#for the record I’m team ‘more than one.’

[groovycreatormughoagie]

K-Pop Demon Hunters X Reader 5:

'Earthy and Herby'? Smells like bull-- WOAH!

To paint a picture, Reader will be a head taller than Mira. Can literally rest your chin on her head, but you got the job mostly because of your (forged) records. You’re literally built like a wall (legs especially <3 that’s why you’re so fast, you trained legs for decades— and let’s give the reader some abs too. Not toned like Abby, but it’s definitely there.) Reader is female, okay? You can imagine her what you like, but for me, she'll be more leaning on the masculine scale or style, etc.

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Warning: Explicit Language, Violence, just (Y/N) being (Y/N) AKA guard dog

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Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

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Last Time on KPDH-X-R: "Meet your new personal guard! She's here to protect you almost 24/7!" "WHAT?!" "EXCUSE ME?!" "HUH?!" Now Continued:

Inside the Huntr/x Penthouse (AHEM— Avengers Tower).

“A personal bodyguard?!”

“Bobby, you can’t be serious!”

“Yeah, we already have a whole team of security!”

Bobby raised his hands to calm the girls down,

“Alright, alright. Everyone relax, this is just an extra precaution.” He sighs as he types on his phone with a frown, “With how the concert ended so abruptly, thousands of fans are upset— rightfully so, but we’re still handling the backlash of it. We’re only refunding half the ticket’s cost, unfortunately, and with all the chaos outside, I’m worried about all of your well-being.”

He shows the screen to the three and watches as their faces falter with concern at the amount of disappointed fans talking about the cancellation of the ‘Golden’ premiere, but a few are defending Huntrix, who stated how they just ended a world tour and that they could use a break.

“I hope you can see where I’m coming from, girls. I don’t want you three getting jumped by angry fans when you go out in public in disguise. There’s still a chance that people will recognize you all under normal civilian clothes.”

Bobby’s voice was soft yet firm on his decision before grinning bright once more and motioning to you, “Besides, she’s the best there is! Standing like a brick wall with loads of experience that involves safety!”

He gives your arm two gentle knocks with his fist while smiling at the girls. You just looked at Bobby with a very elated smile at the praise that the three didn’t miss.

“Golden Retriever…” the three mused before shaking their heads, Rumi being the first one to speak up.

“We understand, Bobby. Thank you for looking out for us.” The manager giddily waves it off with a gleeful smile. “Great! (Y/N) Here will stick with you three starting today, reporting any incidents and such regarding you girls.”

He turns to you and starts handing you stuff you didn’t even know he had with him. “Here’s your taser, gloves, emergency card, portable radio, and another taser just in case. You can get the rest of your provided security items downstairs to your room.”

The last sentence caught everyone’s attention: “I’m staying here?” ”She’s staying here?” ”Downstairs?” ”Can I have the other taser?”

“She’ll be a few floors below. She has to be on the call, ready to fight and protect if anything happens! Like a fire, she can guide you all out safely without problems, right?”

He turned to you with pride like you just lifted several tons of weight from his worrying shoulders.

‘Ah, I forgot I added that in my records…’

“Uh- yes. I’m a former firefighter, though not enough to reach high ranks like a chief.” You stuttered out awkwardly from being put on the spot so suddenly.

“I’m experienced in multiple occasions of safety, trained to help in many situations— even unexpected or mundane ones.”

“See, isn’t she great? This way you can be safe and still be able to go out in public!” Bobby claps his hands in delight before typing on his phone as he walks back to the elevator, “Now, I’ll be busy with our team doing crowd control. See you girls soon!”

“Bye, Bobby!” He waved as the elevator doors closed before it carried him down the floors of the penthouse.

A few awkward moments later, the trio turned to you.

“So you’re just going to follow us around?”

You shrug with a nonchalant smile, “That’s my job, but I won’t always be following you three like in a bathroom or something. That’s just an invasion of privacy.”

Mira squints and whispers at the two, “What do we do? We can’t let anyone know about Rumi’s voice. Especially someone whose job requires them to report what’s going on with us.” Zoey tries to think of a plan while they eye you suspiciously.

“By the way, are you okay now?” You motion to Rumi while gearing yourself up with the stuff Bobby gave you.

“You were quite a mess when I saw—“ Rumi tried stopping you quietly behind Mira and Zoey, making aggressive motions at you to shut up. “—you… last.. night…”

Mira and Zoey looked between you two, “You two know each other?”

“HA-HA! I think Bobby forgot to give you your ID pass, (Y/N)!” She speed walked over to you, grabbing your arm with surprising strength and dragging you to the elevator. “Let’s go get that for you so it won’t be a hassle later! Give us a minute, you guys!”

The two just stared lost and dumbfounded by Rumi’s odd behavior with the new bodyguard as the elevator doors closed.

“…well, she seems nice though.” Zoey broke the silence, looking at Mira’s reaction.

“More like suspicious. We’re definitely interrogating them once they come back.” She crossed her arms as she glared at the elevator you two left in.

“Right… did you see the tiny shark in her hoodie’s chest pocket?”

========= In The Elevator =========

“What the hell was that?” You blurt out, blinking to bring yourself back to reality, and look down at Rumi beside you in the elevator.

“They don’t know, okay?” She groaned, rubbing her temple, “The markings, I mean, they just know my voice is in trouble that night, and we’re planning on fixing it today. They don’t even know about you.”

You gasped with dramatic offense, hand on your chest clutching your pearls, “You’re gatekeeping me from your friends?!”

“I can’t exactly tell them that you— some sort of hybrid demon—tried killing me on the rooftop last night!” She threw back with the same sass that left you pouting and crossing your arms.

“…fair enough,” you grumbled before shaking it off, “but seriously? Couldn’t you just- make up a story? They already know we know each other from last night, might as well make up a story about that.”

“That’s because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. I was practically miming you to stop.”

“That’s bad on my part, but I didn’t know that you told them nothing about last night. Can you blame me for that?” You let out a curt huff before your gaze softens at Rumi, “Are you okay though? Better than last night?”

She sighs, hand touching her throat, “The marks are...messing with my voice.”

“It’s not just the marks, but yeah let’s go with that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing… workaholic..” you coughed under your breath, looking away to avoid Rumi’s glare.

The ride was quiet, but you couldn’t stand much of it with the awkward tension in the lift.

“Ooookay, so let’s get our story straight before your friends jump us with questions.” Letting out a breath, you pat Bubby on your front pocket and begin thinking of a valid story.

Rumi stared curiously at you, more so the toy in your shirt pocket peeking out and staring at her. Her hand finds the bell in her pocket and begins fidgeting with it while you build a story in your head.

Ding~

You two exit the elevator to grab the ID from Bobby, so you weren’t technically lying to Mira and Zoey when Rumi said you’re missing a required ID access card to bypass heavy security.

“Alright, Twilight Sparkle, here’s the plan.” Rumi gave you an incredulous look. “Twilight, what?”

You wave her off with a sigh, “Aaissshh, I’ll tell you some other time. I know you’re strictly taught by Celine to be demon hunters, but no cartoons? Seriously? Not even your cute Mak-nae told you about this? Didn’t she grow up in America?”

Your barrage of questions made her dumbfounded, speechless as you let loose before backtracking and going back to the topic.

“Ah, wait, back to the topic. AHEM— just tell them I helped you fight off a few demons when you ran out of the venue that night.”

“And if they asked questions about how you can see demons?”

“You let me handle that.” A grin plastered on your face as you gave her a thumbs-up.

“Fine, but I have questions too. Just don’t tell them about my marks or else—“ her threat was cut off. “Of course I won’t, that’s your choice to say or keep.”

The two of you reached Bobby, who quickly assisted you to be registered in the system and handed you the ID you came for, waving at the manager before leaving back to the elevator and back up to her bandmates.

“So how old are you really? Being a demon and all, were you also born like that?” Rumi questioned as she leaned close, circling you as if to catch any demon features out in the open.

“Human, I think I’m a tad older than you. Demon, on the other hand, uhhh…” You squint at the ceiling, trying to recall the memory of your existence, “…a thousand or something? I don’t remember when exactly I was ‘born’, just- POOF!” You gave a cheeky smile and did jazz hands. “A tiny wisp wandering around aimlessly in limbo.”

“So you’re… not born human?” The hunter was definitely confused.

“I am human, just not fully human. I’m like a quarter human, and I’m guessing you’re half demon?” Rumi’s face soured at that, “I’m a hunter, not a demon.”

“There’s nothing wrong with what you are.” You pat her head, then pinched her cheek like a doting grandma in a teasing way, to which she grunted and smacked your hand away. “Stop that.”

“Sorry. Let’s just get through the questions your friends are gonna ask us— the majority of it is going to be aimed at me anyway.”

The elevator rings, and before you could step out, the two hunters snatched both you and Rumi before tossing your asses on the white couch. Already sitting across the two of you with seriousness on their faces.

“Alright, spill. Who are you, and what are you two hiding from us?” Mira started, glaring at you before turning to Rumi with the same stern expression.

“Woah, never sat on something so soft in forever.” You muttered under your breath, eyes sparkling as you ran your palm on the soft cushion of the couch you’re thrown onto.

“Hey! No distractions. You have to answer our questions.” Zoey exclaimed as she pointed a pencil at your face, “Like, how do you know Rumi? And why is there a little guy in your shirt pocket?”

“Zoey, focus,” Mira whispered, gently nudging the younger.

Ah, good cop, bad cop. Got it.

You sit up straight on the sofa you wish you could melt into, “Like I said, we met last night,” giving Rumi a glance to which she took the hint and spoke her part of the story.

“After what happened, I couldn’t come back and face the fact that my voice was in trouble. So I ran to get some air… but then saw some demons lurking around—“ she gulped, trying to weave this fake story perfectly, “she got there before me. I caught her when she tried to run away, and then we talked. I couldn’t wrap my head around it and was stressed out about… everything, that I forgot to tell you guys… I’m sorry.”

The duo listened, reaching over to rest their hands on her shoulder. Giving it a reassuring squeeze before smiling at her.

“Don’t worry, we get it. We’re just worried.” “Yeah, we forgive you, Rumi.”

They then turn to you, “So you can see demons?”

“Yes, I know for a fact those weren’t magicians crawling out of walls or floors.”

“So you’re a demon hunter?”

“Oh! I’m half, but thank you for the compliment.”

The two looked with confused disbelief, Rumi playing along to avoid suspicion. “‘Half’?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rumi looked tense and stressed out, thinking you’re going to reveal yourself to her friends as a demon.

“Well, I’m not that trained at slaying demons efficiently like you three. I just pick up the messy pieces you hunters left behind, mending the ruined parts of the Honmoon, even making sure your plane didn’t cause any damage, which by the way, I feel like I should be paid for taking care of that whole mess.” You gave them an unamused look and gave them a scolding look. The three had enough decency to grimace with guilt at that incident.

“Sorry…” they all murmured.

“Wait, so you ‘fix’ the Honmoon? How?”

“I tie it up, like sewing each rip from the demons that come out.” You pinch both of your index and thumbs close together, pulling them apart to reveal a sparkling thread manifested between your fingers.

“My family helped the hunters on the sidelines, keeping under the radar and cleaning up the seams while every trio focused on their goal, sealing the Honmoon gold.”

Three pairs of eyes watched in amazement as the thread gently flowed like smoke before it dispersed into tiny particles.

“Hold on, if you’re part hunter, how come Celine never mentioned anything about it?” The question made you tense for a moment before controlling your nerves and hiding behind your crafted persona of being nonchalantly chill.

“My mom was the Sunlight Sisters’ bodyguard back when the trio were still together. She and Celine had a falling out apparently— or at least that’s what my mom always told me.” An awkward chuckle left your lips, adding to the whole ‘tense-about-my-family-history’ bit quite well.

“Do you know why?” Zoey asked softly, the three were already sympathizing with you. Rumi has a different reason for it.

You shook your head, “nah, not really. The media said my mom retired— how her contract with them ended, but all of that wasn’t true. Mom said she tried staying by their side to protect them, but the rift between her and the last hunters was too big that even she couldn’t stitch back up. An argument happened and she just left for everyone’s sake.”

Everything was silent which prompted you to look up and see the three staring at you with shock and empathy at the reveal of your connected destiny. You held up your hands and chuckled to ease the solemn atmosphere, “b-but that’s all in the past now. Mom lived somewhere more peaceful, had me, and lived happily and fulfilled even at the end! And now I’m just fulfilling my role like the rest of my family did for generations, helping you girls.”

“This is a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, can’t believe Celine never mentioned this before.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” you interjected, “my mother always states just how nasty their falling out was. Harsh words were said and feelings were hurt deeply.”

Everyone murmured and nodded in agreement.

“Well anyway, I look forward to protecting and supporting you three. Let’s hope it’s going to be better than the previous generation’s history.”

The joke received soft laughs and giggles as everyone stood up.

“So, I heard something about you three going out today?”

“Yup, Zoey’s got an idea on how to help with Rumi’s voice,” Mira smirks, looking at the bouncing Mak-nae.

“It’s our best bet. Let’s go change and head out already! The sooner we get there, the sooner we can heal Rumi’s voice!” Zoey squeals as she skips over to the elevator with the rest in tow.

========== Outdoors ==========

“He’s got these special tonics!” Zoey beamed, eyes glued on her phone to track the direction for this ‘clinic’, “Apparently, it can heal anything from sore throats and relationship problems.”

You’re behind the group, practically towering over the three like a brick wall. Sunglasses on your face and hands in your pockets, not really concealing your identity since you’re not known to the public like the three idols.

“That doesn’t sound— augh!” Mira cut you off with an unexpected elbow to your side, making you hunch over and give her a look of pained betrayal, while she just gave you a reprimanding side eye. The act didn’t hurt, but you gotta act soft to pull off being human.

“Shh! Quietly, Zoey,” Rumi whispered, blocking her own face with her hand in an attempt to conceal more of her identity.

“Why are there so many people today?” Mira comments, looking at the crowd gathered in public.

“Maybe a sale is happening to one of the stores or something, I’d be attending if it were food sales.” You quipped with a shrug, smiling to yourself at the thought of discounted foods.

“Of course you would.” Rumi sighed and threw a smirk back at you.

“Ooh! It’s down that alleyway.” Zoey chirped, already skipping ahead while the rest of you followed.

Your ears caught a few civilians curious about a ‘free concert at noon’ and ‘who are the Saja Boys?’ before you shook your head and continued walking.

The trio stood in front of a small clinic, Mira deadpanning at the ad on the front entrance. “Yep, about as legit as I expected.”

“‘Earthy and herby’… Smells legit yo me.” Rumi shrugged with a chuckle, Zoey beamed with excitement, and clapped her hands before swooping Rumi into a big hug.

“Yay! That’s the spirit! Gajagajagaja(가자)!”

“Hurry, before someone sees us.”

You scowled at the clinic sign, your disdain for the establishment clear even with your sunglasses, and Mira took notice and pulled you in by the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Come on, you’re like a dog being sent to a vet.” She points out with a smirk to which you just scoffed, “This is obviously a scam…”

The tall girl raises her brow at you, throwing a thumb behind her where Zoey is bouncing with joy. “You gonna tell her that?” She asked with a challenging smirk.

You look past her and to Zoey before deflating into a sulk. You couldn’t burst the young girl’s bubble, so you kept your mouth shut.

The girls sat waiting in the clinic office. They tried giving you a seat, but you stubbornly refused and leaned on the wall with your arms crossed next to Mira. Your eyes caught the framed pictures on the wall just as Rumi’s did, turning to Zoey, where the Mak-nae just gave her two thumbs up and a beaming smile. Rumi returned the gesture with her own forced grin.

“Please tell me you three have more ideas on how to help with Rumi’s voice than this…” You leaned down to whisper to the hunter reading the magazine she got somewhere.

“It’s Zoey’s idea. Besides, it’s not the worst option out of the 57 options.”

“57?! An actual doctor would have been a greater option!” Your whisper turned into a hiss of disbelief, actually dragging a hand down your face at their way of handling medical issues with a clear quack!

“(Y/N)? Are you okay? You sound odd. Do you want the doctor to check on your voice, too?” Zoey turned with worry that you just cleared your throat, gently waved off her offer with a smile while you stood upright against the wall again.

“No thanks, Zoey. I’m okay, this is normal for me. I appreciate the concern.”

She shrugged and brushed it off with a ‘okay, suit yourself.’ before going back to her phone to watch… turtles?

Both Rumi and Mira gave you a knowing smirk that teased how even you didn’t have the heart to call out their third member of this ridiculous idea. Your face flushed red and you just gave them a motion to cut it out, the silent teasing getting cut off with the doctor coming in.

“Rumi Nim.” He called as we bowed when he entered, “Sit, sit. You need no introduction.” The three sat back down, but while you leaned against the wall, your eyes glared at the man behind your sunglasses.

“So, a problem with your voice.”

“Yes! So we need one of your awesome tonics. Something that will work super fast.” Zoey spoke with so much admiration for this man’s supposed ‘miracle’ tonics.

“Okay, let me see…” he lowers his glasses and looks at Rumi. The girl opens her mouth so he can check her throat.

“Ahhhh.”

“Uh-uh-uh.” He stopped her with a hand raised, “In order to heal a part, we must understand the whole.” Rumi just stared at him with confusion while her mouth was still open.

He took a deep breath before grunting out an odd noise and intensely stared at the pop star, who leaned back with a bewildered expression. Eyes so wide you would’ve jumped the man if it wasn’t for Mira holding you by your belt and a warning glare.

Okay- you were definitely traumatized with your years of protecting generations of hunters, maybe a tad too overprotective ever since your long hiatus of being their shield.

“Uhh…”

“I see…” he points, leaning closer with his intense eyes.

“I seeeee….” Rumi just kept leaning back, quite scared at this very unusual medical practice.

“No. Actually, I don’t see.” He spoke with interest and confusion, pushing his glasses back up, then leaning back away from her, “Very strange. You have lots of walls up.”

“Woah! He’s so good, right?” Zoey fawned at the man’s analysis of their leader. You just rolled your eyes behind the shades and stood quietly with your arms crossed over your chest, Bubby firmly squished behind your biceps. Sorry, Bubby.

“So many walls.” The doctor repeated as if in disbelief at how closed off Rumi is.

“Walls?” Rumi scoffs with a confidence only you could wish to have when people point out your weird tendencies, talking to the air. “I don’t have walls.”

“Uh, yeah, you do.” Mira peeks at the magazine before whispering to Zoey, “he is kind of good…”

You’re now busying yourself by peeking into the magazine the tall girl is reading, interested by the contents of branded products the trio are seen advertising on a page.

‘Wonder if I have enough money for earrings…’

“I’m just trying to stay focused.” Rumi defended with her hands out. “Hmm…” She stiffened when the doctor got close again.

“Focus is good,” he nods before standing back upright, “but focusing on one part leads to ignoring other parts, making you separate, isolated.”

“Ooh, ooh! Emotionally closed off?” Zoey pitched in with her hand raised like she’s in a classroom recitation.

“Yes! Yes!” He chuckles at her enthusiasm,

“She’s also a workaholic, doesn’t know how to relax,” Mira added, putting the magazine down. Rumi’s forehead subtly creased in disbelief that her team is literally exposing her to the doctor.

You opened your mouth to say something, but a glare from the idol made your jaw snap shut.

“I know how to relax!” She pouts, “I bet she refuses to go to the bathhouse with you.” The doctor teased with a smirk beside Rumi as he pointed at the three of you.

“Oh my gosh, yes!” Zoey exclaimed with elation.

“How did you even—“

“Dude, we’ve been trying to take her to the bathhouse— Forever!” Zoey, Mira, and the doctor laugh lightheartedly while Rumi’s face flushed with embarrassment at the harmless jab of the bathhouse situation.

You thankfully noticed her suffering and helped out of the amusing situation, “Okay, enough teasing. How is this helpful?”

“It’s helping me a lot,” Mira responded with a delighted smirk.

“Woah, I can’t believe you got all that wisdom just from looking at her.” With naively placed admiration, Zoey spoke like the doctor was a miracle himself.

The doctor squints his eyes at the Mak-nae before walking close and surveying her with the same intense eyes he did with Rumi. It bristled you, though you just sank further into your crossed arms, desperately trying so hard not to lunge at the man like a feral guard dog.

“I see….”

“Wait, why are you looking at me?” She nervously asked while her eyes darted between the three of you before smiling awkwardly at the doctor.

“Eagerness to please.” He read the girl like an open book, “maybe a little too eager.”

“What?” She squeaked before letting out an airy giggle, brushing it off with a wave of her hand, “I’m not like that. You guys would tell me if I was really like that, right?!” Her behavior immediately turned anxious and panicked, turning to you guys, where Mira and Rumi gave each other a look. “Um…”

“Hmmm….” He turns to Mira, and she’s immediately straight-faced at the unsolicited scanning, “I see…”

“Hrrmg..”

“Hmm…”

“HRGMMH…”

“HMMM!!”

“…RAH!”

The doctor gasped, flinching back with a whimper of a bitten puppy.

“Yeah, that’s right.” She smugly said as she won the ‘battle’.

The doctor regained his composure when his gaze turned to you, about to do the same analysis.

“Try and I’ll have you analyzing pieces of your glasses up your a—“ “WOAH! Okay! Calm down.” Rumi stood up, already blocking your path as she faced him.

“How does this help me get my voice back?”

“As I said, to treat the part, we must understand the wholeeee…” he drawls out all ‘namaste’ that got you already done with his bullshit, but he did have a decent wisdom about understanding the whole picture thing to fix he problem.

Rumi slumps with a groan, “That’s great and all, but I thought we were just here for your tonics?” Her patience was already wearing thin, but not close enough, she’d have you go for the guy.

“Just give us the voice juice.” Mira demands, also done with his whole shenanigans.

“Mm… I know just the tonics you need.” He smiled, escorting you four out of his office and to the front desk.

Zoey and Mira went to wait outside, saying it was too cold in the clinic. You nodded and stayed behind with Rumi, still keeping an eye on the two through the glass.

“Don’t you want to sit? You’ve been standing since we got here.” Rumi asked, patting the bench she’s relaxed on.

“Nope. I hate it here.” You scowled, almost pouting as you kept being stubborn about not wanting to touch anything in the building.

“What, scared of clinics?” She snickered, finding it amusing how a large person like you could be scared of something so… average.

You scratched your cheek and glanced at the man behind the reception before huffing at her. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“If it helps, you don’t need to act all professional with us. Just call us by our names like we’re friends. You did say you’re in our age range.” It gave you time to think, nodding at the idol and mumbling, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You two wait, and her eyes land on another set of photos hung up on the wall. This time, it was a recognizable picture as it was their photo. A Huntr/x promotional ad for drinks.

“Is that… us?” She observes the photo closely, not recalling ever meeting this man at any event, much less a sponsorship.

The photo was clearly cut out from promotional magazines. The falling sticker of the doctor was proof enough that this was fake.

You snort, pressing a hand up your face to cover your amusement while Rumi groans, pressing a finger on her brow, “Zoey…”

The doctor came back holding a box, “Your tonics are readyyy!” He grins brightly as he places it on the counter, calculating the cost behind the computer.

Before you could speak, Rumi paid and took the box in her arms. You just stood there frozen, the corner of your lip twitching before you gave the pop star a tense smile.

“You can go ahead. I have questions to ask the doctor if he has tonics to cure my headache.” Your tense and weird behavior didn’t get caught by her, so she just nodded, “Okay, we’ll wait for you outside. Be quick.”

The moment she’s out the door, you drop your ‘nicer’ bodyguard act and turn to the quack doctor like a shark who smelled blood. He flinched and gave a nervous smile, “s-so.. headache..?”

“Definitely a headache. Let’s chat.”

=== With Huntr/x ===

“We got the tonics!” “—wooh!”

“We got the tonics!”

Mira and Zoey chant as Rumi walks out, Zoey jumping with joy with her hands up, “Yay! Once your voice is fixed, we can get back to the important stuff, like the fans.”

“Where’s our new bodyguard?”

“She said something about a headache and that she’s going to get some tonics for that.”

Mira’s face falls in disbelief that you, of all people, fell for this quack doctor’s scam. Especially not after your display of displeasure towards the doctor. “What?”

“We can wait for a minute or so. Barely anyone is walking this way anyway.”

Just as she said that, they noticed shadows ahead of them signaled people coming in their direction.

“Fans!” Zoey yelps, the three panicking like cartoon squirrels as they looked for a place to hide.

“We can’t let them see us!”

“Our bodyguard would’ve been a real helpful wall to hide behind right now!”

Zoey jumps behind Rumi, Mira following in suit and pulling the leader’s hood up before pushing her head down behind the box of tonics she’s carrying. “Be cool. Look normal.”

===( Cue Music lol )===

===(Now playing: Love me right - EXO)===

Four vastly attractive males walked around the corner, all wearing colorful attire as they conversed with each other.

Zoey and Mira peeked out behind Rumi with curiosity, just in time to see the group do a synchronized hair flick. Both girls were now standing beside their leader, eyes turned into hearts, while Rumi looked weirded out.

The muscular one of the group stretched his arms out over his head. His shirt was just barely flying upwards that exposing his taut muscles underneath, which immediately caught Zoey’s gaze, her eyes comically turning into… abs?

His shirt button strained as he stretched his arms to the sides. Zoey drooled while her eyes turned to… corn? Girl, what is happening with you—

One button gave out and shot at the Mak-nae. Apparently, it's equivalent to adding butter to her corn eyes while her face heated up as she bit her bottom lip.

The man’s shirt finally gave out, shirt flying open for his toned body to be revealed to the world— or in this case, the girls.

“B— AHHHH!!!”

Zoey screams, all flustered as her eyes produce popcorn into her bucket hat serving as a bowl. Mira also produces popcorn out of her eyes through her glasses, snacking on them with Zoey’s bucket hat as they gawk at the group of men.

“So…. *munch* hot… *munch*”

Rumi rolls her eyes with a scoff, “You guys are so gro….” The words died on her lips when her gaze met the male behind the four.

The music faded from the playful beat to a soft piano romance scale.

===( Cue Music 2 )===

===(Now playing: Love, Maybe - MeloMance)===

The sunlight brightened, and the wind blew abruptly at her face like the start of a K-Drama meeting, making her squint.

The pretty boy walked past Rumi while her eyes were glued to his face, his shoulder bumping into her, and everything went into slow motion. Their eyes met when he swiveled around from impact, the pop star already falling back. She accidentally tossed the box of tonics in the air, which opened quite concerningly easy, then fell with her hands up and an absurd expression on her face. The tonics rained down onto the ground just as Rumi hit the ground, the bell in her pocket slipping out and ringing on the asphalt.  

The man was holding his hand out as if to help her up, Rumi reaching to grab his hand with sparkling eyes as the music seemed to get louder…

The music slid off track when he took his hand and just brushed his shoulder.

== (Music slides off the track) ==

The hunter furrowed her brows with a perplexed expression, still with her hand out.

He gives an annoyed hiss and glares at the girl, “Watch yourself.” Arrogantly as he came, he began walking away, leaving the trio flabbergasted at their attitude.

Before he could walk away, a heavy arm latched over his shoulders and pulled him back to a solid form. “And where do you think you’re going, pretty boy?”

He grunts, hand gripping the arm trapping him around his neck, and looks up to see you tensely grinning down at him with a pissed off expression.

“You’re going to apologize for that disrespectful manner, buddy. Didn’t your mom teach you respect?” Condescendingly patting his cheek, his friends were about to jump in before you held your hand out to them.

“Uh-uh. You four stay there.” The warning left your lips as your head slowly turned towards them, “I’m sure your leader here can do a simple apology himself.”

You shove the man towards the girls and follow behind, grabbing his nape and forcing him to bow. “What do we say?”

He looked humiliated and sputtered out a meek— “I- I-I’m sorry.”

“Good. Wasn’t that so hard?” You cooed like you’re praising a baby before tossing him back to his group. The baby face and Casanova catching him as he stumbled back, the big man glaring at you.

You just pulled your sunglasses down and looked at him blankly, sizing him up before a scoff left your lips. “Watch yourself, big guy. I can bench all five of you and can absolutely out-squat you with those toothpick ass legs.”

The group gave baffled, timid, and irritated reactions as they collected themselves and strolled out of the alleyway.

You turned around, face instantly slipping to a soft, welcoming expression as you crouched in front of Rumi with your hand out to help her up.

“Everything okay? Nothing broken?” You asked with a radiant smile, the girls could only visualize you as a dog with its tail wagging, like it's waiting for treats.

‘…the duality of this woman.’ The three thought synchronously before shaking their heads, Rumi being thankful that you assisted her up.

“Nothing broken. Just a small fall. Look at this mess.” She brushes her clothes off dust, already crouched down to pick up the tonic pouches scattered on the floor, the rest of you helping clean up the mess.

“Yeah! They’re not even that cute.”

“They’re so…blerg!”

“They’re so.. ug-ough-argh!”

“No, they’re…U-uwoorgh-!” “Blaah!” “Blerghh!”

The trio began to pretend to gag, burying their attractions deep down. You just watched like they’re possessed or something.

“I’m gonna throw up…” Mira mumbled that you took seriously and already handed her a bag to throw up into.

“What- no. I was being sarcastic.” She pushes it back to you, “Where did you even get this?”

“Like I said before, I’m prepared most of the time. No one’s dying on my watch! Unless they already died, you know?”

“Oh! How’d you even know we’re in trouble? Well, not ‘trouble’ trouble, but like dignity trouble.”

“Uhh….” The trio stared at you.

=+++={ Flashback }=+++=

You were staring Dr. Han down with a heavy glare as he prescribed you a list for your ‘headache’, though it’s actually an ingredients list for sore throats.

“If those expensive tonics are not what you claim to be, I’m coming back here, and you don’t want that. I’ll make sure authorities take a closer eye on those ‘degrees’ on your wall.” The threat leaves your mouth with a firm warning, the intern and doctor nodding in fear. Dr. Han was sweating bullets at the thought.

“A-actually, let me grab you a free box— TWO for the inconvenience!” He ushered his intern, who ran off to fetch the promised goods. The guy returns and hands the boxes to you like it was a peace offering, to which you just huffed and snatched the list and boxes, being decent enough to respectfully pay a decent sum for the products.

“Don’t even think about scamming other—“ Your ears caught the ring of your bell that made you leave just in time to see Rumi on the ground and a male who disrespected her with humiliation.

=+++={ End of Flashback }=+++=

“Uhhh…. Coincidence. I was already out the door.” You lied smoothly with an innocent grin.

The three gave you suspicious looks before shrugging it off, until Mira found something interesting near the tonics.

“What is this? Like a lost bell, the guy packed in here?” She asked as she held up the bell you gave to Rumi. She rang it twice, which made your eye twitch at the noise from this close proximity.

“That’s mine!” Rumi yelped, snatching the bell and shoving it in her pockets, “Um, (Y/N) gave it to me that night. Helped me calm down, is all!”

You, Mira, and Zoey all stared at the frantic girl with wide eyes at her reaction.

“Oookay… we’re not trying to take it.” Zoey held her hands up.

“Why a bell?” Mira inquired, turning to face you. You pull out Bubby from your chest pocket and hold him up in front of you.

“It came from Bubby! Always helped me when I’m freaking out.” You smiled, moving Bubby’s fins to have him wave ‘hello’. Zoey awwed and greeted the shark with coos and baby talk about how cute he is, despite being dirty, she could tell Bubby is very loved.

The four of you stood up after cleaning the whole mess and walked out of the alleyway,

“Wait, what is that?” Rumi questioned, as all of you hear faint music.

'I have a bad feeling...' The thought lingered in your mind as the four of you left the alleyway. Rumi insists she carries the box of tonics because you already have two in your hands.

-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-

Hoorayy! It's here! I apologize for the wait. My ancient laptop is clinging to dear life and couldn't handle 10k words of work. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter and bear with the side stories I'll continue to put out if the main series is taking me longer than it should. For the record, I write the stories while I watch the movie again and again. (Just saying it again because my friend found me here lol) As always, feel free to let me know any mistakes and need corrections, comments are open for anything but bad intentions. The comments often make my day, thank you <3

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Tags: @tundra1029 @chaoticfivesworld @effyggl56 @t-wylia @sorryimamagpie @novaenocyon @introvertathome @neverending-animelove @brocoliisscared @meyline123 @koda-lupinn @kakialien @tyresedidujsfart

[waynes-multiverse]

Time After Time – Chapter 16

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, back in the present, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, humor, pining, a bit of angst and hurt, enemies to lovers, slow burnin' through this one, fluff

Word Count: 8.1k

Posted on Patreon June 15, 2025

A/N: I'm a sucker for bottle episodes on TV and in stories. Give me two tortured characters sitting on the floor and having deep conversations, and I'll die happy.

✨ Chapter title inspired by me-e-ee

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 16: I Don't Care What the Papers Say!

Ben knocked once.

Hard enough to be heard, but not so loud it’d wake the whole damn block. Just loud enough to be undeniable. Just enough for you to know it was him.

No answer, but not surprising either.

He could hear you, of course. Super-hearing or not, Ben always knew the difference between silence and absence. You were in there, alright. Breathing slow. Still. Ignoring him like it was a full-time job. He didn’t even need to press his ear to the door. He could hear your heartbeat if he really focused. That steady, annoyed rhythm. Still close – but not coming any closer.

So he knocked again. Slower this time.

Still nothing.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and exhaled. “Alright, I know you in there.”

No response again. Ben could hear the music, though.

Not loud. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to make the old brownstone buzz faintly through the concrete. A record. Vinyl – not fucking digital. He could tell by the soft static and occasional warble.

It was some grunge shit. Female vocals, probably late 90s. Not his thing, but it fit. A little sad. A little angry. Just like you.

“I can hear you breathing, sweetheart. Don’t play dumb.”

Fuckin’ nothing.

Ben dragged a hand down his face, then crossed his arms. “C’mon, you’re really gonna make me talk through the door like a fuckin’ sitcom neighbor? You know I hate that shit.”

Still no response. Not even a bratty fucking comment. That stung more than he wanted to admit.

His knuckles softly tapped the wood once more. “You know, if you open the door, you can punch me again or at least slam it in my face. Tell you what, sweetheart – I’ll let you kick me in the crown jewels once. How’s that, huh? Hell, might even like it if it’s you, so don’t be surprised if I moan instead of flinch.”

A beat passed, and then finally:

“You’re not coming in,” you said, voice dry as paper.

“Figured,” he muttered and dropped down on the steps just outside your door. His back leaned against the frame and brick wall, one knee up, the other stretched across the concrete like he had all goddamn night. “Place still smells like cheap paint and lavender. But hey, at least it got character… and possibly black mold. Had to pick the shittiest apartment in New York, didn’t you?”

You still didn’t say anything, but he heard the quiet creak of the floorboards inside and your breathing just behind the door, measured and intentional – you were listening.

And sure, on some level, he knew this was fucking stupid. You didn’t want to see him. You made that clear when you told him to fuck off several times by now. But he couldn’t not be here – not after today.

