here in the most unconventional way possible.

Unlike the men of the family (except Alfred), the actual spirit wasn’t trying to scare the hell out of her. Which gained a thousand brownie points in her favor. As for why said ghost was still here and helping her out instead of throwing a fit for getting her literal body stolen from her, that was still a mystery.

“Can you only talk to me? Is that not boring to you?” she asked the empty air beside her on the bed, fidgeting mindlessly with the seams of an old lilac blanket. 

After getting quite harshly shoved into the bed and having throwed at the weighted blanket over her, she had gotten the message that the ghost didn’t mind her being in her space.

And she didn’t even know if ghost girl was actually beside her. It was just a random decision, so she didn’t feel she was going as crazy as she was.

Then a round of unanswered questions began to pass the time. There was no way she was gonna venture around the manor and run the chance of encountering another annoying guy related to her.

“I wonder, does your dad just have a hobby of picking up the most entitled guys as his son, or is it pure coincidence?” That got her a tickling sensation on her nose similar to a pinch.

It wasn’t exactly an answer, but she would take it as a yes.

She snorted and sighed deeply, letting her eyes slip close. That weighted blanket was doing wonders to calm her down.

She wondered if Billy was doing all right, wherever he was.

Is he too far away? (Of course, he is; she can’t feel him in her head. She always felt him there. No matter how far apart they were from one another.)

Is he going through the same thing? Adapting to a new body? (Some odd feeling told her he wasn’t going through it exactly like her. But she couldn’t figure out why.)

Is he eating? Is he alone? Does he also have a ghost companion like her? Where is he? God, where is he-

A sudden clattering and crashing sound startled her out of her trance thoughts. Sitting up on the bed and looking around the room for the source of the noise. As she slid to the edge of the bed, the creaking door of the wardrobe opened slowly.

…She gave a dead stare to the empty air.

“If you want me dead, just say so. No need for spooky shit.”

As if on sync, the door opened completely. It was filled to the brim with scarves, coats, dresses, and shirts in the same aesthetic and colors as the room. From deep purple to soft lilac, black, and dirty green. And scattered over the floor, a cardboard box open with what she could identify as cassettes.

The blanket slid off of her, and a small shove on her shoulder had her standing up and walking over to the mess on the floor. Grumbling as she crouched to clean up.

“Y’know, being your eternal maid is not exactly on my plans, so how about we keep your stuff cle-” her ranting stopped once the label on one of the cassettes caught her eye.

‘Diary Entry: Year 6’

She sat down on the floor, noticing how all the other cassettes had different numbers written on their labels as she picked them up. There were a total of ten cassettes, the number one being in such a deplorable state that indicated someone had thrown it around and pulled out the tape on purpose.

A dragging sound behind her made her look away and over her shoulder. 

A cassette player, very well taken care of, stood out by the edge beneath the bed. She looked back at the old box and the destroyed cassette in her hands, her fingers gently running along the sticky recording tape.

Well, time to listen to a ghost’s podcast.

She preferred that over getting out of the room. 

A win is a win.

• • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Author's Note: I Keep on saying I won't make long chapters, better stop believing me fr. So, a small update about what's gonna happen in the next two-three weeks. Next week, I'll be entering the last weeks of the semester and I'm locking in completely. I'm also going on a weekend trip by the end of this week, so next chapter will be published after that trip and then focus on finals. I'll try my best to publish weekly, could early or late but always expect towards sundays. That would be all for now! Let me know your thoughts on this chapter and give it some love! Lots of hugs,

GG✨

Tag List:

@bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs

Bonus Memes:

[razorblade180]

Let’s talk about this for a moment. This formation is devious and I feel bad for the monsters. Keep in mind, Jean got her vision after handling an invasion. Just thought that should be said.

The monsters coming in from the side entrance have to get past Eula, and if they manage to do that they run into Lisa “The Purple Witch” Minci and her wolf god trained student. IF those creatures survive they have two choices:

They run towards the world’s strongest maid that’s trying to make a name for herself, or towards who I’m assuming is Sucrose; who is right next to the alchemy table to make whatever she has to.

The monsters coming in from the bridge are facing the man who can throw a phoenix and his brother with the perfect move to not only protect his brother, but make him stronger. All of that while two archer can snipe from both sides of the wall, but call out incoming enemies.

A hillichurl that survives then faces two more arches that are positioned where they work daily. One is a small feline huntsman around balconies while the other is a pro adventurer that can fly or send out her familiar to cover her blind spots.

Now let’s say various types of churls break that line of defense. I would not be shocked if the two question marks together end up being the traveler if Klee. You know she’s not sitting this out but needs a guardian. If it isn’t us then maybe Dhalia. Then there’s the lone question mark. I am so confident it’s Bennett. Just him, the monster, and the bad luck they have to deal with. Nobody else around to get hurt and he’s no pushover.

Now the lucky monsters that made it through all that defense are getting funneled up towards the god on his religious sniper’s nest who’s probably been firing assist shots to every group in front of him. The closer they get, the more likely to escape his eyesight and run towards Jean “Overachiever” Gunnhilder and Mona “i foretold your arrival” Megistus running devious defense with healing!

THEN the final obstacle is the woman of the church that makes it her job to go out every night and kill said monsters while the hydro deaconess is keeping that cryo assassin healthy along with any other knight.

Varka didn’t bat an eye taking half the troops on an expedition because invading Mondstadt with citizens like them around is an awful idea. Noelle is chilling by herself and it makes sense! She’s not the one who needs help!

[elumish]

One of the really important things to keep in mind over the next decade or so is that it's much easier to destroy something than it is to build or rebuild it.

