#he was my only constant he was the only normal i had he was my entire world

[starsinthesky5]

in you are in love

can we get a reader meets joes parents for the first time

that's my whole world || joe burrow x reader

description: ask sums it up! a flashback blurb to meeting joe's parents for the first time

a/n: she met his parents in febuary (7 months since the day they started dating). they knew there was a girl in the picture, and he had told them about her on numerous occasions. but they didn't meet until the time was right :)

word count: 3.4k

series: you are in love

warnings: none

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she was a complete mess. like she genuinely had never been so nervous for something in her life.

joe had been trying to reassure her all week that everything would be okay, but she couldn't help the nerves from twisting in her stomach at the mention of...the dinner. she wanted to believe him, but the voice inside her head told her a different story.

it was a constant tug of war in her mind between the side of her that thought this would be a complete disaster, whispering things like "i'm too much for them," or even, "they're going to hate me and everything i bring with me...all the attention, prying eyes, the drama. they seem so nice and normal, so calm. i can't do this...why did i think i could do this?".

and the side that was bringing ice to the searing anxiety in her chest, whispering, "joe loves you. he chooses you. they will too,".

but god, it was just so hard to believe that when she knew exactly how not normal her life was. she wasn't just any girl meeting her boyfriend's parents for the first time. she was her. the woman whose entire existence and being was scrutinized by the world, whose biggest fails and fatal flaws were aired out like dirty laundry. she brought even more flashing cameras, headlines, rumors, and attention to joe's life, even more than he was already dealing with. that couldn't be appealing to the parents of any child, especially since they knew how much joe had already struggled to balance privacy since he came into the league.

and the burrows? they were so normal. warm, kind, small-town folks who lived a quiet life outside of the football world that engrossed every single one of their weekends since joe could walk. they were the embodiment of home, at least from everything joe had told her--from his mom’s famous snicker salads to his dad’s lengthy football spiels, always delivered from his signature reclining rocking chair whenever joe visited. it was an established routine that joe valued, because it was one of the few constants in his life. no matter how much his world changed--draft nights, contract extensions, playoff games, becoming the designated heartthrob of the NFL--the burrow household remained the same. his parents still sat on the porch in the evenings, still had their favorite local diner they went to every sunday morning for brunch, still called him joey like he was six years old running around in the backyard.

this was one aspect of his life that never changed...that couldn't change.

athens.

his family.

his home.

until she came into the picture.

he made space for her, not only in his heart, not only in his closet, but in his home. physically and metaphorically. he had never done that for a girl before, but he did for her. and that meant something.

even though she knew all that, she still had never felt this much self-doubt in months, but don't get it twisted, this wasn't caused by a person this time (previously, her self-doubt was often implanted within her from those around her). this time, she was just getting in her head, going over every possible scenario where she could embarrass herself or rub them the wrong way.

and joe did everything he could to calm her nerves, to ease her into his family by first introducing her to his brothers and wives (who absolutely adored her). but she was the biggest overthinker he knew, so he knew that it wouldn't be that easy to bring her back from the ledge.

"baby, my parents are going to love you. like immediately. just like i did," he laughed, rubbing his hand along her thigh in an attempt to calm her frayed nerves.

she stayed silent as she watched them pull up to his childhood home. the anxiety boiling under her skin, threatened to explode once she saw the first glimpse of their picture-perfect porch, the porch where joe said his mom and dad would spend hours watching him practice his little peewee throws with his older brothers when he was a kid.

his mom and dad.

his mom...and dad.

his mom.

oh right, this wasn't just meeting his parents. it was meeting robin burrow. joe's mom, his biggest supporter, the woman he adored more than anything in the world. the woman who moved mountains to make sure joe could get to where he needed to be. she had heard firsthand how much respect and love he had for her, how he spoke about her with so much admiration. she knew how close they were, how much her opinion mattered to him.

and that is precisely why this dinner felt like the most important test of her life.

it was honestly funny how nervous she was. i mean, she had met some of the most famous individuals on the planet, sold out stadiums and arenas, but somehow, this felt bigger than all of that. more intimate.

--

the second they stepped inside, everything shifted. the warm scent of home-cooked food lingered in the air, a mix of sweet and savory, and the cozy lighting cast a golden hue over the living room. numerous framed photos decorated the walls--baby joe photos, football related snapshots, family moments frozen in time. you know, the usual.

she had seen a glimpse of his childhood through his stories, but standing here, in the house that built him, made it all so real.

robin was the first to greet them, moving right past her baby boy to first hug the woman who had stolen his precious heart. "finally! we've heard so much about you, sweetheart," she squealed.

her breath hitched while she almost broke a sweat, her smile however, remaining as steady as her feet. (thank years and years of practice for the paparazzi for that). "all good things, i hope," she beamed.

robin chuckled, "oh, only the best," while giving her a warm squeeze. "it's about time we got to meet the woman that got joey to learn the difference between dark and light wash denim,".

jimmy snorted, shaking his head. "and got him to wear something other than sweats in public,".

she laughed at the silly jabs at joe, glancing up at him, whose face was already contorted in playful annoyance. "okay, we’re already starting with this?" he muttered, rolling his eyes.

robin gently let go of her before turning to face her son, "you know we love you joe, but she got you to give up the gray jeans and the sweats? screw being the best thing that happened to you," she smiled, then faced her again, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "she's the best thing to happen to us,".

she couldn't even process what was happening because it felt so...easy. easier than she had thought. off the bat, the banter and vibe that had been established for years in the burrow household was engraved into her system. and it literally had only been 5 minutes.

his mom was so...comforting? she just had this vibe about her that immediately calmed her nerves, no matter how loud the voice inside her head was. and you know what's funny? only one person could do that for her.

joe.

now she knows where he got that from ;)

jimmy, joe’s dad, was just as comforting, shaking her hand with a firm grip and an easy grin. "you must have some real patience if you’re dating my son,".

joe groaned, rolling his eyes. "thanks, dad,".

she laughed, already feeling the warmth of their family dynamic, the way they teased but loved fiercely. it was easy. effortless.

and then, suddenly, she wasn’t her. she wasn’t the woman who graced magazine covers, wasn’t the person whose lyrics echoed through sold-out stadiums, wasn’t the figure people screamed for in arenas. she was just joe’s girl, standing in the warmth of his childhood home, being welcomed into his family like she had always been there.

she couldn't even remember why she was so worried in the first place? it's not like they would come out with pitchforks and a lighter incase she said the wrong thing. this was joe's family. the ones who made the person she was so madly in love with, who he was.

--

his parents could see how infatuated he was with her right off the bat. they could tell she was special to him from the way he spoke about her, but actually seeing it was a different story.

joe barely let go of her the entire night too. at dinner, his arm rested along the back of her chair, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against her shoulder. every so often, he leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek, murmuring something soft in her ear that made her heart flutter and a giggle to come to her lips. he knew she was nervous, so he made sure to do anything and everything he could to remind her it was okay...and he was right here.

the conversation flowed easily--stories from joe’s childhood, football talk, the occasional embarrassing story from robin that made joe groan.

"mom, seriously?" he complained after she detailed an elaborate story about him dressing up as batman for nearly three years straight as a kid.

jimmy chuckled, shaking his head. "he’d even wear the cape to bed. wouldn’t go anywhere without it,".

she turned to joe, wide-eyed with happiness. "oh, this is gold,".

robin smirked, taking a sip of her drink. "oh, honey, i have plenty more where that came from,".

joe sighed dramatically, slumping against his chair. "i walked right into this,".

she reached under the table, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze. "it’s okay, babe. i still think you’re cool,".

his eyes narrowed playfully as his hand joined hers, fingers entwining under the table. then he have her three squeezes. "i don’t believe you. i just lost so much cred with that,".

joe was even clingier after dinner, practically attached to her as they settled onto the couch. his fingers still laced with hers, thumb brushing softly over her knuckles. every so often, he’d press a lingering kiss to her hair, like he couldn’t help himself.

oh, and then there was that moment--one she’d remember forever--when his parents started playing home videos of joe’s childhood. everyone was huddled around the TV, the warm glow flickering across their faces while joe, ever the gentleman, was finishing up the dishes.

her eyes were glued to the screen, completely transfixed, as if she were watching the most important film of her life. baby joe babbled at the camera, a toy football clutched in his tiny hands, making incoherent little sounds through a drool-covered grin. his dinosaur shirt was stained with whatever snack he’d been munching on, and his chubby cheeks were impossibly round. she felt something deep in her chest tighten at the sight--it was him, the boy who would grow up to become the man she loved.

she was so caught up in the moment, she didn’t even notice when joe snuck up behind her, his arms wrapping securely around her waist. he rested his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin, watching the screen from her perspective. for him, it was surreal--seeing these memories through her eyes, seeing her watch him at his most innocent, his most unguarded.

soft kisses pressed along her jaw, slow and affectionate, but she didn’t take her eyes off the screen. instead, she shifted one hand up, her fingers trailing over his jaw, nails scratching lightly in that way she knew he loved--a silent i feel you, i love you, i know you’re here.

his parents, however, fully noticed.

they turned to face joe and her, completely in awe of how touchy-feely he was being with her.

jimmy chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "well, would you look at that," he mused, nudging robin with his elbow. "our boy's turned into a big ol’ sap,".

robin grinned, her eyes twinkling as she took in the sight of her son clinging to his girlfriend like she was the only thing grounding him to earth. "i don’t think i’ve ever seen him like this," she said, her voice laced with warmth.

joe groaned against her shoulder but didn’t make a move to pull away. instead, he tightened his hold on her waist, pressing another soft kiss beneath her ear. "you guys act like i don’t have ears," he muttered, lips brushing against her skin.

she giggled, finally tearing her gaze away from the screen to look at him. "they’re just observing, baby,".

jimmy laughed. "oh, so baby is what we’re calling him now?".

joe shot his dad a deadpan look, but it was hard to look intimidating when he was literally nuzzling into her neck like some love-sick puppy. "you’re both insufferable,".

she laughed, turning her head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. "you’re kinda proving their point, joey,".

robin sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "oh, it’s just so nice to see him like this. all affectionate and soft. i mean, he’s always been sweet, but this? this is new,".

she wasn't wrong. everyone knew how joe was opposed to PDA and being so soft in front of other people. but with her, he didn't give two fucks. and that was beautiful.

"this is disgusting," joe grumbled, though it was completely contradicted by the way he was practically melting into her touch.

"oh, hush," robin scolded, waving a hand at him. "you love it,".

he didn’t argue. he just held her a little closer, completely unbothered by his parents' teasing, because deep down, he knew they were right.

and his parents shot each other knowing glances all throughout the night, their hearts overflowing with happiness and gratitude.

later in the evening, while joe was off showing jimmy something on his phone, robin gently touched her arm, "come help me with refills?".

she followed her into the kitchen, her nerves creeping back in like the first time she stepped on stage, the weight of the spotlight reaching down on her and the unsure hint of adrenaline in her chest. it was also like trying out a new song live for the first time, unsure how the crowd would react, only this time, the crowd was one very important person--joe's mom. but robin didn’t jump into anything serious right away. instead, she moved around the space like she had a hundred times before, topping off drinks, grabbing extra napkins. then, finally, she turned, leaning against the counter with an easy smile.

"i just want to tell you how happy i am that joe has you,".

she blinked, caught off guard. "oh."

robin’s smile softened. "he’s always been focused, always had big dreams that revolved around football. but there’s something different about him with you. i see it in the way he looks at you, the way he talks about you," she reached out, squeezing her hand. "you make him so happy, sweetheart. you make him dream of a future beyond football, and for that, we're forever grateful,".

her chest tightened--not with nerves, but something warmer, something deeper. she swallowed hard. "i love him a lot," she admitted, voice softer than before.

robin nodded, as if she already knew. "and he loves you. that’s all a mom could ever hope for. we were so worried he'd get so caught up in football, miss out on the other aspects of his life like love, a family," she said, reaching out to grab the 'j' initial necklace which sat around her neck. "but then you came around,".

she exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head. "i was really nervous to meet you,".

robin raised an eyebrow. "why? because of who i am? honey, you’re the famous one,".

she shrugged, chewing on her bottom lip. "because of how much joe loves you. how much he looks up to you. i didn’t want to mess this up, you know?".

robin’s expression melted into something even softer, her thumb running over the surface of the pendant. "the only way you could ever mess this up is by not being yourself. but from what i can tell, and mother's intuition is never wrong, you’re perfect for him,".

before she could stop herself, she wrapped robin in a hug, this one even more meaningful than the one at the door. and then, the damn of emotion flew open. "thank you. thank so much you for making him who he is. i don't know what i would do without joe,".

robin's arms tightened around her in response, holding her as if she was already family. "oh, sweetheart, you don't have to thank me for that. joe’s always had a big heart, and he’s always known what he wants--he just needed someone like you to bring out the best in him," her voice cracked slightly, emotion clear in her tone. "he's been so much more himself since you came into his life,". she pulled away slightly, but her hands stayed on her shoulders, a steady presence. "you complete him, and we all see it. no matter who you are, what your life is like, screw the cameras and the attention. you're you. and we all know that. he knows that." robin added, her voice dense with emotion.

one thing echoed deep within her throughout the night--her career was never brought up. her fame, her music, the whirlwind of headlines that followed her everywhere she went. not a single mention. not even a passing comment.

because here, she wasn’t a superstar.

she was just a girl in love, spending time with the people who loved him first.

robin’s lips curled into a smirk, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "but just so you know, if you ever need to gang up on him, i’m always available,".

she blinked, surprised at first, but then a laugh bubbled up from her chest, light and effortless. she wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, warmth spreading through her like the glow of the kitchen light above them. "i might take you up on that," she admitted, voice laced with something softer--something that felt like relief.

robin squeezed her hand one last time, a silent reassurance, before stepping back to grab their drinks. and just like that, the last bit of nerves melted away, dissolving into the love that filled the room.

joe found her a few minutes later, his presence known before he even touched her. the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering warmth from the oven, and then, suddenly, his arms were around her, strong and steady. he pulled her into his chest, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her cheek. "what were you two talking about?{ he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with curiosity.

robin grinned, her gaze flicking between them, and then she smirked. "just how much we love you, joey,".

joe hummed, nuzzling into the crook of her neck like he belonged there. "you better not have been scaring her off, mom,".

robin gasped, placing a hand over her chest in mock offense. "me? never!".

she giggled, leaning further into joe’s embrace, feeling the way his hands instinctively tightened around her waist, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. he had been like this all night--touching her in soft, subtle ways, like he couldn’t quite believe she was here, with him, in the house he grew up in, surrounded by the people who had shaped him.

and then she realized that there was absolutely nothing to be so nervous about, now that she thought about it.

you know why?

because joe chose her. and they saw that. he chose her for a reason. and they knew that. he loved her, and that was everything they had ever wanted for him.

she felt it in the way robin had hugged her like she was already family, in the way jimmy had teased joe about being whipped, in the way they had welcomed her into their home without hesitation, without expectation--just love.

because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about who she was to the world. it wasn’t about the bright lights or the sold-out shows, the cameras flashing or the headlines screaming her name.

it was just about this.

the warmth of joe’s arms around her. robin’s knowing smile. jimmy’s easy laughter. the quiet hum of the house that had built the man she loved.