Not after everything.

“Y’know, I liked it better when you yelled at me and threw me ‘round through time,” he said and let his head rest against the wood, shutting his eyes for a second. “Now I knock and don’t even get a ‘go to hell.’ Kinda hurtin’ my feelings, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have feelings,” you bit.

Ben smirked. There you were.

“I’m not here to fight, alright? Just figured if you hate me, I should at least fuckin’ show up for it,” he said and rubbed a thumb over a splinter in the wood.

“You gonna sit there forever?” you snapped. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so,” Ben replied, a smile curling on his lips. “You haven’t vanished yet, which means you don’t fuckin’ hate me as much as you think you do.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Me staying has nothing to do with you,” you argued. “This is my home. I like it here. I have friends here. If anyone should fucking leave, it’s you.”

“You can’t even remember most of this shit, including that little whine club of yours.”

You scoffed, and Ben suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to make you angrier. You were just making it so goddamn hard on him to hold back. And maybe that was your point all along.

“Hey, I can remember most of them again. It’s coming back. I know Annie and Frenchie and Hughie and Butcher–”

“Butcher ain’t your fuckin’ friend,” he cut in sharply.

“Why? ‘Cause he blackmailed me?” you asked. “I told you it wasn’t that fucking serious – and yeah, I remember that, too.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a good enough reason to me,” he muttered.

“Everything’s a good fucking reason to you.”

And maybe you were right about that one. Because it surely wasn’t the only reason he wanted Butcher dead. The asshole had not only crossed a line by threatening you but also by threatening him with turning you against him.

Mostly, though, he hated to admit that it also may have been a reason he came to see you tonight. Why he couldn’t give you time and leave you fucking alone.

He had to talk to you before they fucking got to you and spewed all their poison about him.

Ben exhaled slowly. “Look, I know you’re mad at me. I get it. If I were you, I woulda done the same fuckin’ thing.”

You snorted a dark chuckle. “If you were me, New York would be leveled and burning right now.”

“Probably.” Ben pursed his lips, head bobbing. “Listen, I know this is about what happened last week–”

“Don’t.” Your voice cut him like a knife – cold, sharp, and warning.

Ben swallowed heavily. “I don’t wanna rehash it, alright? I just figured you need to–… I had to, okay? I had no choice. I had to push harder. You weren’t breaking, and I was runnin’ outta tricks. Outta time.”

“That it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he assured, even though your question sounded like a trap. He just didn’t know what would activate it yet. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Bullshit,” you snapped. “You did mean to. You meant everything. You don’t get to have a say in my life for over a year, treat me like a shit, corner me in my own fucking apartment, and then beg for forgiveness on my doorstep like it’s some goddamn romantic gesture.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Ben muttered, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

Well, shit. There went his plan.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, alright? You think that was fuckin’ fun for me?”

“Kinda, yeah,” you huffed bitterly.

Ben swallowed, nodding. “You really think I wanted this? Any of it? You know that I–…” He didn’t finish, just bit his lips, but you said it for him anyway.

“You were just like him.”

Ben licked his lips, then smacked them. “I know.”

“You’re supposed to protect me,” you added quietly.

“I know that, too,” he admitted and tilted his head back against the brick wall, staring up at stars through the city haze. “Still remember your face that night. It’s been livin’ rent-free in my goddamn skull ever since. You were scared… of me. I did that. On purpose, sure, but doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself for it.” He rubbed his jaw. The heat of shame burned at the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have–… I wouldn’t have hurt you. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that, because I don’t know you,” you argued. “I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth or lying through your fucking teeth right now because you’re still playing some sick game.”

Ben closed his eyes for another moment, exhaling a breath through his nose. “I’m not playin’ a game.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You,” you said and slowly pressed each word out with purpose.

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “What d’you want me to say, huh? Just tell me what it fuckin’ takes. Fine, alright? Maybe it was more than a little pretense that night. Maybe I was a jealous asshole and a little rougher than I intended. There, I said it. Fuckin’ happy now?”

“None of this makes me fucking happy!”

“Makes fuckin’ two of us,” Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. He waited till the sting in his chest subsided before continuing, “But you still gotta believe me – I wouldn’t’ve hurt you.”

Silence. Fucking crickets. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

He banged his forehead softly against the door. “Please open it.”

“No.”

Sure, he could’ve kicked it in a while ago, but he figured he’d probably be making the wrong point. Aside from that, you sure as hell would either freeze him, toss him into some historical catastrophe, or disappear from the face of the Earth.

“You think I’ve been stuck on what you did this past year, but it’s not just that,” you continued. “I’ve been trying to figure out how much of what you became over the last eighty years is real… and how much is just for show.”

Ben huffed a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, not sure ‘bout that one, either,” he muttered quietly. “If you find out, lemme know.”

You didn’t say anything, but the record kept playing. The needle scratched faintly as the song faded to its last few bars. Then, he heard you lifting and flipping it.

Side B – fitting.

Your weight inside moved again, heartbeat getting closer. There was a creak of old wood and the rustling of fabric as you seemed to be sitting down on the floor just on the other side of him. If the door disappeared, he could imagine your knees touching. There were no attempts at footsteps or even the door chain shifting, but at least you hadn’t vanished yet.

You were still here – listening.

Ben’s eyes then drifted to the box next to him, resting a hand on the taped-up lid. “I brought your stuff, by the way. Kept it all. Your shoes, that busted old notebook full of chicken scratch equations, the movie projector you made me, even that shirt that didn’t make sense to me till ’69,” he listed, chuckling softly. “I saw you there. At that concert, y’know?”

“You did?”

“Yep. You were gettin’ high with some college kids. Even followed you,” he added.

“Oh, yeah, those kids were so nice. I think they were a throuple. Not sure, but definitely polyamorous,” you mused behind the door. “I left when the topic of an orgy came up. But they gave me LSD. Was my first time doing it.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed. “Explains a few things,” he murmured lowly, his eyes swerving back to the box. “You know, I thought about burnin’ all this shit several times over the years.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because you left. Because he didn’t know if he’d see you again. Because it still smelled like you.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t know. Just couldn’t do it.”

There was silence again on your side, even the song ended. But another started – same tone with a different flavor of ache.

“You can leave it outside,” you said.

“I’d rather hand it to you, if that’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“Right.” Ben let out a deep sigh. “Got you something else, too. But it’s a surprise. Gotta open the door first, though. Only got about one more hour left, too.”

“Great, so it comes with a countdown,” you huffed, and Ben imagined you even rolled your eyes with it. “Please tell me it’s not you exploding.”

He snorted, amused. “Nah, not the kinda explosion I’ve planned for you, sweetheart.”

“Ew! Why?”

“C’mon, it was right there. Can’t serve me like that,” he replied, chuckling.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself,” you murmured.

“You used to love it when I made those fuckin’ jokes,” Ben noted, laughing a little as a memory popped into his head. “Once made you laugh so hard you snorted your soda through your fuckin’ nose.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“It just was.”

You had always been a fucking challenge. Didn’t matter what he’d tried – making you his lover or his enemy.

“I liked who you were then,” you added after a beat.

Ben was quiet, and for a while, the city filled the space between you – the hum of traffic two streets over, someone slamming a cab door, a dog barking faintly from a second-story window.

“Look, uhm, I don’t know how much of that guy’s still in here, but I think some of him is,” Ben said finally. “Specially ‘round you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” you scoffed sharply. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

That one hit harder than he expected, but he didn’t defend himself either. What was the fucking point? No matter what he said, you didn’t believe him. You never would again, would you?

“I’ll go, okay?” Ben said then and heard your weight shift behind the door. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. I just need to ask you somethin’ first.”

A beat passed before you responded.

“What?”

Ben took a breath and swallowed. “Back at the office, you said you trained, so how long–, uhm, how long have your powers been back? I mean, did you leave on purpose… that night?”

There was nothing but silence – heavy, cruel, and suffocating – till the lock clicked. The door cracked open a moment later.

And there you fucking were again.

His heart stopped when he saw you. Still on the floor, back leaning against the wall next to the door, drowning in a Blondie tee, damp hair from a shower, bare legs stretched out over the old wooden boards. You looked better than you did in the afternoon. Tired as fuck, but better.

“Hey,” he said softly, like you were a deer in a sunny clearing he didn’t want to scare back into the dark woods.

“Hey,” you parroted with the same softness in your voice.

Ben could see it then – you didn’t hate him anymore. Not like you had. You were pissed and mad and five different flavors of disappointed, but you didn’t want to drown him in a volcano any longer.

You swallowed and averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “I was stuck. Nothing was working, no matter what I tried. But, uhm, I got the freezing thing working again after a few weeks,” you explained slowly. “I didn’t leave on purpose, though. I told you.”

“You told me a lotta things.” He smiled weakly. “Most of ‘em lies.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said quietly and kept your eyes focused on the floor in front of you. “Kinda the reason I got scared and panicked. I didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t know what the future would look like. Not until I figured out it was a loop.”

He leaned his head back against the door. “You always had secrets. I knew that much. You’d look at me sometimes like you knew how everything ended.”

“I guess I did,” you admitted. “On some level.”

Ben swallowed thickly, nodding. “So what was the plan? You were never gonna say anything?”

“No, I would have. I think… I wanted to,” you replied. “Just didn’t know when… or how. I was scared you were gonna–…”

You didn’t finish.

“What? Kill you?”

You shook your head and met his eyes. “No, leave.”

“I wouldn’t have.” A sad smile twitched on his lips. “So you really didn’t wanna leave?”

“No.”

The word was barely audible over the music, but he still would’ve heard it even if someone was standing next to his ear with a jackhammer.

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “You know, I always figured I drove you off that night. Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No, you weren’t. You never were,” you said, but it wasn’t mean. There was a faint smile on your face.

“Never did get an answer, though,” he noted, swallowing. “Still waiting, y’know. Still wonderin’.”

You looked at him then for a long moment. “Not sure you deserve an answer now.”

“Me neither.” He smiled a little. “Give it to me anyway?”

But you shook your head and averted your gaze again. “I didn’t mean to fall for you, you know? Didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“I would’ve said yes. I wanted to,” you said then, taking him by surprise. He hadn’t expected an answer. Not when he asked it now and not when he’d asked it back then.

For a while, he didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know what to ask that would magically make this all better and fix it. What words were significant enough to bandage a wound this big?

Ben exhaled slowly. “Why haven’t you gone back yet?”

You blinked at him, brow close to reaching your hairline.

“You could, right? You have your powers again. You could go back right to that moment before it all went to shit,” he clarified.

You were quiet for a beat. “I could. Thought about it.”

Ben’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “But you haven’t, right? Otherwise we still wouldn’t be sittin’ here.”

“No, guess not…”

“Why?”

You found his eyes, and he could see the tears gleaming in yours. Then you gave a weak shrug of your shoulders. “‘Cause it wasn’t real.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. It was. It was real.”

“It was a lie. A fantasy,” you argued softly. It wasn’t cruel – just honest. “I’m not saying my feelings weren’t real. They were. But everything else? It would’ve collapsed. It was inevitable… like entropy. We were drifting from order to chaos. From warmth to cold.”

“You don’t know that,” Ben countered.

“Maybe not,” you admitted and looked at him again. “But it’s not just up to me. Not anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s your life. You should make the decision,” you told him.

Ben sat with that for a while, let the words sink in, even though he barely understood them.

“You should go.”

“What?” Your brow raised like you hadn’t anticipated that answer.

“You love m–… him, right? So you should be with him,” Ben said, although the answer almost broke him.

You didn’t love him. Probably never would. At least not this version of him, so what was the point of holding on? He could get a redo. Maybe even the life he always wanted.

“It’s not that simple,” you said. “The whole world would change. You would change.”

He snorted bitterly. “Might be for the best,” he muttered. “You’d make sure I wouldn’t cross a line or lose myself along the way like I did without you there.”

“I don’t think you understand the implications of it,” you noted. “You don’t know what happens to you – this you.”

He gave a shrug. “I stop existing, right? Just fade away like Marty’s hand.”

You smiled, but it was a sad one. “Maybe. If I go back and stay, the future might rewrite itself, including you. So, yeah, this you would stop existing and get replaced by a new version of you. But there’s another option,” you explained. “If I go back, it could just start a new timeline. An alternate one. Which means this one would still exist. I’d just be gone from it.”

Ben’s lips twitched, head bobbing. “So either I stop existing, or I’d be here alone forever. That what you’re saying?”

You nodded slowly.

He didn’t love that answer. You happy with some other version of him, while he was stuck in eternal misery, forever missing you. He wasn’t sure if he could do that – give up on you like that. And maybe that was fucking selfish of him. He knew it was.

“You’d save a lot of people. Probably,” you added like you were making a pro and con list. “I ran different scenarios, you know? Like simulations in my head of what could happen. Tried to find the right path that would yield the most benefit.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “That what you were doing in the shed?”

“Mostly.” You gave a half-sure nod. “I tried to find out how it works. What theory was true.”

“And?”

You twitched your shoulders. “Inconclusive. Never could figure it out.”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “All these theories and you never thought it was a loop?”

A small smile flashed on your lips. “No, I did. It crossed my mind,” you admitted and swallowed. “Was just the one I liked the least. Because it not only meant that I couldn’t change anything but that I was also the cause for everything.”

“And me,” Ben added and met your confused stare. “I sent you back. So I caused it too, right?”

You exhaled musingly. “I guess so. Maybe.”

Ben’s brows drew together. “So who started it? You or me?”

You shrugged again. “I don’t know. My guess is as good as yours.”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be like… a starting point, right? A first one?” he asked and saw you hold back an amused laugh. “What?”

“It’s a circle,” you said like it would explain everything.

It fucking didn’t.

“Does a circle have a beginning or an end?” you asked in that certain tone of yours he knew all too well – the teacher voice. “The answer you’re looking for is no, by the way.”

“Smartass,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They didn’t teach all that futuristic shit yet in my school.”

“What, geometry?” You snorted in amused disbelief. “I’m pretty sure they did. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He rolled his eyes back. “But there’s gotta be an original version that looked different than all the others, right? Or a version of me that never knew you at all.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Jesus, how much have you been thinking about this?”

“A lot. Yeah,” he admitted and cleared his throat. Smiled even. “So? What’s the working theory, Doc?”

“I don’t know. Probably?”

Ben’s brow wrinkled. “You ever gonna give me an answer tonight that doesn’t sound like it’s comin’ straight outta a Magic 8 Ball?”

You snorted, that little mischievous smirk curling on your lips. “Ask again later.”

“Funny.” He snorted a laugh, but he tried not to be too loud or move too much.

He’d noticed it a while ago – how the tension faded from your muscles, how the smiles kept creeping in. It was like you weren’t even aware you were still supposed to be angry and hurt. You were just doing it subconsciously – talking to him, laughing with him, falling into a pattern with him you’d grown accustomed to over the last few months.

Ben knew better than to point that out and burst it, however. He just enjoyed the bubble. Didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want you to wake up from your trance. Scared you’d realize then that he wasn’t the same guy anymore.

So he said nothing and kept the conversation flowing, hoping you wouldn’t catch on for the rest of both your lives. A man could fucking hope, right?

“Hmm,” he hummed and feigned contemplation. Then he smirked. “So, technically, that means the original timeline could be me being on your little history backstage pass, and you payin’ me a visit, right?”

You snorted. “Unlikely. You were never on that list.”

“Oh, but fuckin’ JFK is on it?”

You laughed loudly at that. “Are you still seriously hung up on that guy? He’s been dead for decades. Most likely because of you.”

“Hey, I had nothin’ to do with that.”

“Legend said you did,” you countered.

“That old prick with that coked-up brain doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about,” Ben muttered. “That shit about Normandy wasn’t true either, was it? I mean, you saw, right?”

“Oh, I remember when you made me prove Hughie and I were wrong. Watched you throw a whole-ass tank at like forty Nazis,” you replied wryly.

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ welcome,” he huffed and only snapped out of his internal rant when he heard your soft giggles.

“How do you even know about my list? I know I never told you about that,” you said then, your brow scrunching into little creases.

“Oh, you sure as hell didn’t, sweetheart.” Ben smirked wide and lazy. “But your so-called friends were real fuckin’ chatty today.”

“Great,” you sighed, then found his eyes. “So what now? Do you want me to go back?”

Ben pursed his lips for a moment. “Can I think about it?” he asked quietly, foot tapping against the concrete below it.

You gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Sure. Time’s not really relevant. Not for us, anyway. Could tell me tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Literally doesn’t matter.”

Ben didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. “Do you wanna go back?”

He for sure thought you wanted to. He thought there could only ever be one answer, almost rendering the question redundant in the first place. You loved the past version of him. That guy could still give you a future and a life you were worthy of. Why wouldn’t you want that?

But your answer took him by surprise.

“No,” you said and didn’t break his gaze. “I don’t.”

Ben’s brow knitted. “Why?”

“I don’t think there’s a version of us that gets to live the perfect dream life. Where we get everything we ever wanted,” you said. “It’s not how life works. Was just a glitch in the matrix. It was nice while it lasted, though.”

Ben licked his lips, not knowing what he could say to convince you otherwise. “I don’t think that’s true. I think we would’ve been happy,” he said. “I woulda made sure you were.”

You turned your head to look at him. “I was, and you did.”

Ben nodded and bit the insides of his cheeks. “So if you don’t wanna go back, why you offerin’?”

“I ruined your life. Only fair you at least get a say in how I do it this time,” you replied, shrugging.

Ben then met your eyes. “You didn’t ruin shit.”

You lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really? Not even a little?”

He huffed a snort. “Maybe a little,” he teased, smirking. “But kinda ruined me in the best way, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything to that, just leaned your head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling fan for a while.

“You know,” you said then, “if I do go back, Russia never happens. You wouldn’t have to go through that.”

Ben’s lips twitched, almost in amusement. Oh, he thought about it, alright. Surely was fuckin’ tempting.

“Yeah? You sure you wouldn’t sell me out to the fuckin’ Commies next time you get pissed at me again?” he blurted out before stopping himself.

You inhaled sharply. “No,” you assured. “And I’m sorry, okay? That was–…”

“A dick move?” Ben supplied with a cocked brow.

You smiled. “Yeah, big time.”

“‘S fine. Deserved it,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, you didn’t,” you insisted with that same fucking softness in your eyes he’d always seen in you. “Which is why I’m sorry.”

There was silence between you again, but it wasn’t heavy and loaded anymore. It was comfortable. Calm. Familiar.

“So what now?” Ben asked then. “What happens if you stay here?”

“What do you mean?” Your brows scrunched again, and he didn’t like that tone in your voice – that finality in it.

“You still love me, or is this the courtesy break-up talk you’re granting me?”

You looked at him but didn’t respond. Just dropped your head back against the wall after a moment and closed your eyes.

“My parents aren’t dead,” your voice broke the silence and made his brows raise.

“I know time doesn’t fuckin’ matter to you, and you can see dead people or whatever, but death still fuckin’ exists.”

“No, I know that,” you said. “They’re not dead. They’re in Alaska.”

His brow shot up. “Alaska? But–”

“I did bring them to 1349, and I did leave them there,” you stated and bit your lip. “For about three years. Then I went back. For them, only five minutes had passed. Still scared the shit out of them.”

“So what? They fled to fuckin’ Alaska?”

“No, I dropped them there and told them not to come back, or I’d leave ‘em in the Middle Ages for good next time,” you shared, pulling your legs up and leaning forward on your knees.

“Recognizin’ a pattern here…”

You huffed a chuckle. “I guess so. But that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

“Why are you telling me?”

You swallowed. “They weren’t all bad, you know? I kept thinking about that. I mean, sure, they were addicts, and they didn’t really want me, but they had these phases… Every once in a while, they tried to get clean, and everything was just suddenly fine.“

Ben could see the tears collecting in your eyes and the lump forming in your throat.

“We’d go on these family trips,” you continued, laughing softly. “Once saw Salem Sue. You know that huge cow in North Dakota? And they’d also pick me up from school and take me for ice cream or pizza or to the mall. Stuff like that. They tried, you know? For a while, they did at least.”

Ben’s heart flared up at the sad smile twitching on your lips, however. His gut churned, like it already knew where the story was headed and what morals would be drawn from it.

“That was the thing, though. It never lasted,” you said. “Sometimes it was a week. Sometimes even a few months. At first, I got really exited. Happy ‘cause I finally had parents who gave a shit, you know? And I figured maybe we could be normal now. But it was always a phase. It wasn’t forever. Eventually, they’d go right back to being the shit parents they were, and I stopped expecting them to change. Stopped being hopeful and excited whenever they had good days because I knew it wouldn’t stay.”

“This isn’t a phase,” he said softly. Kept his eyes on you like it might convince you. “It’s not going anywhere. It’ll stick. I’ll stick.”

“Sure.” You nodded slowly and pressed your lips into a tight line, then gave a weak smile. “Think I haven’t heard it all before? I know all the words in the Book of Addict.”

That cut deep. Trust never came easy to you, and he’d already managed to break it several times.

“I’m not–” Ben didn’t finish. Just looked at you and swallowed around the thick lump in his throat while every cell in his body vibrated. He clenched his fists to stop the tremble in his hands – the constant buzz.

“You’re not, what?”

Ben ground his jaw. “I’ve been clean. I haven’t touched this shit in months.”

“You just made me buy pills and coke two weeks ago,” you said. “Called me at 3AM. Remember?”

“I didn’t take it,” he insisted. “I fuckin’ flushed it, alright? Gave it out as party favors. Just called you to keep you busy. Nothin’ more to it.”

And it was fucking true. Sometime shortly after Vought tower and Homelander, he’d stopped. He hadn’t used for forty years anyway, and he didn’t need the hallucinations of you anymore either because the real you had been right fucking there.

You leaned back against the wall with a sigh – unbothered and unaffected. “If you’re waiting for applause, you’re wasting your time. I’ve learned not to clap till the show’s over.”

He scoffed quietly, nodding. It was no fucking use, was it? Were you ever gonna believe him again?

“Don’t trust me? That’s fine,” he said, jaw aching from how hard he’d been grinding it. “I know you’re fuckin’ disappointed in me. Hell, I am too. But I’ll fuckin’ show you.”

“Guess we’ll see,” you replied, barely audible.

“Didn’t have collateral this entire year, either,” he added like that piece of information would finally convince you. “Not a single asshole died that didn’t deserve it.”

You snorted a laugh. “You’re not serious right now, are you? You woke up in this century with a fucking kill list and unchecked PTSD. You killed like fifty people in the first week.”

“After,” he countered. “After the tower. After you woke up from your fuckin’ coma, I stopped, alright?”

“Yeah, ‘cause everyone on your list was already dead,” you argued.

“Trust me. There’s more,” he rasped.

Stan Edgar. Butcher. Your parents. They were on his fucking hit list now, too. But he knew better than to say it out loud.

“Right.” You clicked your tongue.

“I didn’t explode today if you haven’t fuckin’ noticed. I’ve got it under control,” he argued further. “Even goddamn apologized to MM a year ago. Did he tell you?”

“He did.” You gave a small nod. “Did you actually fucking mean it, though?”

“I did,” he gritted through his teeth. “What d’you wanna hear, hm? I did horrible shit, alright. None of it I can fuckin’ take back. And I fuckin’ paid for all of it. Deserved it, too. But I swear to God I won’t let you fuckin’ down again. I won’t.”

You stayed quiet for a heartbeat, licking your lips, head bobbing. Then you met his eyes. “I think you should go,” you said so fucking soft and gentle like those words didn’t rip his heart straight out of his chest.

“Sweetheart, please.” He hated begging, but for you, he’d be devoutly on his knees for the rest of his goddamn life.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the door, ready to close it, but he stopped it, pushing his hand against the wood to keep it open. His mind, his gut, and his heart screamed at him that it’d never open again once it shut. He couldn’t let that fucking happen.

“Ben…”

You didn’t say his name in anger or annoyance. Your voice was just heavy with a tiredness that seemed to have seeped into your bones.

“Just a little longer? Please?” He stared at you till he saw the tiniest nod and you dropped your hand from the door with a sigh.

“Guess I’m Jeannie today. Just granting wishes left and right,” you muttered.

Ben lifted a brow. “Like I Dream of Jeannie Barbara Eden?” He grinned then. “Man, I loved that show.”

He didn’t mention he fucked Barbara Eden once at the Chateau. Thought it was best to keep that to himself.

“Well, don’t expect me to call you ‘master,’ Captain,” you huffed wryly.

“‘S fine. Eden didn’t do that either,” he muttered under his breath.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.

You motioned with your chin to the box next to him. “That my stuff?”

Ben followed your gaze, gave half a shrug. “Uh, well, not just your shit. Just stuff from our time together in general. You ain’t gettin’ that projector back.”

You snorted in amusement, then crossed your arms and smirked challengingly. “What kinda stuff did you keep in there?”

He pursed his lips. “Uh, you know, just memorabilia.”

“Like what?”

He scowled, seeing you barely hide the grin at this point.

“If you tell me you kept old movie tickets from our date nights in there, I’m gonna call you a sentimental sap,” you teased.

The frown deepened. “Maybe I just hand ‘em to you separately.”

You stretched your neck slightly to look behind his torso. “What’s in the little box on top?”

“Ah.” A slow smirk curled on his lips. “That’s your little surprise.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You really think bribery’s gonna work?”

Ben took the small, pink box and held it out to you. “Just open it.”

You kept your little glare on him as you took the box before carefully opening the lid and peeking inside it as if he’d hidden poisonous snakes in there. Then your brow furrowed, head tilting in question.

“Cake?”

“Still your birthday for–,” he checked his watch, “–another twelve minutes.”

A frown.

“What d’you think you’re doing? This isn’t Sixteen Candles.”

“Didn’t say it was. Just wanted you to have cake on your birthday,” he said and twitched his shoulders almost innocently.

You inhaled sharply. Bit the inside of your cheeks.

Ha. That one got you.

“If you let me in, I can you show you what’s in that box while you eat cake,” Ben added.

“Let me in, children. Your mother has something for each and every one of you,” you said, your voice high and sweet and filled with bubbles of laughter.

Ben’s brow knitted. “Is that from a Grimm fairy tale?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” he hummed. “My mother read those to me.”

“I know.”

“Right.” He clicked his tongue. “Forgot I told you that.”

“Yup,” you said again and popped the p. Your gaze, however, wasn’t on him but focused on the tips of your toes. “Moral of the story, though, I let you in, and you’ll eat me.”

Ben bit his lips hard, holding the fucking smirk back. Oh, he’d eat you, alright.

“Don’t,” you warned – cute little glare and all. “The way this has been going so far, I know once you’re inside, you’re never gonna leave, and then I have to leave, and I don’t wanna leave my apartment, so you’re staying out.”

Ben nodded, then smacked his lips. “Convincing.”

You exhaled a long sigh, he blinked, and then suddenly, you were skimming through pages of your notebook in concentration, still in the same spot you used to be like nothing had changed, the box next to him gone and now next to you.

Well, shit. He’d overplayed his fucking hand.

“What’s in there anyway?” he asked. “Never could fuckin’ read it.”

“That’s the point,” you replied without glancing up.

“Looks like fuckin’ hieroglyphs,” he muttered with a scoff.

“It’s a secret language I invented when I was six,” you shared. “I started keeping travel journals after the first few jumps, so I could keep track of everything. The different writing system functions as a fail-safe in case someone steals it or I accidentally leave it somewhere.”

“Huh. And what’s this one say?”

“Uh, it’s some equations, journal entries, memories from the future I wrote down before forgetting, which is why I need this now,” you said, turning pages like you were searching for something specific.

“Anything ‘bout me in there?”

“Everything’s about you in there.”

You still didn’t look up when you said it. Didn’t sound sentimental or even gentle. Just presented it as a fact.

He gestured toward the currently opened page in your lap. “What does this one say?”

“Oh, uhm…” You hesitated, brow knitting like you weren’t sure you cared to share it. “It’s from that day at the lake in May. The one where I pushed you off the dock.”

Ben laughed softly. “Remember that one. Wanna read it to me?”

You looked at him, then let out a breath. Slammed the notebook shut. “No, look, I’m tired. I’ve been awake for over thirty hours and this birthday has lasted close to six months. I’m basically jet-lagged. Can you just get to the point? Why are you here?”

Ben licked his lips and leaned back against the wall. His eyes found yours. “You already know why I’m here. Can’t tell me that you don’t. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“I already told you what I want, and you’re not listening again,” you said, voice sharp as a whip. “Leave me alone. You hovering doesn’t help. I swear to God you’re the worst ex-boyfriend ever. I want time. That’s what I fucking want.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed, green eyes flickering. The fucking thought alone was making his chest hum alive.

“I don’t want you to disappear again,” he admitted and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

You exhaled a deeply frustrated breath. “I’m not, alright? But only if you go now.”

He looked up the stairs leading to the street and away from you. “For how long? When can I come back?”

“Ben,” you sighed his name and rolled your eyes.

He nodded. Relented.

“Alright, fine.”

He rose from the uncomfortable concrete three minutes past midnight and glanced down at you one final time. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

You got back onto your feet as well, gave a nod, and the door closed.

Sleep was impossible.

No doubt, you were fucking exhausted. Tired in your bones, your blood, your heart, your goddamn soul.

But still – no fucking sleep.

As soon as you closed your eyes, your mind was racing. It wouldn’t shut off. And your heart? That was racing, too. Either from fear, yearning, or fucking both, you weren’t sure.

Ben was gone. Yet, he was still fucking everywhere.

You tossed. You turned. You sighed your frustrations at the ceiling and groaned into pillows. Counted sheep and listed the first one hundred decimals of pi. Still nothing.

It was too quiet or too loud. Too dark or too light. It wasn’t fucking home.

You hadn’t slept in this bed in months. Not really. And now, wrapped in its sterile warmth, blanket pulled up to your shoulder like armor, curled into a ball on the mattress like an Armadillo, you felt even farther from yourself.

Home felt like somewhere else now – in the bed you used to sleep and the guy you used to share it with.

Because not only were you struggling with your feelings, temporal jet-lag, and timelines – you also fucking missed him.

This wasn’t your bed. The spot next to you was empty. And nothing fucking smelled like him anymore.

No arms around you. No steady breathing next to you. Just emptiness – like entropy knocked on your fucking door tonight and invited itself in to stay.

Your muscles remembered another rhythm. Another routine. Another weight.

For five months, there’d been someone next to you. Someone you loved so much it fucking hurt. Now they were gone.

The worst, though? You thought you’d never get him back. Thought there was nothing left to rebuild. But after tonight, you weren’t quite so sure anymore. Tonight felt easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

It felt as if he was still there. Still him. Scraps of him buried under inches of shit, sure, but still.

You saw the flickers of light through the thicket. Saw not the supe, but Ben.

Twenty-three. Dumb as hell. Soft in the rarest places. Calloused hands that knew how to touch without hurting. A man who tucked you into his side like you were something worth keeping warm. A man who laughed in his sleep and sometimes pulled you closer without waking.

That was the rhythm you knew now. And without it, your own heartbeat felt wrong.

You shifted onto your back. Then your other side. Kicked the blanket off. Pulled it back on. Flipped the pillow. Nothing fucking helped.

He said he loved you. Then he said you were a liar.

He kept your things for eight decades. Then he pushed you away for a whole year.

And despite all the nightmares and the differences and all the cruel things he’d ever done or said, you still fucking loved him. God, that was the worst part.

You loved him. And Ben? He broke you open anyway.

Then it fucking hit – the first sob that clawed through your body like it had built since January of ’42.

The kind that crawled up your throat without warning. Ugly. Choking. Whole body shaking.

You curled into yourself, and it kept coming. Louder now. Guttural. The kind of crying that wracked your chest and made your teeth ache.

Everything fucking spilled out – the grief, the time, the loneliness, the betrayal.

You weren’t just mourning what he did.

You were mourning everything you thought you’d found in 1942 – all the people, the places, the versions of you that felt brighter and stronger and freer. You were mourning a life you couldn’t go back to. A home you’d built with hope and love, only to have it dissolve in a single blink of an eye.

You sobbed until you hiccupped.

Until the pillow was soaked beneath your cheek.

Until the silence swallowed you up again.

Until the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. Not like before. Three slow taps, almost reluctant – like he was giving you time to pretend you didn’t hear them.

Your breath hitched again. Your eyes, already raw, squeezed shut tighter. Like that might somehow undo the sound and make him disappear again.

Then came his voice – low and unsure in the night. “Can I come in?”

You stayed silent.

“Didn’t go far,” he admitted. “I heard you. Just wanted to check on you. Didn’t think you wanted me here. Still don’t, probably. But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You wanted to say something – to yell, to scream, to beg him to go or stay or hold you tighter – but your mouth wouldn’t work, and your chest was a collapsed building like a nuclear bomb had torn through it.

The words formed on your tongue, but your lips didn’t move.

“I’m gonna open the door now,” he gave you a warning shot. “If you don’t want me to, say somethin’. Don’t fuckin’ disappear on me, alright?”

You didn’t, and the door creaked open.

He stepped in slowly, boot steps soft for once. The smell of city air followed him in – summer heat and burning asphalt and different flavors of cuisine.

The couch beneath you dipped. The mattress creaked beneath his weight with carefulness. He didn’t reach for you right away. He sat still for a moment – like he was giving you one final out.

He always did.

And when there was no resistance, the warmth of his arm ghosted around your waist. Slow. Hesitant. Tentative. Like he expected you to pull away. Like he was afraid touching you might set the whole world off again.

You still didn’t stop him. You never did.

His chest then pressed lightly to your back. His hand settled just beneath your ribs – warm, solid, steady.

Fucking perfect.

“Hey, it’s me,” he whispered close to your ear, breath hot against your skin. “I’m still fuckin’ here.”

That was it – the fucking dam broke again.

You curled inward, sobbing so hard it felt like your lungs were trying to escape your body. Everything you’d buried – the grief, the fear, the ache of missing him – unraveled like a thread pulled too tight for too long, the seams of your heart giving way all at once.

Fury. Loneliness. Need – and somewhere in it, a kind of gut-deep relief that made your ribs hurt.

And Ben? He held you through it. He always did.

Didn’t say anything more. Didn’t try to fix it. Just anchored you with his body, impossibly strong and steady and safe behind you, grounding you to something fucking real in a world that was absurd.

He was gravity, and you were in free fall.

You pressed your forehead into your pillow and cried until there was nothing left but the sound of your own ragged breath. Ben’s nose buried in your hair, lips kissed your crown, arms wrapped around you tighter.

Eventually, your breath began to slow. Evened out into lazy waves.

You turned then in the arms around you – slow, cautious, unsure of what you were doing until your face found his chest, your palms flattened gently against him. Your body still slightly trembled like the aftershocks of an earthquake, but his warmth seeped through your skin and soothed it like a balm.

You looked up, and his eyes found yours instantly – quiet, wrecked, waiting. You searched his face like you were ensuring each freckle was still in place. He looked as tired as you felt, and he wasn’t armored now.