There are (at least) two things that are being lost when people leave the federal government in this way: manpower and technical ability/institutional knowledge.

To destroy something, you just need to get rid of enough of one or the other of those.

But to build or rebuild it, you need both--and often more than you needed to maintain it.

To do any sort of work you need both enough people and people with the right knowledge and expertise. Some people who left or were forced out and so already have that knowledge/expertise may be willing to come back, but a lot probably won't, because it's proven to be an insecure position. To train new people up to the level of competence you need, it requires enough staff who already have that level of competence already--and again, many of them were forced out.

And so you need to not only get enough people who are willing to work for the federal government after this administration but also get people who have the right technical expertise to do those jobs.

Federal contractors are also an option in some cases (assuming companies survive the current efforts to get rid of a lot of federal contracting), though there is work that contractors can't legally do, but contracting is also far more expensive than having federal employees, so now it's taking even more money to bring back the same capability.

If there was a digital system that was taken offline, it will be more expensive and time consuming to bring it back online than it would have been to just maintain it in the first place.

And every single program that has been shut down or office that has been decimated is going to face these same sorts of issues. In some ways, it will be worse than trying to build them from scratch, because the federal government was already aggressively understaffed, and now a lot of the trust that a federal job is a secure/safe one is gone.

So yeah, don't expect an immediate reversion to the level of functionality we had before January 2025, much less an improvement. This is going to be a long, slow road. And it's not the fault of the people on the ground doing the work.

Hey. Look at me. Please leave yourself a note somewhere you'll see it later that says "it is going to take years if not decades to get the United States government to the level of functionality it had in November of 2024." If we elect a democrat in 2028, we are not going to be up and running by 2032.

Please make sure you have a reminder in your phone reminding you to not look at 2028/32/36 Democratic candidates and say "why are they not promising/delivering Cool Shit?" because you are going to understand that to get Cool Shit we must have competent people running a decently funded government, and we are not going to have that.

We are not getting UBI. We are not getting single payer healthcare. We are not getting free college or free preschool. We are not redistributing wealth on a large scale. We are not getting free internet. We are not getting ranked choice voting.

If we are lucky, we are going to get an IRS that can collect taxes, qualified schoolteachers, research grants, Social Security, and a government that thinks maybe it should be a priority for people around the worlds to not have AIDS, malaria or TB.

[loveharlow]

I'm currently sick, so

can u do Travis Martinez x sick reader. Where they're in the wilderness and she has a high fever, so Travis takes care of her 😇

Thank you so much I love your writing 💓

i can try, please tell me how you like it because i've never written for yellowjackets because while i love the show, the plot confuses me a bit, this is probably not as fluffy as you were hoping IM SO SORRY (an idea came to mind, i had to indulge)

swearing, illness, mentions of vomit, mentions to cannibalism, set pre-s3 & during early s2 after they ate jackie

The fire crackled, the sound traveling from the cabin's living area to the kitchen, where you lay with your head in Travis's lap. He pressed a cool, damp cloth to your forehead, a bowl of melted snow beside him.

You'd all been stranded in the wilderness for months. It was inevitable that someone would fall sick eventually. Whether from the relentless weather, lack of...food, or something else, you didn't know. What you did know was that your skin was burning, yet you couldn't stop shivering, and you'd already vomited up your last meal.

"Feelin' any better?" Travis asked, dabbing the wet cloth against your forehead. You peered up at him weakly, meeting his brown eyes with a small frown. "Sorry... dumb question."

"...'s fine," you mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around you. "You shouldn't be so close," you advised, gently pushing his hand away from your head. "Last thing we need is two sick people."

"I'll be fine," Travis insisted, dipping the cloth in the bowl. He reached to place it back on your forehead, but you caught his wrist with what little strength you had.

"I'm serious, Travis," you warned, your eyes hardening. You glanced over your shoulder at the others, scattered and sleeping in the living room. Dread filled your gaze before you turned back to Travis, fear evident in your eyes. "You...you haven't seen the way some of them have been looking at me." Your voice shook. "Like... like they're waiting." A tear escaped and rolled down your cheek.

Travis shook his head, brushing your hair behind your ear. "They're not—" He stopped himself from offering a false reassurance. "...What happened with Jackie, it was a survival thing-"

"You know it was more than that," you countered immediately, shaking your head. "We ate her, Trav," you asserted. "We... we all ate her like it was nothing. Like she wasn't our captain. Like she wasn't our friend. Like she wasn't a person. And I can see it in some of their eyes..." You trailed off, your heart pounding. "They're waiting to do it again. And I feel like I'm in a cage with lions or something-" You panicked.

"Hey, it'll be okay," he tried to comfort you, pulling your head further into his lap as your breathing grew rapid. "Natalie and I have been out hunting. We haven't found anything yet, but—"

"And you won't," you sighed. "Not in this weather. And you're really just looking for Javi, I know."

Travis's face twisted, a mild expression of hurt at the mention of his missing brother. "He...He's my brother—"

"I'm not blaming you," you reassured him, placing a weak hand on his leg as you calmed yourself. "I know you want to find him. We all do." You smiled weakly. "...All I'm saying is, with the way things are..."

"Don't," he snarled, looking away.

"Travis..." You tried to sit up.

"They're not gonna fucking eat you," he snapped.

"Look at me," you argued with the most conviction in your voice in days. "I've been sick for almost a week. I can't keep anything down, and it's freezing. There's a very real possibility of me dying out here, Travis." You were blunt. "...You know what Lottie told me this morning?" You continued, swallowing harshly as you finally found the strength to push yourself up, glancing briefly at Lottie sleeping nearby. "She said I'm 'fighting the wilderness's decision'. That it's already chosen, and I'm fighting against what it wants."