"it's you and me, that's my whole world,".

joe’s whole world was under this roof.

and somehow, she had become a part of it.

--the end--

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Your Secret is Safe with me... With US....

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

Returning to the track the next day felt like a chore, each step heavier than the last. Today wasn’t about the race—it was about honoring my uncle in the only way I knew how.

A long time ago, he had given me a custom pin chain designed for the collar of a suit—something sleek, something personal. Silver, with two outstretched wings as the pins. I had never worn it at a race before, but today, it felt right.

So I dressed accordingly.

A black button-up shirt, the collar adorned with the silver chain and its delicate wing pins. Over it, a baggy leather jacket, only half-buttoned to let the chain glint under the paddock lights. Straight-legged black pants completed the look, along with my usual Nike high-tops—one of the few constants in my life.

I walked into the paddock in silence, the hum of conversation and laughter faltering as I passed. The atmosphere of this track was bright, electric, filled with vibrant colors from drivers wearing bold outfits to match the energy of the weekend. And then there was me—dressed in something more fitting for a funeral.

The moment the media caught sight of me, the chaos erupted. Cameras snapped in my direction, the clicking and flashing intensifying with every step. I didn’t flinch, didn’t stop. Normally, I would have. Normally, I would have given them something, even if just a glance. But not today.

I could already see the headlines forming in their heads. They would twist this against me, paint me as distant, unapproachable, brooding. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. Not today.

Interacting with fans and media would only make it worse. I didn’t trust myself to keep up the act—to hide the weight pressing against my ribs, the ache sitting heavy in my throat.

By the time I reached the Cadillac garage, the usual hum of chatter inside had quieted. Mechanics and engineers paused mid-task, eyes flickering to me before quickly looking away. The concern was evident, but I ignored it, making a beeline for the one person I trusted most here.

Nico was waiting for me in my usual corner of the garage. The moment our eyes met, he gave me a sad smile, understanding without needing to ask.

"Hey, Ghost," he said gently. "I know today’s gonna be tough. Do you need anything from me?"

I nodded, my voice carefully neutral. I had been fighting the burn in my chest all day—I wouldn’t let it consume me here. Not now.

"Yeah. If you can find a way to minimize my media duties after the race, that would be great. I can do them, but… I don’t know how long I’ll last before I break."

Nico didn’t hesitate. "I’ll see what I can do, bud." He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, a silent promise. "For now, take whatever time you need before the drivers’ parade."

I gave him a curt nod before turning on my heel. I could have gone to my driver’s room, locked myself away from the world. But something about the heat of the sun pressing against my black clothing felt grounding.

So instead, I walked.

Down the pit lane, where the media weren’t allowed, where I could breathe without feeling the weight of a hundred lenses on my back.

At least for a moment.

When it was time for the drivers' parade, I stayed in the back of the room, away from where the others had gathered. The air buzzed with conversation, laughter, and the usual pre-race energy, but I remained silent, still.

Any other day, I might have felt a pang of hurt at how easily silence made me invisible. How quickly I could fade into the background when I wasn’t cracking a joke or joining in on the pre-race banter.

But today, I was grateful for it.

Grateful to be overlooked.

At least, until I wasn’t.

Two sets of eyes found me, locking onto me like twin beacons through the haze of chatter.

I didn’t need to see their faces to know who they belonged to.

Both boys peeled away from their own groups without a word, their movements quiet but deliberate. When they reached me, stopping just two feet away, the energy between us shifted.

Their expressions, once lighthearted and carefree, had darkened—concern replacing whatever pre-race excitement had been there moments before.

Neither of them spoke right away.

They just stood there, looking between me and each other, waiting.

Waiting for me to let them in.

Oscar looked like he wanted to say something, but the moment was cut short. The call to head onto the trailer came, and like a machine set on autopilot, I fell into line with the other drivers.

I barely noticed that Lando and Oscar had taken up position on either side of me until Lando nudged my arm lightly.

“Alright, Ghost,” he said, his voice casual but playful, “I know you’re not much of a talker, but this is ridiculous. You’re usually at least pretending to enjoy this part.”

I blinked, forcing myself to focus as the three of us stepped onto the trailer.

Oscar leaned in slightly. “I was gonna say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet. Are you conserving energy or just silently plotting something?”

Lando gasped dramatically. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve finally given in to your dark side. You’re planning world domination, aren’t you?”

I let out a slow breath, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling.

“Damn, he’s not denying it,” Oscar said, eyes widening in mock horror. “It’s over for us.”

Lando placed a hand over his chest. “We had a good run, mate. At least we’ll go out knowing we were kind of the fastest here.”

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head slightly. They weren’t being pushy, weren’t demanding answers—they were just being themselves, trying to pull me back into reality.

“I hate to break it to you,” I said, voice quiet but even, “but if I wanted world domination, you two wouldn’t be my first recruits.”

Lando gasped again. “I’m offended. We’d make an excellent evil trio.”

Oscar crossed his arms. “Yeah, you’d need at least one of us for planning and the other for distracting.”

I huffed a small laugh despite myself.

Lando grinned like he had just won something. “There he is.”

Oscar nudged me lightly with his elbow. “Alright, now that we’ve got you talking, tell us—what’s with the dark-esk outfit? Did you finally snap and we are seeing a revenge arc?”

I stiffened for half a second before forcing myself to relax, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. “Not really.”

Oscar and Lando exchanged glances, sensing something but wisely not pushing further.

“Noted,” Oscar said, shifting the topic. “Well, just so you know, Lando here has already almost fallen off one of these things before. So if he suddenly disappears mid-parade, don’t be alarmed.”

“Hey,” Lando protested. “That was one time.”

Oscar smirked. “One time that we know of.”

This time, I didn’t have to hold back the laugh. It was small, barely there, but real.

And for a moment, just a moment, the weight pressing down on my chest felt a little lighter.

By the time the parade had ended, just about every rookie had taken a moment to try and lift my spirits. They offered small jokes, lighthearted banter, and reassuring pats on the back, all assuming that the brutal criticism and the weight of the weekend had worn me down. But none of them—none—truly knew the ache my heart was trying to mend, only for it to tear open again with every quiet second I was left alone with my thoughts.

The only one who didn’t come near me was Jack. And maybe that was for the best.

How was I supposed to look him in the eye, knowing that the same grief that had shattered me was clawing at him, too? How could I lie to him, pretend I was upset from media critics, when we were both drowning in the same loss?

I couldn’t. I knew that.

So the moment the trailer came to a stop, I was the first to step off, weaving through the bustling paddock with only one thought in mind—get back to my driver’s room before the walls I had barely managed to keep standing finally collapsed.

The second I shut the door behind me, my chest caved, and I sucked in the first deep breath I had taken all day. It was shaky, unsteady, as if my lungs themselves rejected the idea of calm. But I needed to regain control. I needed to silence the storm in my head. I needed to go numb before the race.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling mindlessly through my playlists before my fingers hesitated over one I hadn’t touched in years. Indycar Rage+Ruin.

I pressed play.

The soft strum of a guitar hummed through the speakers, and immediately, my throat tightened. My uncle and I had made this playlist together during my first year in IndyCar. It had been our escape, the one thing that always seemed to drown out the noise of the world. He had built my music taste, shaped the songs I clung to in my hardest moments. This playlist, though—it was filled with his recommendations. Every song carefully chosen, meant to guide me through anger and exhaustion, to remind me of my worth when the world told me otherwise.

Back then, when I was ridiculed for being too young, too inexperienced, too different, he sat me down, placed an earbud in my hand, and said, "Let the music turn their doubt into your fuel. Show them what I already know you can do."

Tears burned in my eyes as the memories swelled, raw and vivid. His voice. His laugh. The way he always believed in me when no one else did.

I pulled off my helmet, my hands trembling as I changed into my fireproofs. But when I picked my helmet back up, my breath hitched.

It was another piece of him.

I ran my fingers over the design, tracing the lines and colors that hadn’t existed until he convinced me to take a risk. I had wanted to keep my old one—stick with something familiar. But he had pushed me to evolve. To make it mine. To leave the past in the past, to move towards my future, to the day I finally showed my truth to the whole world. 

So I had. Every stroke, every detail, had come from his suggestions.

I swallowed the sob creeping up my throat, forcing my emotions into the deepest corner of my mind. I couldn’t break here. Not now.

I wiped the last of my tears away, pulling my balaclava over my face and securing my helmet in place.

This is for you.

And with that, I stepped out, ready to race.

—

Lap 26.

P8.

I should be fighting. I should be pushing harder, clawing my way back up the field. But all I could do was exist in the seat, my body moving through the motions like a machine while my mind drifted elsewhere.

The world outside my cockpit blurred into streaks of color—flashes of the crowd, pit boards, and curbs passing by without meaning. The radio crackled in my ear with strategy calls, updates on gaps and tire wear, but they barely registered.

Numb.

That’s all I felt.

The weight of grief had settled into my bones, anchoring me to a darkness I couldn’t shake. Every turn, every straight, every second that passed only reminded me of the gaping hole in my chest.

My uncle should have been here.

He should have been watching from the garage, pacing back and forth with that nervous excitement he always had whenever I raced. He should have been waiting for me at the end of this, ready to pull me into one of his crushing hugs and tell me exactly what I did right, no matter the result.

But he wasn’t.

He never would be again.

I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening on the wheel. The ache inside me grew stronger, heavier, suffocating.

Then, without warning—

"You know why people look for flaws in you?"

A voice.

His voice.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. It was as if he was right there beside me, speaking through the static of my own thoughts, cutting through the numbness with words I had heard before.

"It’s because they see something in you that terrifies them. You’re not just another driver. You’re proof that the future doesn’t belong to the same old faces they’re used to. You prove them wrong every damn time you put your hands on that wheel."

I sucked in a sharp breath, my vision focusing again on the track ahead.

"They will always find something to pick apart. They will say you’re too young, too reckless, too emotional. But that’s just what people do when they can’t deny talent anymore. When they know that talent is going to change everything."

A lump rose in my throat.

"I know you, kid. I know you better than anyone. You’re strong, you’re relentless, and you are more talented than you even realize. I can’t have kids, but from the moment I put you back in that kart and saw that fire in your eyes, I knew—I didn’t need to. You were mine. You are mine. My kid, my racer, my pride."

Tears welled up, blurring my vision for a split second before I blinked them away.

"I love you like a father loves his daughter, and I will always, always be with you. My sister has no idea the daughter she lost that day, but I know the one I gained. So show me, kid. Show me just how amazing of a daughter I got."

The numbness cracked.

Then shattered.

A fire erupted inside my chest, spreading through every inch of my body. My grip on the wheel tightened—not from despair, but from purpose. My uncle’s words weren’t just a memory; they were fuel, reigniting the part of me that had been drowning all day.

I would not let this race slip away.

I would not let grief steal this from me.

I would honor him the only way I knew how—by fighting with everything I had.

"Let’s go hunting." I growled into the radio.

The response was instant. I could almost hear the sudden excitement in Diego’s voice.

"Copy, let’s get it."

Lap 27.

I launched into attack mode.

The first victim—P7. I lined up the move through Turn 3, positioning myself perfectly for the switchback out of Turn 4. Late on the throttle, I powered past, slicing ahead just before the braking zone into Turn 5.

One down.

Lap 30.

P6 was trickier. They defended hard, forcing me to back off twice. But they were draining their tires with every aggressive move, and I was patient. Into Turn 12, I dummied left before diving right, catching them off guard. My front wing edged past their rear tire—just enough. I held my breath, committed, and sent it.

They locked up. I didn’t.

P6 was mine.

Lap 34.

P5 and P4 were in a battle ahead, slowing each other down. I used it. A perfect slipstream down the main straight, and with DRS wide open, I took them both into Turn 1 in a double overtake that had my heart hammering inside my chest.

Lap 39.

P3.

Only two cars stood between me and the top step of the podium. My tires were screaming, my body was running on adrenaline alone, but I refused to lift.

Lap 42.

P2.

A lunge down the inside of Turn 10. No hesitation. No second thoughts. It stuck.

Final lap.

The leader was just ahead, but I was closing. DRS on the back straight. Slipstream. My pulse thundered in my ears.

Turn 14—late braking. Aggressive entry. I forced them wide.

Turn 15—I pulled ahead.

Final corner.

I could see the finish line.

This is for you.

I floored it.

The checkered flag waved.

I crossed the line.

P1.

I won.

A cheer ripped from my throat as I screamed into the radio. The team’s voices roared back at me, their cheers barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat.

I slowed the car, my hands shaking, my breath coming in uneven gasps as reality crashed into me. Unbeknownst to me, My sobs being played over the live broadcast, something that could come back to bite me in the ass. But I no longer would care. 

I had done it.

I had honored him.

Slowly, I rolled to a stop in parc fermé, the engine ticking as it cooled behind me. My chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, my hands still gripping the wheel as my body trembled with adrenaline, exhaustion, and something much deeper—something far heavier.

I had won.

But he wasn’t here to see it.

The roar of the crowd echoed around me, but it felt distant, almost muffled. Right now, the visor had become my barrier from showing the emotions racking my mind. That barrier felt like the only thing holding me together.

With slow, deliberate movements, I unstrapped my belts and climbed out of the car. The moment my feet hit the Halo, I stayed there, standing tall atop my machine.

Then, I placed my hand over my heart.

And I pointed to the sky.

My head stayed bowed, my gaze locked onto the carbon fiber beneath me. It wasn’t a grand gesture, it wasn't a show for the cameras or the fans—it was just for him. A silent message. A promise.

This win is yours, too.

The moment passed, and I finally stepped down from the car. The second my feet hit the ground, I turned toward the barrier, toward my team waiting on the other side.

They were already there, arms outstretched, shouting my name.

I barely made it two steps away before they pulled me in, wrapping me in a massive hug, their cheers filling the air around me. The warmth of their embrace, their unfiltered joy—it should have grounded me, should have held me together.

But as I let myself sink into them, the weight of everything crashed down all at once.

My breath hitched. My chest tightened.

I wasn’t ready to break here. Not in front of them.

Slipping away from the group, I ducked my head and moved quickly, weaving through the celebration before anyone could notice. I needed a moment. Just one.

By the time I reached my driver’s room, I barely had the door closed before my legs gave out. I sank onto the small couch, my hands trembling as I ripped off my gloves, pulled off the helmet and balaclava before I pressed my palms over my face.

A shuddering breath. Then another.

And then, finally, the dam broke.

Silent sobs wracked through me, my body shaking from the force of them. The grief, the joy, the pain—all of it collided in a way that stole the air from my lungs.

I had won.

I had done exactly what he always believed I could do.

But it would never be enough to bring him back.

And God, how I wished he was here.

Suddenly, I heard yelling from outside my door.

"You can’t go in yet!"

The warning reached my ears too late.

The door swung open before I could react—before I could pull my helmet back on, before I could even turn away.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto my tear filled ones.

Fuck.

Instinct took over. More voices echoed down the hall, growing closer. I didn’t think—I just moved.

Grabbing all three of them, I yanked them inside and slammed the door shut, twisting the lock into place.