No sneer. No shield. Nothing cruel or smug or sure. Just him – the same guy who whispered dumb jokes in the dark to make you laugh and who let you fall asleep against his chest like he’d never let go.

Just Ben.

His hand lifted and brushed a tear from your soaked cheek. Then another. And another. His thumb lingered at your jawline, rough and gentle all at once.

His forehead touched yours, and you exhaled a soft, shaking breath. He tilted his head just slightly. Not pushing. Not rushing. Just waiting.

And you kissed him.

Soft.

Slow.

Salt still on your lips.

▶️ Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of – JULY 20

A lot of you asked me "Omg, how are they ever gonna get back together after all of this and that brutal fight? Something big needs to happen." But I always felt like what they needed the most was a quiet night and no armor (or only little lol). Did you expect to end it there?

And for you angsty souls out there – don't worry. Something big's still coming that will either solidify their bond more or break it altogether 😉

Coming Up:

“You want me to leave?”

Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”

Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”

You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”

“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.

“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”

Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”

You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

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@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[unknxwn-vxid-vxices]

Baby Saja’s Secret Boyfriend - Meetings 1 | A2.1

First, I wanna say thanks to everyone who liked and engaged with my first work, it's currently at 60+ notes, so like ty all so so much and seeing how well it was received, I figured I oughta give you an expansion on this story, so here we go <333

Notes: OOC Characters, Cursing, Male Reader

Series Parts: Part 1, Part 2

How do two sarcastic, shit talking people get into a relationship, you ask? Clearly, it starts with a mutual bond and understanding, and most importantly... respect.

Ever since he’d re-entered the plain of human life, Jinu and Rumi have been pushing Baby to get to know more people who weren’t Huntrix or the other Saja Boys. And his response was honestly just WHYYY??? In Baby’s opinion, since he left this plane of living, humans had grown more dull, less interesting. Truly, his death must’ve set humanity back decades in terms of how hilarious they were.  So being uninterested in humans was an understatement for how he felt.

That is, until Baby heard your music. Baby was obsessed with the quality of the music he and the Saja Boys produced, and from what he heard, you had to be some sort of older guy who’d been studying music for years. When he discovers you’re a prodigy around the age he portrays himself, he’s astounded. Baby takes some time, and over a few weeks, he manages to get in contact with your team and schedule a studio session with you. 

Baby is excited when he gets to your studio, but he’s mostly interested in what you might be like. The handful of other idols besides Huntrix he’d interacted with had been a rather unique cast of characters, but he could tell they were all well trained in what to say and how to interact with others; it was unsettling. 

So when Baby walks into the studio and sees you, he’s sort of caught off guard. By the first thing you say to him. 

“Platform shoes are a godsend for you, aren’t they…”  Y/n mutters, then gets up from their chair and walk over to Baby, observing the male closely out of curiosity. 

“Says the guy that's barely taller than me?” Baby retorts swiftly with a slightly annoyed expression. No one tended to comment on his height, this was new… he supposed, and somewhat refreshing.  

You scoffed at him. “Barely is a far stretch, but anyways… what brings you to my humble recording space?”  Y/n asked. Y/n then closed the door, having a seat on the sofa they’d brought into the studio. Baby walks around the space, looking at the posters on the wall and then at your computer and the project you had been working on before he got there. 

It was a simple beat, with some instrumentals, your team had briefed you on what Baby seemed interested in. So you thought you’d prep a song to minimise socialising for today, people tended to be rather annoying to work with, a reason why you chose to be solo. 

“Your sound, your writing, I mean, no normal person can write like you do, and so well, I mean, how many songs can someone write about kissing before they’re all the same or just plain old boring? But you keep it fresh, interesting…” Baby says, rolling his eyes as he observes the screen of your PC, looking at what you were working on before he got there. 

“I’m sorry, was that a compliment or?” Y/n asks with a cocked brow as he looks Baby up and down from his spot on the sofa. 

“What do you think, smartass?” Baby hums in return as he sits at your PC’s desk and hits play on the project you’d begun working on. 

Much to your surprise, Baby begins to freestyle on the beat you’d made, and two things, one, he seemed to be familiar with the music production process, two, he was rapping something pretty fire, you couldn’t lie. But you sure as hell would try.

You sat up and listened to his flow, and he actually managed to keep a good flow and cohesive lyrics until about halfway through the song. 

“I gotta say I’m impressed, I didn’t think you had it in ya.” You say, getting off the sofa after a moment and walking over to your PC. 

“There’s a reason I’m the main rapper of Saja Boys.” Baby informs you, and you just roll your eyes. 

“Okay, hot pocket, calm down. You’re decent at writing, though, so what do you want from me?” You ask as you look at him, then your PC’s screen, observing as he looks at the instruments you’d put in. “Besides, don’t you have a million writers and producers trying to work with you?” You continued questioning his motivations. 

“Well, none of them have your sound, your flavour and craftsmanship.” Baby begins looking at you. “They’re all selling generic tastes, flavours, packages to cram the Saja Identity into… You don’t do that, you’re freeform and evolving with each song you make… that’s what I’m trying to learn.” Baby finished. 

You’d never heard someone speak of your music like that before. Definitely not a member of a group far larger than you. It takes you a minute to gauge whether he’s sincere or not, but you don’t sense that sarcastic tone that marked the start of the conversation. It's somewhat funny, you’d been ridiculed by your previous label for not wanting to join their next boy group or even their conceptual coed group, yet here you were getting complimented from someone more successful than either of those groups they tried to fit you in. 

“...” Y/n stood behind Baby for a moment, processing those sincere words one last time. 

“Alright. Well, I put this together for us to work on, so we could work on it over the next few weeks, share tips and stuff with one another.” You offered Baby, waiting for his response. In honesty, you needed help writing some raps for an upcoming song, and you weren’t sure what you would’ve done until your team told you Baby wanted to work together. 

“Yeah, I’d like that. Are you free on Fridays? That’s when I have nothing much to do, but what skill should I expect you to be looking for?” Baby continues the conversation; he’d never expected himself to be interested in hanging out more with someone, yet here he was. 

“I may or may not need help with a rap verse,”  Y/n admits. 

“That’s not surprising, you’re a singer, not much of a rapper.” Baby says. “Especially not on your older projects, you had good flows, but you did better with the sung verses, in my opinion.” Baby says as he stands from your desk with a helpful smile on his face, while you glare translucent daggers, as a part of you knew his words were true. 

“Alright jackass. Not too much now, you reached out to me.” *Y/n interjects. Respecting the criticism but adjusting to the sudden tone shift about his production and sound.

“To save you embarrassing yourself once more.” Baby retorts with a confident look on his face that screams god and saviour complex. Your face scrunches as a result. 

“You fucking highlighter-headed motherfucker.” Y/n says back under his breath without breaking eye contact, his gaze cold and judgmental, but trying to maintain an air of sincerity and niceness. 

Baby just offers you a shit eating grin as he stares back at you. Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up his contact list, and hands you his phone. 

“Gimme your number so I don’t have to show up unannounced.” Baby informs you, and you do as he requested, also sending yourself a quick text so that you’d get his number in turn. 

Once done, you hand Baby’s phone back to him. “Did you want to work more together today?” Baby asks as he puts his phone away and looks back at the instrumental. 

“I mean I didn’t really write any lyrics, and I don’t have much stuff to show you right now, but if you come by next week, Thursday maybe I should have some stuff we can work on together” Y/n tells Baby and the highlighter cyan haired male nods his head in understanding. 

“Alright then, I’ll come by Thursday, see you ‘round” Baby says as he makes his way out of your recording space. As he leaves, you notice how he walks almost with an arrogance about him, but his wasn’t obnoxious like most others. 

The following week arrives swiftly, and both of you find yourselves looking forward to the studio session. In the days since your first meeting, you’ve both grown a respect for one another. Neither of you liked people too afraid to say what’s on their mind and it seemed that would be something you both could agree on. During the days that passed, you’d also sent him a couple of samples and snippets so that he too could work on writing stuff and coming up with production ideas for what you’d shown him or told him about.

At the studio, you’d set yourself up on the couch, wearing one of your merch hoodies, AC on the fritz and cranked to the max. You were finishing up some of the drafts for your rap verse on the song you needed help working on. You’d be dammed if you proved him write about your rap lyricism skills. You’d beautifully written about love, heartbreak, family, and you’d be further dammed if you couldn’t write a verse well enough to earn his respect. 

Eventually, Baby arrives, looking half asleep but not completely drained of life. His eyes immediately find the merch hoodie on Y/n’s torso, and he snickers. “Wearing your own merch? Really?” Baby then pauses, shivering as he notices the sheer cold in the recording studio. “Why the hell is it so cold in here??” 

“You hated on my hoodie, now look at you. But honestly, the AC in here is bipolar, it hasn’t worked all month, and today they cranked it for a stress test and now they can't turn it down.” 

Baby groans in frustration. He’d gotten rather accustomed to heat, humidity, yet even a sweater didn’t save him from the cold of this room. 

“You want to reschedule to a day the AC isn’t malfunctioning?” You offered him in slight concern. 

“Nah, I don’t wanna wait another week, and today is like the best day for this.” Baby says as he walks over to your set-up and looks at what you have opened up. “Is this the beat I freestyled on last time?” Baby asks, looking over at you.

“Yeah” Y/n gets off the sofa and walks over, sitting in his chair, and sliding one over for Baby to use. “I figured I should tidy it up a bit, seeing as you looked like you really liked it, and I now realise I probably should’ve done that with you so you can understand my production better…” You sigh and face palm at your lack of planning ahead. 

“Hey don’t worry we can just use that beat to help you practice rapping, you’ve already got the flow, so all we need to do is work on the lyricism, expand your vocabulary and what not” He says taking his seat and looking at all the projects you had in the folder. 

“What’s this one?” Baby asks pointing to the screen at one of the new beats you’d put together for today. 

The two then spend the better part of 3 hours going over some of the beats and production. Baby listens carefully to your words and he even tries a few of the ideas that pop into his head. Together you both work on refining some of those ideas. Though as you work, you can’t help but notice how he shifts uncomfortably, a consequence of the unbearable cold. 

“Hey, wait here” You say as you stand up, pausing the beat you were both listening to. You rush over to the couch and reach behind it, pulling out a box with ‘rejected merch’ scribbled on the side. You pull out a hoodie. “Take this, you keep fidgeting all over the place, and I don’t wanna be blamed for getting a top idol sick.” You say tossing the hoodie at him. He catches it and inspects it.

“Wow I’m not good enough for real merch?” He retorts slipping the hoodie on over his head. 

“Its seriously not that deep. These hoodies were just rejected ‘cause of the matching colours.” You say rolling your eyes as you sit once more and resume the work on the beat with him. If it weren’t for your words he wouldn’t have noticed that the colours of your hoodie matched the one you gave him, contrasting the parts of the hoodie that are coloured, and having a few hearts on them. He didn’t care enough to kick up a fuss about something like that though, and the colours were pretty good, and the hoodie isn’t half bad either.  

The rest of that day, you both spent working on rap lyricism. Baby of course hops into the booth and freestyles on a different beat to emphasise to you the importance of maintaining both your flow and lyrical cohesion. You then begrudgingly give it a try. And, once he’s done laughing, Baby gives you some tips on where you can improve. 

“Seriously, don’t try and rap those words together, it makes no sense.” Baby says whilst trying to contain a secondary burst of laughter. 

You just click your tongue, finishing up writing down the note he gave you about your freestyle verse over the beat. Luckily you’d recorded it so you could listen to it back and see where you could’ve made a stronger link, or done something more interesting and complex. 

“I was trying to make a link betwee-” You chime in, but Baby immediately cuts you off. 

“I know what you were trying to do, but that’s not the way to do it. Next time, I’ll show you some of the ways I try to navigate rapping.” Baby tells you with a smile, and you just sigh. 

You both had been in the studio for a handful of hours, and the rest of the people in the building had most likely left by now. Baby then gets a text on his phone from someone he has saved as ‘Platinum Emo’ asking him when he’s coming back to Saja Tower. 

“I should probably get going, it’s late…” Baby mutters once he notices the text, and he sounds almost sad to leave. 

“Awww. Is the highlighter gonna miss my company?” You ask him with a smirk, enjoying the banter you two get up to on occasion. 

“No, I’m gonna miss watching you embarrass yourself and call it rap.” Baby bites back with his words. You sit there flabbergasted. 

“Says the guy with literally no sense of direction? You got lost going down the hall to the left.” Y/n retorts, not taking the insult lightly. 

“The sign led me the wrong way.” 

“I told you where to go though?” 

Baby just huffs and rolls his eyes at you. He then goes to take off the hoodie but you stop him. 

“Keep it. I’ve literally got so many. And that way next time you won’t end up shivering for an hour.” You say to him, shutting off your PC and grabbing your laptop. 

“Oh, alright. Thanks I guess for the free, reject hoodie.” Baby says finally. “See you next week?” Baby says almost like a question, double checking you two would still be on. 

“Yeah. And if anything comes up I’d let you know in advance, so don’t worry about it.” You say to him. With that, you leave your recording space and lock the room up. The two of you walk out of the building together and wave goodbye to one another as you walk to your car and he walks towards his ride. 

~

I just wanted to say thank you again to everyone who enjoyed my last work and the first entry in this series, which you can find here. Even though this is technically a prequel to the events of my first post, I didn’t expect so much engagement with it, and just knew I had to write another instalment in the greater series. But anyways, that’s all for now. See you guys in a couple of days with another work, I might experiment and write something for a different fandom for a change, or it might be another part of this series. I kinda do want to work on getting to the actual relationship of this fic, but oh well, who knows what I’ll wanna write, anyways, bye for now and stay safe!!!

Series Parts: Part 1, Part 2

[confusionism]

"Nah," he shakes his head, "not always." And he doesn't just mean to call Leo a Giant Ass Loser. Sure, it's the cold, hard truth, but the deeper reality is that, "He doesn't win where it matters the most."

His face might be plastered all over London and the rest of the world, but don’t most of those images end up torn and washed away into the gutters? It’s the same as with the team, a bond forged with blood, sweat and tears— yet he walks in with a paid entourage and leaves every practice alone. Aiden knows for a fact that the old group chat without Leo gets far more replies than the one with. Then there’s the other part that Aiden would argue is the most important. It’s right there in his hands.

Literally.

“I want to do it for you.” Plain and simple, plus a gentle squeeze for good measure. Anna is at the very list of what Leo can’t have, and every reason why is also at the top of what makes him so pathetic. Still, Aiden would be remiss not to add, “I’m doing it for me, too. For everyone.” Because there’s far more at stake than what a record-breaking deal can cover.

"I'm not gonna let him ruin a good thing." Chelsea's record this season and its hard-earned, golden reputation... And most importantly, this. The way Aiden slides his hands forward and wraps his arms around Anna, how he pulls her into an embrace and holds her firmly. Anyone else might say it’s a strange sight, seeing The Robot be so affectionate, so vulnerable, but it’s the hardline truth that Anna brings out the unseen parts of him. Such as,

“Sexy enough to guarantee ‘round two’ tonight?” It’s a joke. But also maybe not. He definitely won’t complain if ‘it’ happens. “You sure you guys don’t need anything else?” One palm slides back to that ‘happy spot’ from earlier. “You’re right that this’s the perfect temp.” He’ll stay on it for just a little longer. Wouldn’t want her getting cold. “Still gotta figure out dinner plans. I dunno if you feel confident enough to flex that pasta recipe we saved, or if you wanna show ‘em the pub.”

First instinct is to disagree. She had loads to be sorry for; starting with her public persona inspiring the league's bad decisions, ending with the hotshot with big hair and bigger ego causing a riot. But it's a testament to the things Aiden teaches her, that Anna catches herself before she slips. "No, but he's got a couple to make." Anna reasserts, and it's new territory.

In the tenure of their relationship, she's apologized to and for Leo. Only in the aftermath can she see, now that it's hurting Aiden, where his apologies should be. Front and center and long overdue.

"He always does." She concurs, from lived experience. Few consequences ever really landed on his shoulders. However, she's be remiss not to say -- "But the people who matter see him for what he is now. Like the team." Of course, they're all still professionals. But the hero worship is gone. Ramon went from club hopping and vibing off his stories, to sidestepping his wild nights out. The rest of the team followed.

It may not make for the best team building. However, Aiden can rest assured; his good work isn't undone by one rotten apple. Quite the opposite, really.

"Just--" She places her hands along his neck, thumbs running along his skin to relieve the tension. "Don't think you've got to do it for me." Because it's the last thing Aiden needs to do, amidst the fight for the cup and contending with Leo's ego. "He'll do what he does, and I just... I'll stay away from it." No drama where there doesn't have to be any.

"It's perfect." She reassures, squeezing his shoulder. "The butt warmers are already a nice touch. See?" Anna places his hand right against her butt, the denim still warm from the VIP treatment. "If my dad wasn't so excited, he'd be knocked out by now." Which isn't impossible for Anna. Jetlag comes for her fast and furiously. "You did good, babe." With a small nudge, she smiles tauntingly.

"And you're crazy sexy when you're riled up." What? As if Anna couldn't multitask between a concerned girlfriend, and having the hots for the coach all in one go.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Summary: Bob doesn’t do well with compliments—especially not when they come casually, softly, sincerely, from you.

It started so innocently.

You were both in the Tower’s kitchen late at night, the rest of the team long gone, off doing their own thing or passed out in their rooms, the room quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of Bob’s spoon as he stirred honey into his tea. The light above the stove was the only one on, casting him in this dim, golden glow that made him look soft, and safe, and—

“Fuck, you are so pretty,” you murmured, not even really meaning to say it out loud. Honestly, you thought you said it in your head.

Bob froze mid-stir. His hand stopped moving, his shoulders tense, and his head turned toward you just slightly—like a deer caught in a compliment. “…What?”

You looked up from your mug, confused for a second—until you realized shit I said that out loud. “You’re pretty, like so pretty” you repeated, gently, smiling with a slight eye roll like it wasn’t a big deal. Because to you, it wasn’t. Not in the way it should have been. But Bob? He looked at you like you had just gave him the moon.

“I—” he stammered, feeling his heart rate spike and his palms getting sweat, he doesn't realize the spoon slipped from his grip until a slight clink echoed between the two of you as the spoon fell into the mug. “You think—me?”

“Who else would I be talking to? It's just you here honey” you asked, leaning against the counter. “You’re literally glowing right now. I feel like I need to be paying someone just to stand next to you.”

He blinked. Blinked again. And then backed up two whole steps like he couldn't breathe the same air as you. “You can’t just say that” he whispered, like it was scandalous. “That I mean -- that's just dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” you laughed. “It’s a compliment, Bob.”

“No, it’s a threat to my emotional stability. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you understand how fast my brain is spiraling right now?” He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, only making it worse. “My entire internal monologue is just screaming, ‘She called me pretty, act normal, don’t faint, don’t cry, don’t propose—’”

You nearly choked on your tea. “Propose?”

He clapped his hand over his mouth like he’d just revealed state secrets. “Forget I said that” he muttered into his palm before waving his hand around as he rambles. “Strike it from the record. Rewind time. Go back thirty seconds before I embarrassed myself into a new dimension.”

“Bob.” You stepped forward and gently tugged his hand away from his mouth. “I meant it. You’re pretty. Not just during your glow-in-the-dark god-mode or whatever. You’ve got those kind, beautiful blue eyes, and a warm smile, and your hair does that floppy thing when it’s humid—”

“I hate the floppy thing,” he whispered. “I love the floppy thing,” you corrected, and watched as his cheeks turned a deep, unmistakable red. “You’re gonna kill me with your sweetness,” he muttered, looking down at the floor like it had better answers than you did.

You leaned in closer, nose nearly brushing his, making him look back at you. “Then I guess I’ll have to revive you with kisses.” That earned you a stunned blink, a sputtered half-laugh, and then a wide, dorky smile that split his entire face open like sunlight escaping through clouds.

“…Okay,” he said breathlessly. “But fair warning. You call me pretty again and I’m legally required to build you a shrine.” You grinned and blush slightly. “Noted.”

As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Could you write a Lando with a toddler daughter, where they're doing fan stage, and Yn runs on stage asking for a snack and ends up staying to build the Legos they have for challenges

Fan Stage

The summer sun was high over the paddock, the roar of excitement echoing from the packed fan stage ahead. Lando stepped onto the platform, his usual cheeky grin spreading as he waved at the sea of fans. Oscar followed closely behind, a wide smile on his face as the crowd erupted into cheers.

“Hellooo!” Lando called into the mic, drawing out the ‘o’ like he always did, making the fans giggle.

Oscar leaned into his mic. “Hi, everyone! Thanks for coming out today—it’s hot, huh?”

“Too hot,” Lando said dramatically, tugging at the collar of his papaya team shirt. “I’m about two degrees from melting, but it’s worth it for you guys.”

The fans screamed louder, some holding up signs that read things like “LAN-DAD FOR PRESIDENT” and “OSCAR MARRY ME (please)” which Lando squinted at and chuckled.

They sat down on the tall stools, the bright orange and blue backdrop glowing behind them. On a small table to the side sat a pile of Lego bricks—the usual fan challenge. Build something in ten minutes. Fastest wins. Lando always cheated by just building a wall and declaring it “modern art.”

As they were halfway through answering questions, Lando turned slightly at the sound of tiny feet pounding up the steps behind them.

“Daddy!”

Lando’s eyes widened, twisting around just in time to see a small whirlwind sprinting toward him—messy curls bouncing, a glittery McLaren cap slightly askew on her head, and a pink stuffed animal clutched in one hand.

“Yn?” he laughed, instantly standing and crouching to catch her as she barreled into him.

“I’m hungry,” she whined dramatically, burying her face in his chest.

A chorus of “Awww!” rippled through the crowd as fans caught sight of her. Phones were already up, recording, capturing every second of the sweet chaos.

Oscar burst out laughing. “She’s got perfect comedic timing.”

Lando lifted Yn up into his arms and turned back to the audience. “Sorry guys, brief intermission. Apparently snack time takes priority over, uh, global fan engagement.”

Yn looked out at the crowd with wide brown eyes and gave a shy wave.

More “awwws.”

“She’s so cute!” someone yelled.

Another held up a sign they quickly scribbled on: “GIVE YN A SNACK OR WE RIOT!”

Oscar read it and nearly fell off his stool laughing.

Lando gently set Yn down near the Lego table. “You wanna hang out here for a bit, bubba?”

“Can I build?” she asked, already reaching for a bright blue brick.

“Of course you can,” Lando smiled, brushing her curls back with his fingers.

She plopped herself cross-legged on the stage, directly in front of Lando’s feet, humming softly to herself as she started building with pure toddler determination.

“Okay,” Lando said, chuckling into the mic, “you all now have front-row seats to what my living room looks like 90% of the time.”

Oscar leaned in toward the audience. “She’s already better than Lando at building.”

“I heard that,” Lando muttered, a grin tugging at his lips as he absently stroked Yn’s hair while answering the next fan question.

“Lando, how’s it being a dad on the road?” a fan shouted.

Lando’s gaze softened, glancing down at the tiny head now tilted in deep concentration, tongue poking out slightly as she tried to connect two oddly shaped pieces.

“It’s… amazing. Hard sometimes. There is a lot of packing, a scarily huge number of Barbies, and I know every episode of Bluey by heart now. But she’s my favourite travel buddy,” he said. “And she’s got a VIP pass to everything.”

Oscar nodded, glancing at Yn. “She makes the paddock like, ten times happier.”

“She’s our little team boss,” Lando added, smirking. “Tells the engineers when I need juice and gives me hugs before quali. I mean… who else gets that kind of support?”

More cheering. Someone held up a sign that read: “TEAM YN > EVERYONE ELSE” in glittery purple.

“Honestly, true,” Oscar said, showing the sign to the cameras.

Yn, still focused, suddenly raised a hand. “Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I need the square one. The green square one.”

Lando squatted beside her, quickly rummaging through the pile until he found it and handed it to her like it was a precious gem.

“There you go, boss.”

“Thank you,” she said, sticking her tongue out slightly as she snapped it into place.

“Perfectionist,” Lando whispered to Oscar with a proud smile.

After about twenty minutes—far longer than either of them anticipated spending on stage—Lando finally glanced at the time and winced.

“I think we have to wrap it up, unfortunately,” he told the crowd.

There was a collective groan from the fans, followed by someone yelling, “Let Yn host the next Q&A!”

“Tempting,” Lando laughed, picking up Yn with practiced ease. “She’d probably do a better job.”

“Can I take the Legos?” Yn whispered sleepily against his shoulder.

Oscar stepped in, gently scooping the semi-formed Lego castle. “Don’t worry, we’re bringing it with us. I got it. Sir Lego Security at your service.”

“Thanks, Oskie,” she mumbled, her eyes already fluttering shut as she clung to her dad’s shirt.

Fans waved and cheered as the trio made their way off stage—Lando holding his sleepy daughter tightly against his chest, Oscar following with the Lego creation carefully balanced in his arms.

Once they were off-stage and a little more out of view, Lando looked over at Oscar and grinned.

“Think we just made Yn the most famous person in the paddock.”

Oscar chuckled. “Mate, I think she just stole the whole show.”

Lando looked down at Yn, whose breathing had evened out, her tiny hand still gripping his shirt.

“She always does,” he said softly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[bucketbueckers]

BIGGER IN TEXAS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: filth (and some plot, as a treat)!! language, light alcohol/body shots, oral, fingering, strap, fuck ass cowboy hats, freak shit im talm bout inittttt, slight overstim, mirror, light choking (author is unoriginal we know this), reader is honestly thirsty as hell but so is paige, idk how to tag smut properly just know im losing my spot in heaven for this fic

wc: 10.5k

synopsis: A Dallas Wings rookie and a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader walk into a club together. What could possibly go wrong?

notes: i wasn't ovulating when i drafted this but i am now! maybe tmi. sinners changed my life and my main takeaway from that movie is everyone is a munch and thats a life philosophy i think everyone should have. make sure you all say "thank you kali uchis" because i actually got insane writers block after waking up this morning but her album saved me. not much to say but im actually going to hell for this so please make it worth it and hit up my inbox pls and ty 🫶 as always i hope yall enjoy!

Let the record show that you weren’t serious.

Okay. You were like, 50% serious. As in if you were presented with the opportunity, you would take it, but if any of your friends were to ask about it, you would probably deflect.

You realize now that you tend to get a little overzealous on Twitter – it’s far more unhinged than your Instagram is, where you share pictures of your everyday life and action shots as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. You have less followers on the bird app (it is not X), you’re a little more…real, and as a bonus, your mom doesn’t follow you, so you feel like you can be a little more insane on there.

Although you’d probably apologize to her later – because one of your recent tweets is going a little crazy.

It didn’t start as anything crazy. Being a Dallas athlete, you kept up with nearly every sports team – the Mavericks, the Stars, the Cowboys, obviously, but you loved the Wings, too. You watched the WNBA draft as did countless others in the country.

When the Wings admin posted the Welcome to Dallas, Paige Bueckers! tweet, you’d giggled to yourself, mostly because you were nursing a Chili’s margarita and because she looked insanely good in the graphic.

You retweeted it, typing, welcoming you into dallas w open arms @.paigebueckers1 🤠

Then, almost like an afterthought, you commented on your own retweet, typing, and with open legs 🙏

You didn’t think much of it. Obviously. You didn’t have a huge following and if anyone asked, you’d just be kidding. The next ten minutes are peaceful as you finish off your margarita and scroll aimlessly through TikTok, keeping one ear out for the next draft pick. And then your phone starts blowing up.

A bunch of likes. A few people retweeting your second comment with various laughing or crying emojis. But what makes you pause is the notification reading Paige Bueckers has liked your tweet!

Oh. You click just to make sure, and – yeah. Definitely the one about having open legs.

Any other day, this would probably be mortifying, but today you’re a little emboldened by the margarita in your veins and you can’t help but think this is a little funny. You’ll probably regret it later when everyone remembers that you’re kind of a public figure and decides to flame you for being a little unhinged on main. For now, though, it’s not that big of a deal.

When you wake up in the morning to an unread DM from Paige – who’d followed you back, mind you – on your Instagram, you suddenly realize that it actually is a big deal.

Paige 💕: I’m flying into Dallas on the 23rd for media Paige 💕: If the offer still stands maybe you could show me around the city?

You stare blankly at your phone. Then you blink once. Twice. You power off your phone, press your pillow to your face, and you scream.

You weren’t serious, but you think you’re being presented with the opportunity – and, well, who are you to look a gift horse in the mouth?

After you finally come back to your senses, you reach for your phone again, navigating back to your DMs with Paige. You only have to contemplate for a few seconds before your fingers are flying across the keyboard.

You: i’ve been known to be a thorough tour guide You: let me know what your schedule looks like and i’ll show you the pretty parts of dallas

Her response comes quicker than you were expecting.

Paige 💕: Looking forward to it 🫶 Paige 💕: Not sure how Dallas compares to you but I can be open minded

Admittedly, you have to reread her message twice to fully grasp the cheesy pick-up line, but you hate the way it makes your cheeks flush. You’re not sure how to respond to that.

You settle for screaming into your pillow again.

The week passes by quickly. You and Paige talk — a lot — truly enjoying getting to know each other during your rare moments of free time. Paige is busy with flights and appearances while your schedule is packed with practice and learning the audition choreography for the next season of DCC. 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but think how nice it is. There’s no expectations. You’re both athletes with a combined two hours of free time. For now, you’re just content to see where this goes. You enjoy her company, and honestly, you’re really into her. Paige flirts relentlessly, but you can tell there’s an undercurrent of respect and admiration that makes you feel like that feeling is mutual, too. 

She texts you a picture of the Dallas tarmac when she lands on the 23rd, a coy reminder that you did promise to show her around. Paige has media for a good portion of the day, though, so you know you won’t be seeing her for a while. You tune in for a little bit of her rookie press conference, and no, you weren’t cheesing while listening to her speak. But if you were, that wouldn’t be anyone’s business but your own.

You don’t hear from her for the next few hours, which doesn’t bother you. You do get a call from one of your squadmates, Lielle, asking if you’d be down to hit the club before the DCC season starts – and who were you to say no to that?

You settle for a light, natural makeup look, throwing on a blue, mesh, halter corset top that sparkles in the light and a pair of cropped, white denim shorts. They’re long enough to cover what they need to, but it’s the perfect club outfit – something with the right amount of tease and will make you feel confident enough to truly let loose.

Lielle picks you up along with a few other of your friends who tease you relentlessly for your actions on Twitters – it’s no use defending yourself, although they’re nearly howling in excitement when you point out that Paige is in your DMs, so you’re probably doing something right.

You and your girls enter the club with high spirits, the atmosphere already electric, and two of your squadmates break away to find a table while you and Lielle make your way to the bar to order shots and drinks for everyone. Lielle leans over the bar, already laying it on thick for the bartender, who grins politely like he’s seen just about every variation of whatever game Lielle is playing.

On the bright side, he does end up discounting your drinks on account of being a DCC fan, which makes you think Lielle never truly had a chance, anyways – but a cheaper drink is a cheaper drink, especially in Dallas. Lielle walks away with a wink and the drinks in her hands as you remain to order something for yourself. The bartender has just slid the drink your way when you feel the heat of someone’s body next to yours. At first, you’re alarmed, but you soften when you hear their voice, followed by finally looking at their face.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” In person, Paige Bueckers is so much taller than you’d anticipated, which is probably a really stupid thing to say for a professional basketball player. She’s tall, her cologne a heady scent of warm vanilla and something distinctly floral, and she rests her arm against the bar in a way that’s devastatingly casual and dangerously alluring. Paige is wearing a black and white striped Nike sweater, the very same she’d done media in, a look not befitting of the club but you can’t help but think about how perfectly her it is.

You crack a coy smile, taking a quick sip of your drink for some liquid courage, because Paige is staring at you like she knows exactly what she wants from you and your heart thrums because if she said the word, you’d be willing to give it to her. “What, is this place too scandalous for a cheerleader like me?” you joke, and the heat of her gaze travels down your body in one quick motion.

“Nah, nothing like that,” she assures you. “Just didn’t think that out of every club in this city, I’d be lucky enough to run into you my first night out.”

“Seems we’re both feeling a little lucky tonight, huh?” you say, and she laughs gently under her breath. Paige holds out a hand to you. In lieu of a shake, you settle for hugging her instead, which she relaxes into immediately, her hands resting respectfully at the small of your back. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” you say genuinely, pulling away at the right moment. “You enjoying Dallas so far?”

Paige shrugs a little, a smile on her face and gratitude on her tongue when the bartender slides a drink her way, too. “Haven’t got the chance to see much,” she says honestly. “Was in media all day, then I stopped by Costco so my apartment looked a little less pathetic. Now I’m here. Something about rookie initiation, according to Rike, but I think she just wanted someone to buy her drinks.”

You laugh. “Look at you already taking care of people,” you comment, your grin widening at her playful expression. “You’re here with your team, then? Where are y’all sitting?”

Paige purses her lips, her eyes squinting as she peers through the dim lighting of the club. “I think over there?” she says, pointing at the VIP section towards the back. She’s closer to you now, her chin resting just above your head, and you follow her gaze. You can’t help your smile, something she picks up on immediately. “What’s funny?”

“I think your team’s already hitting it off with mine,” you say, easily spotting Lielle handing a shot to Arike and clapping when she downs it in one go. You don’t think Lielle is drunk yet, but she has a natural excitement and zest for life that makes her the easiest person in the world to befriend.

Paige huffs a little under her breath, amusement lacing the sound, and her hand finds your waist. “Must be meant to be,” she says to you. Despite yourself, you preen, your smile widening when her hand finds your skin. “After you.”

Paige walks almost protectively behind you, the crowd of club-goers parting instinctively for the both of you. When you make it back to the VIP section, both of your teams cheer – like they know something you don’t – which causes a blush to rise on your cheeks and a nearly smug expression to take over Paige’s.

Introductions are swift, if a little unnecessary. You’d run into many of the Wings players before, having made a genuine effort your first year as a professional cheerleader to show up to many of the Dallas sports games.

Before you know it, Arike has ordered more shots for the table, and Paige slides into the booth next to you with a dangerous glint in her eye and two shots of tequila in her hands. The table is lively, raucous, with Kelsey – one of your squadmates – going shot for shot with Aziaha James and Lielle and Arike instigating.

But here, now, in this little corner you and Paige have tucked yourselves into, you’re enjoying the intimacy of the moment far too much, feeling as though you’ve been afforded far more privacy than you actually have.

Paige presses one of the shots into your hands, a loose smile on her face. “To Dallas?” she asks you, raising her glass.

You tap yours against hers, a matching smile of your own as you agree, “To Dallas.” You down your shots in one go, the liquid warming your belly pleasantly. “And to Twitter,” you add a little jokingly, but your blush deepens when Paige smirks, raising a thumb to your lip to wipe away the excess tequila beading on your mouth.