"Don't...listen to Lottie. She's been spewing bullshit ever since we got here—"

"That's not my point," you dismissed him, tears now flowing freely. "I... I don't know what we're becoming out here, Travis. And it's happening to all of us. And it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel good." You emphasized the words. "If...being sick is what takes me out of here, I'll be grateful—"

"Don't talk like that."

"I'm being honest," you continued, despite his protest. "But please," you started, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look at you. "You have to promise me something." Your eyes locked onto his. "Promise me that if I die...you won't let them eat me."

He just stared at you, a conflicted look on his face as his brown eyes searched yours.

"Travis." You shook his face slightly, snapping him out of his thoughts, bringing his face slightly closer to yours. "Take me somewhere and bury me, tell them I left, I don't care what you do but do not. let them. eat me." You gritted, voice still thick with illness. "Promise me."

"...I promise."

©loveharlow.

[princessofghosts-posts]

When Percy "died" in BotL and went to Ogygia,everyone else thought he was actually dead-dead,no in between. And Nico was probably also freaking out because he felt his soul die in a strange way,but couldn't understand how and what was going on at the time.

But the thing is that with Thalia in the Hunt and Percy "dead",everyone thought Nico was the prophecy child,since they couldn't know about Percy and Thalia was off-limits as an immortal. And he was the only one left.

Nico was the prophecy child for a couple of days,before Percy returned.

And I can totally see Hades wanting to use this type of advantage later on,to have his son as the prophecy child in TLO,now he know he can technically do something about it. Which would explain why he would randomly want Nico to be an hero,when he literally took his children out of the Casino only a couple of months before everything was starting. If he wanted Bianca to be the child of the prophecy he should had take them out earlier,so that either she was a couple of years older than Percy or at the same age as him once Hades found out about his existence. So it was just a matter of months between the two and which day the war was going to happens. (Bianca is 12 in TTC,and since the Lotus is froze in time,if Hades took them out at the end of TLT she would have been the same age as Percy in TLO,or have Nico more older than 12.)

That's it,of course,if Bianca survived. And even with that she would probably had pulled a Thalia either way.

Idk,it was a bit OOC for Hades to kidnap Percy in TLO and have Nico as the prophecy child,since during PJO he didn't want to be with them after they isolated him,and his speech of "My children are always the evil ones,if one of them can be a hero then I will be recognized by the Olympians" is bullshit. Hades has one of the most kind and gentle child in the whole Universe and fucked him up with an inferiority complex. Nico was always one of the good ones,at the end of the day he helped them all even if they were shit to him. And it's something that it come out so strangely since in TLT Percy helped him to get his helmet back and was respectful to him (at least more than he is to the other gods),but I need to find something that makes sense about it.

Sorry about the rambling-

Anyway,yes,Nico was the prophecy child for a bit for the rest of the world. You know Zeus was dreading the day that prophecy was going to be true once he realized candidate A was out of the game. But he still escaped from it since Percy come back. Crazy thing to have on your resume.

[echo-exco]

GRAAAAAH⁉️ HELP‼️ You wrote such a masterpiece, I'm already so HYPED for the next chapter ONG.

With the batfamily's personal agenda and inability to reach out, their past forever haunting them.

I imagine that the realization that their present, where they actively ( idk if intentionally ) ignore the reader, now "past", will haunt them forever.

Especially Bruce's reaction, his internal struggle with the fact that if he was just a little bit warmer, the chaos caused by the future villain who used to be under his roof, could've been prevented.

Question tho, how would they all eventually turn yandere? They seem to have all never interacted before, so I can't see them suddenly feeling the need to be there for the reader. Either it would be self-righteous beliefs or they'd just think she overreacted. ( bring in the angst LMAO )

— "BEEDALEAF." 🥬

Aww! Thank you so much! I’m really glad that what I wrote was good for you, the readers 😌 I also hope to bring the next chapter soon!

The batfam has their own problems and responsibilities to deal with. Even healer!reader is aware of that, which is why she tries to avoid bothering them with her needs, whether emotional, intellectual, educational, social, or even sometimes financial.

Healer!reader has always been able to take care of herself, with or without a family. What truly affects her is the fact that she can’t use her powers while in Gotham, out of fear that someone from the batfam might find out.

Now, no one in the batfam ever intended to ignore healer!reader on purpose. Some of them might even think they never ignored her. It’s just that everyone assumed she probably had something else to do—or they simply forgot about the requests and questions she had made.

Because, for better or worse, the batfam sees healer!reader as too… ordinary for the family.

Since no one knows (yet 😼) that healer!reader has extraordinary healing abilities, they genuinely believe she’s just the most normal and average daughter of Bruce Wayne.

As for Bruce, he’s definitely going to regret everything. Healer!reader’s future doesn’t look very warm or pleasant for anyone involved.

If only she had had a father, someone to remember, someone she could trust and feel safe with… would that have changed anything? Would she have stayed?

Does Bruce even know his own daughter?

I can’t say healer!reader will be a villain in the future, but she definitely won’t be a hero either. Just think of her as, quite literally, a “human machine made to save thousands of lives.” Of course, depending on your point of view, you could see healer!reader as either a villain or a hero…

As for how they’ll all eventually become yanderes… Well, I like to think the yandere instincts were already there, buried deep inside. They just needed a (massive) little push to finally activate.