Silence.

Only the sound of my own breathing filled the room, ragged and uneven. My heart pounded as reality sank in.

The gig was up.

There was no covering this up, no half-baked excuse that would save me now. They had seen me. Really seen me.

I dropped my head against the door with a quiet thud, the dull ache grounding me in the moment. A long sigh escaped me.

Shit.

I finally turned around, bracing myself.

Lando and Oscar were still frozen, their faces caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. Lando’s mouth hung slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Oscar just blinked, like his brain was still buffering.

But Franco—he looked different. His expression wasn’t one of shock, but something else. Guilt.

That’s when the dots connected.

Franco had been acting differently ever since the day my uncle passed. Ever since the moment I broke down in Nico’s arms. But… the door had been shut, right? No. It hadn’t. He must have seen me.

My breath hitched as I locked eyes with him, and in that instant, I knew. He didn’t say a word, but his gaze told me everything. He had known—maybe not the full truth, but enough to suspect. Enough to treat me differently ever since.

“This whole time…”

Lando’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, calm but laced with something unreadable. My head snapped toward him, bracing for the inevitable backlash, the betrayal, the anger. But it never came.

Instead, the shock on his face melted into something else—wonder, maybe even admiration. Beside him, Oscar’s expression shifted in the same way, the disbelief settling but not turning to resentment.

“You’re actually a girl?” Oscar blurted, blinking rapidly. “This whole time we’ve been calling you a dude?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, a small smile tugging at my lips. I nodded.

Lando let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Well, I guess the voice changer actually makes sense now. I thought maybe you were just embarrassed about your voice or something stupid like that.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, I figured it was just part of the whole mysterious Ghost persona thing. But damn—this is next level.”

Their easy acceptance caught me off guard. I had prepared for anger, disappointment, maybe even disgust. But this? This felt… light.

“I honestly wasn’t expecting this reaction,” I admitted, my voice softer than before. “I thought there’d be a lot more anger. Or, I don’t know… disgust.”

That wiped the smiles off their faces instantly.

“What? No!” Lando exclaimed, his brows furrowing.

“Why would we think that?” Oscar asked, genuine confusion in his tone.

I hesitated before answering. “Because I’m a girl. Or maybe because I chose to hide my identity instead of fighting my way into the sport the ‘right’ way.”

Lando let out a short chuckle, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Right way? What even is the right way? Every girl in motorsport has to jump through hoops just to get a fraction of the chances we get.” His gaze softened. “If anything, you found the only real way to prove the facts over the ideals—you proved you belonged before anyone had the chance to doubt you.”

Oscar nodded, crossing his arms. “Think about it. You’ve spent the last five years proving a girl can race with the best of the best. The only difference is that you were given a fair shot—without prejudice clouding people's judgment from the start.” He tilted his head, a sly grin forming. “Just imagine the absolute meltdown the anti-female racing fans are gonna have when you reveal yourself. You’re about to shatter every argument they’ve ever had in real time.”

My heart swelled, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe.

They didn’t just accept me.

They believed in me.

Franco finally spoke, his voice quieter than usual but steady.

"They are right," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "When I found out yesterday,"

My stomach twisted as he confirmed my suspicions.

"The door wasn’t all the way shut. I was walking past when I heard you sobbing, and before I could even process it, I saw Nico holding you. And… I saw you—not Ghost, not the masked driver everyone argued over—but you."

He let out a slow breath, like he had been holding it in for months. "At first, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, I had hunches that something was off—sometimes your mannerisms didn’t match up, your reactions felt… different from what I expected—but I never thought this was the truth. And when I did realize? Everything just… shifted."

I stiffened slightly, but his expression wasn’t one of judgment—it was one of understanding.

"I saw the way you carried yourself, how you fought for every inch in this sport, how you refused to back down even when the entire world was tearing you apart over baseless rumors. And then it hit me—" He shook his head, his voice growing more certain. "—if you had never hidden your identity, if they had known you were a girl from the start, you wouldn’t have even made it to IndyCar, let alone past it. You would’ve been written off, ridiculed, shoved into a marketing stunt instead of given a real seat."

I swallowed hard, because he was right. I had known it. But hearing someone else say it out loud? It made my chest tighten.

Franco ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And that’s what pissed me off the most—realizing that you had to do this. That you had no choice but to race under a mask just to prove you belonged. And even then, people still found ways to tear you down." His jaw clenched. "It made me sick. That’s why I started acting different—I wasn’t mad at you, I was mad at the system that forced you to do this in the first place."

Silence hung in the air between us.

I had spent years preparing for this moment, expecting rejection, expecting people to be angry with me for lying. But instead, all I was met with was understanding.

A lump formed in my throat, and I had to blink hard to keep my emotions in check.

Lando let out a deep breath. "Damn… that’s actually insane when you think about it."

Oscar crossed his arms. "Yeah, it’s fucking bullshit is what it is."

Franco looked at me then, something unreadable in his eyes. "But you made it anyway." His lips quirked up in a small, almost proud smile. "You proved you belonged—without sponsors forcing a diversity hire, without a team trying to sell you as the next big ‘female trailblazer’ before you even turned a wheel. You earned this. And now that you’re here? No one can take that away from you."

Something in me cracked at those words.

For so long, I had braced myself for this truth to destroy everything I had built. But instead, these three—these friends—were standing beside me, not tearing me down but lifting me up.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t Ghost.

I was just me.

I took a slow, shaky breath.

“If I tell you the full truth… will you promise me something?” My voice was quieter now, uncertain.

Lando, Oscar, and Franco exchanged glances before nodding.

“Of course,” Lando said.

“Anything,” Oscar added.

Franco just gave me a firm look, waiting.

I hesitated, but I couldn’t stop now. The weight of the secret was pressing down on me, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t carrying it alone.

“I didn’t start hiding my identity because I wanted to,” I admitted. “It wasn’t some big strategy or grand plan. I did it because it was the only way I was ever going to race.”

Their brows furrowed, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

“My parents… they never wanted me to be a driver.” The bitterness in my tone was undeniable. “Jack? He got everything. He was the future of our family in racing. My parents invested everything into him, his training, his career. But me? I was their daughter. That meant a different future—one where I was supposed to be proper, ladylike, anything but a racer.”

Oscar’s mouth parted slightly in shock. Lando looked outright offended.

“But… then how did you start racing?” Franco asked, confusion laced in his voice.

A small, sad smile pulled at my lips. “My uncle. He helped me. He was the only one who saw how much I loved it—how much I needed it. He taught me behind my parents’ backs, found ways to get me into karting under a fake name. He made sure I had a shot.”

I swallowed hard.

“They never knew. Not my parents. Not Jack. And as I got older, the lie became my only way forward. The mask… it became necessary. If they found out, it would’ve been over before I even had a chance.”

Silence filled the room, the weight of my words settling in.

“I watched so many other girls get stuck,” I continued, my voice dropping to almost a whisper. “They had the talent. They worked just as hard, if not harder. But they were always seen as ‘a risk,’ as ‘a marketing opportunity’ instead of real drivers. Meanwhile, I just kept moving up—because they didn’t know. Because I was a mystery they could project their own expectations onto.”

I let out a humorless chuckle.

“And now? This is all I know. I don’t know how to race any other way. If I take the mask off now, everything changes. I change.”

I met their eyes then, desperation creeping into my tone.

“That’s why I need you to promise me. Please. Keep pretending you don’t know. Keep using male pronouns. Keep the secret alive—just a little longer.”

I could see the emotions warring in their expressions—concern, understanding, frustration at the reality of it all.

Then, Lando let out a long breath, shaking his head in disbelief before cracking a small, lopsided smile.

“This is fucking mental,” he muttered.

Oscar nudged him. “Lando.”

“What? It is! But…” He looked back at me, something more serious in his gaze now. “I get it.”

Oscar nodded. “Me too. It’s not fair, but if this is what you need… we’ve got your back.”

Franco was the last to speak, his expression unreadable. But then, he gave a single nod.

“We’ll keep the secret. No one’s gonna hear it from us.”

Relief flooded through me so fast I almost felt lightheaded.

"Thank you," I whispered, meaning it more than I ever had before.

Lando let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. "You know, we originally came in here to congratulate you on your first goddamn F1 win, but somehow, we ended up in a full-blown identity reveal."

Oscar snorted. "Yeah, this was not on my bingo card for today."

Franco shook his head with an exasperated laugh. "You literally won your first race, and instead of celebrating, we get emotional in your dressing room and drop the biggest plot twist of the season."

I couldn't help but chuckle at that, the tension in the air finally easing. "I mean… if it makes you feel any better, I also wasn’t expecting this to happen today."

Lando threw his arms up. "Oh, fantastic! That makes it so much better."

Oscar patted his shoulder. "Deep breaths, mate."

Lando shot him a glare. "I have been breathing, thank you very much."

"Could've fooled me."

"Shut up, P5."

Oscar smirked. "P5? Mate, you're acting like you didn't just get your ass handed to you by the ‘rookie’ we all thought was a guy five minutes ago."

Lando groaned dramatically. "And now that's gonna haunt me for the rest of my life."

Franco clapped his hands together. "Alright, as fun as this little existential crisis is, we have an awards ceremony to get to before the FIA starts hunting us down."

My eyes widened. "Shit, you're right." I rushed over to grab my helmet, shoving it back on my head before anyone else could see my face. The visor clicked into place, securing the secret once again.

Lando waggled his eyebrows. "So mysterious."

I smacked his arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"For being you."

"Wow. Rude."

Oscar sighed, already heading toward the door. "Can we please move this along? I'd like to see secret history being made sometime today."

Franco pulled the door open, peeking outside to make sure the coast was clear before gesturing for us to follow.

As we stepped out, Lando leaned in toward me. "Just so you know, Max is gonna be so pissed he lost to a literal ghost driver."I smirked under my helmet. "Then let’s not keep him waiting."

Taglist: @widow-cevans @honethatty12 @wierdflowerpower @imlonelydontsendhelp @thatsnotaddy

[wendichester]

✮⋆˙ coach teague,

summary. there's a new coach in town and suddenly football has become interesting!

pairing. jason teague x reader

wordcount. 459

notes. happy jackles day .ᐟ 🩷

You never cared much for high school football. The roaring crowds, the sweaty players, the constant sound of whistles—it had always been more background noise than anything else. That is, until he showed up.

Jason Teague.

Your brother’s new coach.

Tall, built like he was sculpted from something divine, with a voice that somehow made discipline sound attractive. You noticed him the second he stepped onto the field—whistle hanging around his neck, that confident, easygoing smirk making all the moms and cheerleaders alike swoon.

You should’ve been above it. Should’ve been mature.

But then he rolled up his sleeves one afternoon, revealing forearms that had no right being that distracting, and you decided right then and there—football practice just became very interesting.

And if your brother found it weird that you were suddenly interested in the sport he lived and breathed? Well. That was his problem.

You sit on the bleachers, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes flicker up every time Jason moves. He’s pacing along the sideline, calling out plays, his voice commanding yet warm. The players respond to him with sharp nods, clearly eager to impress him.

Yeah. You get it.

You watch as he steps up behind your brother, claps a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to murmur something encouraging. Whatever he says makes your brother grin.

It’s unfair, really. A guy like Jason? He shouldn’t be able to pull off intimidatingly attractive and genuinely nice at the same time. There ought to be a rule against it.

A sharp whistle blows, signaling the end of practice. The players start scattering, heading toward the locker room, but Jason lingers on the field, chatting with a few stragglers.

You mull over, an internal fight with the voice in your head that tries to push you to stand up and talk to the damn guy. He's only a couple of years older than you anyway. You finished high school. It'd be totally normal. Right? Right?

But your thoughts are cut short when a throat is cleared.

“Miss Harris,” Jason greets, his voice smooth as ever.

Your stomach does a little flip as you look up—God, he’s even more unfairly attractive up close. Slightly sweaty, but in that rugged, worked-hard-today kind of way.

He flashes an easy smile. “Your brother says you're not a football fan.”

You shrug, hoping you look way cooler than you feel. “Think you might be working him too hard.”

Jason’s gaze lingers on yours for a moment, amused, like he sees right through that completely truthful answer.

“Well,” he says, smirking, “we gotta work hard to impress you.”

And just like that, he walks off, leaving you staring after him, heart pounding.

You exhale sharply.

Yeah. You’re so screwed.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

[cheesus-doodles]

More thoughts on Izana and Rindou's BFF, how did bestie deal with or find out about the aftermath of the battle against Toman? How did bestie react to Izana dying and Rindou going to jail once again? and how does Rindou feel about being separated from bestie once again? In canon the Tenjiuku members stayed behind and willingly got arrested, but in this scenario I can't imagine Rindou willingly staying behind and knowing he'd be separated from bestie.

why friend why would you make me think about this ;w; first and only time imma write about this because it's digging into memories in an uncomfortable place...

Rindo Tags | Masterlist

‎

tw: major character death, discussion about death & depression

I actually think that Rindo would willingly stay behind and go to juvenile prison with the rest of the remaining Tenjiku executives after Izana’s death, despite knowing that would mean a separation from you, his BFF.

My reasoning for this is that despite the way Izana has treated his subordinates, I think all the executives hold a lot of respect for the Tenjiku President and look up to him, either as some sort of role model or just in awe of his abilities. So no doubt that Rindo and the other executives would feel a lot of guilt over how they let things get so out of hand with Kisaki’s involvement that it resulted in his death, though I think the person bearing the most guilt would most likely still be Kakucho (after he had recovered), given he already knew how dangerous and poisonous Kisaki had been to Izana's psyche from the start.

Rindo's fraying at the edges at having been dealt so many heavy emotions and events to handle at the same time. Losing Izana was one gut punch, but the realization that he would have to spend even longer away from you - this time without anyone left to protect you on the outside - was another blow Rindo could barely take. The younger Haitani would spend a lot of time stewing over this, the sleepless nights only darkening his eyebags with every passing day, as Ran could barely force Rindo to eat, let alone call you to break the news.

Despite Rindo despising the closeness Izana shared with you, he still respected the tanned boy, and he knew that breaking the news to you would shatter your naive, glowing world, and it would be entirely his fault.

‎

Either way, you would eventually find out about it, one way or another, most likely through seeing Izana’s obituary in the local newspaper. Despite the beef between Mikey and Izana, I think Mikey did really want to reconnect with his long-lost brother, related or not, and the Sanos would treat Izana with the respect that Shinichiro would want him to be treated with. And despite being completely air-headed and naive, seeing who you thought was a good friend staring back at you from the newspaper would be like a punch in the gut. You'll have to reread it again and again, though it still didn't feel real.

Things become even worse when you happen across the article where you find out what really happened, a small blurb about a gang fight that ended with a casualty and a serious injury.

‎ Your world comes crashing down, the whole event leaving you stunned. You couldn't really accept it at first, even a week after the wake and funeral was over. Life went on as normal, you still attended school, ate by yourself, and then went home to struggle through homework, making sure to carve out time to visit Kakucho in hospital and Rindo in juvie. But then it was a regular sunny day after you had just visited Rindo that the sadness and grief began to set in, and you find yourself unable to stop the tears.