She sucks her finger into her mouth, humming a little insufferably, and you’re burning for an entirely different reason now. Your gaze hones in on her hand, flicking between her lips and her eyes. And, sure, she was constantly flirting with you over text. You knew she was feeling you as much as you were feeling her – but to watch her behave so confidently in front of you, to unravel you like it was nothing… The confirmation makes you ache. It reminds you that you’re not the only one feeling the warm buzz between the two of you.

“You always that forward?” Paige asks you, referring to your tweet. “Or am I just lucky?” Her words are punctuated with a heated grin, one that makes you shift in your seat. You hope that she didn’t notice, but you see the way her eyes darken and how she leans in a little closer to you.

“Only when I’m tipsy, apparently,” you mutter. You glance up, taking in her expression, the curiosity and desire in her eyes. Your lips quirk into an amused smile. “But I don’t think I have to tell you about the effect you have on people.”

“Good thing I don’t really care about other people,” she says, her gaze dropping down again. You can’t tell if she’s looking at your lips or your chest, but it makes warmth bloom under your skin, anyways. Paige makes eye contact as easily as she drinks you in. It’s disorienting, unwavering. It’s almost like you can see exactly what she’s thinking by the way her pupils dilate. Her fingers brush against the inside of your wrist, setting each and every one of your nerve endings on fire. “But you? Didn’t know I was affecting you like that.”

“Oh, you’re not,” you laugh, which just makes her laugh, too, something dangerous flashing in her eyes. Dangerous because you know you’ve already given in. Any other attempt at saving face or trying to look a little less down bad is just meant to make you feel a little bit better – like she hadn’t already won you hook, line, and sinker the moment you promised to show her around Dallas. 

“Lying is a sin,” Paige murmurs.

“Lust, too,” you retort.

Paige’s subsequent grin is a little too wicked. “Touche,” she agrees, and you can’t help but lean into her touch when her hand splays over the expanse of your toned waist, her thumb brushing your skin like she’s trying to memorize every shift in your muscles. Her voice drops a few decibels, only loud enough for you to hear as she presses in closer to you. Your hair raises when her lips ghost across your temple, the shell of your ear. “You’re already burning for me, though. Probably soaked through these fucking shorts, aren’t you? So why pretend you ain’t?”

“Paige,” you whisper, your heart beating a little faster, pounding against your ribcage. Your hand finds hers, linking your fingers together, and you don’t stop her when she maps out every inch of skin not hidden by your top. If anything, you arch into it slightly, enjoying the heat of her palm against your belly. She grins like she knows, like she’s already called the Uber and is thinking about how she can ruin you in the car without alerting the driver.

“Jus’ say it, mama,” she murmurs, her breath hitting your ear. You should feel some type of way for how easily your body betrays your brain, pressing further into her without your permission. “Tell me what you want and we don’t gotta play these games in front of your girls.”

Your mouth opens, the words getting caught in your throat when Paige finally grips the meat of your thigh with her hand, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to claim.

But before you can give into the feeling of it all, the bubble of peace between the two of you is broken by Lielle exclaiming, “Who wants to do body shots?!”

Breathless, you glance up at Paige, who stares back at you with mischief. She squeezes your thigh gently, whispering, “Be good,” before tugging you to your feet and towards Lielle, who holds the salt, lime, and the bottle of tequila. You sigh a little, already feeling like you could combust.

Your combined teams cheer when Paige volunteers you. Her smile, which is borderline smug and nearly possessive, makes your skin burn, but her eyes betray the ease in her features. She scans her teammates like she’s waiting for one of them to think that they could take her place.

Kelsey clears space on the table while Lielle uncaps the bottle of alcohol. One of the other Dallas rookies – JJ, you think her name is, extends a hand to help you onto the table, but all it takes is one glaring look from Paige to make her raise her hands in surrender. Paige steps up, her gaze dark, and she grips your hips, raising you onto the table with a weightless ease. Her eyes never leave yours, watching you with rapt attention as you lean back, getting comfortable.

“You good?” she asks, her hand resting over your stomach, which rises and falls steadily under the heat of the moment. You nod quickly, needing her hands on her body more than you think you need air, and she allows herself a quiet smile as she reaches for a lime wedge. Gingerly, she holds it out to you. Your teeth part at her wordless command, clamping down on the lime, trying not to wince at the taste. Her fingers linger on your lips, pupils blown wide, and it makes warmth coil low in your belly when you realize just how reciprocated this feeling is.

She reaches for the salt next, uncapping it, too, and meets your eyes with one last unspoken question. You don’t hesitate before you nod, uncaring of where she lines up the salt. You are surprised when she leans down, licking a stripe between the valley of your breasts, wetting the skin there so the salt can stick. You hardly register the wolf whistles around you, far too focused on the satisfied, focused grin on Paige’s face as she sprinkles the salt on your skin.

Finally, Lielle hands over the bottle of tequila, and you try to steady your breathing as Paige pours a generous amount in your navel. A drop slips, trailing down and soaking into the fabric of your shorts. You swear you can hear Paige’s breath hitch, but the club is too loud for you to be certain.

Lielle is probably recording. There’s no way she isn’t – she’s the life of the party, and whenever you wake up tomorrow, you’re sure you’ll find the video of Paige doing a body shot off of you on her close friends. But right now, when Paige is staring at you like you’re the only person in the room, like she can’t wait to get you alone and ruin you? You can’t think about anything but the blonde athlete and how willing you are to let her unravel you.

With one last glance to check in on you, Paige leans over you, caging you in with her arms. Her head dips down, licking the salt off of your chest with a devastating slowness. You catch the edge of her grin as she trails her lips down your torso, settling at your belly and drinking the tequila directly off your stomach.

Her tongue probes for the last drop and she presses a farewell kiss to your skin that makes your breathing stutter. Then, finally, she makes her way back up to your lips, her skin a little flushed, and she parts her lips to take the lime wedge in between her teeth.

But Paige isn’t through with you. You watch with wide eyes as she punctures the flesh with her teeth. She takes the lime wedge in between her fingers and with her free hand, she cups your jaw, her thumb brushing against your lip. You adhere to the silent demand, your lips parting again, and she presses down on the bottom row of your teeth with her thumb, keeping you open as she squeezes the juice of the lime into your mouth.

You shudder, eyes slipping shut in a non-physical pleasure – Paige hasn’t even touched you yet, but you feel like you’re ready to fall apart. The lime juice makes your face contort from the sourness, but you hardly think about it when your eyes blink open once more to take in Paige’s lazy expression. She’s already gone – her smile wide, reverent, satisfied, proud, and she discards the lime peel.

Paige removes her finger from your mouth, closing your jaw for you, her features softening with pride as you swallow the juice dutifully. You barely hear her whisper, “Good,” before she helps you off of the table, steadying you when you sway a little unsteadily, and the both of you make every effort to ignore your friends.

They don’t focus on the two of you for too long – JJ is helping Kelsey onto the table to keep going, so you take advantage of their distraction and pull Paige down to your level by her collar. She grins insufferably, like she knows she’s teased you to the point of no return. Her smile widens when you demand, “Take me home. Or we’ll cause a scandal in the middle of this club.”

Her lips brush against yours. “Uber’s already here,” she informs you, her expression far too satisfied. If you were any less pussy drunk, you’d probably hate yourself for being too easy, but all you can think about is how her skin would feel against yours.

You let her pull you through the club. You let her hands linger on your hips when she helps you into the Uber. And without so much as a noise, you part your legs for her in the car, letting her fingers trace the inside of your thighs discreetly. Paige doesn’t give you what you need – you knew she wouldn’t.

You keep your reactions tempered, even when she leans in closer to you, her nose brushing against your ear as she whispers filth that the driver is none the wiser to. And when you make it to her apartment complex, you hardly hear the driver’s farewell before she guides you out of the car, through the apartment lobby, and into the elevator.

Paige’s grip on your hips is tight, like you’re not sure if she’s trying to keep you close or trying to restrain herself from defiling you in the elevator. Either way, you don’t mind. You press your hips to her front, grinning in satisfaction when her fingers tighten and her breath hitches, a groan building in her throat. The ding of the elevator breaks you both from your stupor and you follow her to her door, watching in amusement as she fumbles with the key in her haste.

“Do you remember my tweet?” you ask a little offhandedly, sliding your fingers under the hem of her sweatshirt. She curses under her breath when your fingers find her waist, splaying across her abdomen – it’s more for your pleasure than it is hers, feeling her muscles jump under your hold. Her eyes are a little wide and blown out when they meet yours.

“S’all I’ve thought about for weeks,” she confesses, finally getting the lock to turn. Her words give you pause as she throws open the door. Catching you by surprise, she picks you up, one arm looping under your ass, and your arms slide around her neck for stability as she shuts the door behind her, making sure to turn the lock back.

It’s all speed from there. Paige kicks her shoes off in the entryway, her hands gripping the back of your thighs as she blindly walks the both of you through the hallway towards the bedroom. You silently thank her coordination as an athlete, more so when she starts mouthing at your chest like it’s been the only thing keeping her going. Her tongue darts out, wet against your skin, and she hums against your breast as she tastes the residual salt from the shot and the sweat. Paige nips at your skin and holding onto her tighter with a wordless sigh is all you can do to keep it together.

Finally, she finds the bedroom door, throwing it open without a care in the world. Paige deposits you safely on bed and then almost falls over herself following – the dichotomy makes you ache, the way she’s so desperate to get her hands and mouth on you, but the evident care she makes sure to treat you with despite her need. You want her to turn you out in every single way she’s thought about since draft night, but the respect is touching.

She clicks on the dim lamp at her bedside, her eyes returning to your figure when her vision adjusts. She shakes her head like you’re not real, her hands touching your hips, your waist, your breasts covered by the thin material of your top. You’re sure she’s burning this image into her mind forever – you’re doing the same. You may never be able to forget the image of Paige Bueckers hovering above you, eyes wild and gone, messy like you’re already five rounds deep and not just pent up from fucking around in the club.

The first press of her lips against yours makes you keen, arching into her exploring hands while yours cups her cheeks. You’ve thought about this for weeks, too, how it would feel to have her on top of you like this. She tastes like a tequila shot and something distinctly fruity from the cocktail she was sipping on. Combined with the lime juice on your breath, your kiss is intoxicating for several different reasons, and the heat coiling in your belly reminds you of how badly you want this.

She tugs your bottom lip between her teeth, pulling it back and letting it snap back before her lips find every inch of your skin. The hinge of your jaw, the tender spot on your neck that makes you thread your fingers through her hair to pull the tie loose, the dip in your throat where your moan vibrates against her lips. Paige is ravenous. Like there’s a million different things she wants to do to you before the sun comes up. You’d let her.

“Thought about this forever,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse and wrecked. Your breath stutters, back arching to help her untie your halter top and letting her pull it off you. She goes almost painfully silent when she takes in your breasts fully, your pebbled nipples. “Fuck.” Her curse sounds like a filthy prayer, one that you’d give up almost everything to respond to. One of her large hands splay over your breast while her mouth finds the other one, alternating between kneading and sucking and here – you’re sure you could fall apart completely, your hips jumping up for contact.

“You don’t know what that stupid comment did to me,” she continues, almost to herself, but she knows you’re listening. She feeds off of the way your breath hitches as she pulls back long enough to rip her sweatshirt and sports bra off in two quick motions, the chains around her neck tangling briefly before they trail cold caresses across your stomach when she leans back down to take your skin in her mouth. Your jaw falls open in pleasure, gripping onto her, the sheets, anything to stay rooted.

“Looked at your page, and those–” Her fingers find the waistband of your shorts, popping the button and pulling the denim off while she rambles. She falters when she takes in the white lace covering your body, a low, wrecked groan spilling from her lips at the sight of the wet patch at the apex of your thighs. Paige brushes her fingers against you, relishing in the way your hips jump and your whispered plea.

“Those stunts you do,” she continues finally. “That fucking uniform is sinful, you know that? Got myself off thinking about you, how good you’d be. You offered yourself up and all I could think about at the presser was how many different ways I could get you to come for me. I wonder if I could do it without my hands.”

You’re not coherent enough to tell her she could probably do it with words alone, but you reach for her and pull her back to your lips, kissing her hungrily, like you’re on death row and she’s your only chance of salvation.

Your hands explore while her kiss disorients you. Finding the waistband of her pants, you reach for the belt, undoing it. Paige helps you pull her pants off, leaving her in a dark pair of boxers. Her skin is impossibly warm against your palms as you press your fingers into the small of her back, undoubtedly leaving marks.

She pulls back to trail her lips down your body, sucking marks everywhere, her hands holding you like she’s afraid you’d float away if she didn’t keep you rooted.

Paige doesn’t make any effort to strip you out of your damp underwear – if anything, she stares at it like she’s more proud of it than getting drafted first overall, and she presses her lips to the skin just above your waistband until it blooms red and purple. She soothes it with a kiss, her expression far too smug and satisfied.

“You’re soaked,” Paige murmurs, pressing her thumb to your cunt again, her grin widening when you moan, your hands shooting down to grip her hair. She makes eye contact with you and sucks her thumb into her mouth, eyes slipping shut as she tastes you. You can’t help the curse that tumbles from your lips. “That ‘open legs’ offer must have been a cry for help, huh?” she teases, but her voice is rough, like the very taste of you is a drug and she’s addicted. “Nobody else doin’ it for you?”

“No,” you admit, cheeks burning under the weight of your confession. The truth is you’d stopped looking after a while, but now, with Paige tucked between your legs and staring at you like you’re the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen, you briefly consider the fact that she’s going to ruin you for anyone else. For yourself.

She grins again. “Shame,” she murmurs, her lips trailing down to the inside of your thighs, where she presses gentle kisses. “Someone got to you before me and they couldn’t even make it worthwhile.”

She nips at your skin, the pain blooming into pleasure instantly. Your breathing comes to you a little faster the closer she moves to your aching cunt, but she soothes you with a hand to your belly. “I got you, mama. Gonna be the best you’ve ever had. Swear.”

You don’t doubt it, your head already swimming, and she presses one last kiss to your clit through the damp material of your underwear. It makes you jolt, but she steadies your hip with her hand as she pulls the lace to the side slowly. You can’t help but gaze down at Paige, locked in on the way her eyes glaze over with desire when your cunt is finally revealed to her.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life. Maybe it’s been a fire that has been slowly burning ever since she initially hinted at flying out and taking you up on your offer. Now, all you can focus on is the way her hands grip your strong thighs, holding you open as she dives in to lick a long, slow stripe up the length of your slit.

You both moan in tandem – yours of pleasure and hers in awe. You’re dripping onto her comforter, hardly able to feel much remorse about it, but something tells you that Paige is really fucking into the fact that she has you so pliant beneath her.

Her tongue is exploratory, drinking in every drop of your arousal, her brows pinched together as she focuses on building you up. Her nose brushes against your clit while her tongue finds the source, licking you clean like she’s stranded in a desert and you’re the only thing that could satiate her thirst.

She’s wild, her tongue everywhere all at once, muttering messily into your cunt about how you “taste so fucking good,” but you’re sure you fall apart completely when her lips close around your clit and she sucks.

Your brain is mush. You’re not sure if you want to keep your eyes on her or let your head fall back into her pillows, unable to process the pleasure fully.

Paige makes the decision for you when your eyes slip shut and she nips at your clit gently – not enough to hurt (even though it sends a surge of pleasure up your spine, anyhow), but enough to get your attention.

The message is clear – she wants your attention. Thinking about how she’s probably getting off from you watching her makes the heat coil in your stomach, ready to snap at any given moment.

You tangle your fingers in her messy hair, pressing her deeper into you, head tipping back in pleasure when she doubles down on her motions. Paige is ravenous, tongue circling your clit, never once stopping or slowing.

Not until your thighs are shaking from pleasure. Not until the tears bead at your waterline. Not until she encloses her lips around your clit again, her cheeks hollowing from the pressure, and releasing you to drag the arousal from your entrance to your clit, coating it completely.

You’re wholly unprepared for the first press of her fingers against your entrance. Paige doesn’t push in – not yet. She drags her fingers through your folds, soaking them, listening and looking for your reaction as she probes deeper.

The first finger sinks in until it reaches her knuckle, punching a breathless moan out of you, and she curls her finger as she pulls out. She’s a quick study – learning what you like and how much pressure she needs to unravel you completely. But she’s slow, not adding in another finger. You get the message instantly when her eyes find you, her gaze dark and imploring.

Not above begging, your voice is hoarse, rough from your moans, your lips split-slick and bitten. “Please, Paige, keep going,” you request, clenching around the single finger in you. “More, please, fuck–” The words get caught in your throat when she smiles against you, taking your clit in her mouth again just as she slides in a second finger. Too far gone, you can’t help the repeated, delirious ramble of “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” or the choked out, “So fucking good.”

The more vocal you get, the more she gives you. Her lips and her tongue speed up, flicking against your clit with a devastating intensity. Paige’s finger’s scissor inside you more firmly, sliding in deeper with every thrust, particularly timed with her mouth. It’s a Pavlonian response. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you can’t find it in yourself to be too embarrassed by how loud you are.

You chant her name, breathless little sounds that sound more like pleas than sentences. The grip on her hair must be painful but she never slows. She’s fucking you closer and closer to the peak, and when it finally arrives, warning her is all you can do.

She’s heedless, her pace somehow intensifying even more, and you come with a sob that’s a mix of her name and a string of curses as the pleasure washes over you.

Paige doesn’t stop, drinking in every drop of you like she’s parched, her fingers slowing as they work you gently through the shockwaves. You’re breathless, stuttering through the euphoria, gratitude lacing your words.

When she pulls away, the bottom half of her face is slick with your arousal, her tongue darting out to catch the edges of her lips, but it’s like drops of water in a bucket. For all intents and purposes, she’d been drowned, but her grin tells you she would have been more than happy to go out that way.

Boneless and limp in bed, she trails her lips up your body until she finds your lips, kissing you deeply and allowing you to taste yourself on your tongue. The taste is heady, something you’d probably attribute to the taste of her, too, and you can’t help but moan against her lips, your body burning under the touch again.

“Don’t think I’m letting you tap out so soon,” she murmurs, squeezing your waist and peering down at you. “We haven’t even started.”

“Greedy,” you say teasingly.

Her subsequent grin is sharp, nipping your lip gently. “And proud,” she states, already leaning over and digging through the drawer of her nightstand. When her hand comes back into view, she’s holding a strap and the harness.

The sight of it makes your brows raise – it’s modest in size, but it’s still bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, both in length and girth. “What?” she asks, a smirk appearing on her lips as she fastens the harness around her hips.

“It’s big,” you point out obviously, but the heat is already licking at your skin again as you stare at it longingly.

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” she retorts. The strap hanging from her hips makes your mouth water, and you suppose this is what you wanted anyway – for Paige to ruin you. She glances at you curiously, able to read how your hesitation washes away. You’re safe with her. She wouldn’t hurt you. That thought alone makes you a little more hungry for it. “Trust me, you ain’t gotta worry.” She drags her fingers through your folds again, raising it to the lamplight and showing you how they shine. It makes you blush, but her smirk is a little insufferable. “But, I mean…if you wanna try something smaller–”

“No,” you disagree a little too quickly. She raises a challenging brow, one that infuriates you. She’d been mean all night – teasing you and working you up. And, sure, she delivered, but you think that she deserves to be knocked down a peg or two.

You wrap your legs around her waist, and in a quick motion, you flip the both of you over, straddling her waist with your hands on her chest. She’s a little breathless, eyes wide and pupils dilated, yet you can spot the impressed look in her gaze. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

“Didn’t say that,” she says, her eyes drinking you in, the fucked out look on your face and she bruises covering your skin. Her hands find your waist, pulling you onto her fully – onto the strap – and she guides you into a slow grind, taking back the control seamlessly as you gasp. Paige grunts, too, the strap pressing back into her clit, and the fact that she’s feeling as good as you are makes you tremble with want.

“You insinuated it,” you argue, a little miffed.

She grins like your indignance is cute. “Just tryna be in you, mama,” she says, tugging you down a little harder, and it punches a moan out of you. “You gonna let me do that or are we gonna sit here and argue all night?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but you don’t say much else, and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth as she gazes down at where your centers connect. “That’s what I thought.” Her words are mostly said to herself.

She grips the waistband of your underwear and pulls them down your legs – you adjust to help her pull them off, and she throws them to the side.

Now that you’re completely bare, she pulls you down onto the strap again, your arousal coating the silicone. The unrestricted contact makes you shiver and you loop your arms around her neck for stability while one of hers finds your waist again.

With her free hand, she reaches for the base of the strap, guiding it to your entrance and holding you steady – the tip of the strap brushes against you, but she doesn’t allow you to move.

Her eyes are zeroed in on where you’re clenching around nothing, your arousal leaking out of you. Then, finally, she pulls you down slowly, controlling each and every small movement. Your breath hitches when the head breaches inside, pressing into you, and Paige kisses all over your chest to soothe you.

“Good, that’s it,” she murmurs, lips encircling a nipple as she pulls you a little further down. The stretch is delicious, splitting you open, her hands mapping out your skin. She grips the flesh of your ass in one large hand, the other reaching around to rub featherlight circles on your clit to distract you.

The sensations are overwhelming in the best way possible. Her mouth drags wet kisses across your body while she listens for your reaction. Paige lowers you further down, drawing a drawn out moan from you, and you feel her grin against your breast as you tighten your grip around her neck, pulling her tighter against you.

“Perfect girl. Taking me so well,” she coos. Her body is impossibly warm against you and you can feel yourself relaxing into it, wanting to sink down completely, but she doesn’t let you. “Want you to feel good, baby. Don’t rush it.”

Still holding onto your annoyance from earlier, you can’t help your slight eye roll as you nip at her neck, sucking a matching hickey into her skin. She hisses, letting you fall another inch before gripping your hips tightly. “Would feel good if you just fucked me,” you state, staring at her with an expression that’s borderline pathetic. “What’d you say earlier? Just tryna be in you?”

“Think you have a patience problem,” she muses. “I’d heard so much about this southern hospitality bullshit growing up in the north, but it seems like you got a manners problem, too. I gotta teach you how to say please and thank you?”

You barely resist a sigh. Instead, you let your lips pucker out in a pout, the motion drawing Paige’s attention immediately. You press closer to her, your breasts dragging against her chest, and she sighs from the feeling. “Please, Paigey?” you beg in a near whimper, taking the hitch in her breathing as a sign that you’re doing something right. “Just want you to fuck me. Been good for you all night, haven’t I? And I promised to welcome you to Dallas. Let me make you feel good.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but the way her throat bobs tells you she’s minutes away from flipping you over and making you forget your name. “You’re dangerous,” she whispers.

“I’m yours,” you respond, and that’s enough for her. Paige drags you down the last few inches, bottoming out. You moan into her neck, the hand at the small of your back pressing you into her. You’re sure that you’re soaking her lap, but judging by the way her hips rut up into yours, she likes knowing how fucked she has you.

Her hands settle at the bottom of your ass, pulling you up as she mouths at your chest, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. You sink down on the strap again. The sound is obscene, drawing a gasp from you, and you repeat the motion.

Up, then down. Up, then down, beginning to set the pace for yourself, but making sure you grind at the bottom of your strokes to make sure that Paige is getting off too. Her eyes are hooded, darting from your face, to your chest, to the apex of your thighs where you’re soaking the strap.

“Fuck,” she groans, her voice rough, and it sends white hot desire up your spine. She speeds up your motions, the veins on her hand protruding from the effort of keeping you upright, her jaw unhinging in awe as she stares at you. 

You allow yourself a small smirk, your right hand tilting her head back, revealing the expanse of her throat as you grind down onto her. With your ears so close to her mouth, you can hear every stutter in her breath, every jilted moan she tries to hold back, the hiss of pleasure when you bite down, sucking dark marks into her skin. 

When her motions start becoming desperate, her hips bucking up into yours in time with every drag down like she’s trying to chase her high, you reach down for her hands, tangling your fingers together and pressing them into the pillows over her head. 

“Really?” you murmur, your lips ghosting the dip in her throat. “You’re this close just from helping me get off?”

She laughs a little, something that sounds like a sob mixed with a whine, and her jaw falls slack in a low groan when your lips attach to the sensitive spot below her ear. “Can’t help it,” Paige manages. Her lips are slick, bitten raw, so you kiss her deeply, swallowing the sound she makes when you grind down especially hard. “Think you like it, though.”

“Mmm,” you hum. You speed up your motions, feeling your thighs and your stomach burn with the effort, but also feeling yourself teeter on the edge of crashing down completely. Your thrusts draw out another moan from Paige, one that makes you grin – because she’d tried so hard to keep herself together, to pretend she was here to fuck you and not the other way around. “Think I just like you.”

That makes a lazy smile appear on her face. Paige pulls one of her hands out of your grip, inching towards your throat and tangling in the necklace there. “Yeah?” she goads, her tone a little insufferable. “Didn’t – fuck – didn’t think I affected you.”

You’re still rutting against her, sweat beading on your temples as you argue, “You don’t.”

But that just makes her grin turn a little more smug. She releases your necklace, her fingers pressing lightly into the sides of your throat, squeezing once in warning. It makes your hips stutter, your breath catching. “Keep lyin’, mama,” she mutters, something dark in her eyes as her fingers trail down your body. One tweaks a nipple, kneading a breast as you gasp. Then, she goes lower still, bracing her large hand over you while her thumb finds your clit, rubbing messy circles through the slick there.

You lose your rhythm again, whimpering, but you keep going despite the exhaustion. It’s less about your pleasure now. You need to get Paige off, to tear down that ego of hers, to silence her for once. Even as you stare down at her, your eyes a little hooded, you realize she enjoys receiving as much as she enjoys giving, and there’s truly no winning with her – she’s getting off either way. 

“Actin’ like I don’t know you already,” she continues, her thumb as ruinous as her hips – as ruinous as her words. “What you like. What you need.” You could fall apart like this – her words picking you apart piece by piece, her thumb reminding you that she has you right where you want her. Paige gazes up at you, her pupils blown wide, but you can make out the challenge in the blue of her eyes – she’s daring you to get smart again.

But you’re just as competitive as she is. Without faltering in your movements, you lean slightly, reaching for the cowboy hat perched on her nightstand. It has Paige stitched on the bill. Her jaw falls slack again as she watches you slide it over your head.

“You talk too much,” you retort, and then you’re doubling down again. You can tell the image of you wearing Paige’s hat is doing something to her – the way it bounces in time with your thrusts, combined with the wrecked sounds leaving your lips, the slick sound of the strap deep inside you, the fact that Paige wants you so bad it makes her stupid. 

It doesn’t take much longer after that. You and Paige were already pent up. Her thumb quickens on your clit, her free hand gripping your hips tight enough to leave a bruise as she drags you up and down relentlessly, her own hips meeting yours. You can tell she’s getting close when her breathing turns ragged and her face burns red. You’re right there with her, digging your nails into her shoulders for stability as you push yourself to your high.

Part of you expects Paige to open her mouth again, to say something slick that would leave you trembling, but you don’t give her the chance to. You pull her face to yours, silencing your cries with her lips. You shiver when she bites down on your bottom lip harshly, soothing the sting with her tongue. “‘M close,” you manage breathlessly, holding onto her tightly – feeling as though your orgasm would wreck you completely. 

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice choked. “Let go, mama, I’m right here.”

So you do, the pleasure washing over you completely as you cry out, sagging onto her body bonelessly, the cowboy hat falling off to the side of the bed. Paige drags you against the strap, riding out the high, her jaw slack in wordless pleasure while her body burns. She doesn’t still until you push her hands off of you, the overstimulation buzzing under your skin.

Your thighs are still trembling, your breathing uneven. You hardly have the energy to slide off of the strap, so you settle for holding onto Paige, tucking your head into the crook of her neck where sweat glistens and the lingering scent of her cologne remains. You shift, feeling the soaked comforter beneath both of you. It’s enough to make you groan.

But then Paige is shifting, too, the strap brushing against a spot inside you that punches a moan out of you. You don’t have to look up to know she’s smirking. “Chill,” you admonish, your body still sizzling. You don’t know how she still has the energy and the stamina to go after she just turned you inside out, but she moves her hips again, on purpose this time, and the heat coiling in your belly returns tenfold. “You’re insatiable.”

“Look who’s in my bed,” she says as if it explains everything. You just shake your head, amused by her. Paige’s fingers trail down your sides, brushing against your skin while she presses featherlight kisses to your temple, your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “Know you’ve got one more for me, don’t you?”

You can’t find the words, but you don’t need to. You grab onto her chain – mostly to hold her in place, and you kiss her – deep, lingering, soft despite the moment prior. She grins against you, sliding the strap out as she maneuvers you. The emptiness makes you sigh, but the shift doesn’t take long. She angles you until you can see your bodies in the mirror across her room, your breath catching at the insinuation.

You watch through the mirror as she reaches for the cowboy hat again, settling it over her messy curls. Her smile is determined – like she’s not quite satisfied, not content with the two orgasms she’d pulled from you; ravenous like she can’t wait to have you again. It shouldn’t turn you on like it does, but the flame is licking at you once more and you can’t help but succumb to the fire.

She wraps her right arm around your waist, pulling you up to a kneeling position while she settles in behind you. The strap brushes against you. The sensitivity makes you jolt, but Paige soothes you with a hushed murmur, her hand pressing against your stomach and keeping you tethered. “Want you to watch,” she whispers in your ear. Her right hand abandons your waist to hold you by the jaw, gently tilting your head up until you make eye contact through the mirror.

You’re rendered breathless by the sight – Paige’s body eclipsing yours, the hickeys adorning your skin, the slick between your thighs that shines from the lamplight. Paige isn’t much better, either. Her hair is a mess, the hat on her head skewed to the side, her neck littered with your teeth marks, skin shining from exertion. For stability, you hold onto the arm that’s wrapped tightly around you, pushing back against the strap.

“Can you do that for me?” she asks, pushing her hips forward, dragging through your folds. You nod quickly, letting out a soft whine when the tip of the strap catches your sensitive clit. “Keep your eyes on me or I’ll stop.”

“I will, Paige, promise – just…please–”

She hushes you again, kissing your neck. “I got you, baby. Relax for me, okay? Gonna give it to you. Just need you to be good for me.” You nod again, melting into her body, and with the hand not holding you upright, she guides the strap to your entrance. You moan softly as she slides inside with little resistance, bottoming out as she murmurs, “That’s it, perfect girl. You take me so well.”

You can’t muster the words to respond to that, so you lean your head on hers when she drags the strap out, then pushes back in with a devastating slowness that you feel throughout your entire body. Your body is still buzzing with oversensitivity, but the slowness of her thrusts helps to ground you.

She glances up to the mirror to ensure you’re still looking at her – which you are, enraptured and unable to look away – before she trails her lips down your neck, pressing gentle, wet kisses to your overheated skin.

She’s softer now. Soft in a way that makes you clench around the strap breathlessly, tilting your head to give her more access to your neck. She recognizes that it won’t take much to build you up again, more focused on making sure you enjoy every second – every motion, every push and pull of the strap. Paige plants a kiss on every hickey she’d left on your body, her actions borderline reverent in a way that makes you want to come for her again and again and again.

With one arm still wrapped around your chest, holding onto your jaw, the other wraps around your hips, holding you by the stomach.

Unable to look away, you tighten your grip on her arms, trying not to fall apart too soon. Your stomach coils, already close, but Paige moves slowly, her thrusts hitting deep, and you’re all too content to float along the current of pleasure. Her lips still ghost across your body, licking the salt off of your skin, pressing gentle apologies to the dark spots on your neck.

“You want more, mama?” she murmurs in your ear, a gentle check in despite the question. You hardly have to think about it before you nod. With the hand braced over hers, you drag her left hand down, her fingers finding your clit with ease.

She doesn’t apply much pressure, just enough for you to feel it without overpowering the sensations. You don’t let go either, guiding her motions, moving it further down to gather more of your slick before bringing it back up to circle your clit.

The slide makes it impossibly sweeter – she tightens her circles, pushing deeper inside you with the strap, the tip brushing against the spongy spot inside of you that makes you keen.

Paige doesn’t slow. She doesn’t speed up. She keeps her pace deliciously consistent, the strap dragging in and out of you deliberately, her fingers working you up in tandem.

Her free hand keeps your gaze locked on the mirror, watching her as she kisses your neck, the shell of your ear, listening to her breath heavily as if she’s feeling everything you are, too. That thought alone makes your hips stutter, pressing back into her.

She soothes you with gentle whispers. “So good for me, baby,” she’d say, or she’d time the circling of your clit with a deeper thrust, murmuring, “You feel me? Want you to feel good.” And the stupid hat makes you unravel a little bit more – it hangs off of her head loosely, threatening to fall at any moment, but all you can think about is how you rode her wearing her hat, how she claimed you in the club and how she made you fall apart wearing something with her name on it. You’re hers now, and honestly, you don’t hate that idea.

It doesn’t take much longer before your eyes are slipping shut, confessing, “Close, P,” in a hoarse voice. The sensations are overwhelming – her hot skin pressed against yours, the strap sliding through you and hitting spots you’d never knew existed, the maddening feeling of her thumb against your clit, her breathing against your ear, the pounding of her heartbeat against your back revealing just how close she is to falling apart, too.

“Okay, baby,” she whispers, her motions never slowing, kissing your neck again. But she presses her fingers a little more firmly to your clit, her free hand tapping against your cheek to gather your attention.

Your eyes blink open, finding the mirror again, the ruined look on her face. She looks desperate – not to get off, but desperate to watch you get off. “Want you to watch yourself.” Her voice is a little broken, almost begging, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. “You look so pretty when you come for me, you know that? Wanna watch you do it over and over and over again.”

“Paige,” you gasp, the sound coming out like a half-sob, half-whine, the pleasure building and the heat coiling.

But she hardly hears you, her eyes glazed over and pussy drunk. Her jaw hangs slack like she’s the one being fucked, her breathing uneven and heavy. “You feel so good,” she rambles. “Like you were made just for me. Can’t get enough of you. Please, mama, wanna see you fall apart for me. You’re so good, so fucking perfect–”

The coil snaps, white hot pleasure coursing through your veins, electricity down your spine, and all you can do is sag back into her one final time, moans tumbling from your lips while she works you through the aftershocks.

Her hips and her fingers slow, murmuring incoherent sentences into your ear, her words dripping in both gratitude and a satiated desire like watching you get off finally quenched a thirst she’s been harboring for years.

You don’t have to say anything, either – it’s like she knows your body by heart now. Gingerly, she slips the strap out of your soaked cunt and detaches her fingers from your sensitive clit. As much as you’d love to feel her skin against yours, her hips dragging against yours, you can barely keep your eyes open. The final aftershocks dissipate, your thighs calming, the pleasurable fog in your brain clearing.

“You still with me?” she asks softly, smoothing the hair at the crown of your head with her clean hand.

At that, all you can do is muster a laugh, your eyes opening blearily. “Yeah,” you say, “no thanks to you, though.”