Like I said before, they all believed healer!reader was just a very “normal” child for the family. No one ever bothered to look past that.

That’s partially why they kept their distance from her… as if they genuinely thought she’d be better off not getting involved in family matters. Because, to them, healer!reader is someone who hasn’t seen the worst of the world yet, someone who hasn’t been through anything truly traumatic.

They think she’s better off where she is. They believe that way she’ll be safe from everything bad.

And to be fair, healer!reader herself wouldn’t have let anyone dig too deep into who she really is.

She doesn’t want the batfam to know her. She just wants to leave Gotham and go back to the medical field with Masashi. Healer!reader wants to use her powers. Being in the mansion makes her feel restrained and useless. She doesn’t like being there.

She can endure the neglect— it’s something she’s always survived through. What she can’t handle is the thought of not knowing when she’ll be able to use her powers again.

So you can imagine what’ll happen in the future when the Batfam finally learns about healer!reader’s powers. That revelation is going to hit them hard—with guilt, with regret.

I can absolutely picture them noticing healer!reader’s disappearance and brushing it off as a typical tantrum from a child (even if they don’t understand why she’d act that way). But as time goes on and she gives no sign of life… well… that’s when the first alarms start to go off.

And of course, we still have to see Duke and how his presence will affect healer!reader.

Sorry if the response was a bit long. I just hope it cleared up all your doubts.

[livrelady]

#svsss#love this idea#i think airplane's affair especially would be fascinating#like he transmigrates into a character who was always going to be one of bingge's wives and he knows it#but he's also in the demon realms and there's mobei jun no.1 favorite guy surviving his scheming uncle and etc#and so naturally while airplane awaits his not-too-anticipated wifing he starts helping mobei jun#which eventually graduates him from random demon in mbj's father's court to being an actual official and advisor and etc#mbj is also of course wildly in love with him#but airplane can't even begin to entertain that because he knows what happens to the male love rivals of the protagonist#mobei jun's much safer in the loyal minion slot he's meant to occupy#so even if airplane notices (50/50) he will just not let himself notice it or acknowledge it at all#then bingge sweeps in the plot happens and airplane's like okay well maybe he'll give me a token opening to decline to marry him#and I'll just take it#no luck he gets snapped up in the general consolidation of power#mobei jun is safe though! so that's good!#(mobei jun has moved from 'loyal lieutenant who is probably gonna get killed off in a dramatic battle to up the stakes one day'--)#(--'to scheming reluctant underling who is looking for any opportunity to increase his strength and kill his liege' but shh)#and then... not much happens for a while#bingge goes off on further wife plots and fresh conquests and airplane gets shuffled to the corner of the harem for the unmemorable wives#he is IN the harem so he's not really supposed to do his job anymore and theoretically he could just live comfortably#but the harem is treacherous and having zero attention makes him an easy target for wives with more clout#plus he's just not accustomed to having this lack of motives or drives so after a while he just goes back to helping mbj#at first very cautiously like he's expecting the system or bingge to swoop in and object at any moment#but when nothing happens he gets more confident and eventually he just goes back to doing the same job he was doing before#and spending most of his days with mbj and only going back to his official lodgings when they're having a tiff or he needs a break#eventually though he and mbj do hook up and then afterwards airplane is panicking#the protagonist is going to kill them both he just knows it#anticlimactic outcome: luo binghe doesn't even remember that they were married and by the time he does he's already wifebeamed by sy#angsty dramatic outcome: airplane + mbj vs bingge no holds-barred showdown the author's knowledge and mbj's strength against the protag hal#could even be that they WIN and that's how shen yuan comes to bingge's attention (X)

svsss au where shen yuan and shang qinghua both transmigrate into luo binghe's harem as his wives, shen yuan wife beams luo binghe and shang qinghua has an affair with mobei jun and the best part is neither of them know the other is a transmigrator and wont figure it out for a while because the harem is huge and their respective romance plots take a long time for various reasons

[shipmanl0ver]

“Now That You’re Gone”

————-

Yeah yeah my heart hurts anyways i love this song go listen to it

Pairing: Shauna Shipman x Reader

Warnings: Death (R!), and probably others I’m forgetting

————-

The cold doesn't bother her like it used to. Not anymore.

Shauna sits by the dying fire, the embers casting flickering shadows on the snow. It's quiet. Too quiet. Even nature seems to mourn.

Never thought it would be like this

What will you do

Now that you're gone?

She hears the lyrics in her head—the ones you used to hum when you thought no one was listening. You had a soft voice, always just under your breath, like a secret you didn't think the world deserved to hear.

You were her secret too.

You never said it out loud—not really. But your fingers lingered on hers longer than necessary. Your smiles held things unsaid. And in the dark of the wilderness, when the others were asleep, you'd lie side by side, backs to the cold, bodies pressed together under layers of stolen warmth and stolen moments.

She remembers your last night vividly. She didn't even know it was going to be your last.

You and Jackie had argued, again. You'd always tried to keep the peace, but that night, Jackie's words cut deeper than usual. She accused you of taking sides. Of betraying her. Of wanting more from Shauna than you dared admit.

You didn't deny it. Not this time.

You walked out into the snow, lips trembling, eyes shining, but not from the cold.

"I need to be alone," you'd said to Shauna, voice small.

She let you go.

She let you walk out into the freezing night.

And in the morning, all they found was a shape in the snow.

Curled up. Silent. Frozen.

Dead.

You.

Never known such unhappiness

Never thought it would be like this

What will I do, now that you're gone?

"Shauna?" Natalie's voice pulls her back to the present. She doesn't turn.