Your appetite crashes, and the nightmares became endless, not helped by the fact that Rindo couldn't be with you to scare off the darkness. The paranoia that settled in the base of your gut refused to be shaken, the constant whisper from the back of your head that you would lose Rindo, Ran, Kakucho in the same way.

It haunted your every thought, Izana's pale, lifeless body framed by the coffin, and your nightmares where you would see Rindo's face instead. Every bruise, cut and bandage he showed up with became another gnawing fear. You stopped going to school for a bit, taking a break to try and deal with the grief, to try and heal.

‎

Time does heal some wounds, and you eventually find yourself again, though that innocence lost never comes back. There's always a darkness in those eyes that Rindo couldn't unsee when you visit him, even though your jolly self returns, slowly. You aren't as trusting or open as you used to be, and though you stopped trying to convince Rindo to stop fighting entirely, Rindo notes that you started to track his bruises and injuries, the way your smile becomes more strained and you try to hide your clenched fists when he appears with new injuries.

[technically-a-kiwi]

Soul falling through a fire's tear (C Pep and Maurice's meating rewritten)🌌[Cosmic AU]🌌

Far above our realm, above our sight

The kitchen of creation was empty, only a few bits of cosmic dough and tomato sauce stained the table, looks like the place was abandoned for a quite a long time

Meanwhile, high up in the multiverse

The Chef was looming down over a thousand worlds, looking insistently at one clump of galaxies in particular

"What'cha doin' fatty ?"

The Chef jumped in a start, glowing and blasting a flaming scream at the Host's face

"MIO DIO YOU STUPID GREMLIN, YOU ALMOST MADE-A ME ROAST THE WORLDS AROUND-A ME INTO GALACTIC S'MORES !" blurted the chef, furious with eyes wide

The Host's face was cremated, pure charcoal "Oh please, I barely said four words in inside voices" he replies in a cough " besides, billions of trillions of people die every second in the multiverse, a few trillions more won't change a thing" he concludes rolling his eyes and wiping of the ashes off his face

"Why are you in the middle of the multiverse anyway ? You're trying to be on the next Hubble telescope picture or something ? Or is that one of your other wild strategies to prevent anomalies to form ?" says the Host, chuckling to himself " Ha ! Ya might as well do surgery with a excavator, that's just as safe !" He continues laughing even more

"It's-a none of that" replies the chef in a sigh " I'm looking at something..."

The Host stops, and looks at the chef, raising an eyebrow "You sure about that ? "

The Chef looks at him back, confused

He continues "Because I'm pretty sure this guy is not a something but a someone" he says, pointing at the clump of galaxies the Chef was stairing at, unconfortably close to him

The Host giggles " Well well Mr Pasta, you stalk people now ?" he says teasing the Chef "And I thought you weren't into these kinds of things, that they were unethical and stuff, you changed your mind again ?"

The Chef sweats nervously " w-w- WHAT ?! I'm not stalking !"

The Host brings out a notepad along with a pen, scribbling his every thoughts " Oh this will make a great news title : The cosmic Chef stalks people, finaly stops acting like a smug superior and confirming he is in fact a normal eldricth entity"

The Chef looks even more nervous, loosing shape and brightening up " N- NO DON'T WRITE-A THAT !" he cries, spitting blazes

The Host writes frantically on his notepad, not missing a single information passing through his head " You know, I could first make an article about your constant change of percpective on how you treat the mortal realm, I mean like you always change opinion, first you care, than you don't, than you do and than you don't ? Oh and I'll write about your weird ways and what made you so different from other entities, but everyone already knows you're a wierdo so I don't think it's necessary. Uuuh what else..."

The Chef had enough " STOP ! " he screams, knocking down the Host's notepad with a blazing palm, setting it on fire

" Hey ! My article !" complains the Host, now empty handed and without any idea for his news program

" Serves you well you nuisance," added the Chef, wipping his hands on his apron " leave now, go make-a some disaster somewhere else " he concludes before going back to his activity

" Well that's rude, " says the Host, frowning, hands on hips "what am I gonna do for tonight's show smarta-"

" GO NOW !" screams the Chef, blowing all his anger at him in flames

"Fine fine, jeez..." replies the Host, slowly floating away...

and just as soon comes back on the opposite side of the Chef "But could you tell me why are you stalking this... very... common guy down there ? Looking for a new ingredient for your book of recipe Mr Chef ?" he scoffes

The Chef pushes him away " No, and it's-a none of your buisness, go away." he replies all sterned

And so he waits for the Host to leave...

...

...

The Chef sighs " You won't leave unless I tell-a you why I'm doing this, is that it ? "

"Uh-huh" says the Host, with a very mocking grin

The Chef rolls his eyes... and rubes them" Okay then, if-a that makes you leave..."

"This guy, he's... interesting... somehow " he adds " I feel-a like he's not-a like any other..."

" *chuckles* In what ?" replies the Host "It's just another Maurice Spaghetti version, a very common one in fact"

The Chef shrugs

" Wait," adds the Host, a little curious "let me see in my archives, I'm sure I've got some infos on that guy"

In just a snap, his cigar turns into a very strange phone " Yo! Noise," he yells " get me some infos about that Maurice Spaghetti, the one from universe 100 234 998"

The Host counts down with his hand... three, two, one...

Suddenly, a hands appears out of thin air with a long parchment "There you go sir, woag"

The Host rips the parchment from the hand, and pushes it back into the void "Let me see... Maurice Spaghetti, italo-american, gambling addict, miserable job, recent divorce, single dad, mid life crises, heart desease... "

He thows the partchment away "Yeah, classic miserable guy, there's at least trillions of guys in the multiverse that had it worse, what's so special about him ?" he asks as he grows more interested by this affair

" I-a... I don't know..." replies the Chef, still confused by this sensation "It's as if, his story is...incomplete. I feel-a like something's missing..." he concludes, not very sure if he properly conveyed what he's thinking

The Host waits, and ponders

"... so, it's an anomaly..." he replies

" I-a... I guess ? It feels-a like it, but it's-a not quite an anomaly... " Says the Chef, still not sure of how to describe this... "I've kept a close eye one this-a man, I'm not quite sure of what to do if this degenerates... "

" Delete him, problem solved" says the Host, lighting a cigar

"Ah I thought of this," He replies " but I'm-a not sure if it's safe... It's not like a regular anomaly, the guy is perfectly normal, perfectly linked to his universe, I'm afraid of creating a butterfly effect if I delete him..." he concludes, still thinking about a solution

" Pff, you worry too much, if I was in your place, I'd just delete him and be done" replies the Host mockigly, smoking away his cigar

" We can't all-a be as careless as you " mutters the Chef

" This doesn't-a solve my problem tho..." he continues " what should I do ?"

"Investigate" replies the Host

"That's what I was-a doing before you came " says the Chef

"No," says the Host, hushing the Chef with his finger and getting unconfortably close to his face " investigate from upclose"

The Chef pushes him back " Oh no, terrible idea " he adds, waving his hands to reject the idea

" What do you mean ? You just go, see this guy from up close and get the anomaly corrected, what's wrong with that ?"

The Chef sighs" Yeah sure, let me, a giant blazing-a cosmic entity, walk up to this small-a man, going "hey there piccolito, I'm here because there's-a something wrong with your existence and I might-a need to destroy you in case you degenerate into something that threatens your universe's continuation" No no, the poor-a guy will go into cardiac arreast"

" I do that all the time with my contestances on NNS, and nothing bad happens most of the time" says he Host, giggling

The Chef chakes his head, that's not the way he wants to go...

" Uh, fine..." says the Host, slowly floating away "You know" he adds as he turns back "you're not forced to interact with him, you could always just turn invisible, delete him from existence, or you know, LITERALY just snap your finger to fix everything 'cause you're omnipotent ?" he concludes

The Chef turns his head, ignoring him

"Sut yourself" shruggs the Host before disapearing into a firework spelling "See ya"

The Chef, now alone, thought of a plan...

"I could-a just... snap my finger... and everything will be fine..." he mutters to himself, not sure of what to do

"But if I do, I'll-a never see what was wrong in the first-a place... and I won't know how to fix this anomaly if it happens again !"

"But it isn't an anomaly! I don't even-a know what it is !"

"Why is this happening to this-a man and this universe in particular ? What even is-a happening to him ?"

"Why is he missing-a something ? What is it that he's-a missing"

"And I can't just-a go there ! If I do my fire will-a bring everything to life, I can't-a have conscious cartoon flowers and walls in a sci-fi universe"

"What if nothing is-a wrong, and I break everything because I was too stubborn to look-a for an anomaly ?"

And so, as the Chef's mind slowly floaded with worries, he slowly put himself in even more presure...until

He busted like a teapot

"OH SCREW IT ! I'll-a just go there and wear my hoodie like I always do"

He takes his apron, strechs and rolls it around himself, chifting into a simple gray hoodie

"I go see him, learn a little bit about-a him and see what's missing, simple as that !"

"...R...Right ?"

And so, on top of his cosmic scotter, the Chef goes on his quest to see what is wrong with this so called Maurice Spaghetti, what will he find out ? Will he be able to hold his cover, we will see this on the next story.

TO BE CONTINUED ====>

[midnightshindig]

hii, could you do wife!fem!reader x cecil stedman headcanons? it can be sfw and nsfw if you want. maybe housewife reader? i dont care if it isn´t that way.

i hope you can work with this, pls stay hydrated and sorry for my bad english.

Cecil x Housewife!Reader

You're all good, I am so hydrated and your English is perfectly fine lol

This is an sfw fic with a fem reader who used she/her, thank youuuu

hcs under the cut!

You'd been married LONG before Cecil became head of the GDA

College sweethearts and all that

You were maybe the only normal thing in his life anymore, the only true remnant of his normal past.

Cecil is a WIFE MAN

Proudly wears his wedding band and has a nice photo of you in his office

Of course your name and marital status to him is scrubbed from the internet and government files

but to those in the GDA or the GotG, you're just Y/n Stedman, Mrs. Stedman if you will, Cecil's super cute super sweet wife

You send Cecil to work with food for his coworkers

You KEEP that office fridge stocked

Company parties are the best, you're just such a good cook omg

Everyone gets you stuff for your birthday bc they just adore you

In private, Cecil is a very sweet man

Kissing your knuckles, swaying with you in the living room, all that.

He comes home to you doing the dishes and walks right up behind you, his hands wrapping around your stomach and his chin on your shoulder

"Hey Y/n, how was your day?"

"Better now," you twist your head back to give his cheek a kiss "How was yours?"

He gives a soft smile before leaning into you a little more "Better now."

You probably have a pet of some kind, since any children you do or do not have are well in college by now

A little one, a cat or small dog

Cecil is enthused about the idea of getting you a dog

"It'll keep you safe while I'm gone"

it would be a romantic notion if you weren't under constant protection

but shhhhhh here look at this cute puppy what do you want to name him?

Cecil looooves coming home to seeing you reading a book on the couch

or tending to your flower garden out in the yard

or cooking dinner or painting or playing games with the dog and everything you do while he's gone

Sometimes Cecil comes home to you entertaining guests- usually friends from college or neighborhood women

Still, the two of you are a cute couple and your friends are so amused by him

"Y/n, your husband is such a card!" and things to that effect

Cecil has to teleport a lot for his job, so don't be surprised when he comes home with chocolates from Sweden or cheese or something or some small trinket

He likes giving you shiny things.

Consider him a bit of a magpie, if you will

does that police husband thing where he gives you contraband unable to be returned to villains

"hi honey, I'm home! I brought you a confiscated amulet!"

"Did you get it checked for curses or supernatural things this time? I don't need another trip to the barber-"

"yes, dear, I had them check it."

You come out from the bathroom, adjusting your earring and examining it "Oh it's beautiful!!"

"I thought you would like it, here I'll put it on you-"

And then he takes you to dinner and you're so beautiful and charming

he is a wife guy for sure.

[currentlysleepingus]

Part 2? Of my previous post

The G.I.W.'s influence in Amity Park is almost.....cult like. They teach them to think a certain way and make those who object disappear. What of this started in full force when jazz was in elementary school. She has seen teenagers who objected and spoke up leave the town in body bags if they were lucky. Movements and advancements stopped because of what they G.I.W might do to them if they were found out. The teens leave for college and get taken to facilities for testing while the ones who were more public were turned into crazy people who were in kahoots with the ghosts.

Amity is the most haunted town in the US are you telling me that ghosts didn't exist before the portal. No, they existed just to a lesser scale. Curses and beings lurked everywhere, and the people were fine with that. They lived in content and almost harmony with that. I want to imagine that the town used to produce non humans, and witches and wizards back in the like 1600s or something. I want to imagine that magic is outlawed in Amity. That talk of people like that and to think positively of ghosts and the undead is forbidden. What if Sam's parents don't want her to be goth because some of the Salem witch trails happened there. Because the G.I.W treats those who seem to be connected to witch's and the like far worse, but they couldn't say because the town was under constant servailance.

Anyway, jazz was determined to actually leave the town and start a life, ahead just needed to fake her death and hide her body because the G.I.W are not above keeping amities corpses. The cemetery is empty. She could get a false one, but that'll take too much time. She needs to get in contact with someone from the outside and get a good relationship so they'll notice when she goes missing. That way, she can come back with people and bring Danny.

Anyway Amity park is backwards with ideals out of date so a lot of amities youth think things that are perfectly normal and there is absolutely nothing wrong with are horrible because they were indoctrinated into thinking so. They were raised on it when they were younger because the G.I.W is basically a cult. The town is unter its influence

I'm not bringing religion into it but just make it close to it.

I want danny to feel bad about liking tim. I want tim to reassure him and show him that it is fine. I want gothamites hearing stories about Amity from the kids and immediately getting to work undoing all of the bad stuff that they were taught and making them feel accepted. I want them to show them movements and history, and basically, the teens are discovering themselves while being free for the first time. They aren't being constantly watched and are safe(r) during the siege on Gotham.

I want hurt with comfort. I want tim being furious and calling Wally. I want Wally telling YJ, I want clockwork to drop ghosts and ellie and Dan in Gotham.

I want Dan reformed because that man had been through enough already. He is grieving and in a town like that and spiraling until he ripped out his humanity, tell me he doesn't deserve redemption. Anyway elle meets konnor and they are now best friends slash siblings because danny sees him gets a sticker, writes his logo on it, walks over to him, and puts it over his chest and says" your a Fenton or nightingale now"

Point is everyone is aware of Amity and the anit-ecto acts and does their best to help. The gothamites don't need help with the siege, though, nor do they allow it. It's personal now.

I want Dan to befriend waylon( killer croc) and help him. I want him to go ballistic on the G.I.W. agents who dares enter. I want temporary mayham, I want chaos. I want the villians to help purely because they are the only ones who are allowed to destroy and torture Gotham and her people. The joker and that pig guy stay in arkum, though. So do the other ones like them.

I want jazz changing her plan when she realizes that the youngsters are actually planning on leaving during one of her visits. She left that town as soon as possible but didn't want to leave Danny. Danny thought she was abandoning him, so he didn't talk to her at graduation. He knows that people who leave town don't come back. Tucker, however, does not and made her a private phone as a gift so she can talk to Danny and them. He makes Danny one as well.