“Hmm,” she scoffs, amusement in her eyes. “Coulda sworn this was exactly what you wanted. You know, open legs and all.”

“Alright,” you deadpan, attempting to roll on your side, but you can’t summon the strength. You settle for some weird half angle that’s hardly worth the drama of the moment. “Goodnight!”

“No way,” Paige laughs. “C’mon. I need you awake. Lemme run you a bath and change these sheets so you can rest, okay? You good with that?”

You meet her eyes again, your smile softening at the gentle earnestness on her face. If she hadn’t already ruined you before, you’re sure you are now. But there’s something in her eyes that promises this might not be a one night thing after all. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing her closer to plant a chaste, affectionate kiss to her lips. You feel her grin. “You’re gonna have to carry me, though.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” she assures you, crawling off the bed and unbuckling the harness on her hips. She throws it haphazardly into the adjacent bathroom and you try not to laugh when something clatters to the floor. Paige picks you up with ease, one arm looping under your knees and the other wrapping around your back. She sets you on the edge of the tub as she heats up the water, helping you into it gingerly and tossing in a eucalyptus bath bomb for your aches. Before she leaves to swap the sheets, she plants a soft kiss onto your forehead.

You soak for a few moments until she returns, offering you a small smile before she slips in behind you. Her body is almost as warm as the water and twice as soft. She massages the shampoo and conditioner into your hair and jokingly points out her assault on your neck with a mixture of pride and concern. You tell her she’ll have to buy your concealer in bulk but when she murmurs, “As long as I get to see you again,” you find that you don’t really care about the marks on your neck as long as you get to keep this annoyingly charming, devastatingly beautiful athlete in your life.

Paige helps you out of the tub, your eyes drooping once more, dressing you in a pair of her boxers and an oversized t-shirt from her college days. She guides you back to bed gingerly, the sheets fresh and clean, and you have your head on her chest before she’s even got her head on the pillow. She grins because it doesn’t bother her at all. You smile because her heart’s pounding and you think you know why it is.

Just before you fall into a blissful, exhausted sleep, Paige’s voice cuts through the fog once more. “About that offer,” she whispers, tapping on the leg you have slung across hers. “Does it expire?”

She jokes, but you can hear the truth of her question beyond it. She’s not referring to your legs. Not literally.

Your smile is tired, but it’s no less affectionate. “For you?” you echo, drowsiness lacing your tone. “No. It’s renewable.”

“How long?”

You’re quiet for a beat, just enough to consider your words.

Is this something you want? Relationships can be hard. Tricky. But something about Paige tells you she’s in for the ride. That you can trust her – with you and your heart.

So you press a kiss to the hinge of her jaw, feeling her cheeks stretch with a smile, and you make her a promise:

“As long as you want.”

[brookghaib-blog]

The quiet things that remain

pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 12,1k

warning: very angst, depression, self-esteem issues, extreme loniless, mysoginistic remarks

note: don't hate me

chapter II

--

The rain tapped against the bookstore windows like a soft, persistent knocking — steady, but unwelcome. Outside, the gray New York afternoon bled into the kind of evening that came too early and stayed too long. Inside, the warmth of yellow lamplight spilled over rows of untouched shelves and dust-flecked hardcovers, curling over the edges of a place that time had gently forgotten.

Y/N sat behind the counter, elbows on the worn wood, phone resting in her trembling hands. She hadn't noticed when the tea beside her had gone cold. She hadn’t noticed much lately.

The video played quietly, but every word rang louder than it should.

“...the New Avengers were spotted again today leaving the UN compound, raising more questions than answers. Who are they? What do they stand for? And more importantly… who are they when the cameras are off?”

A sleek montage of clips rolled across the screen. There they were — the so-called “New Avengers.”

There he was. Bob Reynolds. The man she hadn’t seen in eight months.

Golden-haired, cleaner than she’d ever known him, standing straight and still beside a team of killers and misfits. No twitching hands. No darting eyes. No shadow of withdrawal in his pupils. Just… peace. Control. Power.

It was like looking at a stranger. A beautiful, impossible stranger with his face.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, but the video kept playing.

“Among the many questions surrounding Sentry — the golden god at the center of the team — is one persistent theory: is there something romantic between him and his fellow operative, Yelena Belova?”

Her fingers curled around the phone. No. Please.

Footage rolled. Grainy at first — taken by paparazzi, blurred by distance.

Bob and Yelena. Walking side by side. Her arm brushing his. Another clip: her tugging him away from the crowd, laughing. A third: a hug. Not quick. Not distant. Her arms around his waist. His chin in her hair. The kind of embrace that says I know what you’ve been through, and I’m not afraid of it.

“She’s the reason I’m here,” Bob’s voice said, an old interview clip playing now. “Yelena… she didn’t give up on me, even when I did. She reminded me there was still something worth saving.”

Y/N didn’t realize she’d started crying until her vision blurred and the soft hum of her own breath broke into a quiet, gasping sob. She paused the video with shaking hands, freezing the frame on a still of Bob looking sideways at Yelena during the interview — something gentle, something fragile behind his eyes.

That was the look she used to dream about. That was the look he never gave her.

She’d held his hair back while he threw up in gas station parking lots. Bailed him out of jail with money she didn’t have. Let him crash on her couch when he was too high to remember his name. He used to call her his “safe place.” Said she was the only thing in his life that wasn’t broken.

But she’d always known. Deep down, she’d always known she wasn’t enough to fix him.

But now? Now he had Yelena.

And the world. And peace.

Y/N set her phone down face-first on the counter and covered her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling with the kind of grief that makes no sound. The kind that lives in the chest like a second heartbeat, one made of rust and regret.

No customers. No noise but the rain and the old jazz record she’d forgotten to flip. Just her and the ghosts of what they could’ve been.

In the next room, a little bell above the door chimed softly — a delivery maybe, or just the wind. She didn’t even lift her head.

Somewhere, Bob Reynolds was flying.

And she was still here, crying in a bookstore he’d once said felt like home. He wasn’t coming back. Not to her.

And still, she whispered his name. Quiet, like a prayer.

The bookstore no longer hurt.

Not in the way it used to — with that sharp, stabbing grief that made her chest cave in every time the bell above the door chimed. Back then, she'd look up, half-hoping it was him. A flash of gold hair. That awkward, tired smile. His hoodie too big, his eyes too empty.

But now, months later, there was just quiet. Not peace — never peace — but quiet.

The kind that comes after acceptance. The kind that grows like moss over memories.

Y/N didn’t talk about Bob anymore. Not to coworkers, not to old friends who still asked, “Have you seen what he’s doing now?” Not even to herself, in those late hours when the ache beneath her ribs swelled like a wound reopening.

But she felt him. In the silence between customers. In the space beside her when she locked the door and walked home. In the way she looked at the world now — all those colors, all that beauty — and felt like a glass wall stood between her and everything she used to want.

She’d loved him. Of course she had.

She had loved Bob Reynolds since the ninth grade, when he punched a teacher’s car and got suspended for protecting a kid he didn’t even know. She loved him when he borrowed her notes, when he cried on her fire escape high out of his mind, when he disappeared for three weeks and came back thirty pounds thinner, shivering and hollow-eyed.

She loved him when he couldn’t love himself.

She never said it. Not really. Maybe in the way she bandaged his hands. Or made excuses to his parole officer. Or brought him dinner and sat three feet away like she didn’t want to reach out and pull him into her chest.

And when he left for Malaysia — a “spiritual retreat” — she smiled. She smiled like she believed it, even though everything in her screamed.

Still, she let him go. She let him go because she thought he’d come back. For her.

And then came the message. Just six words.

I love you. I’m sorry.

She’d stared at those words for hours. Days. Her fingers trembling over the keys, unsent replies collecting like ghosts in her drafts folder.

“Why are you sorry?” “Where are you?” “I love you, too.” “Please come home.” “Was it ever real?”

But she never sent anything. Because part of her already knew.

It wasn’t romantic love. Not for him. She was comfort. She was safety. She was the place you go when everything else falls apart — not the place you stay when you’re finally whole again.

Yelena got that part. Yelena got all of him.

And Y/N… Y/N got to survive it.

So she started going to the park.

At first, just to breathe. Just to sit on a bench with a thermos of tea and pretend she was somewhere else. Then, one day, she brought a sketchbook. She wasn’t an artist, not really. But she remembered telling Bob once that she wanted to draw people in love. “Like those old French films,” she’d said. “Where they just sit at cafés and smoke and kiss.” He laughed and said she was corny.

She went back the next day. And the next.

She sketched mothers holding babies. Old couples feeding pigeons. Young people tangled together in the grass, drunk on love and sunshine.

They didn’t know she was drawing them. They didn’t know her heart was breaking with every line.

She packed little picnics, too. Cheese and grapes and crackers in a paper box. A single folded napkin. She ate them cross-legged on a blanket alone — the same dates she used to dream of sharing with him. Her fantasies made real, only stripped of the one person they were for.

She bought herself ballet tickets. Front row. Twice.

She cried through Swan Lake because it was beautiful. And because Bob never cared about ballet. But she’d once imagined holding his hand in that velvet-dark theater, leaning on his shoulder, whispering about the dancers under the dim light of intermission.

She went to museums with an audio guide in her ears and a silent ache in her chest. They’d planned to go once, years ago. He bailed. Got arrested that night. She remembered bailing him out, hair still curled from the night she’d spent getting ready, tickets still in her purse.

Now she went alone. She stood in front of paintings for too long. Tried to feel the meaning in each one. Tried to understand why love, for her, always felt just out of reach — like art behind glass.

Bob had loved her, she truly believed that. But now she knew it had been platonic. Or nostalgic. Or guilty. Or desperate. Not the way she had loved him. Not the kind that cracked bone and rearranged the shape of her soul.

She had been there for decades. Through every overdose. Every apology. Every relapse and redemption. And in the end, Yelena — sharp, beautiful, new — walked in and took the title Y/N had spent her whole life earning.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Not really.

But it still felt like theft.

And so, every day, Y/N practiced the quiet art of living. Not thriving. Not healing. Just… surviving.

And when she walked home past flickering streetlights, past posters of the New Avengers, past Bob’s face painted in gold and shadow, she looked away.

Not because she didn’t love him anymore. But because she still did.

The sound of her shoes echoed softly against the sidewalk as Y/N walked home from the museum, arms crossed tightly over her chest. It had rained earlier. The air still smelled like wet pavement and the petals of bruised flowers that had fallen from the trees lining the Upper West Side.

She didn’t know why she kept doing this — walking home instead of taking the bus. Maybe she was punishing herself. Or maybe it was the only time she could cry without worrying anyone would see.

The tear tracks on her cheeks had dried by the time she got to her building.

She lived on the second floor. A narrow walk-up above a tailor shop, with faded red carpeting and one window that opened if you jiggled it the right way. It was small, cramped, imperfect. But it was hers.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the weight of the day sank into her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes — too comfortable, too wide, orthopedic even. She used to laugh at herself for that, back when she imagined someone would find her quirks charming. Now they just made her feel… old.

Plain.

Forgettable.

Y/N tossed her bag on the couch and went straight to the mirror near the kitchen. She didn’t know why. She just stood there and looked.

And the more she looked, the more she unraveled.

The dark circles beneath her eyes weren’t poetic, like in the movies. They were just… tired. Her skin was dull, pale in places, red in others. Her cheeks had lost their softness from stress. Her lips were cracked.

She tucked her hair behind one ear. Then the other. Then back again.

Too flat. Too thin. Too dry.

She didn’t look like someone you’d love at first sight. She didn’t look like someone who could fly beside gods or run across rooftops or save the world.

She looked like someone who bagged your books and forgot to put on mascara.

And the image of Yelena — always there, always shimmering just under her eyelids — rose to the front of her mind.

Yelena Belova, with her radiant, smug grin and her bite-sharp wit. Yelena, who had cheekbones like a model and eyes that seemed to challenge the whole world. Yelena, who had scars and stories and strength in the kind of way that made men look and women wish.

She was everything Y/N wasn’t.

And worse… she was the kind of woman Bob could fall in love with.

Y/N’s voice cracked in the silence of the room. A whisper against the mirror.

“Of course he loves her.”

She dragged her fingers down her face, pressing against her cheekbones, her temples, like she could reshape what was there. But no matter how she adjusted the angle, no matter how she forced a smile — she still looked like the woman he left behind.

A memory. A placeholder. Never the prize.

She slumped to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, knees pulled to her chest.

Her breath hitched once. Twice. And then the tears came again, full and warm, slipping down her cheeks and into the collar of her cardigan.

Why did I think I ever had a chance?

The thought hissed in her mind, cruel and sharp. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t someone the world noticed, or photographed, or followed online. She wore second-hand sweaters and cheap lip balm. She read fantasy books instead of manifesting a future. She planned picnics and movie nights for a man who never once saw her as the main character in his life.

Her hands had held his when they trembled. Her voice had soothed him when he couldn’t breathe. Her love had stitched him back together when he was in pieces.

But Yelena got his smile. Yelena got the storybook ending.

And all Y/N got was this tiny apartment, this quiet heartbreak, and the knowledge that she had always, always been too soft in a world that rewarded teeth.

She reached for her sketchbook on the table, flipped to a new page, and tried to draw.

Anything. Something. A line. A shape.

But all that came out were shaky outlines of a woman with her head in her hands.

She didn’t even need to look in the mirror to know it was her.

A little while later, she made herself tea. She added honey even though she didn’t want it. Her mother once told her honey was for healing. She didn’t believe that anymore, but the ritual made her feel like someone else might believe it for her.

She drank it slowly, eyes still swollen, heart still aching.

--

It had taken everything in her — every fragile, trembling piece of courage — to agree to the date.

She didn’t want to. Not really. Not when her heart still ached every time she saw a golden blur on a news broadcast, not when Bob’s voice still played like a lullaby in her most tired moments. But she told herself she had to try. That maybe the only way out of love was through something new. Something safe. Someone... nice.

His name was Daniel. They had matched on an app after she spent thirty-two minutes rewriting and rereading her bio before finally deciding on something honest but light: “Bookstore girl. Lover of iced tea, Van Gogh, and stories that hurt.”

Daniel had a nice smile in his pictures. Warm. Casual. His messages were funny, thoughtful — nothing like the catcalls or shallow conversations she was used to getting from strangers online. He liked foreign films, jazz, and pretended to know more about literature than he did, which made her smile. He wasn’t Bob. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Their dinner was at a little bistro tucked into a quiet Brooklyn street, lit by the kind of dim, cozy lighting that made everyone look softer. Y/N had spent two hours getting ready. She curled her hair, put on eyeliner she hadn’t touched in months, and slipped into a pale blue dress that clung just enough to remind her that her body was still hers — even if no one had touched it in years.

She smiled when she saw Daniel waiting outside, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his coat pockets. He greeted her with a compliment — “You look great” — and she had smiled too brightly in return, unsure of how to absorb kindness that didn’t come wrapped in years of shared trauma.

The conversation was easy, light. He asked about her job, her favorite books, her dream vacation. She let herself laugh, even told a few stories about her childhood that she hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time. They shared dessert. He paid. He walked her outside, his coat brushing her arm.

Then he said it.

“So… want to come back to mine for a nightcap?” He grinned. That kind of grin.

It hit her like a slap. The spell — fragile and delicate — shattered.

Her breath caught, but she smiled politely. “No, thank you. I should probably get home.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then his face changed.

“Oh. One of those girls.”

She paused, caught off guard. “What?”

“You led me on the whole night just for a free meal?”

“What? No, I didn’t—”

He laughed — a cruel, sharp sound that made her skin crawl. “Jesus. I should’ve known. I mean, you're not even that hot.”

Her lips parted, a protest caught in her throat. But he was already turning away.

“You act like you're this mysterious, deep girl, but you're just another average chick playing hard to get. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit like fists. Not even that hot. Just average.

She stood there, stunned, as he walked off into the night without another word.

By the time she got home, the tears had already started. Silent. Humiliating. Hot with shame.

She locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, still in her dress, her heels digging into her calves. She didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there, back against the wall, clutching her purse to her chest like it could hold her together.

“I’m not even pretty enough to turn someone down,” she whispered into the quiet.

The words echoed in her head, crueler every time they came back around.

Because it wasn’t just about Daniel.

It was every moment she’d spent wondering why Bob never looked at her that way. Every time she imagined what it might be like if he kissed her, only to watch him kiss someone else in her dreams. It was every second she stood in front of the mirror, wishing to be someone — anyone — worth choosing.

Yelena would never be called average.

Yelena had fire in her veins and a thousand stories in her scars. Men looked at her like she was art. Women wanted to be her. She could command a room with a glance, slay monsters with a flick of her wrist. Even in the mess, she was magic.

And what was Y/N?

Just… there.

The girl at the register who knew your favorite author. The girl who waited. Who stayed. Who believed in things long after they’d stopped being true.

The girl who had to beg the universe just to be noticed — only to be told she wasn’t even good enough to reject.

That night, she deleted the dating app.

She folded the blue dress and put it at the bottom of her drawer. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She made tea and didn’t drink it.

She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, one thought pulsing behind her tired eyes:

Even if Bob had never loved her… she used to believe she was the kind of person worth loving.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

--

The air was crisp — not cold, not yet. Just enough of a bite to make the tips of her fingers shiver in her sleeves, and for the wind to carry the kind of scent that only ever belonged to October: dried leaves, earth, the distant memory of rain. Y/N had always loved this kind of weather. She used to joke that it was "main character" weather. The kind you walk through slowly, headphones in, pretending the world is some quiet, tragic film and you’re the girl who hasn’t healed yet — but might.

Only now, she wasn’t pretending.

She walked with her hands in her pockets, her scarf wrapped twice around her neck and tugged tight. Her hair was tied back loosely, pieces falling into her face with every gust of wind. Her eyes were a little tired, but soft. Distant. As if they were searching for something they didn’t expect to find.

The park wasn’t crowded. A few dog walkers. A couple of college students with coffees. Two kids kicking a soccer ball back and forth. She passed them all without really seeing them. Her boots crunched gently over leaves as she found her usual bench — the one facing the little lake with the willow trees bending low over the edge. She sat slowly, with the weight of someone who was carrying more than her coat.

She didn’t notice the old woman at the other end of the bench until several minutes had passed.

The woman was crocheting. Her fingers moved rhythmically, precisely, as if they knew this pattern by heart. A ball of pale lavender yarn sat tucked neatly in her lap, and her eyes — pale blue and clouded slightly with age — flicked up occasionally to watch the people go by.

Y/N watched the ducks. The trees. Nothing in particular. Her body was still, but her mind wasn’t.

She didn’t cry. Not this time. The tears had dried up days ago. Now it was just… stillness. Not peace. Not quite sadness. Just the absence of something she didn’t know how to name.

“Are you looking for someone, dear?”

The voice startled her — soft but sudden. Y/N turned slightly, surprised to see the old woman watching her with a small, knowing smile.

“I—sorry?” Y/N blinked.

“You’ve got that look,” the woman said, setting her crochet down gently in her lap. “The kind people wear when they’re waiting for someone they know won’t come. I used to know that look very well.”

Y/N swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I’m not,” she said too quickly. “Just… enjoying the park.”

The woman hummed, unconvinced but kind. “Well, if you’re going to keep me company, at least pretend to be interested in what I’m making.”

Y/N smiled faintly — barely there — and looked down at the yarn. “What are you making?”

“Scarf. For my granddaughter. She wants it to match her dog’s sweater,” the woman said with a fond roll of her eyes. “I told her that was ridiculous. Then I started it anyway.”

Y/N let out a small breath. A ghost of a laugh. “It’s a beautiful color.”

“Thank you.” The woman paused, then looked at her with a soft, mischievous glint. “You ever crochet?”

Y/N shook her head. “No… But I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” The woman pulled a second hook from her bag and another ball of yarn — soft blue, a little faded. “Sit up. I’ll teach you.”

Y/N hesitated. “I… really?”

“Why not? You look like you need something to do with those restless hands. Something that doesn’t involve checking your phone every two minutes.”

She flushed. Guilty. She had been checking. Just in case there was something about him. A new sighting. A news update. A miracle.

She took the yarn.

The first few loops were awkward. Clumsy. But the rhythm settled quickly. The woman’s voice guided her gently through the pattern, her hands warm with time and patience. Y/N’s hands trembled once — not from the cold.

“What’s your name, dear?” the woman asked after a while.

“Y/N.”

“Lovely name. I’m June.”

They sat for a long moment in silence, the soft clicking of hooks the only sound between them.

Then June asked, “Was it your lover?”

Y/N blinked, the question catching her off guard. “What?”

“The one you’re looking for. The one you lost.”

Y/N stared at the yarn in her hands, her fingers frozen mid-loop. She could feel the ache creep up again, slow and sharp, like it always did when someone touched that place inside her she thought she’d hidden well.

“I… I didn’t have a lover,” she said softly.

June watched her for a moment, then nodded. “But you loved him.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“Yes.”

June didn’t pry. She just nodded again, returning to her stitching. It was quiet for another few minutes before Y/N found her voice again.

“What about you?” she asked. “You said you used to know that look.”

June smiled gently, the kind of smile that knew grief well. “I lost my husband five years ago. Charles. We were married forty-seven years. I still look for him sometimes in the park. It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly,” Y/N said quickly, her voice breaking just slightly.

June looked at her kindly. “No… I suppose it’s not.”

Y/N looked down at her yarn, then up at the trees swaying slowly in the breeze.

“He used to walk with me,” June said, voice distant. “Every Sunday. He’d always pick up the fallen leaves and tell me which ones were the prettiest. I used to think he was silly for it. Now I wish I’d pressed them all into books.”

Y/N’s chest hurt. “I used to plan dates for him,” she said suddenly, voice quiet. “Picnics. Ballet tickets. Museum exhibits. I’d write the ideas down in a little notebook. I never asked him out. Never told him. But I had it all planned… just in case he ever looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

June’s eyes were wet.

“Did he ever know?” she asked gently.

Y/N shook her head.

“I think he loved me,” she said. “But not the way I needed.”

June reached over, placed her hand softly over Y/N’s.

“Sometimes,” she said, “we love the right person in the wrong way. And sometimes… we’re just too late.”

Y/N let the words settle in her chest, the truth of them ringing hollow and loud all at once.

They sat there until the sun began to sink beneath the trees, painting the lake gold. A still, shared silence. No pressure. No expectations. Just two women — one in the dusk of her life, the other trying desperately to find her dawn again — crocheting side by side on a bench in the middle of a world that kept moving forward.

Y/N didn’t find Bob that day.

But she found something else.

A moment of peace.

After that day in the park, something in Y/N shifted. Not drastically. There was no revelation. No thunderous change. Just… a quiet pivot. A small crack that let something new inside.

She began crocheting like her life depended on it.

At first, she was terrible. Her stitches were too tight. Then too loose. Then tangled. She dropped the hook more times than she could count. But she kept at it with the fervor of someone clinging to a lifeline. Her apartment — once tidy, minimalist — soon became littered with yarn. Pale blues, deep burgundies, soft browns. She never made anything useful. Her scarves were too short, her hats too lumpy, her attempts at socks made her laugh through tears.

But the point wasn’t to finish. The point was that it occupied her hands. It kept her from refreshing news sites. Kept her from scrolling past video edits of Bob — or Sentry now — lifting cars, flying above cities, standing beside Yelena like they were sculpted from the same stone. It kept her from reliving every memory with him, over and over, until her mind bled from it.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she met June in the park. Rain or shine. They’d sit on the bench, often in silence, crocheting while the world passed them by. Sometimes June talked about Charles. Sometimes about her grandchildren. Sometimes they sat in companionable stillness, the weight of their grief stitching them into the same quiet rhythm.

June started calling her “kiddo,” and Y/N didn’t have the heart to admit it made her cry once she got home.

She started dressing differently too — without realizing it. Her clothes became… comfortable. Long skirts, oversized cardigans. Scarves that didn’t match and boots with scuffed toes. She looked like the kind of woman you’d see sipping tea alone in an empty café window, with a novel clutched tightly in her fingers and a look in her eyes that said she once believed in love like fire — and got burned.

She began frequenting thrift shops, telling herself it was for the coziness. The earth tones. The way old clothes felt like they had stories. But deep down, she knew it was because she didn’t feel beautiful anymore — so why bother trying?

Gone were the days of her cute lipstick, her floral dresses, her perfectly winged eyeliner that she wore just in case Bob stopped by the shop. Gone were the silly hopes that he'd see her in some new outfit and forget Yelena’s warrior smile.

Now, she was the soft ghost behind the register at the bookstore — the one who remembered every customer’s favorite genre, who stacked romance novels with tender reverence even though she didn’t read them anymore, who crocheted during lunch breaks and smelled like old paper and lavender.

Customers called her “lovely.” Never beautiful. Never striking. Just lovely.

A kind way to say forgettable.

To fill the quiet, she started a book club. Thursday nights. She pinned up a flier at the front counter and expected no one to come. But a few people did. A teacher, an elderly man with too many opinions on Hemingway, a lonely college student who needed an excuse to leave the dorms. They talked about stories, argued about endings, brought snacks. And for one night a week, Y/N had plans. A reason to change her clothes. A reason to stay awake past ten.

They all liked her. They said she had a soothing voice. That she picked good books. That she made the bookstore feel like home.

None of them knew her favorite book was the one Bob borrowed and never returned — spine cracked, margin scribbled with his half-legible notes. She kept it on the shelf behind the counter. Just in case.

Sometimes she wondered if Bob would even recognize her now. If he passed her on the street ?

Would he see the girl who held his head in her lap during withdrawal? Who bailed him out of jail with the last of her student loan money? Who made mix CDs and planned imaginary dates and waited three years for him to say I love you in a way that wasn’t a goodbye?

Or would he just see what everyone else saw now?

A sweet, quiet, unremarkable woman who smiled too politely and went home alone.

She never told June about him. Not really. She never said the name. She just said, “There was someone. And I wasn’t enough.”

June had squeezed her hand. “He wasn’t ready, love. There’s a difference.”

Y/N smiled at that.

But she didn’t believe it.

Not anymore.

Some people are stars, destined for legend, brilliance, and heroes who fall from the sky. And some people are just… soft spaces. To be landed on. To be left behind.

Y/N had accepted that she was the latter.

And so, she crocheted. She read. She sipped lukewarm tea in the evenings and wrote little notes in the margins of her books just to feel like someone might find them one day and know she existed.

She was no one’s great love story.

--

The loneliness had begun to settle like dust — fine, weightless, but everywhere. In the corners of her apartment. In the extra teacup she always poured and never used. In the quiet moments between sleep and waking, when the stillness felt too heavy and too permanent to bear.

Y/N had always loved silence. But now, it gnawed at her.

Her routine no longer offered comfort — only proof of how much space one person could take up when no one else was there to see it. She could go days without speaking to anyone outside of work. Her coworkers were kind. Customers smiled. Book club was a nice reprieve. But when the door shut at night behind her, the echo always sounded like grief.

It had been weeks since she’d cried. Not because she was healing — she’d simply dried out. The tears had gone somewhere deep inside, too tired to keep trying.

That Sunday, she woke up to an apartment that felt too quiet. Too cold. The kind of cold that seeps through your skin and rests in your chest. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the morning light slide across the floor. The feeling was familiar. A soft, aching hollowness. The same she’d felt after Bob left. After she realized he wasn't coming back. After she watched a video of him calling Yelena his reason.

She wasn't trying to fill that hole anymore.

She just wanted… something warm.

So, she walked to the animal shelter.

It was a rainy morning, one of those gray, drizzling days where the whole world looked washed out and blurry. Her umbrella was cheap and kept folding inward, so by the time she got to the shelter, her coat was soaked through and her fingers were stiff.

Inside, the building smelled like wet fur and pine-scented cleaner. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, casting everything in a sterile yellow tone. A volunteer greeted her with a practiced smile and showed her to the cat room, explaining the basics — litter habits, vaccinations, temperament ratings. Y/N nodded politely but didn't really listen. Her eyes were already scanning the room.

Dozens of cats.

Some curled up in boxes. Others pacing. A few meowing with hopeful desperation.

But none looked at her.

She crouched near one particularly vocal tabby, only for it to hiss and turn its back. Another cat batted lazily at a toy when she approached but ignored her hand when she reached to pet it. A long-haired Persian stared right through her, regal and unimpressed.

Y/N stood there awkwardly, hands in her coat pockets, heart sinking.

She knew it was silly — anthropomorphizing rejection — but it still stung. She wasn’t even appealing to cats.

She turned to leave. Quietly. Without causing a scene. It would be just another thing she tried and failed at. Another reminder that even animals knew she wasn’t the one you picked.

And then — soft movement.

From the far corner, behind a scratching post and a tattered old tunnel toy, came the slow stretch of a lanky gray cat. He blinked at her, one eye slightly squinty from an old injury, and stood up.

He didn’t meow. Didn’t purr. Just padded over, tail upright like a little question mark.

Y/N froze.

He was all bones under his fur — lean and elegant in a scrappy kind of way. He looked like he’d lived a hard life. Scars on his ears. A slight limp. But his eyes… they were soft. Curious.

She crouched slowly and extended her hand.

The cat hesitated. Sniffed. And then, with a small sigh, leaned into her fingers.

Her throat tightened.

She scratched gently under his chin, and he tilted his head, pressing closer. As if to say, Oh. There you are.

Her vision blurred.

And just like that — she’d been chosen.

His name at the shelter was “Dusty.” She didn't change it. It suited him. He wasn’t glamorous. He didn’t leap into her lap or sleep curled against her cheek. But he followed her from room to room, curling up near her feet, always watching.

When she crocheted, he’d bat gently at the ends of yarn. When she cried quietly at night — not often, but sometimes still — he’d jump onto the couch and sit beside her. Never touching. Just near.

Like he knew that’s all she could handle.

She whispered to him often. About her day. About books. About the lives she imagined while shelving romance novels with happy endings. About the man she loved who forgot her.

Sometimes, she whispered his name.

Dusty never answered, of course. But he blinked at her slowly, and it felt like the closest thing to understanding she’d had in months.

She bought him a little blue collar with a bell. Crocheted him a lopsided bed. Let him sleep on the couch, even though she told herself she wouldn’t.

Her apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.

Not quite full, either.

But it felt alive.

And on some nights — when she boiled tea and read by the window, and Dusty curled beside her with one paw stretched across her foot — she allowed herself to pretend.

That maybe this was enough.

--

It had been raining the first day Y/N brought Dusty to the park.

Not pouring — just that kind of shy drizzle that left the leaves glistening and the air smelling of wet soil and faraway smoke. She hadn't intended to bring him. The thought itself had made her laugh, once. Walking a cat? That was a thing quirky people did in cartoons. Not quiet women with half-healed hearts and sensible shoes.

But Dusty had sat by the door that morning, tail flicking, eyes fixed on her like he knew she needed something.

She clipped on the little harness she'd bought on a whim — blue, to match his collar — and, to her surprise, he hadn’t fought her. He just blinked, stretched, and followed as she opened the door.

Y/N wasn’t used to being looked at. Not anymore. But she felt it that morning — soft, amused glances from strangers as she walked through the wet grass, the leash loose in her hand as Dusty padded carefully beside her. She adjusted her scarf higher on her neck and kept her eyes down. It felt ridiculous. Endearing. Exposed. Like she was baring too much of herself — saying, look how lonely I am that I walk a cat now.

But when she saw June already seated on their usual bench, bundled in a thick cardigan, her yarn dancing between delicate fingers — the tightness in her chest eased.

June looked up. Her eyes twinkled. “Well, well,” she grinned. “If it isn’t the neighborhood menace, dragging her tiger around.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh and sat beside her. Dusty hopped onto the bench without invitation, curling beside her thigh like he owned it. His tail flicked with quiet pride.

“You brought the beast,” June said, amused. “I’m honored.”

“He needed fresh air,” Y/N murmured, brushing a raindrop from her cheek. “He gets restless when I work too long. I think he resents my job.”

June chuckled and leaned down to pet Dusty, who allowed it with his usual regal detachment. “He’s handsome,” she said thoughtfully. “Got that look of someone who’s seen things.”

Y/N smiled. “Like us.”

“Exactly.” June’s fingers scratched gently behind his ear. “You gave him a home?”

“He gave me one,” she whispered before she realized she’d said it aloud.

June looked at her.

Y/N swallowed. The wind brushed cold against her cheeks. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. “I have pictures,” she said, her voice too soft. “Do you want to see?”

“I was waiting for that,” June said, settling in like it was a grand event.

Y/N flipped through photos with careful fingers. One of Dusty sleeping on a pile of books. One of him in a crooked little sweater she’d crocheted — his expression pure betrayal. One where he stood on the windowsill with sunlight gilding his fur, the city behind him like a world she didn’t belong to anymore.

June smiled at every one. “He looks like he trusts you.”

“I hope so.”

“You saved him?”

“No. I think I just… showed up. And he let me stay.”

The words felt too honest. But June never mocked honesty. She only nodded, like she knew what it meant to find shelter in something that couldn’t leave.

They sat in silence for a long time after that.

June crocheted a square for her blanket — lilac and navy, the colors of twilight. Y/N worked on a tiny blue hat, not sure who it was for. Dusty rested between them, tail curled like a comma, as if he were pausing a sentence neither of them wanted to end.

Then, softly, June asked, “Do you talk to him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Your cat. Do you talk to him?”

Y/N’s lips parted, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the yarn in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “I think… I tell him the things I can’t say out loud.”

June nodded slowly. “We all need someone who listens. Even if it’s just ears and whiskers.”

Y/N looked at her hands, at the tiny trembling loop she was forming. “I told him I wasn’t waiting anymore.”

“Are you?”

“I think I’m trying not to.”

June set her needles down and took one of Y/N’s hands, her grip warm and soft and full of unspoken knowing. “He’s missing out, whoever he is.”

Y/N tried to smile. It wobbled. “He loved someone else.”

“Then he never really looked at you.”

“I think… I think I spent so long being someone who waited for him… I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’re not just someone’s memory, sweetheart,” June said gently. “You’re here. You’re warm hands and kind eyes and messy yarn and a cat who chose you. That’s a lot.”

Dusty let out a soft chirp then, as if in agreement.

Y/N sniffed and nodded, tears pricking the corners of her eyes but refusing to fall. Not today.

“I never thought I’d be the woman who walked her cat in the park,” she said with a broken laugh.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” June said, eyes twinkling. “You’re the woman who brought her whole heart back to life… with a leash and some yarn. That’s something else entirely.”

--

There were things Y/N never spoke aloud — not to June, not to Dusty, not even to the ceiling fan above her bed that sometimes spun slow enough to listen.

She carried some stories like bruises beneath long sleeves. Quiet things that pulsed when touched, but stayed hidden because to reveal them would be to admit she was still clinging to shadows.

One of those bruises was Mondays.