"Yeah?" she answers hollowly.

"We're low on firewood."

Of course they are. They always are. Everything is always running out—food, heat, time, sanity.

You.

She finally rises, brushing the frost from her jacket. Every movement feels heavier than it should. Her legs carry her toward the woods, toward the place where she last saw you disappear between the trees.

The spot is still there. Untouched, like time itself held its breath.

She kneels, fingers trembling as she touches the frozen earth. There's nothing left—not physically. But she swears she can still feel you here. Your presence, your warmth, your absence like a wound that never scabbed over.

"I should've gone after you," she whispers, her breath misting the air.

The forest doesn't answer.

The others talk about how you saved them. About how if Jackie had been the one out there that night, she wouldn't have made it. She was too proud. Too angry.

But you were strong. You gave up the shelter for someone else. That's what they say.

Shauna knows better.

You didn't want to be saved.

Not when she let you walk away.

Not when she chose silence.

The regret eats her from the inside out. She'd give anything to go back, to say the words she was too scared to say.

"I loved you," she says now, too late. "I love you."

And who's gonna rescue you

When you're lost at sea?

And who's gonna love you

If it isn't me?

The wilderness changed her, all of them—but not the way you did.

With you, it wasn't about survival. It was about softness in a world that had gone sharp. You made her laugh when it felt like the world was crumbling. You held her like she was more than someone else's shadow. More than someone else's mistake.

You saw her.

And now you're gone.

Shauna presses her forehead to the icy bark of a tree and lets herself break—just a little. She cries in silence, because there's no one left to hear her. No one who'd understand.

The fire in her chest isn't enough to melt the ice around her heart.

She dreams of you sometimes—half-formed, like smoke. In those dreams, you're always walking ahead, just out of reach. You never turn around.

She wonders if you're punishing her.

Or if you're just… gone.

When she returns to the cabin, she doesn't speak. She adds wood to the fire and stares into the flames, hoping to find something there. A sign. A ghost. Anything.

Jackie watches her warily from the corner. They don't talk much anymore.

Maybe they both know why.

Shauna touches the locket around her neck—yours, now hers. She never told anyone she took it. Never told anyone what's inside: a photo of you, grinning, squinting at the sun.

Before.

Before hunger.

Before winter.

Before regret.

Now, you're lost in the wilderness

You never dreamed it would end like this

What will they say, now that you're gone?

————-

[ssa-dado]

30 Seconds

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

masterlist(s)

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes):

Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

(…Unless he’s into that.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong.

That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause.

That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving.

Or maybe it’s just easier.

Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still,

arms open,

waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further.

He flinches.

(Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced.

At all.

In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

[yumelatte]

His Highness, Your Meowjesty - Chapter Two

Guard Cat

As the car’s headlights flashed in your eyes, you thought of one thing: In your next life, you wanted to be rich. You had said that, but you didn’t want to be a cat!

In which you wake up in the body of a cat with your past memories and befriend the kingdom’s crown prince, Mydei.

Fantasy Isekai AU

AO3 Link

Masterlist

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Slowly regaining consciousness, your eyes opened, surprised at the sharp vision of the dark room. 

That was right; you were a cat, and as one, your eyes were better than humans. 

You didn’t realize it had become so late. 

So much for a nap. It was more like a sleep. 

Standing up from your comfortable spot, you stretched out your body to alleviate the tension in your limbs. 

The uncovered window provided faint moonlight to the dimmed place, and you wondered why there were no barriers. 

Wasn’t it dangerous to leave it open like that? 

You pondered that question, staring at Mydei’s peaceful expression while tilting your head. 

He doesn’t seem concerned about it, so neither should you. 

Maybe your new owner had no enemies. That was a welcoming thought because if he had no enemies, that means no one would try to kill you. You could live a long and prosperous life being his feline companion. 

Purring at the realization that you have chosen well, you hopped off Mydei’s chest and nimbly landed on the floor. 

It wouldn’t hurt to familiarize yourself with your surroundings; after all, this was where you were going to be living the rest of your life. 

Observing the different furniture in a new perspective was weird, but you mapped them out in case you needed the knowledge. 

As you explored the rest of the area, your ears twitched, hearing a slight noise coming from the window. 

They say curiosity killed the cat, but you say satisfaction brought it back. 

Blending in with the shadows and sneaking your way over to under the wall’s opening, you remained there, patiently waiting to hear more. 

After a moment, you heard something… or someone…

With your ears perked up, you heard indistinct voices coming from outside. 

“Did you bring everything?” 

“Yeah, do you think I’m dumb or something?” 

“Yeah, I do. Last time, you forgot to bring the knife. How do we kill without a weapon? That was embarrassing. We had to retreat.” 

“Well, we have our hands, don’t we?” 

“Yeah, and I’d like to see you choke out someone like him without him waking up.” 

Assassins? This late in the night? No… 

You had been wrong; Mydei did have enemies, and they were at his doorstep.

No, you couldn’t let them take him away from you! He was your saving grace from the streets. You need to stop them right now. 

Pressing yourself against the wall, you waited until they stepped foot into the room. 

Once you saw feet, you swiftly darted to stand in their way. 

Not expecting an obstacle, one of them fell to the floor, pulling the other with them, and they both landed with a huge thud. 

“Ow!”

Turning around, you hoped Mydei heard the loud ruckus, but his form was unmoving and unaffected—sleeping soundly. 

…How can this guy sleep this well knowing his life was constantly at threat? How did he survive this far? 

“You clumsy HKS. Why did you fall and take me with you?” 

“It wasn’t on purpose. There was something in my way.” 