Jazz speaks to Danny almost every day when he starts returning her calls. So when danny started to tell her their plan, she was all for it. She came back and acted like she was visiting before pursuing a different degree.

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: I wish we could sleep

pairing: dean redding x cassie hobbes

synopsis: nightmares aren’t unusual for dean and cassie, in fact they’ve been come a very normal part of going to sleep, but surely they couldn’t get any worse… could they??

warnings: trauma, PTSD

a/n: sorry I haven’t been posting a lot 💖💖 thank you so much for reading

taglist: @inmyheaddd @midiosaamor @lyrakanefanatic @aleatorio1234 @maybe-dj124 @book-nerd-emi @maybxlle @foreverwinter22 @sweetreveriee @hermesenthusiast @shattered-glass-roses @gandergaal @sheisntyou @arias-archive @lila-77 @downrightbooks @never-enough-novels @off-to-the-r4ces @bubbleteaandboba @peppapigsposts

They say sharing a bed with someone you love is meant to be something beautiful. Sleepy compliments, early morning kisses, feeling safe in someone’s arms. But for Dean and I sharing a bed with someone you love meant alternating between having nightmares and comforting each other. Some days we even got the pleasure of both experiencing a horror on the same night.

No one could control the subconscious.

Though as of late, mine had been getting easier. My therapist said maybe it was me subconsciously accepting my mother’s fate, I disagreed but wouldn’t tell her that. I would nod and smile and unpack some more unresolved trauma. Apparently I had a lot of it.

In my opinion, my lack of nightmares was from not dreaming at all, my body was so physically exhausted from constant interruptions of my sleep that it had just given up. No doubt as soon as I’d got a required rest to function the nightmares will creep back in, I estimated less than a week.

But Dean’s nightmares had not been getting better. In fact they’d been getting worse, much much worse. He went to see his dad the other week, it was a choice, for the first time. It had nothing to do with a case, no necessity in the action. He just went. I didn’t ask him why, if he’d wanted to tell me he would’ve and if he still wanted to he knew he could.

That didn’t stop the curious girl inside of me from being desperate to know why so I just suppressed her. I had a feeling that the visit was fuelling these ugly dreams.

The first few nights of these new forms of torture, Dean woke up on his own and walked around until he could will himself back to sleep but last couple it’d been worse and he hadn’t been able to sleep at all.

It annoyed me because I was the deep sleeper and he was the light sleeper. It was hard enough for me to wake up from my own troubles let alone be awoken by his. Dean nearly always woke himself up with nightmares and he’d lay there alone, not wanting to wake me because he thought I needed the rest.

No matter how many times I told him, I knew secretly that it’d make no difference. He wouldn’t wake me up. It hurt me to think he’d brace things alone to protect me.

But this night, this night he didn’t have to wake me up. I heard his screams. Jolted upright at the sheer sound.

“Dean?”

My eyes pinned themselves to him. He was drenched in sweat, hair slicked to his forehead, pale faced and fear penetrated. The sight of him made me feel sick.

He shook his head at me breathing heavily. Panic seized my throat and constricted my vocal cords and for a second I didn’t know what to do. His chest rose and fell so aggressively it hurt to look at.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I said, scrambling to sit in front of him, my instincts finally kicking in, “look at me.”

I didn’t touch him, not yet. If he was feeling trapped by something or someone in his mind, my hands wouldn’t be of much help now so instead I let him physically see that I was there.

Instinctively I leant to turn the bedside lamp on, only to stop myself mid-movement. I liked the light on after a nightmare but he couldn’t bear it, he didn’t want to see himself in such a mess. The dark offered him comfort after the storm, so I reeled my hand back.

He was sat, head in his hands, body tight and curled, not wanting to let anyone in.

“Dean?” I said again.

He pressed his forehead further into his palms and exhaled, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, “he’s in my head Cassie, he’s in my head and I can’t get him out.”

I didn’t have to ask who.

At the sound of the discord of notes in his voice alone, my heart screamed. It was rough and laced with pain that I felt aching in my bones. I couldn’t imagine how it felt for him, I didn’t want to.

It was a warped mess of a sentence. The words only killed me further, probably mutilating him from the inside out.

‘He’s in my head Cassie.’

Fury courses through my blood like a flame licking the inner walls of my veins and arteries. I wanted the man sat in that cell to pay for what he knew he had done here. To his son. His child. But what good was my anger to Dean? So instead, I drove the raw emotion into the deep love I have for him.

“He’s not real,” I murmured, slowly, evenly, “it was just a dream, he’s not here.”

I was scared for him and scared of the state he was in. I wanted to take it all away, remove everything that was making him feel like this. I couldn’t bear it. But he didn’t need my fear to deal with right now, he needed a constant and that had to be me.

He was panting, sharp untamed intakes of breath. I gently put a hand on his knee, testing the waters to see if he wanted my touch. He leaned into it and I shuffled closer, now intertwining my fingers with his.

“I’ve got you,” I squeezed his hand, “I’ve got you, breathe.”

I tried to mirror what he’d do for me in this situation. I was too used to being on the receiving end.

“I’m here Dean,” I said softly, “look at me, I’m right here.”

He was still breathing loud enough for me to hear and see the staccato rise and fall of his rib cage.

It wasn’t fair. Someone like Dean didn’t deserve something like this. He was too good, too pure, too sweet. He’d been through so much already, why was the world still on his back? Why was he still weighted by problems he didn’t ever deserve to have? He was a child. A child.

“It’s not real,” I murmured, moving my hands gently up his chest and neck to cup his face in my hands, he’s hot under my touch, dampness still clinging to his skin, “it’s not real I promise you, it’s just a nightmare,” I said quietly, “look at me. I’m real. I’m here. Not what’s going on in your mind.”

“Cassie,” he gasped, clutching his chest with on hand and grabbing my arm with the other.

His knuckles went white.

“Breathe with me Dean,” I said, my voice shaking more than I intended, “please you have to breathe with me.”

“Can’t,” he choked out.

He looked like he was suffocating. Like he was being strangled by invisible hands that had haunted his childhood.

“Focus on me,” I replied more firmly, more desperately, “just me.”

He did. He stopped. He stared at me, enveloped in the darkness.

“Listen to my voice,” I said softly, “feel your fingers in mine,” I interlocked other my hand with his, so I was holding onto both, “look at the colour of my eyes, anything that will help.”

He was silent for a long time and I watched as his eyes roamed my face, as his fingers drew illegible words and confusing images on my arms. I watched as he played with the dried out ends of my hair desperate for a cut and as his fingers trailed down the soft cotton of my pyjama shorts. I watched as he felt my pulse and analysed the rise and fall of my own chest to match it with his own.

The silence went on for a long time but neither of us noticed. His breathing eventually calmed and there was less panic paralysing him. The knot in my own chest was beginning to slowly loosen.

He slipped from my fingertips, away from my touch and into his own. His face retreated to his own hands, head bowed down in some sort of shame.

“Dean,” I said, my voice low but urgent, “Dean.”

Though his breaths were now even, they were also hard and disjointed. He looked as if he were having a silent argument with himself. I wanted to help him through the battle, be by his side when he won the war.

“Why am I like this?” he asked, venom on his tongue all directed to himself.

My heart shattered, as if it had been shot with a machine gun over and over, a thousand tiny holes in the vital organ. Of course he would blame himself. Sweet Dean, kind Dean, gentle Dean would pile the fault as his.

“It’s not you,” I tell him, praying he could hear the way my voice was being ripped in pain.

Dean wouldn’t meet my eye, “why do I let him in?”

“You’re not the problem Dean,” I said tenderly.

“No,” he snapped back, “if I was stronger, if I was better-“

I hated it. I despised that man who felt he had the power to not only hurt his son in the moment but cause him to self-destruct for the rest of his life Dean didn’t deserve that, he would never deserve that. And I couldn’t do anything to change it.

“Listen to me,” I said, a little more firmly, “listen.”

“Cassie…” he trailed off as my hands cupped his cheeks again.

“Your dad isn’t coming back,” I told him, “he never will.”

“But he’ll forever be here, in my mind,” he said, “hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

He tapped his skull.

“Don’t quote him,” I murmured, “it gives him the power Dean.”

He recoiled from my touch looking disgusted in himself, “I’m pathetic.”

“That’s him talking, not you, never you,” I whispered, my voice wobbling, “don’t let him win Dean, you are stronger, you are better.”

Ghosts of feeling danced in his eyes as he stared through me numbly. Something in my chest stung harshly and bled hard and I took him into my arms.

He crumbled.

He let himself crumble into me. Something in a sudden moment all snapped and every tie that was ever tied unravelled into the pile of red ribbon stringing him together. Every time his body shook with a sob a piece of my heart tore away so I only held him tighter. I cradled his broken body into my chest and tried to keep my own tears at bay. I wanted him to feel that I was there, that I wasn’t going anywhere, ever. That his life was now different, that he could now be free.

After a long while he pulled away slowly and sat up. His face looked different, tear stained and red eyed. I wasn’t used to it but it didn’t make it any less beautiful.

“I want it to stop,” he said, his voice rough and ragged, almost gravelly, “I’m driving myself insane Cassie, I need to sleep.”

“I know,” I whispered slowly, brushing the hair from his eyes, “…I know.”

And I did. There’s been many times where I’d been the one breaking down over the same thing in his arms.

“This will get better,” I tell him, still playing with his hair, “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now but it will.”

“How can you be sure?” he winced.

“Well think of where my sleep was three months ago and where it is now,” I replied, “I mean it’s not good but it’s better, even you’ve said that.”

He paused for a long while, playing with his thumbnail, before he looked up at me seriously, “do you think it’s something I’m doing wrong?”

“God no Dean,” I exhaled, “the things you’ve seen are not your fault, the experiences, the people, you had no control over it and I know you think you do have control over it but trust me, trust me Dean,” desperation crept to the back of my throat, making my voice all funny, “when I tell you you didn’t, do you trust me?”

“I do, but Cass I can’t…” he trailed off, the words not right, his emotions too conflicted. For someone so hard to read to others, he was my open book.

“Then let me help you,” I murmured.

He met my eyes and that was all that was needed, no words. The longing, the hope, the craving to be seen, to be heard, to be looked after, to be helped-

“You will never understand your own worth because your nature is too good, too pure,” I began, “but if you could see yourself through my eyes you’d know what I’m talking about. Sometimes I wish you could because Dean you’re such a beautiful human being, in every sense of the word you care so much about the people around you, you’re passionate about the things you love, the people you love. You’re one of the smartest people I know, you’ll happily sacrifice your own happiness for someone else and you have the biggest heart of any person I’ve ever met.”

“Cassie,” he whispered, glossy-eyed.

“I mean would you tell me I was stupid or weak or pathetic if I woke up like this?” I asked him.

Dean shook his head sucking in a shaky breath, “but you’re not me Cassie.”

“You’re right,” I nodded, “you’re better,”

“No, no Cassie-“

“Shhhh,” I smiled, putting my finger to his lips, “you’re good Dean inside and out, you’re kind and you’re gentle and you’re brave and god this list goes on forever.”

A final tear traced the lines of his face, I barely saw it in the dim lighting.

“What did I do,” his voice was low, “to deserve a woman like you.”

“Oh my love,” I murmured, pressing my forehead to his, “you deserve so much more.”

“Never,” he whispered, his breath tickling my face, “never in a million years.”

I locked my fingers into his, our noses almost touching.

“Kiss me,” he begged, in such a low, husky sound I barely heard it, “make me forget it all.”

Make him forget he’s in my head. The unspoken words hung in the empty air.

I gently pressed my lips onto his, a sweet, soft comfort kiss that made my lips tingle for something more. But this wasn’t about me. I pulled away slowly, my eyes lingering on his face but Dean was already looking at me. Staring like I was the moon and stars and all the galaxies combined.

His hand was pressed flat against my back, pushing my body closer into him. He gave the subtlest of nods. I obliged, taking his mouth back into mine. It tasted like the salt of sweat and tears combined, but I didn’t care and nor did he because it was sweetened by the love the licked both our lips from just locking eyes.

His mouth brushed into the corner of my lips, pressing a gentle kiss down that sent a shiver down my spine. I wrapped my arms around his neck and his hand climbing up my waist and pulled me into his lap until my thighs were either side of his hips. I deepened the kiss, moving further into his face, my hands unapologetically grabbing chunks his hair. He made a small sound of pleasure, a low hum from the back of his throat that made butterflies dance in my stomach.

Breathlessly, I pulled away before it could escalate any further. I didn’t want him to get lost in the need for comfort and regret it later. Instead I took him deep into my arms, burying his face into the shallow heat of my own body.

“I love you Dean, every part of you,” I whispered into his hair, “and I’ll never stop, not when the world ends, or if we fall apart, or when you need me for once. I love you, that bit doesn’t go away.”

He didn’t reply and I suspected he may be asleep so I rolled backwards until my head hit the pillow taking him with me. His head pressed up against my chest still and I felt his more even breath.

I ran my finger through his hair, gently coiling around every wave. It was soft and light, making me all the more sleepy.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” he mumbled into me, making me jump. He clearly hadn’t been asleep, “I didn’t want to.”

“I’d rather be awake with you than asleep,” I said gently, “and it’s okay to need me too you know?”

“You’re just getting a sleep routine back,” he replied sluggishly, exhaustion finally catching up on him.

“And you think it won’t be destroyed in a few weeks time by my own nightmares?” I scoffed lightly, letting my head fall deeper into my pillow.

“Still…”

“Dean, you matter more to me than anything else, sleep included,” I said, “I don’t want you to face this alone like you wouldn’t want me to.”

There was a beat of silence. Maybe the realisation that he couldn’t argue with that.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Do you want to try and sleep now?” I asked, “just for a bit.”

He shifted, looking up at me with those dark irises that left me tongue tied, “the nightmares will come back,” he murmured, face so innocent it reminded me of a scared child, the scared child he probably once was.

“That’s okay,” I told him gently, “we’ll face them together if they do.”

I trailed my fingers softly up and down the back of his neck, like he had done for me when I’d been hysterical. I felt my eyes begin to close and my movements slow down, I was desperately trying to fight sleep but control was slipping easily through my fingers.

“Don’t leave,” Dean mumbled, sounding half asleep himself.

“When have I ever,” I whispered back, before sleep took us both in his arms and we slept through the rest of the night.

a/n: as soon as I finished I realised should’ve written it in dean’s pov 😭😭 but rgwudjhejd oh well

hope you enjoyed 🤭🤭

the naturals masterlist

[earthlybeam]

Cirdan, Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir version below. (You the reader are their spouse and Gender-Neutral Reader.)

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

The soft glow of lanterns flickered in the dimly lit chamber, their golden light casting long shadows across the smooth elven-crafted wood. The scent of the sea drifted through the open window, mingling with the faint aroma of aged parchment and the subtle salt of the wind—a constant companion in the Grey Havens. The distant crash of waves upon the shore was a familiar lullaby, one you had come to love in the years of your marriage to Círdan.