Every Monday, without fail, Y/N sat in a small corner booth at Solstice Café — a quiet, sun-drenched spot with old wood chairs and that smell of cinnamon baked into its walls. She always brought a book. Sometimes a notebook. Sometimes just Dusty’s latest pictures on her phone to scroll through. But none of that was the reason she was there.

It had started years ago, in a different life. A warmer, louder one — where laughter was careless and hope didn’t feel like something foolish.

Bob had gotten a summer job spinning a ridiculous sign for a fried chicken place two blocks away. He had to wear a full chicken costume — yellow feathers, orange tights, a beak that flopped when he moved too quickly. He’d hated it. Said he looked like someone’s acid trip. He’d tried to quit after day two.

But she hadn’t let him. She’d shown up with lunch.

“Let the world see the bird,” she’d said, grinning.

He’d groaned. But when she pulled out his favorite sandwich and a milkshake — the one with caramel drizzle on top — he’d slumped beside her on the curb, feathers and all, and eaten in silence until he finally cracked a smile.

“Only you could make this less humiliating.”

“Maybe I just like chickens.”

“You like me in tights, admit it.”

She’d laughed. He’d turned red. And after that, every Monday for the rest of that summer — and the summers that followed, even after he quit — they had lunch together at Solstice. It became sacred. A ritual. Mondays were theirs.

Even after everything else in his life fell apart, Mondays stayed. She made sure of it.

She was the one constant. The lighthouse. The one who always showed up.

And now, all these years later, she still did.

Every Monday at noon, she left work exactly on time, tucked her cardigan tighter around her, and walked the six blocks to Solstice Café. Her booth was usually open. The staff didn’t know her name, but they knew her order. Grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And a lavender lemonade, just because Bob once said it reminded him of summer.

She never told June about it. She couldn’t. It felt too desperate. Too much like a woman who was still waiting for a boy who wore a chicken suit and laughed like he didn’t know how to stop.

Dusty would never understand either. He was loyal, yes, but cats didn’t know the ache of time or the illusion of memory that played like a movie behind your eyes.

She would sit in the booth with her book open but unread, eyes fixed on the seat across from her, and she would pretend — just for a moment — that he might walk through the door.

That maybe this Monday would be the one where time rewound and gave her a do-over. A world where Bob never left. Where Malaysia was just a made-up excuse, and he came home with feathered stories and a milkshake in hand. Where Yelena was nobody. Where his hand reached across the table and found hers because maybe — just maybe — he’d finally seen her the way she’d always seen him.

But it never happened.

The booth stayed empty. The soup got cold. And she walked home alone, every time, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling in public.

Sometimes she hated herself for it — for being so loyal to a memory. For loving someone who’d never really been hers.

He had said “I love you, I’m sorry” before disappearing. And she'd let that echo destroy her. She'd built fantasies from it, believing for a moment that maybe — maybe — the love had been real. But now, after everything she’d seen, it felt more like a goodbye born from guilt than love.

Yelena had arrived with her sharp edges and hero’s smile, and whatever mess of a man Bob had returned as — the Sentry, the god, the weapon — he’d looked at her like salvation. Not at Y/N. Not once.

And still, every Monday, Y/N showed up like a woman stuck in time. Haunted by a love no one else had witnessed. By inside jokes that only she remembered.

The staff never asked why she dined alone.

Maybe they thought she was a widow. Maybe a creature of habit. Maybe just lonely.

But to Y/N, it was a quiet act of rebellion. Of memory. Of refusing to forget the version of Bob who once danced badly to ‘80s songs in her kitchen, wearing mismatched socks and her apron.

The boy who said she was his only real friend.

She didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. But if she did — if she let herself — she’d admit that Mondays were when she summoned one.

And she never told anyone.

Because some heartbreaks were too precious to share. Some wounds felt sacred.

--

Weekends used to be the hardest.

There was a stretch of time—long and hollow—where Saturday mornings arrived with too much silence, and Sunday nights ended with nothing but the weight of a week repeating itself. No plans, no messages, no one waiting. She had stopped checking her phone long ago for texts that would never come. The kind that once started with “you up?” or “I need you.”

But she had to fill the time with something. The ache of idleness was too loud.

So, one Sunday afternoon after wandering aimlessly downtown, she saw a flier posted crookedly on a corkboard at a bus stop: “Looking for weekend volunteers. All heart, no experience necessary. Shelter & Hope, 17th Ave.”

It was handwritten, the ink a little smudged, the edges curling like it had been forgotten. But something about it pulled her in. Maybe it was the “all heart” part. Or maybe it was just the idea that, somewhere in the city, someone needed something—even if it wasn’t her.

That next Saturday, she showed up. She wore a plain sweater, jeans that didn’t quite fit right anymore, and a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was met by a man named Greg, who smelled faintly of coffee and wore a name tag that read, “One Day At A Time.”

“You here to save the world?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Just trying not to drown in it.”

He didn’t press further. Just nodded and handed her a pair of gloves.

That first weekend, she washed dishes. Lots of them. In water that was too hot and filled with bubbles that clung to her wrists. Her knuckles turned red and raw, but the rhythm of it—the simple, repetitive motion—soothed something inside her.

She went back the next weekend.

And the one after that.

Soon, she wasn’t just washing dishes. She was making coffee. Folding donated clothes. Listening.

The people who came through Shelter & Hope weren’t statistics to her. They were names. Stories. Laughter that broke mid-sentence. Eyes that saw too much. Hands that trembled when offered kindness.

She met Eddie, a Vietnam vet who spoke like his voice had been lost in smoke. He told her about a girl named Luanne who once made peach cobbler every Sunday, and how the world stopped being sweet after she died.

She met Sherry, who carried her childhood in a plastic grocery bag, and showed Y/N how to mend socks with a needle as tiny as her hope.

She met Miles, a boy barely twenty with teeth too white for someone who never smiled. He liked fantasy books—especially ones with dragons. Y/N started bringing him paperbacks from her store’s discard bin. They’d read aloud together in the corner, where the flickering light made it hard to tell when he was crying.

She brought Dusty one day, on a whim, tucked into a soft sling like a baby. The shelter had no policy against pets, and he was clean, calm, the kind of cat who seemed to know when someone needed a weight on their lap and nothing more.

The residents adored him. Even the toughest of them softened at the sight of that quiet grey tabby with big amber eyes. Dusty never hissed. Never clawed. He simply sat. As if to say, I know. I understand. And somehow, that was enough.

One woman, Clarice, who hadn’t spoken in weeks, finally did—just to say, “He reminds me of a cat I had when my son was little.”

Y/N crocheted hats in the evenings. Scarves. Ugly mittens in colors no one requested. She gave them out anyway, stuffing them into drawers and offering them with a shrug. Sometimes she stitched their initials in the yarn when she knew them well enough. Her fingers worked fast now, always busy, like if she stopped, her thoughts would unravel.

She never told anyone why she was there. Not really.

They assumed kindness. A gentle soul. And she let them.

But in truth, it was selfish. It wasn't just that she wanted to help.

It was that, in their sadness, she could bury her own.

Their heartbreaks were worse. Louder. They made hers feel manageable. Bearable.

She wasn’t the only one with a ghost trailing behind her. She wasn’t the only one who’d been left behind.

And she wasn’t even the most broken. That realization brought shame and comfort in equal measure.

One Saturday, as she read quietly with Miles, he asked without lifting his head:

“Who hurt you?”

She froze.

“What?”

“You got that... look. Like you’re still waiting for someone who left.”

She smiled tightly. Closed the book.

“I’m just trying to give something good to the world.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But the world broke you first.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She went home that night and cried into Dusty’s fur until his little paws batted her cheeks in confusion.

But she still returned the next weekend.

Because the pain didn’t go away. But at least there, in that place of tattered blankets and borrowed names, she could pretend her sorrow was part of something bigger. Something useful.

And when she handed someone a scarf or a book or just sat beside them as they spoke of lost fathers, vanished sisters, or lovers who disappeared into the fog, she didn’t feel invisible anymore.

She felt needed.

Even if she was still heartbroken. Even if no one ever came back for her.

--

The afternoon sun poured through the tall front windows of the bookstore in long slanted beams, lighting up the dust in the air like suspended stars. Outside, it was early spring, the kind that still had a winter sting in its wind, but inside the shop, it was warm, quiet, and smelled like old paper and brewed coffee from the little machine behind the counter that had been sputtering since morning.

Y/N was kneeling by a stack of unopened boxes near the fantasy section. New inventory had just come in—paperbacks smelling of fresh ink, tight spines begging to be cracked open. She loved this part of her job. The methodical repetition of slicing through tape, peeling back cardboard, stacking new titles alphabetically. It required no smiles, no explanations. Just her and the books.

Dusty sat curled like a grey loaf behind the register, blissfully asleep, his ears flicking only when the bell above the door jingled.

She didn’t look up. Customers came in all the time. Browsers. Readers. Parents searching for a birthday present they wouldn’t understand.

But then, a low voice, gravelly like it had been dragged across asphalt, broke the soft quiet of the store.

“Any good fantasy books? Not lookin’ for anything fancy. Just... a good one.”

Y/N turned, slightly startled. The man who stood at the entrance of the aisle was older, maybe in his late fifties or sixties. His beard was thick and streaked with silver, wild but trimmed like he tried, sometimes. His jacket was old leather, the kind that didn’t just hang on your body but had a history. He wore sunglasses despite being indoors, which she found odd—and oddly funny.

She gave him a polite nod. “Sure. Do you want a classic or something newer?”

He shrugged. “Something I can disappear into.”

She tilted her head. She knew that feeling.

After a few seconds of scanning the shelf, she handed him a copy of “The Last Binding.” It was new. A hidden gem. A rich story with quiet grief buried in its fantasy. She had liked it.

He took the book from her hands, brushing her fingers with a calloused thumb as he did. “You read this?”

She nodded. “It’s about a boy who forgets everything he loves to protect it. And the people who try to remind him.”

He didn’t say anything, just held the book and stared at the cover like it might give him an answer.

They stood there for a beat, the soft music overhead almost too gentle to hear.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice low again, not mocking, just curious.

“I talk more when I know someone better,” she replied, organizing the rest of the books without looking up.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to read this quick and come back.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t ask for hers. Just stood there, flipping through the first few pages with long fingers.

For the next ten minutes, he asked her a few things—what made her love books, if this was what she always wanted to do, if she believed in happy endings. Nothing deep, nothing strange. The kind of conversation people forgot five minutes after they walked away.

But she didn’t forget.

Because just before he left, as he approached the counter with the book and stood across from her, sunglasses still hiding his eyes, he tilted his head like he was studying her for the first time. And in the smallest voice, like it didn’t belong to someone who looked like him, he said:

“You seem sad.”

The words landed like glass on hardwood. Sharp. Unwelcome.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just offered a small, almost apologetic nod, left cash on the counter—exact change—and turned without another word.

The bell rang again as he left, his boots heavy and uneven on the wooden floor.

She stood there for a long time after he was gone, staring at the closed door.

“You seem sad.”

She was sad. But no one ever said it out loud. People said she was quiet. Or shy. Or kind. But not sad. Not like that.

Not like they could see it.

Y/N sat down on the little stool behind the register. Dusty jumped into her lap, purring instantly, like he knew.

Her hands shook slightly as she pet him.

Why did it matter what some stranger said? Why did those three words hurt more than the years of silence Bob had left behind?

Maybe because it meant it was still written all over her.

Maybe because no matter how many scarves she crocheted or how many fantasy books she pushed into lonely hands, it didn’t change the way her grief still bled through the cracks.

She opened the store notebook and scribbled in the margins like she sometimes did.

He didn’t ask my name. But he knew my sadness.

Then she crossed it out. Tucked the receipt from the man’s purchase into the back of the notebook like a keepsake. Just the date. The time. Nothing else.

It wasn’t a moment worth remembering, and yet—she would.

--

The tattoo shop sat at the edge of the avenue, tucked between a pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. The neon sign in the window blinked lazily in red and blue—“Electric Rose Tattoo”—flickering just enough to make her hesitate.

Y/N stood outside, wrapped in her oversized cardigan, her hands buried in the long sleeves like a child trying to disappear. She had been standing there for five minutes. Ten. Maybe more. The sun was low and golden behind her, casting her shadow long across the sidewalk. People passed, barely glancing. A woman holding flowers. A man with headphones. A teenager laughing into his phone. Everyone had a destination. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Except her.

The idea of a tattoo hadn’t come from a bucket list or a sudden surge of rebellion. It had arrived quietly, like most of her thoughts did these days—born in the middle of an overcast morning, while folding laundry in silence, her heart heavy with the weight of being forgotten.

She had caught her reflection in the mirror and thought, I don’t even recognize her anymore.

Same eyes. Same face. Same tired hands and polite smile. She wasn’t beautiful. She had made peace with that—or told herself she had. She wasn’t anything. Not someone people remembered. Not someone who turned heads. Not someone Bob had ever seen as more than... dependable.

So what could she change?

Her face? No. Her body? She didn’t have the energy. Her soul? Too far gone.

But her skin? That, at least, was a canvas. And for once, maybe—just maybe—she could paint something of her own.

She looked down at the piece of folded notebook paper in her hand. The design she had drawn late one night. It was simple: a tiny open book, and out of the pages, a delicate stem of lavender reaching upward—her favorite flower. Her comfort. Her scent. Her solitude. The one thing she always bought fresh every week, even if she didn’t eat three meals a day.

The tattoo wasn’t big. It would sit on the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow crease, where her sleeves usually covered. Where she could see it, but others might not. It wasn’t for anyone else.

Just her.

The bell above the door jingled faintly as she finally stepped in, the soft scent of antiseptic and ink blooming around her.

The artist, a woman named Mel, looked up from her sketchpad. “Y/N?”

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Mel smiled gently. She had full sleeves of tattoos, pink buzzed hair, and a nose ring that caught the light. She was effortlessly cool, the kind of person Y/N would have admired from afar, thinking, She knows who she is.

“Don’t worry. You ready?”

Y/N hesitated.

Ready? Was she ever ready for anything? Ready to love Bob, to lose him, to grieve him while he lived a public life as someone else’s hero? Ready to become a ghost in her own skin? Ready to crochet her heartbreak into scarves no one wore?

But she was here. She had made it here.

So she nodded again, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”

She handed over the drawing with slightly trembling hands.

Mel looked at it, and something in her expression softened. “It’s really beautiful. You draw this?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a story behind it?”

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shook her head. “No. I just… like books.”

It was a lie. But it was the kind of lie that kept her from unraveling in front of strangers.

They prepped the chair, the stencil, the tools. It all moved so quickly, like life always did now—just motion and murmurs, and time folding into itself.

When the needle first touched her skin, it stung—but not in the way she feared. It was grounding. Like she could finally feel something. Like her body remembered it was hers, not just a shell moving through book aisles and charity kitchens and empty park benches.

Halfway through, she felt tears on her cheeks.

Mel paused. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. She was crying for every Monday lunch where she sat alone. For every time she saw Yelena’s name paired with Bob’s. For every cruel whisper in her head calling her plain. For every man who saw her as less-than. For Dusty and June and the silence in her apartment after lights out. For being invisible for so long, even to the man who once told her, I love you, I’m sorry.

For still not knowing which part of that sentence he meant.

By the time the tattoo was finished, her sleeve was damp at the wrist from wiping her face too many times.

Ten minutes being obligated to lay down and wait was all she needed to spiral.

Mel wrapped her arm gently, like she was swaddling something precious.

“You did great,” she said kindly. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded again. But her voice cracked when she whispered, “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the tattoo.

It was for not asking more questions. For not pitying her. For helping her leave something permanent behind—something she had chosen.

She left the shop just as the sun was disappearing behind the buildings, sky bruised with color. Her arm stung, wrapped in sterile gauze, and the weight of the ink felt heavier than she expected.

But it was hers. For once in her life, something was only hers.

And as she walked down the sidewalk in her too-comfortable shoes, cardigan sleeves flapping in the wind, she felt something shift.

Not healing tho, maybe... refreshing feeling.

--

The next morning was one of those early spring days that still carried the ache of winter in its bones. Pale light stretched thin over the clouds, and the air held that soft chill that nipped at the fingers just enough to make you grateful for hot coffee. The park was quiet—the kind of quiet that settled not just around you, but in you.

Y/N walked slowly, Dusty tucked into the canvas tote at her side, only his little gray head poking out, eyes scanning the world like he was guarding it just for her. She had bundled herself in a wool coat and her usual fingerless gloves, but today she wore the new tattoo openly. The gauze was gone, replaced with healing balm and a slight sting every time her sleeve brushed it.

The tiny open book, delicate and lavender-laced, peeked out from under her coat sleeve like a secret she’d finally allowed herself to tell.

Her coffee was still warm when she reached the bench.

June was already there, of course—her skeletal fingers looping and pulling bright red yarn into rows, a soft crochet rhythm that looked more like a heartbeat than a hobby. Her white curls peeked from under a knitted hat, and beside her rested a small paper bag of crackers she always insisted on sharing with Dusty, whether he wanted them or not.

“You’re late, sweetheart,” June said without looking up, but the smile on her face said she didn’t mind.

Y/N smiled weakly and sat beside her, placing her coffee carefully on the bench’s edge and unbuttoning her coat. Dusty crawled out of the tote and leapt into June’s lap with practiced elegance, already nuzzling her side like he belonged there.

“Well, I brought peace offerings,” Y/N said softly.

“Oh? Do tell.”

Wordlessly, Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out a small bundle, carefully folded and tied with twine. It wasn’t much—just a hand-crocheted scarf in soft, dusky plum, the kind of purple that looked rich in any light. The pattern was imperfect. The stitches wobbled here and there, uneven tension in some rows. But the warmth it carried was unmistakable.

“For you,” she whispered.

June stopped mid-stitch, looking at the bundle like it was a relic.

“For me?” she asked, startled. “What’s the occasion?”

Y/N shrugged, eyes glistening. “No occasion. I just… wanted to.”

June took it gently, unwrapping the twine with a care usually reserved for something far more fragile.

“Oh,” she whispered, fingers trembling as she touched the scarf, dragging them slowly across each loop like she was reading braille. “Oh, my dear girl…”

Her voice caught.

“I didn’t think anyone made things for me anymore.”

Y/N looked down quickly, embarrassed by the tears threatening to spill again. She hadn’t expected this reaction—just a small smile maybe, a thank you. Not the way June pressed the scarf to her chest like it was a bouquet of wildflowers from someone long gone.

“I just thought it might keep you warm when it gets windy,” Y/N mumbled. “It’s nothing special. I know it’s not perfect—”

June turned to her, eyes watery but warm, her voice low. “It’s the most special thing I’ve received in years.”

Y/N looked at her. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, Dusty purring between them, the breeze tugging gently at their coats.

Then June glanced down at Y/N’s arm and narrowed her eyes.

“Now what’s this?” she said, voice lifting slightly. “Is that a tattoo?”

Y/N blushed and nodded. “Yeah. I… got it yesterday.”

June took her wrist gently, the same way a mother might hold a child’s hand, and studied the ink.

“A book and lavender,” she murmured. “You. That’s you right there.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I needed something that was just mine.”

June said nothing for a moment. Then, she let go of her wrist and leaned back on the bench, pulling the scarf loosely around her shoulders.

“You’ve been hurting for a long time, haven’t you?”

Y/N swallowed. Her chest ached. “Yeah.”

“I know,” June whispered. “You don’t have to say more.”

The park hummed around them—birds chirping in soft question marks, the crunch of leaves under joggers’ feet, the distant bark of a dog. And yet, this little space between them felt like a separate world entirely. A place where Y/N wasn’t invisible. Where someone noticed the cracks.

June took her hand again, this time to hold it.

“I don’t know who broke your heart, sweetheart,” she said softly. “But you’re still here. You keep showing up. You bring light. And let me tell you something—someone who shows up every day, even when it hurts, even when they feel like nothing… That’s the kind of person who carries real love.”

Y/N couldn’t respond. Her throat was too tight. She looked down at her lap, blinking furiously, willing herself not to fall apart in the park like she always did at home.

But June didn’t need her to speak. She just held her hand, the way old women do when they know silence is the only comfort words can’t touch.

Dusty nudged his head against Y/N’s leg and meowed, as if to say, You’re not alone, even if it feels like it.

--

It had been three weeks since he last appeared.

And yet, Y/N had begun to expect him.

The mysterious old man—leather jacket always zipped, sunglasses always on no matter the weather, a neat but wiry beard that made him look like he could be anywhere from fifty to ninety—had drifted in and out of the bookstore like a half-remembered dream. Never quite real. Never quite gone.

He came during the slow hours, never in a hurry. Sometimes midday. Sometimes close to closing. He’d ask for a recommendation—“Nothing fancy, just good. Something real.” Always those same words. And she always gave him something she loved or had just read, or sometimes a brand-new title no one had touched yet. And every time, when she asked if he’d liked the last one, his answer was vague.

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “Beautiful book.”

But it was the kind of answer people gave when they weren’t really listening, or weren’t really reading. Still, he always bought the next book. Without question. No bargaining. No hesitation.

That afternoon, the bell above the door jingled, and she didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

Same jacket. Same slow steps. The scent of cold wind and dust trailing behind him like the past.

Dusty, curled up in a sun patch near the register, lifted his head curiously. Y/N reached down to pet him, as the man approached with that familiar unspoken gravity.

“Back again?” she asked with a lightness she didn’t quite feel.

He gave a short nod. “Books are addictive. You’ve made me a junkie.”

That made her laugh—quiet, restrained, but real. The kind of laugh she only had left these days. “Well, there are worse things to be addicted to.”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he reached for one of the newer fantasy novels near the display. “This one good?”

She nodded. “Not bad. More whimsical than most. Dreamy prose. A bit sad.”

“Sad’s good,” he said. “Sad makes sense.”

She blinked at that, not sure why the words echoed in her chest the way they did. Maybe because they sounded like her own thoughts—things she’d never said aloud. But she smiled, quietly nodding again as she rang it up.

The silence stretched between them like it always did—comfortable, but strange. Then he glanced down, pointing at the little patch of gray fluff sprawled lazily on a cushion.

“How’s your little bodyguard?”

She followed his gaze and grinned. “Dusty’s fine. Still thinks he owns the bookstore.”

“He does,” the man said. “And probably your apartment.”

Y/N laughed, her fingers unconsciously smoothing over Dusty’s fur. “Yeah, that too.”

The man tilted his head slightly, looking at the chalkboard behind her. A few words were scrawled there in messy, cheerful handwriting:

Book Club – Thursdays at 9PM – Bring your favorite book! Open to everyone. Coffee and cookies provided.

He read it for a moment, then turned back to her. “That still happening?”

“Every week,” she said. “It’s free. You just show up and bring a book you want to talk about.”

His lips tugged upward. “Any book?”

She nodded.

He tapped his fingers against the counter thoughtfully. “Well, I happen to be an authority on Russian literature. The rest of your guests would be humbled by my knowledge.”

It was such a strange, out-of-place joke that she couldn’t help but burst into a real laugh.

He smiled at her reaction, brief but genuine, and tucked the book under his arm.

“Well, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll come and teach you Dostoevsky through interpretive dance.”

“You’d fit right in,” she said softly. “Most of them are walking therapy sessions with page numbers.”

He paused then, head tilting slightly, like he saw something she didn’t know she was showing.

His voice, when he spoke again, had softened.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

She looked up, confused, mouth opening—but the words stuck in her throat. “Wait… I—I never told you my name.”

He had already turned toward the door, hand on the knob, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, almost kindly. “I must’ve just known.”

Y/N leaned to the door. "Wait what's your name?"

"Alexei." Then he was gone. The bell jingled faintly behind him like a wind chime.

And just like that, she was alone again.

Y/N crouched, hand gently stroking the cat’s fur, eyes still locked on the door.

"He's little weird right? But he seems nice."

[thebubblesareevil]

The Return of the First Hero

Danny was the first superhero. He started when he was 14 and there were no other heroes around.

He did what he could during natural disasters and global threats but he was only one kid.

Sure things got a bit easier when he leaned how to make clones but he never felt like he was doing enough.

Because of his status as a ghost he never got worldwide recognition but he didn’t care, that wasn’t why he did it.

Danny was getting ready to go to college when clockwork approached him with devastating news.

With Pariah being defeated and him taking the throne, unrest had spread throughout the different dimensions.

Danny would have to help stop the destruction of reality and protect and maintain the stability of the realms.

So Danny left. He left knowing he was doing what he had to do to protect everyone, but knew he was leaving his world without protection and knew there would be consequences.

—

When Danny left, life moved on. Disasters happened and people died. There were no heroes to save the day.

Until there was.

Slowly but surely they came out of the woodwork. The Batman in Gotham. A man of steel in metropolis. The scarlet speedster in central city.

But they never truly left their cities. They never took responsibility of the earth.

And then they had to. Aliens invaded and a team formed bringing even more heroes into the light.

There was controversy the world over whether or not they should trust these heroes.

All except from a small town in Illinois.

Not much happened in amity park. There was hardly any crime. There hadn’t been any recorded natural disasters in years. There was not a single supervillain to be seen nor any hero. There were no corrupt cops and the wealthy not only paid their taxes but were actively involved in the community and charity.

No one understood the adamant support of these heroes. You could always find a few at any anti hero protest yelling their screams of support.

Eventually the cries of invaders and aliens died down and the voices of support outweighed the cries of hate.

One day a large green portal appeared above amity park and the heroes of the world took immediate notice. The Justice league immediately deployed to come to the aid of the little town that had stood beside them for so long.

The energy levels were off the charts. No one knew what was going on but they did their best to do what they could. Try as they might though, none of them could persuade the civilians to leave the area.

No one was panicked as the crowd grew larger, though it parted like the Red Sea when a large van pulled up.

Five adults exited the vehicle (if it could be called that) 2 appeared to be in their late 60s while the young woman with them looked to be in her mid forties with the two others not much younger than her.

They didn’t say anything. They just approached the portal, ignoring any hero that tried to protest.

Suddenly the portal grew brighter as a figure emerged from the green abyss.

A boy, no, a young man exited the portal. He couldn’t be more than 18-19 by the leagues guess.

Not a moment later did he charge at the group immediately being wrapped into a group hug as the portal vanished behind him leaving behind only a single bag.

When they finally let the man go they turned to face the crowd with a smile and he simply said.

I’m home.

The crowd went wild shouting cheers of joy and welcome homes.

The heroes were well and truly confused.

It was flash that approached a man at the edge of the crowd.

“What’s going on? Who is that?”

The man smiled.

“That’s Danny Fenton. The greatest hero this world will ever know and after 30 years he’s finally come home.

Flash immediately rushed over to relay what he was told to the rest of the team and they started to discuss the implications. It wasn’t long though before they were interrupted by the man of the hour.

“Is it true?” He asked, his expression torn and his eyes wet with unshed tears “are you the ones that have been protecting earth?”

The league was silent until superman stepped forward “we are members of the Justice league and we have done everything we can to protect this planet for the last 10 years”

The man grinned as the tears fell down his face.

“All this time, after everything I’ve done, I was terrified there would be nothing left when I came home.”

“Thank you”

[op1umeyes]

from the club

Derek’s wolf whistle made you roll your eyes and try to slip into your seat without drawing too much attention. “Damn, mama,” he sang teasingly, eyeing you up and down.

“Derek Morgan! I ought to-“

“Whoa!”

You glared at Spencer, trying to ifnore the way his eyes trailed over your cleavage. “It’s like you guys have never even been in the presence of a female before,” you snark sarcastically. Secretly, though, you feel complimented that such aesthetically pleasing people thought you looked good.

Emily, Jennifer, Penelope, and Rossi were later than Hotch surprisingly. Aaron strode in next, laying a stack of files on the table. He sat down at his regular spot and turned to make conversation until the other arrived when he turned and saw you. His lips drew thinly over his face as he watched you reach over the table to grab a file. He swallowed and averted his eyes from you when you sat back in your seat. Hotch felt like a pervert and averted his mind to the more pressing matter. Dead bodies, knives, murder, he repeated to himself- trying to draw blood away from his crotch.

J.J., Penelope, and Emily arrived next. “Coffee for you all, my precious gems!” Penny sang, placing the team’s favorite brews in front of them. After she placed yours down her eyes gleamed and she raised her eyebrows. “Did you call-“

“Penelope!” You hollered, turning away from the red-head with a laugh. 

She just giggled and wiggled her eyebrows. As Emily took her place beside you, she leaned in to whisper in your ear, “I’m no better than the men here, y/n. You look hot.” 

You swatted her away and waited for J.J. to start the briefing. Emily snickered beside you.

There was really nothing professional about being called into work wearing low-rise jeans and a lacey tank top. But it wasn’t your fault- some of your college friends had stopped in the city and wanted to go to the club and wouldn’t take no as an answer.

Rossi showed up right before Hotch said his favorite phrase (read: “wheels up in 30”). You collected your file and started out of the room.

“Good lo- y/n!”

You whipped around to see Penelope rushinf towards you. “Wh-What?”

“You’ve surprised me more times today than I thought possible, darling girl. Turn around! I didn’t know you had ink!” 

You breathed out a sigh of relief and tried to ignore the feeling of her cold fingers tracing over the black ink just above your jeans. “I have some on the mid back too,” you said quietly.

“Impressive,” Rossi- of all people- hummed. “One of my ex wives roped me into getting a matching tattoo with her. The pain was somethinf else and the aftercare was hell. Rookie, here has a high pain tolerance.” He patted your practically bare shoulder and walked by without another word.

Emily purred lowly as she walked by, laughing at the way you flipped her off in return.

“You know, Jeffery Dahmer didn’t consume people that had tattoos… He said that the ‘tattoos made the meat taste like… shit’,” Reid spouted.

The way Spencer paused before saying shit was endearing. Maybe it was your attraction to nerds, but you felt particularly flattered at the weight of his gaze on you. “That’s interesting, Spencer,” you replied quietly. “Did you know the oldest recorded tattoo ink recipe required insect eggs?”

Spencer just hummed.

“I- uh,” Aaron cleared his throat. You stepped back from Penelope’s hands. “I imagine you have more professional attire?”

Your cheeks flushed. “Yes, Hotch. I’m really sorry, my friends convinced me to go out with them, you know, and I-“

Hotch chuckled and held his hands up. “It’s okay, y/n. What you do on your own time is your business,” he said.

You wrung your hands. “Thanks, Hotch.”

“No problem, y/n.” Hotch started to walk away and you felt Derek’s arm wrap around your shoulder. “Nice ink,” he called back to you. 

“I’ll see you on the plane, y/n,” Spencer told you with a wave. You smiled back at him and watched him run a hand through his hair as he walked away.

“Lover boy’s gotta thing for you, y/n,” Derek told you, a shit eating grin on his face. “And Hotch too, if I took a guess. I think you made the old man pop a bo-“

“Derek Morgan!”

You shoved him off of you and tried to ignore his gleeful laughter.

[mrspiastri]

✩ lights, camera, action! 📸

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, annoying reporters, austria 2024

wc: 4.9k words

an: thanks for the req anon, hope u like it! pls excuse any spelling errors i could not be arsed enough to proofread this more than twice :p

“So, they’re just going to be in our house… recording us the entire day?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“And this is happening for a month?”

“Maybe two, depending on how much footage they need.”

A beat of silence.

Lando turned to his girlfriend, watching as she set her Kindle down and looked at him with a sharp glare. All she had wanted was a quiet night in, some light reading before bed, not this conversation.

“So, what do you think?” he asked carefully.

“I think you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

Lando stifled a chuckle, scooting closer despite the warning in her eyes. “It’s not that bad, I promise. They’ll get all your good angles. And if there’s anything you don’t want in, I’ll make sure they cut it out.”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. The idea of letting a camera crew into their home, her safe space, the one place where she could collapse onto the couch after work without a second thought, was unsettling.

“Look, I’m not going to force you,” Lando said, his voice softer now. “Just think about it. It’s like… our moments together being immortalized.”

She arched her brow, still unconvinced.

“We could even look back on them years later,” he continued, ever the optimist. “Show them to our kids!”

Y/N gave him a long, unimpressed stare.

“Just give me a day or two,” she muttered at last.

“Of course, love.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before letting the subject drop.

Three days later, Y/N found herself reluctantly agreeing, under strict conditions:

1. No cameras before 9 AM or after 10 PM.

2. No filming arguments or fights (if they happened).

3. No recording private conversations.

The production team had no issue following her rules, and soon enough, cameras and microphones became a regular sight in their living room and kitchen.

To her surprise, it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The Drive To Survive crew was respectful, and off-camera, they were actually lovely to talk to.

Not that she’d ever admit it to Lando. She had no interest in hearing an “ I told you so.”

Still, she had to admit, there was something oddly enjoyable about it. The cameras felt natural, capturing the effortless way she and Lando fit together. Their banter. Their energy.

Even the crew enjoyed filming them. Because if there was one thing about Y/N and Lando, it was that they were effortlessly entertaining.

The couple had an air of domesticity around them, which was visible during certain moments, like when Y/N announced she was going grocery shopping.

🪻🪻

She didn’t question it at first.

Lando had followed her around their apartment, slipping on his hoodie and sneakers, acting as if they were about to embark on some thrilling adventure rather than… well, a simple trip to the grocery store. But when he practically rushed out the door behind her, stuffing his hands into his pockets like he was trying to play it cool, she finally turned to him with a raised brow.

"Alright, what’s going on?"

Lando blinked at her, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"

"You insisted on coming with me," she pointed out as she slid into the passenger seat of her car. "Since when are you so eager to go grocery shopping?"

Lando smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a soft laugh. "It’s just shopping, Lando."

"Yes… and?"

She shot him a look, but he only grinned, reaching over to intertwine his fingers with hers as he started the car. She glanced down at their joined hands, warmth flickering in her chest.

Maybe it was just shopping. But to him, time with her, no matter how mundane, was worth tagging along for.

The grocery store was as uneventful as ever, aisles filled with tired parents, students grabbing last-minute essentials, and employees stacking shelves. Y/N navigated the space with practiced ease, mentally ticking off the list in her head.

Lando, on the other hand, was thoroughly entertained by everything.

"You know, people are going to think I’m useless because you’re the one actually shopping," Lando mused, walking beside you with a basket dangling from his arm. A small mic was clipped to his hoodie, and a camera trailed at a respectful distance, catching every moment.

"You are useless," you teased, grabbing a carton of eggs and placing them into the basket.

Lando let out a scandalized gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "Excuse me? I am an excellent grocery shopper. Watch this."

Before you could stop him, he darted toward a display of snacks, dramatically grabbing a family-sized bag of chips and tossing it into the basket. The camera crew caught it all, no doubt enjoying his antics.

"Wow," you said dryly, watching him grin. "Such a valuable contribution."

"You’re welcome." He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple before whispering, "At least pretend I’m helpful, love. My reputation is at stake."

She shook her head, amused. He stayed close beside her, fingers occasionally brushing hers when he pointed out random things, a ridiculous cereal box, a weirdly shaped vegetable, an overpriced snack that made him nearly collapse in shock.