“What was it?” 

Their eyes adjusted to the darkness, seeing a small shape before them—you. 

Realizing you’ve been seen, you arched your back, hissing to try to alert your owner, making noisy meows. 

If he didn’t wake up from the sound of them falling, he probably wouldn’t wake up from your noise, but there was an attempt. 

“What the? Since when did he have such a disgusting animal?” 

Disgusting? You were very dignified, thank you very much. 

“Let’s just kill it and be on with it.” 

“First time I’m agreeing with you.” 

One of the assassins made a swing with their knife and you dodged it with your quick reflexes, scratching their hand with your claw.

“Y'ouch!” 

The other one tried to grab you by ducking down with outstretched arms. 

Easily moving out of the way, you slipped through their legs and sprinted towards Mydei in hopes of waking him up. 

But before you could reach the blonde man, you felt pressure at your scruff. 

Crap!

Letting out a hiss, you struggled as the hand maneuvered you to face your capturer, unable to move because of your weak spot. 

“Got it. Now we can deal with it.” 

You weren’t going to go down without a fight. It didn’t matter if your movements were restricted, your mouth could still move.

Loudly meowing, you continued to make their lives harder.

Mydei, please wake up! You refused to believe he wasn’t awake with all the commotion. 

“Can you hurry and shut it up? We’re running out of time…”

“Too late.” 

A familiar unamused voice rang out, silencing the intruders. 

The assassin that was holding you, dropped you at the unexpected noise, cowering when they realized the person they were trying to dispose of was wide awake.

Landing on your feet, you rushed behind Mydei’s legs, hissing at them from your cover. 

Finally, your savior! Show them, Mydei! If you were in your human form, you would be sticking out your tongue in victory. 

Mydei towered over the two trespassers, darkly staring them down with crossed arms. 

“Trespassing on royal grounds. Do you know the consequences?” 

“...Uh, yes…” they dumbly let out. 

Shaking his head, Mydei frowned, “If you two know what it is, you should know better. I am letting you go, but know that I am not doing it for your sake. It is for mine.” 

Nodding without another word, they returned from where they came from—the window. 

And you were bewildered at their obedience. It was as if they had gone through this same song and dance before. 

Wondering what that was all about, you weaved through Mydei’s legs to sit before him, meowing for his attention. 

You wanted to ask him if he had done this before, but all you could do was make cat noises. 

Damn your inability to speak. Losing your way of communicating greatly pained you; however, you weren’t sure if Mydei was ready to see your human side. Also, you weren’t sure if you were ready for the process. 

What a way to change between forms…

Picking you up, Mydei held you outstretched before him, scanning you for any injuries. “You are quite the brave one, Kitty. Might be more than a lion.” 

You knew. You wanted to protect him. “Meow.” 

Suspiciously looking at you, he asked, “Do you understand me?” 

Yes. “Meow.” 

Slightly laughing with a glint in his eye, Mydei admitted, “If you do, your efforts in defending me were not in vain. I must confess I was awake the whole time. I wanted to know why you ran off from me in these late hours. I had thought you were proving the merchant’s belief to be true, but you are just a naturally curious creature, aren’t you?” 

Your cat instincts were hard to ignore… “Meow…” 

“Don’t worry about me. I have gone through these attempts many times before. I am used to it. Luckily, they were all amateurs.” 

But you didn’t want him to go through it anymore. “Meow.” 

“Are you on my side?” 

Yes, no doubt about it. He saved you from being a stray and from those people even if he waited before coming to your rescue. Besides, you wanted to live comfortably, so getting on his good side would be beneficial to you. “Meow!” 

“Then let us head back to sleep.” 

No complaints here. Purring as he carried you to the mattress, you nuzzled into his arms. God, he was so warm and inviting. 

Mydei climbed back onto the soft material, gently depositing you besides him. 

Softly petting you, he wished you a good night. “Sweet dreams, Kitty.” 

Curling up against him to steal his heat, you didn’t stop rumbling until you fell unconscious.

You could get used to this life, assassins and all—as long as his hand never leaves you. 

“Eurypon!” 

An enraged woman marched her way through the intricate hallways of the palace towards the throne room with a purpose. 

A bored man drifted his eyes over to her as she slammed open the doors, anger as clear as day on her face. 

“There was another assassination attempt on our son, and you are not doing anything about it? Do you not care for him?” Anguish evident in her voice. 

“Hah, another one? Mydeimos is old enough to handle those problems on his own. You are just coddling him.” Dismissive. Cold. 

She fought. “How can you say that of our own flesh and blood? Where is the man I married at the Kremnos Festival?”

He deflected. “I am still the same man. Now, I have different priorities.” 

“And what are they? Tell me. What is more important than our family?” 

“Gorgo, please. There are more pressing matters to attend to than some lowly peasants trying to kill a grown man capable of returning the favor tenfold.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like expanding our territory and strengthening our numbers.” 

Gorgo couldn’t believe her ears, disbelief crossing her expression. Those were more important than keeping their son safe and alive? She couldn’t stay in this room any longer. 

With no room for argument, she firmly stated, “This is not the end of this discussion.” Retreating for now, Gorgo stomped back to the hallway, fuming at her husband’s behavior. 

Mydeimos—Mydei—was their kin, her precious son. If he was taken away from her by such force, then she would have failed as a mother. 

These assassination attempts… Gorgo had a hunch that Eurypon was behind it, but she had no proof except for his nonchalant attitude. 

…How can she obtain evidence? 

Gnawing on her fingers, she was too focused on formulating a plan to hear Mydei greet her. 