Tonight, however, the sea was not the only thing awaiting him. You stood near the large, intricately carved bed, your fingers idly tracing the delicate lace of the red garment you wore. The fabric was unlike anything you usually adorned, sheer and intricate, clinging in ways that left little to the imagination yet carried an elegance befitting the spouse of the Shipwright. The deep crimson stood in striking contrast to the cool silver and blue tones of the chamber, a bold and daring departure from the usual. The door creaked open.

Círdan entered, moving with the steady grace of an elf who had lived for countless ages. His long silver hair, slightly windswept from the evening air, framed his face in soft waves, and his piercing, ancient eyes—eyes that had seen empires rise and fall—were tired, though not without warmth. His robes, adorned with the symbols of the Grey Havens, were slightly disheveled from a long day’s work, the weight of duty still lingering upon his broad shoulders.

He was halfway into the room before he noticed you. His steps slowed. His keen gaze, accustomed to reading the tides and discerning the wisdom of the ages, took you in with a rare flicker of surprise. For a moment, he simply looked, his lips parting slightly, his normally serene expression shifting to something unreadable. Then, he exhaled, low and steady.

“My heart,” Círdan said at last, his voice deep and resonant, tinged with something softer—something that was reserved only for you. “You are…” His words trailed off, and he stepped closer, his sea-worn hands reaching to brush against the lace at your hip, his fingers reverent as if touching something fragile, sacred. A slow smile, rare and warm, curved his lips. “You surprise me,” he murmured, his voice like the tide—calm on the surface, yet carrying depths unseen. “And yet, I should have known you would.” His touch lingered, tracing patterns over the fabric, his eyes never leaving yours. “Red suits you.”

The compliment was simple, yet the weight behind it sent warmth blooming in your chest. You tilted your head playfully. “Do you approve, my love?” Círdan let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rare but rich. He lifted a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering at the curve of your jaw before trailing down, mapping the shape of you with the slow, deliberate patience of a shipwright admiring his finest work.

“I am an elf of great patience,” he said, his tone thoughtful, teasing. “But I fear you test it most exquisitely.” His other hand settled at your waist, pulling you gently against him. “And after such a long day…” He exhaled, his breath warm against your skin. “You undo me, my beloved.” There, in the quiet sanctuary of your chambers, the weight of the world—the tides of time, the calls of duty, the long years of waiting—fell away. Tonight, the Shipwright had no need of ships or foresight. He needed only you.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸��𝓪𝓼

The moon hung high over Mirkwood, its silver glow seeping through the intricately carved windows of Legolas’ bedchambers. The soft rustling of leaves outside and the occasional distant murmur of the night creatures were the only sounds that filled the air. You stood in the center of the room, anticipation humming beneath your skin, wrapped in nothing but delicate red lace that contrasted beautifully against the candlelit glow of the chamber.

Legolas had been gone for hours, tending to his duties as prince, and you knew how much the weight of responsibility could pull at him. He always carried himself with grace, but even he was not immune to exhaustion. Tonight, you wanted to give him something different—something to pull him away from the thoughts of diplomacy and duty.

The moment you heard the faintest footfall outside the door, your heart quickened. The heavy wooden door swung open with a whisper, and there stood Legolas, the very picture of regal elegance. His travel-worn tunic clung to his lean frame, and strands of golden hair had come loose from his warrior’s braids, falling messily around his face. His keen blue eyes, ever so sharp and perceptive, landed on you—and immediately, they widened.

He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness, his usual graceful composure faltering for just a moment as his gaze traveled over you. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply stared, his hands hovering slightly at his sides as if unsure where to reach first. “You seem tired, my love,” you murmured, your voice softer than the candlelight flickering around you. Legolas finally exhaled, his expression shifting from surprised admiration to something deeper—something unreadable yet entirely consuming. “And yet,” he said, his voice barely above a breath, “I feel as though I have been given new life…I’m not as tired now.”

A slow, appreciative smile ghosted over his lips as he stepped closer, one hand finally lifting to touch you. His fingers traced delicately along the lace at your waist, reverent, almost hesitant, as though he feared this was some dream he would wake from too soon. “You are…” He trailed off, searching for the right words, his Elven eloquence failing him for once. He swallowed and tried again, his voice softer now, filled with something unspoken but utterly felt. “Exquisite.”

His other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin, and the way he looked at you made warmth spread through your chest. There was something in his gaze—more than desire, more than admiration. It was love, deep and unwavering. “You wear the red of the setting sun,” he murmured, tilting his head as if to study you further. “And yet, you glow as if you are Ithil itself.” His voice carried that Elven poetry, words woven with meaning only he could craft so effortlessly.

You chuckled, leaning into his touch. “I wanted to surprise you.” Legolas let out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, his hands sliding down to your waist, drawing you closer. “You have done more than that, meleth nîn,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss just above your brow before his lips found their way lower, ghosting over your temple, then your cheek, before finally hovering just above your own.

His breath mingled with yours as he whispered, “Shall I show you how much I have missed you?” His lips met yours then, slow at first, savoring the taste of you as though he wished to memorize the moment. His hands, once hesitant, now traced the delicate fabric along your spine, fingers pressing into you as if trying to ground himself in the reality of your presence. The night stretched ahead, long and full of whispered words, gentle caresses, and the quiet hum of love spoken not in Elvish poetry but in the language of touch.

⚔️𝓔𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓷

The flickering glow of candlelight bathed the chamber in a warm, golden hue, casting shadows against the intricately carved wooden walls. The scent of lavender and cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of leather and steel from Elladan’s armor. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its embers glowing like distant stars. You sat perched on the edge of the grand bed, adorned in red lace, the delicate fabric tracing over your skin like whispered promises. The rich color stood in stark contrast against the silken sheets beneath you, catching the low light in a way that made the intricate patterns all the more enticing. The air was thick with anticipation as you awaited his return, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

The sound of boots against the stone corridor sent a shiver of excitement through you. A moment later, the heavy wooden door swung open, revealing Elladan standing in the doorway. His dark hair was tousled from the long day, stray strands falling into his striking grey eyes, which widened the moment they landed on you. His usual air of exhaustion was instantly replaced with something far more primal, far more awake.

His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching before he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate slowness. He remained still for a moment, drinking in the sight of you as if memorizing every detail. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for you immediately. “Well…” His voice, usually laced with teasing amusement, was now thick with something deeper, huskier. “And here I thought I would return to my chambers only to collapse into bed with nothing but exhaustion. It seems you had… other plans.”

You tilted your head, watching him with playful patience, your fingers tracing idly along the lace at your thigh. “You always return home looking so tired,” you murmured, your voice soft yet purposeful. “I thought I might provide a distraction.” Elladan exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he took slow, measured steps toward you. His gaze never wavered, fixed on you with an intensity that made your heartbeat quicken. When he finally stood before you, his hands found your waist, fingertips ghosting over the fabric as if testing whether or not you were truly there.

“A distraction, you say?” His voice was lower now, laced with something dangerously affectionate. His hands trailed up your sides, over your ribs, before one slid to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline with exquisite slowness. “You are far more than that. Do you have any idea what you do to me, seeing you like this?” You chuckled, tilting your face up to meet his, reveling in the warmth of his touch. “I was hoping you might show me.”

That was all the invitation he needed. Elladan leaned in, his lips ghosting over your cheek before trailing down to the pulse point at your throat, his breath hot against your skin. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand traced down your back, fingers playing with the delicate lace teasingly. “You are dangerous,” he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with something between amusement and reverence. “Wicked, even. But I would not have you any other way.”

His lips captured yours in a kiss that was slow yet possessive, a silent promise woven between every movement. His hands explored the lace with agonizing patience, mapping out every inch of the fabric that separated you from him. The tension in his body melted away, exhaustion forgotten as his focus shifted entirely onto you. After a long, lingering kiss, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes dark with something unspoken. His fingers trailed over your shoulder, toying with the delicate strap of your lingerie.

“You wore this just for me,” he mused, his voice thick with emotion. “How fortunate I am.” His forehead rested against yours for a brief moment, his breath mingling with yours before a smirk tugged at his lips once more. “I do hope you are prepared, my love,” he murmured, voice dripping with mischief. “For I am not nearly as exhausted as I thought.” And with that, Elladan proved just how grateful he truly was.

⭐️𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓱𝓲𝓻

The door creaked open, a whisper against the silence of the dimly lit bedchamber. You had waited patiently, anticipation thrumming beneath your skin, listening for the familiar cadence of Elrohir’s footsteps in the corridors beyond. Now, as he entered, the candlelight flickered across his tired yet sharp features, his dark hair still damp from the evening air. His tunic hung loosely over his frame, the weight of the day evident in his posture.

He exhaled softly, pulling his gloves from his hands before running his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t until he turned fully into the room that he finally saw you—standing near the bed, bathed in the golden glow of the fire, clad in nothing but red lace. Elrohir stilled. His sharp Elven eyes, ever watchful, swept over you in slow, deliberate assessment. Surprise flickered first, a momentary widening of his silver-grey gaze, before something darker, something far more primal, took its place. His lips parted slightly, as though words were poised to form, but none came. Instead, his expression shifted—hunger, warmth, possession.

“You,” he finally murmured, voice low and thick like honeyed wine. The single word was laced with exhaustion, yes, but also something deep and aching—longing. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you tilted your head, letting the delicate lace whisper against your skin as you shifted slightly. “A long day?” you mused, your voice smooth, teasing.

Elrohir took a slow step forward, then another, his movements graceful despite the weight of his burdens. His gaze never wavered, drinking in every detail—how the red lace contrasted against your skin, the way it clung to you in all the right places, how the firelight danced in your eyes. When he finally reached you, his hands came up to frame your face, fingers calloused but reverent as they traced along your jaw. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his touch achingly tender despite the intensity in his gaze.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. He let his hands trail down, skimming over your shoulders, your sides, a featherlight touch that sent shivers racing through you. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours even through the thin barrier of lace. “Perhaps I do,” you teased, tilting your chin up in challenge.

A sharp breath left him, almost a laugh, before his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him was intoxicating, his scent—pine, leather, and something distinctly Elrohir—filling your senses. “You are wicked,” he murmured against your ear, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. “And I have spent all day in duty, in restraint, in patience.” His voice dropped, thick with promise. “Do you intend to test me further?”

Your smirk widened as you traced a teasing path down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitched under your touch. “Would you prefer I waited for another night?” His answer was immediate. “No,” he growled, hands tightening, his control snapping like a taut bowstring. “Not another moment longer.”

And then, Elrohir claimed you—his lips pressing to yours in a kiss that was both tender and searing, his hands sliding over lace and skin with equal reverence and hunger. Whatever exhaustion had plagued him moments ago was forgotten, burned away in the fire of his need for you. Tonight, you were his sanctuary. His home. And he would worship you as such.

[whatonearthisgoingon]

I agree with this so much! GiyuuSane is much more canonically feasible than SaneGiyuu, based on the characters trauma, personalities, etc.

So why is SaneGiyuu so much more popular than GiyuuSane? (A little rant I've had in my head for a while, but haven't had something to prompt it and post it).

I think that's partially because as a society, we see one partner (normally the male) typically doing all the protecting, the providing, the date planning, the one in charge in bed, etc., and the other (normally the woman) is the weak person who can't do anything but be saved by the man, do dishes and laundry, and be pampered and thrown around; the damsel in distress.

The other version of this in media and society, is one partner being only focused on themselves and their needs (traditionally the male), and the other (typically the female) dropping everything about themselves for the other person.

I've always hated that aspect in media, with all couples. I hate it in real life, where one partner does everything and the other does nothing. But whether I hate it or not, it exists.

But because we are flooded and overwhelmed by this dynamic in couples so often, when it comes to non-canon homosexual couples, a certain phenomenon often occurs.

The stronger man/woman in the relationship is automatically put in that straight male position of the protector, and the weaker one, in the position of the helpless damsel, no matter how their dynamic or canon character actually is.

So when it comes to Sanemi's and Giyuu's relationship, following those straight couple archetypes, since Sanemi is ranked (one spot 🙄) higher than Giyuu in overall strength, he's automatically put in that man role, and Giyuu in the female one, despite this being absolutely unhealthy for their dynamic, as OP states.

Because of this, in the KNY fandom, with the help of Sanegiyuu, Giyuu has become this depressed emo sad boy who hurts himself, and cries because one person says they don't like them; a damsel who can only cry and be saved, despite the fact he is one of the best fighters in the corps, is a very stoic man, and can very much take care of himself, to the point (as OP says) he doesn't let people take care of him anymore.

At the same time, Sanemi's anger problems are multiplied 10fold in the fandom, along with his hate for Giyuu, with his canon irritation over Giyuu's 'I'm different than the rest of you' attitude, turning into an abusive hatred, where he's physically assaulting Giyuu, telling him to khs, etc. And this is all liked because toxic bully & victim to lovers is so "cute and sweet" (Promoting the same heterosexual abuse seen in many medias [dark romance], just gayly.)

Now, does this mean that I think Sanemi should be the depressed emo sad boy that needs constant saving? No. I think the exaggerations of both characters are unhealthy, and wouldn't be any healthier swapped. But I do think he needs that comfort and protection more than Giyuu does. And Giyuu needs to feel like he is protecting and helping someone, more than Sanemi does.

Giyuusane does make much more sense. However, because of the media that is projected to society, Giyuusane will most likely never be more popular than Sanegiyuu. Giyuusane lovers will just have to hope as more manga turns into anime, and we see more of Giyuu in combat, the "weak baby Giyuu" stereotype goes away.. 😔

Giyuu spend his whole life being protected, while Sanemi spend his whole life protecting.

(I'm sorry I have really bad grammar. I wish I wrote all that I had in my head but my stupid ass forgets and can't line them up😭)

They both hate to worry. Giyuu having to worry about people dying having to protect him, while Sanemi hating to worry about people dying in his protection.

Tsutako and Sabito dying to protect Giyuu, Giyu hates being protected, so he tries to not get too attached to people, and too scared to love because he fears they will die, one way or another.

Sanemi's whole family died, and he tried his best to protect his siblings but failed miserably. And him trying to protect Genya by trying to kick him out of the demon slayer corps so he doesn't die on mission. "I wanted you marry someone and have the family we never had." while Sanemi would protected them. Yet, Genya dies as well because he couldn't protect him. (Genya please marry me, I'd be an amazing wife. Sanemi, arrange us.) Sanemi also couldn't protect Masachila from lower moon one on their mission.

Another reason why SaneGiyu wouldn't work.

Giyuu wouldn't allow Sanemi to protect him, if he did, they would both worry their asses off, because they are back to square one, same shit again. It would have been really unhealthy for both. That's why, GiyuSane makes more sense. Trying something new is better then doing the process all over again, same burden, same struggles.

I can see Giyuu big spooning when they sleep together at night, because he worries. What if someone snuck in? What if they try to kill them? Giyuu would big spoon to protect Sanemi, by being the closer target. He'll be the one willing to die first for his loved ones. But Sanemi is like that too? He wouldn't allow it? Sanemi is stubborn, but so is Giyuu. It would be more comfortable AND healthier for Sanemi to be the little spoon then Giyuu. Sanemi experienceing protection is something he needs, and subconsciously wants, but hates to be vulnerable. To finally let his guard down and be vulnerable with someone he loves and trusts. So when Giyuu offers that protection and refuses Sanemi's protection, Sanemi won't have to do the same thing he did all his life, he will now receive something he never had growing up, till now.