Then, as they rounded the next aisle, something caught her eye.

"No way," Y/N gasped, halting so suddenly that Lando bumped into her.

"What? What happened? Are we in danger?" he asked dramatically, clutching her arm.

She ignored him, grabbing a brightly colored package from the meat fridge. “It’s the spicy chorizo I was looking for! It’s been out of stock for months! Lando, do you know what this means?"

"Uh," he blinked, glancing at the box in her hands. "That some company is trying to get people to buy their products again?"

She huffed. "No, dummy. This means I can finally make those chorizo tapas you love so much."

Lando stared at her, as if processing her words. "Wait. You mean—?"

"Yeah," she said, waving the package at him. "You always say it’s one of your favorites, right? So I’ll make it the way it’s meant to be made, not with those other lame brands.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. And then, unexpectedly, he reached for her hand and squeezed it, his thumb running over her knuckles.

"You remembered that?" His voice was quieter now, softer.

She scoffed. "Of course, I did. You never shut up about it."

Lando let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head, but there was something fond in his eyes, something almost touched.

"You’re the best," he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. Right there in the middle of the grocery aisle, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, with an old woman giving them a knowing smile as she passed.

Y/N felt warmth creep up her neck, but she just rolled her eyes. "I know."

Lando grinned, throwing an arm around her shoulder as they continued walking. "See? And you thought I was weird for wanting to tag along."

"You are weird."

"Yeah, but I’m your kind of weird."

She laughed, leaning into his side as they made their way to checkout.

Maybe it was just shopping.

But with Lando, even the ordinary felt like something special.

🪻🪻🪻

The morning sun cast a golden glow over their Monaco apartment, filling the space with soft warmth. The neatly packed bags by the door were a reminder of the plans they’d made, plans Y/N had initially thought were just a fleeting idea when Lando suggested them. But here they were, two years into their relationship, and he was still finding ways to make things special.

Lando stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

She smiled, tilting her head slightly to press a kiss to his forehead. “Happy anniversary, Lando.”

He hummed in contentment, pulling her closer. “Can we just stay in bed all day instead?”

Y/N laughed softly, tracing lazy patterns along his back. “As tempting as that sounds, weren’t you the one who planned this whole day trip?”

Lando groaned dramatically, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Who let me make decisions?”

“You did.”

Another groan.

A small chuckle from the corner of the room made her glance over, where one of the film crew members was adjusting a camera, capturing the intimate yet domestic moment. Lando peeked an eye open and groaned even louder when he saw them.

“Great,” he mumbled. “Now the world gets to see me beg to stay in bed.”

Y/N grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his nose before slipping out from under the covers. “Come on, sleepyhead. We have a road trip to go on.”

By mid-morning, they were driving along the winding coastal roads of the French Riviera, two crew members filming them from the back seat, capturing snippets of their journey. Lando’s hand rested on Y/N’s thigh as he effortlessly steered with the other, the soft hum of music filling the space between them.

She glanced over at him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “So, are you ever going to tell me why you picked Èze?”

Lando smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to impress you with my impeccable taste?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her fondness.

The moment they arrived in Èze, Lando reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers as they wandered through the narrow, cobbled streets. The medieval village, perched high above the Côte d’Azur, was breathtaking, its stone walls adorned with climbing vines, small boutiques tucked into hidden corners, and the salty sea breeze carrying the scent of fresh flowers.

The crew trailed them subtly, capturing the way Lando would lean in every few minutes just to steal a quick kiss, or how his fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against her skin as they stopped to admire the view.

“You do realize people are going to say you’re way too clingy, right?” Y/N teased, nodding toward one of the cameras.

Lando shrugged, unbothered. “Let them.” He turned to the nearest cameraman, grinning. “I am clingy. Make sure you put that in the episode.”

The crew chuckled, but Y/N just shook her head, laughing as Lando pulled her into the nearest café.

Lunch was slow and easy, filled with stolen bites of food, quiet laughter, and the occasional “Look at him being soft” comment from Y/N to the film crew. Lando didn’t seem to care, not when she was there, looking at him like he was her favorite thing in the world.

When dessert arrived, two chocolate soufflés, Lando picked up a spoonful and held it out for her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re going to feed me while they’re filming?”

He smirked. “It’s romantic.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned in anyway, letting him feed her. Lando grinned triumphantly, stealing a bite for himself.

“Put that in the episode, too,” he quipped.

As the afternoon stretched on, they hiked up to the Jardin Exotique, a stunning garden perched at the very top of Èze. The panoramic view of the coastline was nothing short of magical, the kind of scene that made everything else feel small in comparison.

Lando wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“This might be my favorite anniversary so far,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, tilting her head to rest against his. “We’ve only had two.”

“Still. It’s hard to beat.”

A breeze drifted through, ruffling his curls as he held her, their hands fitting together so effortlessly.

Y/N turned in his arms, her gaze soft. “I love you, you know.”

Lando’s eyes searched hers for a moment before he cupped her face, pressing a slow, tender kiss to her lips, one that felt like a promise, like forever.

When they pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, exhaling deeply. “I know,” he whispered. “And I love you more.”

A cough from behind them broke the moment, and one of the crew members hesitated before speaking.

“Uh… that was beautiful,” they admitted. “Can you do it again for a better angle?”

Lando groaned as Y/N burst into laughter.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically, pulling her closer with a mischievous grin. “Guess we have to keep kissing.”

🪻🪻🪻

The second Y/N stepped into the apartment, she knew something was different. It wasn’t just the warmth of the space or the soft glow of the kitchen lights, there was something familiar in the air. A rich, buttery scent, layered with warm spices, the kind that immediately sent a comforting feeling straight to her soul.

She froze mid-step.

That was butter chicken.

Her favorite food.

And there was only one person in this house who would make that for her.

Her heart raced as she set her bag down and rounded the corner into the kitchen, where she found exactly what she hoped to see Lando, standing at the stove, stirring a pot with the kind of focus he usually reserved for a race car. His curls were still damp from a recent shower, his sleeves pushed up as he leaned against the counter, tasting the sauce with an expression of concentration.

He looked up just as she entered, and the slow smile that spread across his face made her stomach flip.

“Hey, love.”

She blinked, still processing. “You’re… home?”

He smirked. “Surprise.”

Her mouth fell open. “But… you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow night?”

“Got an earlier flight.” He turned back to the stove, giving the pot one last stir before lowering the heat. “Figured I’d come back and make your favorite.”

She couldn’t believe it. She had been fully prepared to spend the evening alone, eating something mediocre while scrolling through her phone, missing him. But instead, he was here. Cooking for her.

Y/N didn’t think, she just launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his hoodie as she breathed him in.

Lando laughed as he caught her, arms circling her shoulders as he held her close. “I take it you missed me?”

“Obviously,” she mumbled against his chest. “You were gone for so long.”

“Babe, it was five days.”

“Exactly. Too long.”

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair. “Missed you too, love.”

A throat cleared from the corner of the kitchen, and Y/N stiffened slightly before peeking over Lando’s shoulder, only to find one of the crew members, clearly amused.

She groaned, burying her face back into Lando’s chest. “You let them film this?”

“I didn’t let them,” he said, amused. “They just… didn’t leave. Wanted to see you surprised and all.”

One of the crew members laughed. “In our defense, this is adorable.”

Lando grinned, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. “Come on, love. You don’t want the world to see how obsessed you are with me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I will shove your face into that butter chicken.”

His smirk widened. “Joke’s on you, I made extra.”

She rolled her eyes but let him pull her closer, letting herself bask in the warmth of his touch, the familiar scent of home.

Later, as they sat at the dining table, Lando watched her take her first bite, waiting for her reaction like a nervous contestant on a cooking show.

Y/N hummed in delight, eyes closing briefly as the flavors hit her tongue. “Oh my God.”

His lips twitched. “Good?”

She opened her eyes, pointing her spoon at him. “Suspiciously good. Since when can you cook like this?”

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “What, you think I can’t learn things?”

“I just… didn’t know you wanted to.”

He shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe I just wanted to impress my girlfriend.”

Y/N softened, her heart swelling. “You have impressed me. This is amazing.”

“Damn right it is.”

She giggled, shaking her head before taking another bite. “Okay, tell me about Shanghai. How was the race?”

Lando exhaled dramatically, shifting in his seat. “Ugh. Where do I even start? First of all, the strategy was so weird, like, I don’t know what they were thinking. And then, I had this fight with Max for like a hundred laps, and I swear, I thought we were gonna crash at least three times—”

As he continued, his hands animatedly reenacting the on-track battles, Y/N just sat there, watching him, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

She loved seeing him like this, completely in his element, passionate, excited. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about racing, the way his hands moved as if he were still behind the wheel.

“You’re staring,” Lando suddenly noted, smirking.

She blinked, cheeks warming. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.” He leaned in, resting his chin in his hand as he grinned. “You’re in love with me.”

She scoffed, trying (and failing) to hide her smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, Norris.”

“I mean, I did just fly home early and make your favorite food…” He reached across the table, running his fingers gently over her wrist. “Pretty sure that earns me some extra love points.”

Y/N laughed softly, flipping her hand to intertwine their fingers. “You already have all my love points, you idiot.”

He squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Good. I plan on keeping them.”

She shook her head, taking another bite of the butter chicken. “Okay, but seriously, I want to hear the rest. So, you and Max—”

“Shh.” Lando reached over and gently placed a spoonful of rice on her plate, then another, before looking at her expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just—”

“Just shh and eat,” he said, his voice playfully firm. “I know you. If I let you talk too much, you’ll forget to eat, and then you’ll be grumpy later.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the corners of her lips twitched. “You’re so annoying.”

Lando laughed, leaning over the table to steal a quick kiss. “Yeah, yeah. Now eat up.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but obeyed, feeling impossibly warm inside.

There was something so simple about moments like this, the quiet, easy rhythm of their lives together. The way Lando cared for her in ways that weren’t always grand gestures but in the little things. The way he listened, the way he noticed, the way he just knew her.

Even with cameras in the background, even with the world watching, this was theirs.

And Y/N wouldn’t trade it for anything.

🪻🪻🪻

Las Vegas was supposed to be his night.

Lando sat in the dimly lit hospitality suite, still in his race suit, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. The weight of the evening pressed down on him, Max had clinched the title, and he had been so close. The points gap wasn’t enormous. If things had gone just slightly differently, if the strategy had been sharper, if he had just pushed a little harder—

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor.

The suite was silent, except for the muffled sounds of celebration echoing from outside. His team was still proud, of course. McLaren had fought hard all season. He had fought hard. But second place wasn’t the dream. First was the dream.

And he had lost it.

The quiet creak of the door barely registered in his mind, but the soft footsteps that followed were unmistakable.

Y/N.

She didn’t say anything at first. She simply walked over, standing beside him for a moment, watching him.

Then, she crouched down in front of him, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “Lando.”

His eyes flickered up to hers. He knew the cameras were still rolling somewhere in the room, capturing all of this, his frustration, his exhaustion, the moment where his season had slipped away.

But right now, he didn’t care.

Y/N’s gaze was steady, her touch grounding. Slowly, she reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the sharp line of his jaw.

“Talk to me,” she murmured.

Lando exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to cover hers, pressing it against his skin as if he needed the contact to anchor him.

“I should’ve done more,” he finally muttered.

She frowned. “Lando—”

“No, really,” he cut in, shaking his head. “It was so close. We had the pace. We had the car. I just—” He exhaled roughly, eyes darting away. “I wasn’t good enough.”

Her heart ached at the way he said it, at the way his voice dipped into something raw and self-deprecating.

“Lando,” she said softly but firmly, tilting his face back toward her. “You were more than good enough.”

He let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you expect perfection from yourself. But look at what you did this season. Look at how hard you fought. You challenged Max. You took it down to the wire when no one thought you could. You made them believe.”

His gaze softened, but she wasn’t finished.

“You think second place makes you less?” she whispered. “It doesn’t. You’re still you, Lando. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

His throat bobbed, his grip on her hand tightening.

“You’re just saying that,” he mumbled.

Y/N shook her head. “I never just say things. You know that.”

He let out a slow breath, his eyes searching hers like he was trying to hold onto her words, trying to let them sink in.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a small sigh, he pulled her into his lap, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

She smiled faintly, running her fingers through his curls. He never did well with failure, not because he wasn’t used to it, but because he always carried it too much.

But he wasn’t alone in this.

And as she held him, rocking him slightly, she could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease.

The crew was still there, capturing every second.

But all Lando cared about was her.

And somehow, for the first time all night, losing didn’t feel quite so devastating.

The press pen after the race was always exhausting, but tonight, it was unbearable.

Lando had lost the championship. He had done every interview with his usual composure, polite, measured, controlled. He had smiled when necessary, congratulated Max, and answered the same four questions in slightly different ways.

But this one?

This one was pushing it.

"Lando, do you think this was your only real shot at a title? Or do you worry you might just not have what it takes?"

The question landed like a slap.

Lando barely blinked. His PR training kicked in immediately, forcing a neutral expression as he nodded, exhaling through his nose.

"Look, we had a great season, and I’m proud of what we achieved. Obviously, it didn’t end the way we wanted, but I know we’ll come back stronger."

It was the kind of answer that was designed to deflect, to keep things from escalating.

The interviewer, however, seemed satisfied with their little dig, moving on to the next driver.

Lando barely had time to process it before he heard a very familiar voice from just beyond the camera crew.

"Are you actually kidding me right now?"

He turned just in time to see Y/N standing off to the side, arms crossed, glaring absolute murder at the interviewer’s back.

The Drive to Survive crew, who had been filming his interview, immediately turned their cameras to her.

"What kind of stupid question was that?" she ranted, clearly not caring that she was being recorded. "‘Do you think you don’t have what it takes?’ Seriously? What kind of journalism school did this guy go to? All he knows is how to rile people up!”

Lando pressed his lips together, trying very, very hard not to laugh.

She was fuming.

"He should be embarrassed," she continued, still glaring. "Lando literally fought for this title until the last possible second, and that’s the best he could come up with? I should go over there right now—"

Lando immediately stepped in, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her into his chest before she could march into the press pen and make headlines. "Alright, alright," he murmured against her hair, biting back a grin. "That’s enough murder threats for one night."

"I wasn’t threatening murder," she huffed, but she didn’t resist when he turned her to face him. "I was just saying that guy deserves to step on fifty Legos barefoot."

"That’s fair," Lando admitted, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. "But I promise, I’m okay."

She searched his face, still frowning slightly. "You shouldn’t have to deal with that."

"I know." He smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But I’d rather deal with bad interviews than have to bail my girlfriend out for punching a reporter."

"No promises," she muttered, but her lips twitched, betraying her frustration.

Lando chuckled, then, because he simply couldn’t help himself, tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and soft, like he had all the time in the world.

He felt the presence of what seemed to be a thousand cameras on them, but he didn’t care.

Because right now, nothing else mattered.

🪻🪻🪻

The studio setup was familiar by now, the sleek black backdrop, the dramatic lighting, the Drive to Survive crew hovering around with their cameras and microphones. It was the same place where all the serious, intense driver interviews had been filmed throughout the season.

Except today, it wasn’t serious.

Because today, it was Lando and Y/N sitting on the interview couch together, and nothing about them being in the same room was ever serious.

Lando leaned back comfortably, one arm draped over the back of the couch behind Y/N, while she sat cross-legged beside him, her fingers lazily toying with the hem of her dress. The crew had barely started rolling when he shot the camera a mischievous grin.

“So,” he said, adjusting his mic, “are we finally getting our own spin-off? Because I think the world deserves to see the behind-the-scenes of my life with this one.” He nudged Y/N playfully.

She snorted. “Your life? Excuse me? I’m the normal one in this relationship.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Lando, would you agree with that?”

Lando turned to her, looking absolutely scandalized. “Absolutely not. This woman started a verbal fight with a group of fans and nearly went after a reporter on my behalf. The only reason she’s not banned from the paddock is because she’s cute.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “The only reason you weren’t banned from my apartment after losing the title was because you’re cute.”

Lando grinned, nudging her shoulder. “So you admit it? I am cute?”

The crew laughed as Y/N let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “Fine. You’re alright.”

“Alright?” He turned to the camera. “You see how she treats me?”

The interviewer, still chuckling, moved on. “Alright, let’s go back to the start of the season. You’ve had a whirlwind year Lando, you were a title contender, and Y/N, you were very vocal throughout. What’s been your favorite moment we’ve captured?”

Y/N hummed, tapping her chin. “Ooh, good question. Probably when Lando lost his mind after that crash with Max.”

The crew laughed knowingly.

Lando groaned, but he was smiling. “Of course that’s your favorite. Not like, I don’t know, any of my actual racing?”

“Oh, right,” she said, grinning. “The whole driving really fast thing. You’re decent at that.”

The interviewer raised a brow. “Just decent?”

Lando turned to Y/N, smirking. “I was in a title fight, you know.”

“Okay, okay, you were great,” she admitted, patting his knee. “There. Happy?”

Lando nodded smugly. “Very.”

The interviewer smiled. “And Lando, what about you? Favorite moment we’ve captured?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Her reaction after my first win in Miami.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Wait, really?”

Lando looked at her, his expression softening slightly. “Yeah, I mean I’d never seen you that happy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I like making you happy.”

Y/N bit her lip, warmth spreading in her chest. “Okay, that was kinda sweet.”

“I have my moments,” Lando said, leaning in closer. “You should kiss me now.”

The crew laughed, but Y/N just pushed his face away with a laugh. “We’re literally being filmed right now, Norris.”

“Yeah, and?”

The interviewer, still amused, decided to wrap things up. “Alright, last question. If you had to describe this season in one word, what would it be?”

Lando thought for a second, then smirked. “Chaotic.”

Y/N groaned. “Please don’t say—”

“Because of you,” Lando finished, grinning as he dodged the pillow she threw at him.

She sighed, shaking her head with a smile. “Fine. Then my word is entertaining, because watching Lando suffer through PR answers all season has been hilarious.”

Lando turned to the camera, deadpan. “She’s so lucky I love her.”

The crew laughed as Y/N leaned into him, stealing a quick peck on his cheek. “And you’re so lucky I put up with you.”

He smiled, lacing their fingers together. “Best kind of luck, isn’t it?”

And just like that, the season wrapped.

not so sure about this one, but then again when am i ever sure about anything! <3 also i am accepting requests, so feel free to send your prompts or ideas with any of the drivers xoxo

[slttygeto]

Actors on Actors | Toji Fushiguro

pairing: actor! toji x actress! reader

genre: interview style, slightly suggestive on toji's part

note: ah shit here we go again

📊 Video Stats

10M views | 350K likes | 40K comments

Convincing Toji to do this interview was as hard as his team had expected. 

The man was extremely private, always giving short answers on red carpets but they were more than enough to feed his fans. Coupled with a confident smirk of his and a proud display of the scar on his lip, the man knew he had people swooning for him. 

However, he wasn’t fond of interviews. It was evident in the way he leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, a bored look on his face and only answering when the question pertains to his character only. 

Other than that, you couldn’t get a single word out of this man.

When you heard that you were invited to be on an episode of Actors on Actors, you were both excited and nervous. Talking about yourself wasn’t your favorite thing in the world, but you loved getting to know other people in the industry and bonding with them over shared experiences.

What you don’t expect is to read Toji’s name on the paper. 

“Toji?” you turn to your manager with a look of disbelief on your face. “Fushiguro Toji?”

Your manager gives you an apologetic look. She could see the anxiety brewing inside of you, and you have to place a hand over your heart to calm your nerves. 

Talking to that man was the equivalent of talking to a brick wall. There was no way this was going to be a good interview—and who thought of pairing the two of you together?

The tall, broad shouldered man sits in his changing room with the same paper in hand as his eyes land on his name. His makeup artist catches the glimpse of a smirk on his face before Toji turns to his manager.

“That’s the pretty one, right?”

His manager chuckles before placing a hand on Toji’s shoulder. “The one and only.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

The interview is off to an awkward start. At least from your part. 

You feel small under the gaze of such an intimidating man, putting a leg over the other and pulling down the hem of your short dress to hide as much of you as possible. That doesn’t stop Toji’s shameless gawking as the two of you shake hands.

“I’m (Name), nice to meet you.”

“‘course I know who you are,” the words roll of his tongue smoothly and he watches as you purse your lips, dropping your gaze. “Fushiguro Toji”

“Very pleased to meet you.” You finally let go of his hand but you could’ve sworn that his hand lingered on top of yours a bit longer. 

When neither of you decide to speak up first, you let out a nervous chuckle while Toji turns to the filming crew with a playful smirk.

“This is fun,”

“I mean…” you trail off, smoothening the fabric of your dress. Again, his eyes land on your thigh and clear your throat.

“I’m…a really huge fan of your work.” your voice is small as you confess your admiration for his work in the industry. “I’m always amazed by your ability to get into character so quickly.”

“Watched some behind the scene footage?”

You were caught.

“Maybe…I mean it’s there!” You laugh and fortunately for you, Toji does as well as he nods. 

“Sure it is. I could say the same about you—” he gestures towards you with a genuine smile. “Great work, it’s rare to see someone so passionate in the industry nowadays.”

“Oh,” you wave your hands. “It’s-it’s nothing, I just really love acting.”

Toji braces himself forward with his elbows on his knees. “How old were you when you thought of giving it a try?” 

Your back straightens up under his gaze and you avoid his eyes as you think of a response. “I was about 6 or 7 when my parents would pull out a camera during Christmas and record me recreating scenes from movies like The Wizard of Oz and The Shining.”

“The Shining?”

“I was a weird kid,” you laugh when you see the look of shock painting his features. “But yeah these two were my favorite movies of all time.”

“That’s interesting, cause in a way I can see you getting into movies like that at a young age.” 

“Really?” 

Toji really likes the glint in your eyes. 

“Mhm,” he nods as he leans back in his armchair. “Like I said I’ve seen some of your work and–” he raises his hands. “I’m a fan.”

You drop your head shyly, silently thanking him for the amount of compliments he was throwing your way. This was honestly going better than you expected, but you knew it was time to ask him questions. 

“Can I just say,” you gesture towards the man. “Your recent work absolutely blew my mind—I mean, the entire movie was just amazing but your role. Wow, just wow.” 

Toji bows down his head when you clap for him, chuckling when you go the extra mile by pretending to bow down for him. 

“That role, was it difficult to get into such a state of mind? I’ve seen many actors—including myself, who needed a much needed break from everything after a certain role. Was it the same for you or were you able to detach yourself from the role easily?”

Toji gives it a thought, taking in the fact that you had crafted this question so carefully unlike any other interview he’s ever been on before. 

“After we finished shooting, I cut off contact with most of the world for about three months straight. I moved out of my neighborhood and into an area where it was just me, the mountains and the sound of birds.”

 Toji proceeds to explain how the role was mentally taxing, how the idea of going back and doing promo for the movie seemed like a huge roadblock he needed to get over. But after lots of therapy and some much needed time off, he was able to get back on his feet. 

“I’m glad that you feel better now, the industry needs good actors like you.” You admit and Toji leans back in his armchair again with a knowing smirk.

“I could say the same about you.”

The interview proceeds smoothly, with the two of you asking each other questions back and forth. After fifty minutes, the interview comes to an end and you get up to share a well deserved goodbye hug. 

However, Toji’s arms linger a little longer around your waist and he whispers something in your ear that’s facing away from the camera.

“You look good by the way.”

Guys, the mics are still on!

🗨️ Top Comments

💬 [somethingsgottagive]: DID YALL SEE THAT (6k likes)

💬 [somuchtosay]: this entire interview is just toji flirting with her im losing my mind (5k likes)

💬 [onehastogo]: ive never seen him this down bad omg??? (7,3K likes)

💬 [theboyismine]: this is the most talkative ive ever seen toji am i sensing smth (1.8K likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [theboyismine]: THAT HUG???

💬 [alltheavocadoes]: THE THING HE WHISPERED???(923 likes)

💬 [albumoftheyear]: oh the internet is on FIRE (508 likes)

💬 [cmontryme]: someone check on me ive shipped them for the longest time (392 likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [cmontryme]: without a single interaction is crazy

💬 [cmontryme] replied to [sweetnsourchicken]: i’m crazy

2025 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[sadagios]

Icarus, and the Sunflower

PART TWO: UNFIXABLE ERROR

PILOT: PART ONE

3.4k words below the cut

SOME BEGINNING NOTES: - This AU is only character shipping, and references a lot outside the life series events (evo, hermitcraft, empires, etc). This is not meant to ship the CC’s themselves and if anything alludes to it, it is purely unintentional. - This is not canon-compliant ermmmm i do what i want and i will put every idea i have into this - No more bullet points this time... taking off the baby wheels - This is to add more to the first part! Please read that one before this if you haven't - Tags for this part? Game dev AU, Past BigB/Grian, a lot of BigGri flirting, some characters are real and some are fictional, this is only the pilot (part 2!), Grian is still down bad for Scar, absolutely not beta'd i only have one impulsive braincell, contains some fake chats

I. HALLOWEEN

The game awards have been announced, and it was the talk of the company. Evolutionists’ Portal has been online for 4 months now, and it built itself a dedicated fan base with a peak of about 80k players a month. Updates were still on the way, scheduled for Halloween and Christmas Day.

The team working on Evolutionists’ Portal hoped for a nomination, and maybe even an award. Gria hoped for this, as well, but he was too tired to even think with everything on his plate. Their art director quit suddenly, so he was carrying out two big roles, but even when the past art director was there, he was basically doing most of his work.

The team took notice of his exhaustion and invited him to the company Halloween party. Gria didn’t want to, but Martyn had a brilliant idea for making a bet: Gria believed they would get one nomination, and Martyn believed it would be two. If Gria wins, Martyn will get him breakfast every day until Christmas. If Martyn wins, Gria has to wear an outfit to the party of his choosing. Gria thought it was a harmless bet, and he’d actually benefit from it, so he agreed.

Jimmy is his closest friend in the company, but Jimmy was also busy with his work in Empires. There are talks of a big collaboration and he knows he can’t get ahold of Jimmy until it is settled. One morning, a cup of coffee appeared on his desk with a note attached to it that said,

“You might need a little boost in your morning.”

Gria had no idea who it could be from until he noticed a wrapped piece of warm, chocolate cookie beside the cup. He looked up from his desk and met eyes with Big B, who smiled and gave him a little wave before resuming his work.

His crush on Big B was no secret. The man is funny and handsome, and he and Gria started in the company together. Martyn was the first one to catch it, the way he gets giggly and embarrassed around Big B, and he’s been on Gria’s case since. Pearl found out about it through Martyn’s teasing, but she had the grace not to poke fun at Gria (only sometimes.) Jimmy still hasn’t caught on, and Martyn bursts out laughing every time Jimmy unintentionally third wheels or cockblocks Gria. Gria has an inkling that Big B might’ve noticed it, but he acts the same way around him, which Gria is thankful for.

The nominations were out the morning of the party, and they were nominated for “Best Multiplayer” and “Best Audio Design.” As soon as the news broke out, Martyn walked in stride to the art department and pulled Gria to the parking lot where Martyn’s car was parked. He opened the trunk, pulled something out, and gave it to Gria with a devilish grin.

Martyn: I’m so excited to meet such a popular singer tonight.

Gria peeked inside the dress cover, he wanted to die.

One night, the team went out drinking. Gria had a few more drinks than he should’ve. He doesn’t remember what happened, but Pearl recorded the whole thing; basically, he got so drunk that he started singing nothing but Ariana Grande songs. To put the final nail in the coffin, he might’ve sat on Big B’s lap as he sang one song.

Gria wore the outfit after being manhandled by everyone into wearing it. Big B wasn’t going to the party as he’d said days before, and while Gria was relieved not to embarrass himself, he also wished for Big B to be there.

Gria wore a ridiculously pink two-piece top and skirt, with a white furry shoal attached to gloves. Pearl also lent him her white boots, which surprisingly fit him well (and gave him a few inches.) The room cheered when he walked in, and he was too embarrassed to walk that Jimmy had to drag him around the room.

Pearl wore a cute green dress, which looked a lot like a character from Empires. Jimmy wore a Captain America costume, but instead of a star had a huge letter S at the middle of his chest. Martyn wore a pirate costume. 

Martyn: What a shame Big B isn’t here to see this.

Martyn teased, and Gria wanted to strangle him right there. Then, without warning, a finger poked his cheek. Gria turned and there Big B was, holding a bloody axe in a bloody costume. Gria remembered the game Big B told him about, a zombie game called “The Creaking Dead.” It was one of the things that led them to become friends, their love for zombie games.

The night went by, celebrating both Halloween and their nominations. Empires also had their own share of nominations, and Jimmy was so giddy that night.

Pearl pulled them four to the photo booth before they could get more wasted. Jimmy grabbed a weird-looking fish beanie and Martyn put on a Mickey Mouse headband. Pearl put on a sunflower crown that fit the gold accents in her dress. They made sure to put Gria and Big B at the center of the photo, and Gria tried not to explode with how close they were. Big B suggested they take a Polaroid photo after for keepsake, and before Gria could head out of the room and go home, Big B gave him a Polaroid photo with a message written in Sharpie.

"Glad I came by today, G. Happy Halloween. ♡"

II. VALENTINE’S DAY

Gria and Big B have been talking and texting each other non-stop for months now. People assume they’re dating, but when Jimmy asked, he clarified that they had no label. It’s true; they haven’t done much. They hung around a lot, and they might’ve fooled around during cold December nights, but it was an unspoken, casual thing. At least, that’s what it was for Gria.

On Valentine’s day, Big B invited him for dinner, and everyone teased them about being lovebirds. That night, Big B finally asked Gria to be his boyfriend.

Gria was happy. Overjoyed. Someone as kind and thoughtful as Big B, who treats him so well, wanted them to be exclusive. He wanted Gria. But the smile on Gria’s face slowly faded as his happiness turned into dread. Big B is too nice for him. Too perfect for him. Too much for someone like him.

Gria turned him down without explaining further. He saw the hurt in Big B’s eyes, but the man still treated him the same: with adoration and care.

Big B drove him home, and that was the last time they talked outside of work.

III. MARCH

Gria finally took some time off. Aside from the upcoming April Fools update, there wasn’t much to be done. The tension between him and Big B has been too much to bear, and he can’t shake the guilt he feels each time Big B leaves a warm cup of coffee with a cute note on his desk.

He lurks on the internet, bored out of his mind. He met this person, PotatoNutshell, and became friends over Hermitopia 6.

IV. APRIL FOOLS

< Let's play like cats, let's count to three. >

The gang liked the Alpha version of “The Life Game.” The map is good (which makes Gria proud as he designed it,) and the mechanics are simple enough to get used to.

There are several problems, though. The motion blur is making everyone sick, and the one who had it the roughest was Joel. The UI is also unintuitive, as you have to look at your wrist to see the messages and your health status, which you can easily lose track of. Then, the computer AI characters are indistinguishable from each other. It was supposed to be a battle royal game, but with only the players having unique skins, it feels a bit more like player versus enemy than a competition.

It was understandable, though, that it didn't have much character customization. The remaining two working on the game are a writer and a programmer, and they have no 3D modeling experience at all. Gria figured he could help out and tinker with it when he had time, especially with how the gang loved the game despite all its flaws.

V. SUMMER, a year later

Gria’s old friends finally messaged him that they added more things to the game, and it might be enough for a beta test. The only thing they haven’t figured out is the character models. Gria confirmed if they were planning to release this game, and the two said “no, not yet. Not anytime soon.” That gave Gria all the liberty to simply tinker with the game just for their own enjoyment.

He asked the team if they had any characters they’d like to mod into the game, preferably with 3D models so they wouldn’t have to worry about rigging and animation too much. Skizzleman suggested Hermitopia characters, which Gria wouldn’t contest because this gives him a great excuse to add Scar into the game.

They needed one more character, and Gria remembered the Empires plush on Jimmy’s desk. The team gave him a free plushie of the “Starboy, The Rivendell King” because all plushies of the “Codfather” were sold out, the one Jimmy usually played as. Still, Jimmy keeps the Starboy plushie on his desk and sometimes carries it with him to the breakroom when he takes a short nap. Gria found the image of Jimmy carrying this plush to be adorable, although he will never say it aloud, so he decided to add Starboy as their final character. He also had Gemini and Shadow Lady (as per Joel’s request) 3D models ready, but he’ll probably add them next time. Pearl also isn’t joining their session for now, so it would be good to save her favorite character for another time.

On one Friday night in April, they all logged on and waited to connect to The Life Game’s private server. Gria was excited to play until he received a message from one of his old friends.

A slight chill crawls up Grian’s arm. He gripped his VR headset, a bit hesitant after his conversation with his old friends. After a moment, he shook off his nerves and wore his headset. He looked at the server status reading “5/6 Players” and hovered his controller over the button that would let him play with his friends. Grian ignored the warning bells and hit “Join World.”

VI. HELLO, WORLD

Gria spawned into the world, a bit dizzy from the sunlight blasting into his eyes. He got off on the ground and surveyed his surroundings, and it seemed like the map was different from the last time. In front of him looked like a ruined portal, which he doesn’t remember adding to the map years ago. Could this be something his old friends added to the map for the Evolutionists’ Portal developers to see? Gria smiled at the sentiment. He looted the chest near it, and it felt a bit like cheating. He joined the game late, but he already had golden gear in his first minutes of playing.

He did some resource gathering, something which they learned was crucial from their alpha test. He travelled and spotted a village, and saw Martyn’s character completely raiding it. Out of all of them, Martyn might have been the one who became so immersed in the gameplay. Even before playing, he was discussing tactics and plans in their call. If it ever came down to it, he knows Martyn would be a formidable opponent with how into it he is. 

Gria traversed the map more until he hit the border. There’s no way to get through it, even if you force it. It also seemed like the friendly creatures weren't able to get past it. It’s a bit scary to think about how they’re stuck in this little box until only one of them remains. It’s a good thing all of this is just a game.

Being the creator of the maps for this game, Gria remembers where most of the biomes are on the map. He goes back to the village and spots Big B.

Excited and without thinking, he jumped in front of Big B and surprised him, which made Big B’s character jump back. But, when Big B met his eyes, he immediately laughed and smiled. 

Before Big B could strike up a conversation, Joel’s voice could be heard from a distance, he looked just like himself in real life, but he wore a costume that reminded Gria of Shrek. He shot Big B a quick look and saw he was wearing something similar to his costume during one of their old Halloween parties. Martyn’s character seemed different, too.

Gria noticed the little shop icon on his screen. When he clicked on it, it opened a shop of a multitude of items that can be bought with experience points. He checked out the costume section and saw that costume accessories were fairly cheap. He bought himself a red sweater, and now his character feels more like him.

He noticed someone trailing behind Joel, a blazing head of fire and red eyes. It took him a while to realize that this was Tango Tek from Hermitopia. When he spoke, both Gria and Joel cranked their neck at him, surprised he could speak. Hermitopia had no voice lines. Despite this fact, Joel excitedly conversed with Tango, prompting him to speak more. Gria excused himself, confused at how this was possible.