“—ther.” 

Think, Gorgo, think. There must be some way to get her hands on incriminating proof. 

“—other.” 

Biting her lip, she groaned in frustration. She had no way of exposing her husband…

“Mother!” 

Hearing her son, she quickly snapped out of her daze. “Mydei?” 

He was standing before her with furrowed brows and worried eyes. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine, thank you. I was just—” Cutting herself off, Gorgo took in the sight of her son with an unfamiliar creature around his shoulder—it stared right back at her, slowly blinking. 

She had never seen you before.

And she had never expected to see her son with an animal such as you. 

“You have…” Pointing, Gorgo continued, not knowing what to say. “...That is…” 

As if he forgot you were there, Mydei glanced at his shoulder, realizing you were casually lounging on him. Pausing for a moment, he thought about his next words before saying, “She was the one who saved me from the assassins last night.” 

A mere cat saving her son? How silly, but she will humor it, wondering how it came to be with him. 

“Did you name it?” 

“Kitty.” 

Furrowing her brows, she frowned. “That is no name for someone who saved your life.” With a hand on her chin, she studied you—you matched her gaze. 

You are technically a kitty, but you deserve an actual name. 

She wrung her thoughts for a name, carefully thinking. 

Hm, what about… no…

…This then…? 

No, it didn’t fit you. 

How about…

Finally, Gorgo said your name—your name from before you woke up here, and she could have sworn your eyes brightened at her suggestion. 

Mydei tested your name on his tongue, savoring the sound.

Nodding in approval, he agreed with his mother. “I like it. She will be called that from now on.” He scratched your head while repeating your name to you, and you purred as one of your eyes kept itself on Gorgo. 

You seemed to be more intelligent than you let on. 

Maybe…

An idea sparked in her mind. 

“Mydei, may I borrow her for a moment?” 

Stopping his hand with you protesting with a brief meow, Mydei looked at her with confusion, unsure of his mother’s intentions. “Why?” 

“Please! She’s adorable. I want to spend some time with her.” 

“But I have not spent much time with her either…” 

“She’s yours, so you will.” 

Defeatedly sighing, Mydei conceded, removing you from your perch on his shoulders to give you to Gorgo. “I will be outside if you need me.” 

Not lifting her eyes off you, she nodded, acknowledging him. 

Mydei walked away, and Gorgo dashed to her separate room with you letting out a surprised sound at her enthusiasm. 

Once in a safe spot and away from prying ears, she plopped you on a chair across from her. 

Clearly saying your name, she watched for your reaction. 

With you resting on your front two paws, you readily responded, “Meow.” 

Gorgo hadn’t been lying; you were very cute. 

Smiling, she lightly tapped you on your nose, and you let her. “You’re smarter than you let on, huh?” 

“Meow.” 

“Mydei says you saved him last night. Is that true?” 

“Meow.” 

“I must thank you for that. Even if it’s not true, I can tell you probably did your best to protect him—call it intuition.” 

“Meow!”

That last noise sounded a bit proud. You were so darn adorable; no wonder Mydei took a liking to you. 

Holding back a laugh, she politely asked, “May I ask you for a favor?” 

Tilting your head, you made an inquisitive sound between a chirp and a meow. 

“...I have a sneaking suspicion Mydei’s father is the one behind the attempts on his life. May I ask you to watch over Mydei and keep an eye out for Eurypon’s schemes?” 

To her surprise, you nodded, throwing her off and having her question if she correctly saw that.

Rubbing her eyes, Gorgo looked at you again. “I must be going crazy…” 

A cat that understands human language? Preposterous. 

You shook your head as if you disagreed with her.

More likely than she thought… and the notion you were not an ordinary feline briefly popped into her mind. 

“...What are you?” 

You blankly stared at her, not giving anything away. 

Of course, if you were anything but a cat, you wouldn’t want her to know. The fact still stands that you had tried to help her son, and you were agreeing to continue to do so.

Understanding your kind intent, she reasoned, “Well, as long as you are on Mydei’s side…” 

Sliding a hand over her face, she couldn’t help but be stressed over recent events. 

Sensing her distress, you jumped off the chair, going over to her.

Feeling a nudge at her feet, Gorgo looked down to see you, asking for permission to go up with two paws on her knees.

Gorgo patted her lap, and with you taking it as a sign, you quickly hopped up, curling into a ball and parking yourself there. 

She continuously ran her hand down your back in a petting motion, feeling some tension release from her shoulders. 

At this point, you thrived from being doted on.

Closing her eyes and relaxing at this therapeutic act, she softly thanked you, “I needed this. Thank you, Mydei’s little guard cat.” 

And well, you guessed you are now.

[wosoarsenalwfc]

i think i saw a bear

chloe kelly x reader

summary: you, chloe and the rest of the arsenal girls go to the woods for a team bonding event only to find out that you and your girlfriend (chloe) have been put into different cabin groups, and you can't sleep without her.

warnings : nothing really unless you count like spotting wild animals and beth mead screaming.

******

As the bus stopped at the gas station, all of the arsenal team rushed out to buy as many snacks as they could before the long trip to the woods, in which you would probably have to survive by eating berries and mushrooms you weren't sure were edible. Yep, you weren't taking this team bonding thing very nicely and you had spent the whole of last night grumbling to Chloe on why it couldn't have been a trip to the bar or someones house instead. At least you would be promised safety and food. Unfortunately for you, Renee had agreed with Kim and decided yes, it was mandatory so Chloe had to persuade you by promising to bunk with you.