In Sanemi's eyes, everyone he protects dies, and in Giyuu's eyes, everyone who protects him dies. They both fear getting too attached to people, so they become these personalities that use bad interactions to be distant, in self defense so they wont lose anyone else. So alike yet so different. So them, switching the roles which got them in this depressive state, is healthier for them.

Another reason why GiyuSane is more in character and healthier then SaneGiyu. Where in SaneGiyu, they won't move on from their trauma. Unhealthy, toxic, and horrible for the both of them.

[moeblob]

explaining to a coworker I don't socialize out of work bc of The Anxiety. then later explaining why i have gray in my hair.... it's... still The Anxieties...... goin' gray since my early 20s........

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[idiotsdayparade]

i miss my cat so fucking bad i feel like i'm going crazy

[prlssprfctn]

Jason, who starts gaslighting his family members by saying that All Blades were always a thing and that they just didn't take him seriously, once they found out about it.

Bruce, frustrated: If you yielded a magical sword in the past, I would know, Jaylad.

Jason: Jesus fucking Christ, I told you, I don't use it often, since it uses my soul. But I did mention that I have it!

Dick: You did not!

Jason: I said that Robin gives me magic! I said I *am* magic!

Bruce: That's—

Dick: But—

Bruce and Dick, turning to Damian helplessly: Your verdict?

Damian, who got already paid by Jason (price was two sneaked in rabbits): That's true. Mother said Todd had always had them. He only ever was sent to All Caste because he needed to be taught how to use it correctly. Didn't Dulcra say that you were the chosen one, Todd?

Jason, intentionally irritated: Exactly! Thank you.

The rest of the family: ●○●

Bruce, sitting in the Cave, in the middle of his 300th existential crisis: I— If Jason is the chosen one, was I technically wrong in our argument?

Dick: ...I can't believe that this is what takes you to accept that you were wrong, and not the fact that— Dunno, he is your son— And you kinda failed him—

Tim: On the more important note, should we call Jason Harry Potter now or something?

Stephanie, snickering: Jason... You are a wizard!

Bruce, sniffling: He did like these books as a child. Perhaps it was his way to try to tell us the truth.

Dick: Damn... Once we were arguing, and I told him that he had no magic... How foolish I was.

Jason, pressing phone to the shoulder, while cooking: ...And now they are staring at me, like I am about to do the whole Enchantix transformation, lol

Talia: I admit, that's amusing. Damian did a great job at supporting this circus.

Ra's voice on the background: Enchantix? What is it? Had that boy found ANOTHER magical device plot?!

Talia: ...Do you think I am too old to pull the same move you did on my father?

Jason: Nah, it is never too late to trick your dad. Get his ass.

Talia: You are absolutely correct.

Talia, screaming to Ra's: He did, father. It is related to the constant cycle of being brought back alive.

Jason, turning around to Damian, who is playing with rabbits on his couch: Prepare, little gremlin. You are about to testify falsely again, this time to your grandfather.

Damian, snorting: Two golden fish and one parrot.

Jason: I will warn your mother.

Tim, with Excel Chart open: Okay, so we figured out that he has All Blades, strange version of immortality, quick recovery thanks to Pit... What other magic Jason can have we don't know about it yet?

Cassandra: Cooking?

Stephanie: ...I think he is just a normal person, Cass.

Dick: NO, no, listen, it is one thing to cook normally, another to be trusted by Alfred.

Duke: ...You are reaching, guys. I think he is just a good chief.

Bruce: He always makes me laugh.

Tim: That's not— B, no one laughs, but you, so what kind of magic power is that?!

Duke: Listen, y'all, what if he sees ghosts?

Everyone: (pauses)

Stephanie, hitting Tim on the shoulder: WRITE IT DOWN, WRITE IT DOWN—

Tim: I am putting it in the "unclear" column, but good idea, dude.

Alfred, glancing at all of this sceptically: Dear Lord, this family is not your brightest soldiers...

[fushitoru]

finish her! a toji fushiguro oneshot

pairing ⸺ wrestler!toji x reader

summary ⸺ you will have to face one of the most formidable wrestlers in history in your next match: toji fushiguro. but don't be confused, this isn't normal wrestling⸺no, it's nude wrestling. and winner gets the spoils of the other's body! (extended ver of my toji drabble here) creds to @/reynisxxsimart on twitter for art!

warnings ⸺ nasty, NASTY smut, VERY public sex, WWE but pornhub edition, you’re a wrestler fighting toji, so some violence but nothing graphic, fem!reader, HUMILIATION, degradation, you're literally fucked in an arena of people, p in v sex, unprotected sex, spanking, oral sex (f! recieving), boobplay, very inaccurate depiction of wrestling/WWE, not edited we die like toji

a/n im going to sit in the corner and think about what i just wrote

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

the muffled sounds of the crowd’s deafening roar seem to swirl in the space around you, each cheer vibrating through your chest like distant thunder. you take a long, cool sip of water, a welcome contrast to the warm air backstage. lounging back, you let the chair support your weight, your muscles still humming with the residual tension of anticipation. utahime’s fingers work into your shoulders, and her voice filters through the buzzing atmosphere, calm and steady as she gives you a rundown of the night ahead, though her words seem to blur slightly at the edges—just background noise to the constant hum of adrenaline.

“in front of a crowd—do you understand? and the rules are no fucking, unless all clothes are off first.”

“right,” you affirm, albeit hesitantly. you’re feeling a bit jitterish in anticipation of what’s to happen, despite having trained months to hone your ability as a wrestler. look, wwe itself can get really suggestive at times, with people giving wedgies, removing certain articles of clothing, or even letting the crowd cop a feel of the defeated to serve as humiliation. not only does it improve publicity, but it also increases viewership of all the horny bastards on the internet to circle the televised clip around in their subreddits or discord servers.

but what you were going to do today—that was a bit…extreme. it was like bridging the gap between soft core and hard core, with the humiliation turned up to a hundred. because today, you were going to wrestle the man that all female–and male–wrestlers could even dream of having their hands on, even if for a slight moment.

toji fushiguro.

a man of impressive build—entering a ring with him only meant defeat. he’s had numerous career wins, far exceeding any other. hell, you shouldn’t even be matched to wrestle with him today; he outweighs and outranks you by far. the only thing you really have running for you is the sheer amount of fans you have, ready to tune in to your fights and edit your moves and time spent in the fighting ring to songs like “chun li” and “maneater.” so, sure, you don’t exactly anticipate a win today in that stadium that’s waiting for you, but you’re no less of a wrestler in your own right. you won’t go down without a fight.

however, today was no normal fight. the wwe had suddenly decided that their viewership was too low, that extreme measures needed to be taken to boost. so, ironically enough they had decided to change the rules just before your momentous match:

all wrestlers must consent to having all and any articles of clothing removed from their person, particularly for sexual intercourse as a reward for the winner.

so, WWE (Pornhub’s Version) (In The Vault). 

and your luck dictated that this paradigm shift for the organization occur just before your most anticipated match with toji. again, you knew that no amount of training could prevent you from getting utterly humiliated, but it was almost like the gods were laughing down on you, eager to rub in your impending defeat once more. because you were going to get your shit fucked up—-literally.

“it’s going to be fine,” utahime assures you, and you snap back to the present from your thoughts at the sound of her voice. “just think about the publicity this’ll get you! not that you don’t have any fans of yourself, but there are going to be a lot of people tuned in because of fushiguro.”

you take an inhale in and nod. “yea, that’s true. i just want to get it over with.”

as if answering your prayers, gojo satoru, the mc, burst into your dressing room. “it’s your time to shine, buttercup!” he grins, ushering you out the door. albeit a bit nervously, you stand up and make your way into the hallway that leads directly into the middle of the arena. “you’re going to do great!”

as soon as you walk closer and closer to the arena, the screams get louder and louder, the music booming and causing the floor under you to vibrate. the sounds of people surround all your senses, wrapping you up and causing your heartbeat to go faster and faster. 

reaching the end of the hallway, the arena is filled with light, and you have to blink to get a hold of your sight. surrounding the center boxing ring are stands upon stands of people, hustling and bustling. at the sight of you, cameramen stationed around in various spots through the arena furiously angle their cameras towards you. not only are journalists and the media snapping pictures, blinding you with the flash, but you see yourself displayed on the big screens visible to everyone in the arena. you smile and wave, causing your fans to scream as they register that you have walked in. 

then, a realization washes over you. these are the same screens that are going to be projected whatever's going to happen during the fight and when you lose.

oh god.

you walk forward, trying to keep up your smile and wave to all of your fans that outstretched their hands, trying to cop a feel and/or get a high five. most of your fans are male (to no one's surprise), and you can feel their eyes roving over you appreciatively, taking in your outfit. it was simple and tight; shorts that just barely covered your ass and was snug around your hips, and a low cut top that couldn't even be called a top. your cleavage was on full display, and the top stopped just below your waist. typically, this is your wrestling attire you wear to a normal match, but you couldn't help but wryly notice that today, your neckline was cut lower than usual. the wwe was really trying to milk this, huh?

you stood just below the boxing ring, eyes anxiously scanning the arena, unconsciously searching for the man you were set to fight. but no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't spot his tall, muscular figure either in the ring or in the seat he was supposed to occupy with his manager.

a light tap on your shoulder startled you, and you turned to find utahime behind you, a concerned look on her face. "everything alright?"

"yeah," you said, waving her off with a forced smile. "but where is he?"

utahime pointed toward the boxing ring, and then you saw it—a glimpse of black hair.

"alright," you said, swallowing nervously. "i'm heading into the ring. wish me luck."

"wait!" utahime called out, but you were already too far to hear her. gripping the ropes at the edge of the ring, you hauled yourself up and strode toward the center, determined to get a better view. and there, just on the far side of the ring, hidden from your previous angle, was toji fushiguro.

he was lounging back, relaxed, his posture almost lazy as he faced his manager, shiu kong. you couldn’t see toji's face from this angle, but his body language indicated that he was the epitome of ease. shiu was saying something to him, and from your best attempt at lip reading, you could just make out the words, "don't break the rules today."

toji, on the other hand, didn't seem to be looking at him (giving 0 fucks, something so classically toji), focusing now towards the big screens everyone else saw in the arena. you turned your gaze towards them as well, only to be taken aback when it was you, a compilation of your best moments in the ring, narrated by gojo.

“and today, fellas, we’re going to see the bombshell y/n—the maneater, as coined by her fans—-competing! while her opponent is fushiguro, don’t be fooled—she can pack a mean punch. look at this fight with mei mei; she sweeped the floor with her face!” 

satisfied, you looked around, the arena bustling with people getting drinks, being enraptured with your fight on the screen, or pointing at you or toji. toji, on the other hand, was chuckling and shaking his head at your fight, observing as you gave the bitch mei mei a wedgie. which kind of made you flustered, because you had developed a crush on the guy observing him from afar or in passing, so you just focused on shaking out your legs and arms in nervousness.

gojo similarly announced toji’s fights and compilation, gassing him up for the crowd and it was then that toji finally turned around, uninterested in whatever was going on, and caught your eye. you stared back, breath held involuntarily. 

his eyes had a predatory glint to them, and he smiled, charmingly in a way that showed off his scar, and they scanned up and down your figure, taking in what you were wearing—or rather, letting his imagination run. nervously, your heart sped up as you clenched your thighs up in anticipation or anxiety, you couldn’t choose which, as your mind began running at the speed of light thinking about what was going to happen today.

today, you weren’t only going to wrestle toji fushiguro. you were going to fuck him.

but you’re jolted out of your thoughts as gojo’s obnoxious voice blares through the speakers. “give it up for thee wwe goat, toji fushiguro!”

screams reach an all time high as his smirk is broadcasted to the audience, biceps bulging and flexing as he heaves his way up on the ring, joining you. he waves lazily, roars at an all time high as he stalks his way to you, and you squeeze your nails into your palm out of nervousness.

when gojo announces your name, the male screams rise up in volume, causing you to giggle and fushiguro to roll his eyes from what you can see in the corner of your eye. you give a dainty wave, choosing to wink and blow a kiss to the camera in front of you, causing your fans to scream even louder.

“you sure got a lotta fanboys, darling.” you jump as toji has now bent down to whisper in your ear, literally sending shivers down your spine.

you force out a laugh. “and you're at no shortage of fangirls yourself, fushiguro.”

he gives you a nonchalant hum, assuming his original position. as gojo continued to yap about the stakes of the round today, the recent rule change, a referee walked over to you both, coming in closer so that you would be able to hear him over the chaos of the arena.

“so, you’re both aware of the rules, right?” he both looked at you, to which you nodded and toji’s smirk widens. “you gotta get the other’s clothes completely off, and the first one to do that wins.”

you gulp, eyeing what toji was wearing today. it was his signature garb, the one he wore to almost every match without fail: grey pants with various sponsorships sewed on, and a black compression shirt. it was definitely very minimal compared to what a lot of the other wrestlers wore, but it was iconic, giving him a lazy, laid back aura that no other wrestler could truly emanate.

it wasn’t anything hard to take off in particular.

both of you affirmed your consent to the referee, who then took a step back after wishing you both good luck.  you turned, facing toji face on, who had his hand on his hip. “try to last long, okay?” he smirks, patting your shoulder with his other hand. “i’ll try to drag this out as much as i can, but it’s gonna be fuckin hard if that ass is grinding against me.”

you glare, but there isn’t much intensity to it because you know he’s much stronger than you. there isn’t much to get angry about. “yea, yea,” you huff. “for all i know, you’ll be my personal dildo today.”

he barks out a laugh and looks at the referee, who has one hand raised, the other one poised on his whistle, ready to blow and start the round. it’s starting soon. then, he looks back to you and smiles. “let the games begin.”

the referee blows the whistle.

at once, you launch yourself towards toji, trying to jump on him to get him off his feet with your weight. instead, he dodges easily and leaves you hurtling towards the floor, making you poise yourself on your hands and feet upon impact. you roll over just as toji tries to tackle you and pin you against your original position on the floor and quickly get up.

however, as you’re steadying yourself on your feet, toji grabs your ankle, causing you to lose your balance and giving him the advantage to pin himself on top of you, his mouth breathing heavily next to your ear, whispering so it was just the two of you that could hear his words. “what do you think i should take off first?” he laughs deeply, the vibration causing you to shiver and try to squirm to get out of his hold, to no avail. “should it be these?” he snakes his hands down to grope your tits, giving them a firm squeeze, much to the arena’s pleasure. “or should i take these off of you?” he slaps your ass, making you blush furiously.