He went off to gather more resources before he headed to the village. He saw Big B yet again, and his cheeks flushed at how many times he had seen him by himself. Gria’s a bit awkward around him, but Big B greets him with a smile each time. 

Big B: Are you sneaking up on me, G? Gria, giggling: Hello there, B. Whatcha up to? Big B: Trying to survive the first night, and maybe even you? Gria: Well, I don’t think a danger. Not to you. Big B: A danger to my heart, maybe?

Gria bit his lip and walked away. Big B laughed behind him, and he couldn’t fight back his smile. He looked at the ground and saw Martyn’s faint green name tag. He grinned and turned to Big B, “Wanna scare Martyn?”

They made their way down Martyn’s mining hole, carefully, and they tried not to giggle like a bunch of kids sneaking out in the middle of the night. Gria heard Martyn, talking to himself, and he approached him behind before shouting, “Hey Martyn!”

The three hang around together in the mining hole, chatting and bickering while hoping to find diamonds. Martyn succeeds and even gives them two diamonds each for a sword. The two were dumbfounded at this generosity, and Gria gave Martyn his golden apple in return.

Martyn: I just gave you guys diamonds because we’re buddies, c’mon. Gria: You know what, you can have my most prized golden apple. Martyn: Ooh, what’s this do? Gria: It gives you extra hearts when you eat it. Martyn: You’re giving me hearts? Way to make Big B a third wheel. Big B: Oh my god.

Gria exploded into laughter at this, and Big B shook his head but smiled at the situation.

After the sun had risen, he parted ways with the two and spent his time around the village and looking for a place to stay. He came across another nametag below the ground, and he thought it might’ve been Jimmy. He went down and surprised the man, only to find that it wasn’t Jimmy. 

When he heard Tango speak a while ago, he couldn’t figure out how it was possible. However, he did know of a game around an AI girlfriend who wouldn’t let you leave the house unless you said the right words. To think █████ could add such a feature, for AI to understand and speak back to you, all in a year is quite impressive and he would like to ask him more as soon as they finish playing. He didn’t listen carefully when Tango spoke earlier, and it might’ve been more robotic than he remembered. But now, as Ren screamed in surprise and spoke how Gria spooked the hell out of him, it sounded too much like a real person’s voice.

After mining a bit, Gria went out to the world and built a base at a lovely ravine area. Unfortunately, his resources weren’t enough to make it look pretty, and he suddenly missed the creative freedom he had while playing Hermitopia.

After being alone for so long. He made his way back to the village. Much to his surprise, so many people were there. At the side of the village, a group of characters in iron gear approached him. They excitedly called out his nametag, Grian, to greet him. Just like Ren and Tango’s voices, they all sounded so real. Too real. 

Martyn, Big B, Jimmy, Skizz, and Joel were nowhere to be seen. He was surrounded by characters from a game he spent countless hours playing. They talk and bicker like they are real people, and they sound like real people would. Gria would never be able to think of better voices for them. 

Among the four of them, one stood out the most. He had disheveled hair and a huge scar on his face that went down his neck. Despite having a cape and scarf covering most of his torso, Gria can’t pry his eyes off his huge, exposed right tit.

Completely distracted, something suddenly fell into his hands. It took him a while to process that this man held his hands and gave him flint and steel. Gria looked up, meeting the man’s eyes, and he had this devilish grin that made Gria’s knees weak. He turned his head higher and looked at the man’s nametag, “Scar Goodtimes”

Scar put his arm around Gria and made him face the village, and one of the houses were burning.

Scar: It was Grian! It was him who did it! 

Gria couldn’t move. He couldn’t process what was happening, and he couldn’t care less about how Tango and Etho were trying their best to put out the fire. The man beside him, probably more than 6 feet tall, is Scar Goodtimes. He’s way different from what he remembered, he had shorter hair and markings instead of actual scars, but when he spoke, Gria might’ve melted into the ground if the man didn’t have his arm around him.

Scar: Geez, Grian, what a rapscallion burning down villages.

Scar grinned at him and gave him a wink. It was as if Gria’s hardware crashed. Cleo, BDubs, and Impulse were all talking to him, even playing their jukebox for him, but his mind was filled with one thing and one thing only.

“His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so hot. His voice is so—”

Something nudged Gria, and Scar was so close to his face that Gria thought he could be hallucinating. Scar whispered into his ear, asking for the flint and steel back, and he complied without a second thought. He gave him a grin before he ran off to the village. Etho and Tango followed suit in panic.

Gria finally breathed. He doesn’t know how this could be possible. He had organized an unofficial voice cast for Hermitopia before, but the chosen voice actor was so off the mark, and everyone else liked it but Gria. But now, Scar’s whisper loops in his head, and he would go to war just to argue that no actor can replicate the sound his ears had been blessed with.

While talking to Etho and Impulse, he saw the historical tree burn. Scar walked in stride and stood beside Gria, waiting for Etho to take notice. Gria and Scar share a mischievous smile as Etho runs to the burning tree. Scar watched the tree burn down, and Gria watched the fire illuminate his face.

Scar: Grian, want to take over the desert with me? Gria: Me? Scar: Yeah, you. Let’s make all the sand ours.

This marks the End of Pilot

Next > ACT ONE: STUCK IN THE DESERT

ENDING NOTES: Took a while to finish this one! supposedly there's more, but it was getting too long so I had to cut it here. The next update will be a bigger one, so it might take months before that is posted. I also plan to do more character design before moving forward with the actual life series events. If you've read this far, thank you for reading!

[neonovember]

bucky barnes as a husband headcanon!

heavily inspired by my steve headcanons here, I wanna try my hand at writing more of james. he is the epitome of devotion, he falls first and falls hard.

this kind of takes part in an alternative au (think avengers are still together but its post the falcon and the winter soldier)

he is canonically good at cunnilingus

you think I’m joking? This man divulges into a rabid animal the second he gets close to your thighs. He is on his knees whilst your pressed up against the counter rubbing his face against your clothed crotch moaning and grinding in the air

he says if he could have gotten a taste of you while he was the winter soldier it would've required his brain and reversed the brainwashing

’to be alone with you’ - hozier is bucky’s song

like steve, he feels the isolation and ghost-like feeling of being lost in time. Brooklyn doesn't feel like home anymore, he constantly reaches for you, even in sleep because you are the thing he now belongs to.

you can never get used to how intense bucky just..stares at you. Every single moment of the day you'll just catch him watching you silently not saying a word. It wasn't creepy, no it had this protective almost darkness to it that was all consuming. At one of Tony’s parties, he’s watching you across the room with a glass in his hand or mysterious and shit. (probably thinking about when is a polite time to leave)

which is never because bucky just drags you both out of every gathering. Every goodbye is an Irish one

man bun bucky. That’s it.

lets you cut his hair when it gets to the point of covering his eyes. Sometimes his stubble too, thumb circling and grazes your thigh as you lean over him with a scalpel.

most of the team are still gobsmacked at how bucky justs..trusts you. Whether it be with a shaving, or jumping out of a corner. If any of the team tried to pull a knife on bucky he would probably (not) accidentally break their jaw

after missions all the Avengers know he’ll be offline for at least a couple days to be with you. What they don’t discuss is half of those days are fucking you bruised. He gets all pent up and irritated when he isn’t around you, it’s like you recalibrate his mood back to baseline regular bucky when he can finally sink into you.

doll, darlin’, honey

if you think steve is possessive…just exponentiate that to the power of 10 and you have husband bucky. Are we forgetting this man used to be the winter soldier? he's cute and adorable but also can be fucking horrifying. I’m talking blank face breaking a mans jaw cause he looked at you funny

very casual in his superhuman abilities to protect you. 

silky dulcet notes of etta james, the album sam had gifted you both playing as you cut up some root vegetables. It’s summer and the night is long and warm, and you and bucky are humming as you prepare dinner. You're twirling your hips, Bucky is leaning against the countertop, half trussing the chicken and the other watching you when he suddenly stops. You don't notice it at first, until he cocks his head to the side, kind of blinks and moves to turn the saucepan on low. You turn to him, and he grabs for one of the kitchen knives on the bench before reaching for you.

"there's someone in the backyard"

all nonchalant, like it had been a burrowing animal stuck under the floorboards. he motions for you to continue, turns up the record player a bit and walks into the backyard without a sound.

this man is touch starved, of course he is cock warming after. each and every time.

one of the things bucky loved about you is at ease he felt, he could talk to you and spill everything out in a way he never could with dr raynor or even steve.

there was a bit of distance from him when he first met you, he was awestruck, even more silent than he usually was. Just stared at you longingly, standing off to the side. he didn’t think he could be anything but feared, it genuinely got to the point where you thought he didn't like you or that you had done something wrong. when steve had told him this, he nearly died. no, i'd like to think he's heart stopped for a couple seconds seriously. than got up from fainting, took you aside, and kissed you against the back of sarah's backyard door on the fourth of july.

stations a few target practice posts in your backyard. teaches you how to shoot, chest pressed up against your back as he helps move your body in the right position. always make sure you know where the weapons are in the house

singing to records whilst he's cleaning said weapons at the table

takes you to all the places still standing he remembers in Brooklyn, you hold his hand and let him rest against your shoulder when the past gets caught in his throat.

Steve finds a place in the city with actual good music, where people actually dance, and it becomes your spot every Friday.

yeah, one thing bucky remembers would be his muscle memory of the dance floor, he’s goooood. Teaches you everything he knows in your kitchen of course, always ends up with you making out on top of each other though

dry humping like teenagers, bucky with his low hanging jeans, not wearing boxes and making a mess just from the taste of your mouth

actually, sometimes breaks down in tears when he realises you’re his wife. Like forever.

always thinking about you, what you're doing, if you've eaten. even if hes in the middle of recon you will be in the back of his mind.

leans over and loops his dog tags around your neck whenever he leaves for missions. kisses your eyelids when your sleeping and the fight calls him

the second time you and bucky visited Wakanda he had Shuri craft the ring to be fused into his vibranium finger..yeah I know.

bucky isn’t the extroverted talking type, but with you he is constantly just yapping..about anything and everything. Following you around the house like a puppy, coming to you for the answers about the new world and questions he always harboured even before the ice

bucky is hilarious, he's already an adonis, but he could laugh you of your pants

can’t bear fighting with you, he never yells. He just kind of goes quiet and takes a walk

you guys live in a house with a huge backyard and a wraparound porch

loves cooking, lets him turn his mind off sometimes and make you something hearty and warm. he has a frilly gingham patterned apron he wears and his curls are wrapped into a bun with your scrunchie. floor always ends up on his cheek, and you always end up on the kitchen bench with his mouth on you

night terrors had him sleeping in a sleeping bag next to the bed, he refused despite your attempts. Sometimes he'd wait till you fell asleep against him and make the heartbreaking quiet separation and sleep on the floor

sometimes likes to take of his arm around the house, especially sleeping. Keeps it near in case though, for you.

he’s thick everywhere…took an hour of foreplay minimum to get you ready for him. You both will never get used to each other, needing to take a moment of hushed gasps and groans when he first sinks in

the wedding was in Sams backyard in Delacroix, just Sam, Sarah, the kids and Yoshi and the team

fairylights wrapped around the spanish moss of hanging trees, soft jazz and hard liquor. Sarah’s seafood boil and a dance floor where bucky spends half the night with you there

dad!bucky on the other hand..now that is a different ballpark. wait no actually, just him when you're both expecting. let's not forgot when he stormed into the tower and broke through the office doors to ask why on earth tony had scheduled him a mission so close to the birth of your baby, tossing him his phone which was now crumbled heap of metal in the shape of his fists....(you were two weeks along)

[wvyik]

THE VIRGIN PROBLEM.

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: you’re a sharp-tongued hunter with a secret… one that makes you the monster’s perfect target. when things get tense, sam figures it out… and decides it’s time to solve the problem himself. very thoroughly.

♯ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, virgin! reader, soft dom! sam, p in v, oral sex (fem! receiving), emotional intimacy, consent focused, aftercare so sweet you’ll rot, mentions of fear/paranoia tied to virginity, dean walking in and mentally combusting, so slight voyeurism.

♯ notes: the bitch is back at it again!! also?? what the fuck is up with me writing so many virginity plots specifically for sam winchester. idk. guess.

You weren’t new to creepy towns. You’d seen more than your share of cornfield nightmares and rusted playgrounds that screamed bad vibes. But the second the Impala rolled through the cracked welcome sign, something about the place just felt… wrong. It wasn’t the broken sidewalks or the way the trees seemed too still, it was the air. Stale. Almost held breath kind of wrong.

“‘Welcome to Morrow Creek. Population 1,206.’” You squinted out the window, voice flat with disdain. “Cute.”

Dean snorted from the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel with a finger like he was already bored. “Bet they sell homemade jam and death in the same gift shop.”

“Three women,” Sam muttered from the passenger seat, flipping through the thick folder of clippings in his lap. His tone was low, the kind he used when something wasn’t sitting right. “All under twenty-five. Found dead in bed, no forced entry, no signs of struggle. Local cops think it’s a carbon monoxide leak or a curse. But each of ‘em—” He paused, glancing back at you. “They were all virgins.”

The word dropped heavy between the seats, even though Dean chuckled like it was just another day at the office. “So we’ve got a purity-sucking monster. Awesome. What’s next, a ghost nun with mommy issues?”

You leaned your head against the cold window, lips quirking into a smirk that felt a little too tight. “Well, good thing none of us fit the bill, right?”

Dean laughed under his breath, but you felt Sam’s eyes flick back to you, too quick to mean nothing. You didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, you stared hard at the road and let your smile fade.

The motel was standard horror-flick material: peeling yellow wallpaper, buzzing neon sign and a front desk guy who looked like he’d eaten his own fingernails. The three of you tossed your bags into one of the two-bed rooms and you immediately claimed the lumpy couch in the corner before the brothers could bicker about it.

“I’ll take the death trap,” you said, dropping your bag with a thud. “I’ve had worse.”

Dean smirked, eyeing the couch like it owed him money. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. Hope you like springs in your spine.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just watched you with that unreadable expression he got when he was thinking too hard. “You sure?” he asked after a beat. His voice wasn’t pushy, it was gentle, like he wasn’t asking about the couch at all.

You raised an eyebrow, already pulling out the iron blade you kept tucked beneath your jacket. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I’m not exactly delicate.”

That earned the tiniest smile from him, but his eyes didn’t let go of yours right away. You turned your back before it could linger.

The three of you spent the afternoon digging through the town’s pathetic excuse for a library. Sam and Dean did their usual tag-team, Sam sweet-talking the clerk for access to records, Dean bitching about how much dust was on the damn files. You tucked yourself into a quiet corner and started scribbling connections, your fingers stained with ink and that familiar buzz of adrenaline humming under your skin.

You were good at this. Better than good. You’d learned from the best, but you had your own rhythm now, your own gut instincts that whispered before the lore caught up.

You leaned over the table and tapped your notebook with the back of your pen. “Look at the dates. All three deaths were on the waxing crescent. Always between midnight and 3 a.m., always in their homes. No signs of entry. That means it’s either incorporeal, or it’s being let in.”

Dean leaned over your shoulder, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne. “Damn,” he muttered, lips close enough to your ear to make your skin prickle. “You’re getting scary good at this.”

“I’ve been scary good,” you replied coolly, not looking at him.

You could feel Sam watching you again, from behind the half-wall of old encyclopedias. His gaze felt different. He was trying to peel something back. You didn’t give him the chance.

By the time night crawled in, the motel felt colder than it should’ve. Dean was lounging on his bed with a beer, flipping channels, while Sam meticulously salted the windows and doors, making sure every corner was sealed. You added your own touch, drawing sigils on the mirror with charcoal, tucking your blade under your pillow, double checking the line of salt at the threshold until it looked like you were pacing. You told yourself it was just muscle memory. You told yourself you weren’t nervous.

But you were. Not because of the hunt.

Because of you.

Because the second Sam said the v-word earlier, your body went cold. Not because you were ashamed, or insecure, or anything stupid like that. You just hadn’t wanted them to know. You hadn’t wanted them to realize you were the kind of girl this monster wanted— pure, untouched. You’d spent years building yourself into something sharp and untouchable. And now, something out there could sniff it out like blood in the water.

You cracked open a beer and forced yourself to take a long sip, masking the shake in your hands with practiced ease. Then you stood. “I’m beat. Gonna crash early.”

Dean waved you off with a lazy salute. “Sweet dreams, killer.”

Sam said nothing. Just watched you walk out like he already knew something you didn’t want him to.

Your motel room was just a few doors down, but it felt like another planet once you locked yourself inside. The silence hit hard. No TV hum, no quiet brotherly arguing in the background. Just your own shallow breathing and the steady tick of your watch as the minutes dragged by. You did what you always did. You locked the door, salted the windows, tested your knife grip, triple-checked the lines on the floor. But your chest still felt tight. Your palms were damp. Your skin felt… exposed.

You weren’t scared of dying. That had stopped being your biggest fear a long time ago. What made your stomach twist was the idea that you might get chosen. That this thing might sniff you out, and suddenly Sam and Dean would know. They’d look at you differently. Pity you. Protect you.

You didn’t want to be protected. You wanted to be seen as dangerous.

But right now? Sitting alone in a dark motel room, knees pulled up to your chest as you stared at the door like it might explode inward; you felt like prey.

A knock broke the silence. Soft. Careful.

Your head snapped up.

“Hey… it’s me.” Sam’s voice was low through the door, almost gentle. Like he already knew not to scare you more than you were.

You hesitated, heart hammering. “What the hell— Sam?”

“I saw that expression when you left,” he said. “You okay?”

The words caught in your throat. You didn’t know how to lie to him right now. There was a long pause. He didn’t push.

You stood slowly, crossed the room on quiet feet, and undid the lock. Your hand trembled just slightly on the doorknob before you opened it.

“…Come in.”

Sam stepped inside like he wasn’t sure you’d actually let him. His eyes scanned the room, your over-prepared salt lines, the open blade on the nightstand, the half-drunk beer. Then they found you again. That same look. Not pity. Not judgment. Just… something deeper.

And that, somehow, felt even worse.

He stood in the middle of your motel room like he didn’t want to make the first move. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, eyes scanning you, taking in every single tell. The clenched fists. The tension in your shoulders. The way your lip tugged between your teeth like you were trying to chew the fear out of your own mouth.

“You gonna say something?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp. Defensive. Like if he touched the wrong nerve, you might shatter or explode. You weren’t sure which.

Sam’s gaze softened a little, but it didn’t lose focus. “Did you really come in here just to sleep?”

That hit low. You turned away, busying yourself by pretending to adjust the salt line by the window. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re scared,” he said, blunt now. Voice low. Grounded. “Not of the hunt. Not of the monster. Of being its target. And I think you already know why.”

You felt your pulse in your throat, your fingers twitching at your sides. “So what? You gonna tell Dean? Put me on some kinda leash? Lock me in the car like a liability?”

He was behind you before you even heard his steps, like he didn’t want to scare you off. His voice brushed close to your neck. “No. I’m not gonna tell him anything. I’m not here to judge you. I’m here because…” He paused, like he needed to find the exact words. “Because if you are what this thing’s looking for, that means you’re in danger. Real, personal danger. And I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

You turned to face him, and suddenly he was close, his chest nearly brushing yours, his hand ghosting over the air between you like he was holding back from touching your face. His eyes were darker now, heavy with something that wasn’t just concern. “You don’t get it,” you said quietly. “You don’t know what it’s like… walking around with this stupid secret. Being the only one in the room who hasn’t— who isn’t—”

“A fuckin’ virgin?” Sam finished for you, gently but without hesitation. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “…You think it makes me weak?”

His jaw flexed, and finally—finally—his hand came to your cheek, calloused thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “No,” he said, voice low and certain. “I think it makes you brave as hell for coming out here and hunting with us anyway. For pretending like it doesn’t matter when I can tell it’s tearing you apart inside.”

You felt something split wide open in your chest. A dam cracking. A truth you hadn’t let yourself say aloud. You were so tired of holding it in. Of hiding behind sharp jokes and harder walls.

“I didn’t plan on staying that way forever,” you murmured. “It just… didn’t happen. Didn’t feel right. Not yet.”

Sam’s thumb brushed your jaw. “And now?”

You swallowed. Looked up at him through your lashes. “Now I feel like a goddamn target. Like I’m marked. Like it’s this thing hanging over me and— Sam, I hate it. I hate being afraid.”

His lips hovered close to yours, voice a whisper against your skin. “Then let me help.”

You stared at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

There was no hesitation in his eyes. No pity. No lust-fueled pressure. Just heat. Control. Promise. He leaned in, mouth catching yours in a kiss that was patient but deep, like he’d been holding it back for too long. You melted against him before you could even think, hands grabbing the front of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you.

His tongue brushed yours and the groan he let out was filthy, like the taste of you knocked the breath out of him. “You taste so fucking sweet,” he muttered against your lips. “Been wondering what it’d feel like to kiss that mouth since you first mouthed off at me.”

You pulled back slightly, breathless. “That was, like… day three.”

Sam smiled, hand sliding down to the curve of your hip. “Yeah. I’m patient.”

You tugged his shirt off, finally getting your hands on all that muscle he kept hidden under layers. Broad chest, scarred and warm, his stomach taut under your fingers as he stepped you back toward the bed.

“You sure about this?” he asked one last time, voice rough but gentle.

You nodded. “I don’t want it to be fear that takes it away from me. I want you.”

That did something to him. His eyes darkened, and then he was all over you, mouth on your neck, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. He kissed down your body like worship, like apology, like promise. Every touch was careful and intentional, but hungry. And when he finally pushed your thighs apart and knelt between them, he looked up at you like he was about to ruin you.

“I’m gonna make this good for you,” he murmured, voice so deep it made your toes curl. “So good you forget why you were scared at all. So good it won’t matter that you waited this long.”

You barely managed to gasp before his mouth was on you— hot, slow, skilled, tongue licking long deliberate strokes like he was memorizing every single sound you made. You clawed at the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer, and he just held you open with those strong hands, eating you out like he’d die if you pulled away.

And when you finally came, shaking and gasping, he kissed back up your body, slow and sweet. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your jaw. “Let me take care of the rest.”

Sam moved over you like he’d been dreaming about it. Like every moment leading up to this one had been some long, slow burn of almosts. Until now, until your back was arched against the bed and his body was finally settled between your thighs, all warmth and pressure and want. The motel room around you felt like it didn’t matter. The only thing real was him.

“You good?” he asked again, voice wrecked and whisper-rough, his fingers brushing your cheek while his other hand slowly guided his cock along your folds, teasing— not out of cruelty, but to give you time to breathe.

You nodded, but your voice cracked a little when you said, “Yeah. I want it.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to calm your heartbeat with his mouth. “Gonna go real slow,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “You tell me if you want me to stop. You say the word, and I back off. No questions.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, hips already lifting to meet him. “I want you, Sam. Just you.”

And that made something shift in him.

The first push was gentle. He went slow, careful, watching your face the entire time, not even trying to hide how hard he was breathing. You were tight, hot, the stretch just on the edge of too much, and the feeling of him filling you had your eyes rolling back almost instantly.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, fingers gripping his shoulders. “Sam—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His voice was tight, controlled—like he was holding back a growl. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

He paused once he was buried inside, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and running one hand slowly up your thigh like it would help you relax. “Breathe,” he whispered. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

You were trembling, half from nerves, half from the feeling of him, all of him, seated so deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that felt devastating and intimate all at once. You didn’t even realize tears were brimming at your lashes until Sam kissed one off your cheek. “You okay?” he murmured, thumb brushing under your eye again.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered. “Just—holy fuck—don’t stop.”

His hips pulled back slowly, and when he pushed in again, it was smoother. Still deliberate. Still slow, but deeper, more rhythmic, like he was finding his pace with you, tuning his body to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist and let your head fall back, moaning shamelessly as he started fucking you in deep, slow strokes that made your breath hitch every time he bottomed out.

“That’s it,” he grunted, forehead still pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “Taking me so fuckin’ well, baby… I’ve got you. Just let go.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. The way he was moving slow, like worship, like he was trying to memorize every reaction was undoing you. His name kept falling from your lips, a quiet chant, the only word you could seem to remember.

Sam’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb pressing soft circles into your clit. You gasped, body jolting, and he smiled against your neck. “That feel good, sweetheart?” he whispered. “You like when I touch you like this?”

“Yes—yes, please, don’t stop—” Your voice broke again as pleasure started coiling hot and heavy in your belly. “I’m gonna—Sam—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” he said again, voice so loving it hurt. “You can let go. You’re safe.”

You came around him hard, clenching so tightly around his cock that he had to bite his lip to keep it together. Your whole body tensed, then collapsed under him as you shook and gasped through it, and he held you like you were something precious, whispering through every tremor, every twitch.

“That’s it, that’s my girl… fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful like this…”

He kept moving, chasing his own high now, breath stuttering as he fucked into you deeper, a little faster, but never rough. His face was buried in your neck, hand gripping your thigh, and when he came, it was with a full-body groan, low and primal and wrecked. He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, panting like he’d just run a marathon.

And then… silence.

Heavy breathing. Sweat-slick skin. The weight of him on top of you, solid and real and safe. You ran your fingers through his hair, and he let out the softest sound, content, like he didn’t want to move.

He stayed draped over you, all warmth and quiet breath, his hand still curled around your waist like he needed to keep you close in case you disappeared. You felt wrecked, in the best way.

After a while, Sam leaned up on his elbow, pushing the sweaty hair off your forehead, looking down at you like you were made of fucking starlight. “You okay?” he whispered, and his voice was so gentle, so low and fond, it made your throat get tight.

“Mhm,” you mumbled, already half-asleep, still spread out and naked beneath him. “I think you fixed me.”

Sam chuckled, brushing his lips over your temple. “I’m a healer now?”

“Literally,” you sighed. “Virginity demon who?”

He kissed your jaw. “She’s dead now. Spirit banished. World saved.”

You rolled into him, lazy grin pulling at your lips. “One orgasm at a time.”

“…One?”

You blinked up at him, then immediately burst out laughing as he smirked like the smug bastard he was. “Okay, chill, Winchester,” you groaned. “My body’s not even functioning yet.”

“I’ll give you thirty minutes,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest, tucking the blanket around both of you like you weren’t still sticky and sweaty and fucked dumb.

“I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” you whispered, fingers drawing little shapes on his bare chest.

“Good. You should.” His voice was all honey again. “You’re safe with me.”

And that was the last thing you heard before you drifted off, wrapped in Sam’s arms, thoroughly wrecked and absolutely ruined for anyone who wasn’t a 6’4” soft-spoken demon hunter who fucked like he was trying to put your soul back together.

You were finally asleep. Your legs were tangled with Sam’s, your head tucked under his chin, and his hand was still splayed across your ass like it belonged there. Which, to be fair, it did. The room was still warm with sex and body heat and whatever leftover cologne he wore that now lived in your hair.

Until the door slammed open like it was kicked by a cop.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You screamed. Like, full-on choked gasp scream. Sam jolted awake with military precision, reaching for the knife on the nightstand in one motion while covering you with his body in the next.

And standing in the doorway, framed by shitty motel light and holding a crumpled paper bag full of snacks, was Dean Winchester.

Mouth open. Eyes wide. Face full of regret.

He blinked twice. Said nothing.

You just stared at each other.

“…Dude,” Sam said groggily, arm still around you like he didn’t have his whole ass out under the sheet. “What the fuck.”

Dean blinked again. “Nah.”

He turned around immediately. Stared at the wall. Took a breath.

“Oh, no, no no no, this is not happening. This is not how I start my fuckin’ morning. I got beef jerky and a Coke and now I have to go pour bleach in my brain because my little brother decided to go all Lust in the Dust with her.”

You groaned, flopping onto your back and dragging the sheet over your head like a corpse. “Please kill me. Please kill me now.”

“Don’t tempt me!” Dean yelled, still facing the wall with his arms out like he was trying to keep a crime scene untouched. “I trusted you! You were the normal one! You sat next to me during stakeouts! You made fun of him with me! What the hell?!”

“I don’t think I’ve ever made fun of Sam with you—” you started to say, but Dean spun around dramatically, index finger raised like a furious little league coach.

“Don’t lie to me now, sex goblin! I walked in and saw a whole-ass Winchester sandwich with the crusts off, and I can’t ever go back from that!”

Sam had the audacity to rub his eyes and mumble, “You could’ve knocked, dude.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Dean snapped, pacing now. “I’ve heard you. I knew you were in here. I was trying to be respectful. I thought, ‘Hey, they probably just fell asleep watching TV, maybe they’re sharing the room, maybe Sam’s just being weird and overprotective, maybe she had a nightmare..’ BUT NO.”

He spun to face you both again, looking personally betrayed.

“Y’all were out here doing the monster mash and I walked in ten seconds too late to stop my retinas from dissolving.”

You peeked out from under the covers. “We didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“Oh really?” Dean scoffed. “How were you planning to tell me? Group text? PowerPoint? Smoke signals from your fucking bedroom?!”

Sam sighed. “Dean—”

“No. No ‘Dean.’ I need to go shower with holy water. I need a therapist. I need Castiel to erase the last ten minutes of my life.”

He turned back toward the door, paused dramatically, and looked over his shoulder with the most betrayed face known to man.

“I hope you know,” he said solemnly, “that I will never sit on that bed again.”

The door slammed, and you and Sam burst into quiet laughter, already knowing this was going to be the story Dean never lets you forget.

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[moonlightwritingf1]

Straight to you | LN4

✨summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N, captivated by photos of her friend Lando Norris at a gala, sends a bold, flirtatious text that shifts their dynamic. Days later, Lando surprises her at her apartment, confessing his feelings and revealing he can't hold back anymore. 

✨pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

✨word count ━━━━━━━ 1.2k

Y/N stretched out on her couch, a glass of wine in hand as her phone screen illuminated her face. She had spent the past hour scrolling through social media, and her feed was flooded with pictures and videos from the FIA Gala in Rwanda.  And as much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t stop scrolling through them.

Lando Norris was everywhere: standing proudly with his team, laughing with his peers, and posing for the cameras. But it was one photo in particular that had her captivated—Lando in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, grinning like he knew he owned the room.

She sighed, smiling softly to herself. Over the past year, Lando had gone from a casual acquaintance to someone she truly valued. They’d met through mutual friends at a gathering in London, and their banter had been immediate and effortless. They weren’t best friends by any means, but their connection had grown naturally over time.

He had even invited her to a few races over the past year. At first, she’d assumed it was just because she was someone fun to have around. But there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when she caught him looking at her in a way that made her wonder if there was more to it.

The truth was, she found him attractive. Too attractive, in fact. But it was a line she’d refused to cross, afraid of ruining the friendship they’d built.

As the picture of Lando lingered on her screen, she opened their chat.

Y/N: Congrats again, Lan! You were incredible this season. So proud of you.

She reread the text twice, debating if it sounded too sentimental. After all, they didn’t exchange heartfelt messages often. Usually, it was teasing, inside jokes, and the occasional check-in. But tonight, pride for him outweighed her hesitation, and she hit send.

The reply came quicker than she expected.

Lando: Thanks, Y/N. Means a lot coming from you.

She smiled, staring at the screen. She could stop there, but the wine in her system and the tuxedo picture still sitting in her camera roll gave her an unexpected burst of boldness.

Y/N: Also… you looked insanely hot at the gala. Just saying.

The moment she hit send, her eyes widened in horror. “Oh no,” she muttered, setting her wine down and pressing her hands to her cheeks, which were now burning.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Lando: Hot, huh? Didn’t know you thought of me like that.

She groaned, biting her lip as she typed back.

Y/N: Ignore that. I didn’t mean to send it.

Lando: Yeah, right. Totally accidental.

Y/N: Lando.

Lando: What? I’m just saying, I don’t mind. In fact, I think we should talk more about how hot you think I am.

She couldn’t help but laugh, even as she shook her head.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Lando: And you’re blushing. Don’t lie.

She threw her phone onto the couch, but when it buzzed again, curiosity got the better of her.

Lando: For the record, I thought you looked pretty hot at Silverstone this year. Just saying.

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he flirting? No, he had to be joking—right?

Y/N: Are you flirting with me, Norris?

Lando: Maybe. Is it working?

Her stomach flipped, but she decided to match his energy.

Y/N: I don’t know. Maybe try harder next time.

Their playful exchange continued for another half hour, and while neither of them outright said what they were really thinking, the subtext was undeniable. By the time she went to bed, she couldn’t stop smiling, even if part of her wondered if they’d crossed a line.

Two days later, Y/N was in her tiny London apartment, halfway through cooking dinner, when a knock on the door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Wiping her hands on a towel, she walked to the door, pulling it open cautiously.

“Lando?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.

He stood there, suitcase in one hand and a small smile on his face. He was dressed casually in a hoodie and joggers, his hair slightly messy from what she assumed was a long flight.

“Surprise,” he said, his tone light.

Her mouth opened, then closed as she tried to process what she was seeing. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to go to Monaco after the gala?”

“I was,” he admitted, stepping inside as she moved to let him in. “But I decided London sounded better.”

She closed the door behind him, her heart racing. “Why?”

His suitcase hit the floor with a thud as he turned to face her. The playful glint in his eyes softened, replaced by something more serious.

“Because you’re here,” he said simply.

Her heart stopped for a moment, and she struggled to find the right words. “Lando, I—”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he interrupted, taking a step closer. “That night, the things we said… it made me realize I’ve been holding back. And I don’t want to do that anymore.”

She blinked, her throat dry. “Holding back from what?”

“From this,” he said, his voice quieter now. “From telling you how I feel. I thought I could keep it casual, keep pretending we were just friends. But I can’t. Not when I know you feel something too.”

Her breath caught. “What makes you so sure I feel something?”

He grinned, leaning in just slightly. “You called me hot. Twice.”

She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’m also here. For you. So tell me, Y/N… do you feel it too?”

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yes. I’ve felt it for a long time. I just didn’t want to lose you.”

His smile softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re not going to lose me. If anything, you’re stuck with me now.”

Before she could overthink it, he closed the distance between them, cupping her face and pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was everything she’d dreamed of—soft yet urgent, full of all the feelings they’d both been holding back.

Her hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. The kiss deepened as they moved toward the couch, their hands exploring, their whispered confessions tumbling out between kisses.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck.

“Probably not as long as I have,” she shot back, pulling him closer.

“Wait,” she murmured again against his mouth, pulling back slightly.

“What?” he asked, his voice husky.

“You came all the way to London for me?”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’d fly to the ends of the earth for you.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she pulled him back into another kiss, this one even more passionate than the last.

That night, months of tension and longing melted away as they finally let themselves feel everything they’d been suppressing.

Hours later, they lay tangled together on the couch, her head resting on his chest as his fingers lazily traced circles on her arm. She looked up at him and smiled, their embrace a quiet testament to their closeness.

“I’m glad you came,” she said softly.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”