And as if the world hated you, just as you were starting to enjoy the vibes of the bus Kim and Leah decided it was a good time to announce that they had assigned the cabin groups. Yes, Kim and Leah had decided your fate and who you would probably die with in the woods, and to your further disgust you were put in the first cabin, and Chloe in the last one. You made sure to glare at Leah and Kim as they finished reading out Chloe's cabin.

"Aww baby, stop pouting, its only two nights, plus we get to hang out in the day," said Chloe as she cupped your cheeks.

You turned and glared at her, though there was no real heat behind it and your pout deepened.

"I" you said as you prodded Chloe's chest. "Only came coz I thought I was gonna bunk with you," you grumbled. "They did this on purpose, they're evil!".

Chloe sighed and ran a hand through her hair, then started to give you little kisses on your lips, nose and cheek.

"There's that smile," she cooed as the corner of your lips raised (a tiny bit).

You mumbled something incoherent under your breath and then leaned into Chloe's awaiting arms.

"My cute stubborn baby," teased Chloe, which resulted in a glare from you.

******

The first night in the cabin felt like actual torture.

Not because it was uncomfortable—Leah had made sure to bring enough thick blankets —but because your bed felt way too cold, way too empty, and way too… Chloe-less.

You tossed. Then you turned. Then you kicked the blanket off dramatically and sighed loud enough for Lotte to mumble “Shhh” from the bunk above you. Beth had already screamed once at a shadow outside and warned everyone she had a “highly sensitive sixth sense,” which just made you even more aware of every cricket chirp and tree creak outside. (She also broke everyone's eardrums when she found out that there was no wifi)

By 2:47 am, you were sitting up, arms wrapped around your knees, and staring out the tiny window at Cabin 6—Chloe’s.

You lasted exactly thirteen more minutes before grabbing your flashlight, your hoodie, and tiptoeing out like a teen sneaking out to meet their crush. Which, to be fair, you kind of were.

The forest at night was… not ideal. You nearly tripped over a root, screamed internally when a raccoon scurried past, and full-on sprinted the last twenty meters because a tree branch looked suspiciously like a bear.

You knocked gently, hoping Chloe was still awake.

She was.

She opened the cabin door, eyes sleepy but immediately softening when she saw you wrapped up like a burrito in your hoodie, hair messy from rolling around all night.

“You okay?” she whispered.

“No,” you whispered back. “I can’t sleep without you. And I think I saw a bear.”

Chloe blinked. “A bear?”

You nodded gravely. “Or a branch. But honestly, either way, my life was in danger.”

She snorted quietly, pulling you inside and immediately tucking you into her bed. You curled up against her, arms finding her waist like muscle memory, her hand stroking your hair.

“I missed you too,” she murmured. “Told them they’d regret splitting us up.”

Within seconds, you were out cold.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of a phone camera click, followed by a familiar snort.

"Would you look at that," Kyra grinned, holding her phone up as evidence. "Cabin crasher caught red-handed."

You blinked blearily, trying to sit up, only to find Chloe's arm still around you—and half the Arsenal squad standing at the doorway, smirking like they were watching the best rom-com in history.

"Oh my god," mumbled Chloe, dragging a pillow over her face.

"You owe me twenty euros!" Katie yelled at Leah.

“Wait, you bet on this?” you croaked, still trying to find dignity while tangled in Chloe’s hoodie and blankets.

"Of course we did," Caitlin grinned. "Love makes people do very predictable things."

******

Unluckily for you, the teasing continued, but Vic did swap with you the next night, so you could be with Chloe.

notes : feel free to send in story requests/prompts

[everythingisamazing]

Hot Take: If Jayvik survive the finale, whatever their sexuality or romantic orientation was before, does not really matter. Why? Well, maybe I am too pan- and demisexual to fully grasp the concept of normative sexuality, but I personally believe, that it would be way more logical for them to be beyond any of those concepts (as Viktors VA perfectly said), simply because of what they have gone through. I mean, Viktor basically became a god. If you look at gods in myth, they are usually open to pretty much any gender and any type of love because...well they are a god. As a god, you are not limited by what limits humans. I also think that being part of a hive mind would erase a lot of the boundaries you felt were there before - if anything Viktor would probably struggle with knowing what his own identity actually is post finale. I am not saying that the first thing they do after waking up (in a beautiful field of flowers of course) is have sex - I actually picture it more as something that happens eventually and gradually? Like, I know it's impossible to really imagine being soulbonded with someone across different universes, but as far as you can, do you believe it's logical that, if you were, you would be bothered by something as trivial as what we percieve to be different levels of physical intimacy or someones gender? That you would care about platonic VS romantic after what they have been through? After what not only Viktor and Jayce in their timeline have gone through, but all the different iterations of them, literally containing ALL possibilities? I mean, Jayce is already touchy with Viktor to begin with and they die embracing eachother, with their lips like...5 centimeters apart. Is it really more likely, that this kind of physicality would just NEVER naturally evolve into holdings hands, a kiss and whatever more, given their situation? Do you think Jayce would be like: "You know what? Throwing my arms around you naked in the astral plane is as far as I go!" Be serious please. I also think, from a character growth standpoint, it would be really neat if Viktor would confront his past relationship with his body and learn to embrace the physical again, by experiencing the opposite of the pain of his past life - so a lot of pleasure essentially. Idk, man. Maybe I am projecting here - I just really think, even though I am not very touchy irl myself, that after going through something like that with another person, sacrificing EVERYTHING to be with them, even if it is just for a few more seconds ... you can bet your ass, that when I am getting them back, I am holding on to them with everything I've got - especially even my thighs.