“fuck you,” you hiss as his hands catch on the edge of your shorts.

he gives you a sweet, small kiss on your temple. “don’t worry, baby,” he smiles. “you’ll be doing that anyways.” and with that, he pulls at your shorts until the waistband’s elastic rips, leaving your shorts in tatters until he throws the remains of it away, baring your panty-covered ass to the crowd, which immediately grows wild.

you crane your neck to look at the screen, which is currently focused on toji’s hands feeling up your ass, dipping inside your underwear to knead the flesh. your heart is pounding, the thought i need to get the upper hand flashing continuously across your mind. it’s almost as if you’re drowning, the noises of the crowd blurring together until it was only you and toji’s weight on you. you barely heard the announcer exclaim, “toji is currently in the lead!” as you focused on calculating your next move.

it was time to pull out all the stops. 

turning your head until you were making eye contact with him, you bit your lip, momentarily distracted him with the 180 turn of your actions, now nonchalant rather than the flailing you were doing earlier. then, you raised your hips, meeting your backside with his crotch in an effort to catch him off guard and to make him lose balance. then, you maneuvered yourself so your thighs surround toji’s waist and hump your hips against his bulge. this momentarily distracted and weakened toji, and you take full advantage of it by overtaking him and now straddling him. you quickly take off his shirt, salivating at the muscles you see. the whole stadium, in fact, can see his abs and pecs glistening with sweat.

smirking while peering down at him, you slowly grind your hips as if you were riding a mechanical bull, making a show of spinning around his shirt with your hand to mock him. toji’s eyes darken, but a mirthless smile flashes across his face anyways. “damn, take me out to dinner first.”

you flash him one of your own humorless smirks, happy that you got at least one thing against him. “i don’t fuck anyone before the first day, honey. this is just another cheap fuck.” with that, you yank his head back with his hair roughly, making a show of motorboating his pecs, as if to mock him.

instead of getting angry, he chuckles darkly. “you’re going to regret that. i was going to drag this out, princess, but i gotta fuck the brat out of you.” with that, he spins you around just as quickly—if not quicker—pinning you against the ground with your hands held above your head in one hand in a vice grip, the other groping its way down your body. he buries his face in your neck, salaciously licking the length of it. with his free hand—now stationed around your tits—he grabs at the hem of your top, pulling it up so everyone could see your lace bra. mockingly, he plants his face in the middle of your tits, moving his head side by side to motorboat you just as you had done to him, the soft plush of your tits encompassing his face.

the crowd cheers, even more so than they had when you had ripped his shirt off, as toji completely rips the top off as you squirm, making the removal even easier for him. you can feel all eyes on you as toji reaches for the clip of your bra, unhooking it and making your tits pop out. helplessly, you look at the screen, your writhing making them move in a jiggling motion, sweat shining and giving you the “oiled-up” look. he takes a moment to grope them, your whines ignored as he pinches your nipples. “what a sensitive girl,” he coos. “too bad she was too weak. now she’s going to have to take my cock.”

with that, he teasingly closes the distance between the waistband of your panties and his teeth, mouth snagging on the elastic. slowly, he drags them down, unveiling your glistening pussy for all eyes to see, and the crowd goes wild, chanting random requests at toji to do the most heinous things to you. as soon as you’re completely naked, he grabs you by the waist, propping you up against one of the corner posts. you’re now standing up, tearfully facing the arena as the wrestler kneels behind you, burying his face and nosing his way until your pussy, lapping up your wetness.

at the unexpected feeling of his tongue, you yelp, and toji slaps your ass. “stay still.” acquiescing, he licks up long stripes and shakes his head to grind his nose into your cunt, pleasuring you while humiliating you in front of everyone, forcing you to succumb to the pleasure he’s making you feel. while licking you, he groans. “fuck, this pussy is so sweet. i’ve run out of patience, fuck the performance part.”

with that, toji flips you over so you’re on your hands and knees on the floor and pulls down his pants. you don’t even look back at the monster that’s about to enter you for the sake of your mental health, but your legs are shaking in anticipation of his cock, slick dripping down your thighs. 

he drags his cock teasingly through your folds, and then brings it out to slap it against your ass, humming appreciatively at the recoil. then, as if he’s lost patience, he’s slowly entering you, pushing against your pussy’s resistance as he penetrates you in front of the whole arena. “fuck!” he groans, getting a better grip on you as he pushes your head down on the mat and fully goes to pound town.  

the humiliating plap! plap! plap! of his hips against the flesh of your ass echoing multiple strangers watch your pussy get wrecked. “the fuck this pussy’s so tight for? thought you were a slut?”

you’re tearing up, the feeling of his dick hitting your g-spot straight on making you clench hard, overwhelmed by the feeling of him pummeling you and his hands on your body, feeling you up. clearly, he knew how to pleasure a woman, and it made you all the more annoyed. you were fucked out, but not fucked out enough to prevent you from snarkily replying, “you’re not turning me on, small dick.”

he did not like that very much.

toji drills his hips into yours faster and slaps your ass multiple times consecutively. “yea, so why is she clenching so fucking much? why is she dripping, you whore?” as if to demonstrate his point, he brings his fingers to rub at your clit furiously, collecting the wetness that had dripped down from your hole then shoving his fingers into your mouth. “suck.” when you did just that, suckling at his fingers while hollowing your hot, wet heat around the appendages. 

at that, he groaned. “what a little cockwhore. shoulda made you suck my dick instead.”

in retaliation, you bite his fingers, hard, and then spit them out. “i would’ve bit your micro off.”

toji hisses, grabbing the hair at your scalp and pulling on it until your face was up, his mouth at your ear. “just for that, i’m going to come inside of your slutty pussy.” he speeds up, moving his hips faster and fast. the hand that wasn’t at your hair is now sneaking his way down your back, until you gasp.

because he’s inserted his thumb inside your ass.

“oh, ho ho,” he laughs mockingly. “you liked that, didn’t you?” you offer him no response, choosing instead to focus on the feeling of the sheer amount of pressure you were feeling down there, being doubly stuffed. by now, your orgasm has been steadily building because of the sheer power of toji’s stroke game, but as soon as he hits your spot one last time, your eyes roll back, causing you to arch your back and writhe due to the intensity of your orgasm.

you’re breathing heavily, toji fucking you roughly through it. once you’ve gotten a hold of your sense, you come back to reality as you realize that the crowd has adopted a rhythm to their chants, your fans and his screaming the same thing.

cum! cum! cum!

and toji only chortles as he continues your thirst, looking at you once again, and you can tell that he’s staving his orgasm back just after experiencing your clenches with the way he’s biting his lips, sweat running down from his temple to his abs. “what do you say, baby? wanna give the crowd what they’re asking for?” 

all it takes is a whimpered please, and toji just does what the crowd asks of him. ropes of his cum fill you, and you drop down in exhaustion to hear toji declared as winner. 

as you exhaustedly lift your head up, you see that cameras are out all around you, focused on the screen. you’re flustered when you realize the billboard is displaying toji’s cum seeping out of you.

A hand on your shoulder. “you good?” toji’s looking at you, eyes twinkling.

you let out a breath. “yea,” you laugh, out of breath. “good round.”

and he’s huffing, giving you a hand to get on your back. you can only lie on the ground as he barks for clothes to be put on you and for some water. then he turns to look at you once more, eyes twinkling. “wanna go for more in my hotel?”

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

a/n i was going to have him carry u up near to the stands where your fans could grab at ur titties but this is alr depraved as it is. now im going to take a breather from tumblr for the rest of this week becasue WHEW ch5 gojo yesterday and finished this today i am ON A ROLL. see you guys for next week's kinktober fic (comment if you want to be tagged)! much love<3

reblog and comments are much appreciated!!!!!

taglist:

@sugoroo @ryutotsukai0824 @sharkubi @lisvanrouge @mxlktae

@samisfunky @achbbys000 @xd3pr3ss3dx @jottositto @cheescakebroom

@r0ckst4rjk

[thebarneschronicles]

Closer to Home

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: As you settle into your new role as the team’s “girl in the chair,” helping Sam and Bucky with their missions, you find yourself increasingly drawn to Bucky's intense presence. His brooding silence is matched only by his watchful eyes, and despite his gruff exterior, your kindness begins to chip away at his walls. When Bucky insists on walking you home one night, clyou chalk it up to his old-fashioned sense of duty and think nothing of it. But as the night unfolds, you realize there’s far more behind his actions than just good manners, and your growing feelings for him may not be as hidden as you think.

A/N: This was supposed to be something else ENTIRELY. But it just unravelled and here we are! Please, feel free to let me know your thoughts about it! B xx

Closer To Home Masterlist

--

Your relationship with Bucky hadn’t started with fireworks or dramatic confessions—it began like any other normal relationship: after drinks and a movie.

It was a quiet evening, the kind that felt heavier after long hours at your desk. You were finally wrapping up for the night, shrugging on your coat and slinging your purse over a shoulder. The clock had just ticked past 10 p.m., though it hardly felt late to you. Still, your shoulders sagged under the tension of the day—hours spent poring over intel, trying to uncover scraps of information that might help Sam and Bucky on their next mission.

“You shouldn’t be walking home alone.”

You looked up to find Bucky leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. His voice was gruff but not unkind, his blue eyes shadowed but steady.

“It’s just a few blocks,” you replied, already bracing for the argument.

His jaw tightened—a subtle shift, but one you’d come to recognize as the start of his infamous stubborn streak. “Doesn’t matter. My ma would haunt me if I let you.”

That earned him a laugh. “Your 'ma' sounds like quite the character.”

“She was,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It disappeared as quickly as it came. “C’mon, grab your stuff. I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue further, mostly because you were too tired to win, and partly because there was something oddly comforting about his protectiveness, even if it came wrapped in brooding silences and sharp glances.

Being around Bucky had taken some getting used to. You knew about him, of course—who didn’t? But nothing had prepared you for the sheer intensity of James Buchanan Barnes up close. His unrelenting stares, his quiet presence that somehow filled a room, and the way he seemed to carry the weight of entire worlds on his shoulders.

When you’d first joined their team as the “girl in the chair” (a term Sam insisted on despite your repeated protests that you were, in fact, a woman), you hadn’t known what to expect. Your days as a research journalist had been left behind in favor of a role that felt more like a sidekick to two superheroes. Never the hero, always the support.

“It’s not nothing, though,” Sam had told you once, catching you mid-eye-roll during a particularly grueling debrief. “You’re saving lives too, y’know. Every name, every address you dig up? That’s someone else’s tomorrow you’re protecting.”

Still, the job came with its own toll: exhaustion, migraines, and a constant ache in your wrists from hours of typing. But it also came with a quiet sense of purpose—and Bucky’s occasional company.

At first, his silences had been intimidating, his brooding presence almost oppressive. But you met him with unwavering kindness—bringing him coffee when he looked like he needed it, or letting him retreat into your office to escape Sam’s chatter. Slowly, the silences grew shorter, and the stares softened into something more watchful.

Now, walking beside him under the soft glow of streetlights, the quiet felt less like distance and more like understanding.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “is this a one-time chivalry thing, or do I get an official escort service from now on?”

Bucky snorted. “You’re assuming I’m doing this for you.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, grinning. “Who else is benefitting from my safe arrival home?”

He glanced at you, a spark of humor flickering in his eyes. “Sam’ll never let me hear the end of it if something happens to you. Man loves his lectures.”

“Ah,” you said, mock-serious. “So I’m saving you from Sam’s wrath. Got it.”

He didn’t answer right away, but his pace slowed slightly, his hand brushing the base of your spine as you turned a corner, like he was directing towards home. “Maybe I just like making sure you’re okay,” he muttered.

Your heart stuttered at his words, a quiet ache blooming in your chest, but you didn’t dare press him further. Hope was a dangerous thing, a fragile spark that had burned you one too many times before. It was safer to tuck it away, to pretend his words meant nothing more than what he’d said—a simple gesture of kindness, nothing deeper.

You were friends, after all... right? Or at least, friendly. He was kind to you, yes, but Bucky Barnes was kind in a way that felt carefully measured, like a soldier fulfilling his duty. He was a gentleman through and through, the kind who’d been raised to believe it was his responsibility to make sure no lady faced the dangers of the night alone.

“His mah would’ve expected nothing less,” you thought wryly, your lips tugging into a faint smile.

He was a man out of time, after all. Decades removed from the era he was born into, yet somehow still anchored there, even now. You wouldn’t have been surprised if the rules he followed were the same ones ingrained into him all those years ago. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier to believe that than to let yourself hope he cared for any reason beyond habit or honor.

“Almost there,” he said, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His hand hovered near your elbow, steady and sure, as if ready to catch you should you stumble.

The steps to your door loomed far too quickly for your aching heart, bringing an abrupt end to your time with the brooding soldier. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if your body was reluctant to leave his quiet, steady presence.

You paused on the final step, its height almost eliminating the difference between you and Bucky. It gave you just enough courage to look up at him, your fingers nervously twisting around the strap of your purse.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He dipped his head in a single nod, his icy blue eyes flickering down to meet yours. His expression, as always, was unreadable, cast in shadows under the dim streetlamp. “Anytime.”

The simplicity of his reply made your chest tighten. You nodded in return, swallowing hard as your heart hammered in your throat. Turning away from him, you fixed your gaze on your front door, willing yourself to move forward, to end the moment before it unraveled you completely.

Friends. That’s all this was. It had to be.

So why did it feel so wrong to turn your back on him? Why did it feel like you were forcing yourself to betray something deeper, something unspoken, simply by walking away?

Your hand was on the doorknob before you realized you’d stopped moving, the quiet war between your heart and your mind reaching a fever pitch. You squeezed your eyes shut, battling the urge that rose in you like a wave.

Don’t do it. Just go inside. Let him leave.

But the battle was already lost. Before you could stop yourself—before logic could wrestle control away from the reckless beating of your heart—you turned. Your feet moved without permission, carrying you back down the steps toward him.

It wasn’t a decision so much as a pull, steady and undeniable, the words slipping from your lips as if carried on a tide of longing you couldn’t resist.

“Would you like to come up for a drink?”

The words tumbled out unbidden, your voice trembling just enough to betray how desperately you wanted him to say yes.

His reaction couldn’t have been more Bucky if he tried. His eyes shifted, and you swore you could see every emotion flash through them—surprise, hesitation, something a lot like longing—before they settled back into the stoic mask he always wore. Quiet. Unimpressed. Broody. And yet…

“I wouldn’t mind a beer.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, shaky with relief, and you motioned toward your door. “Well, come on then. I’ve got a six-pack that’s been waiting for some company.”

His presence filled the small apartment in a way that made your breath catch, the air somehow heavier, more electric. How many times had your silly, stubborn heart conjured up this exact scenario? Late at night, Bucky standing just inside your door, peeling off his worn leather jacket and tugging off the gloves that shielded both metal and flesh. Then, as if he’d done it a thousand times, he’d settle into a corner of your couch, legs spread, shoulders sinking back into the soft fabric like he belonged there.

“There's Heineken, Bud, and Corona,” you said, your voice only slightly betraying your nerves as you toed off your shoes and dropped your keys and purse by the door. “I think I might even have some whiskey stashed away somewhere. What’s your poison?”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze trailing lazily around the room before settling back on you. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Your stomach flipped, and you nodded, biting back the grin threatening to stretch across your face. “Sure thing,” you said casually, though you were certain the flush creeping up your neck gave you away.

You turned toward the kitchen, your heart doing an embarrassing little leap as you busied yourself rummaging through the fridge and cabinets. The clink of bottles felt absurdly loud in the quiet apartment, every moment stretching with the weight of his presence just beyond your line of sight.

“Nice place,” he called from the living room, his tone casual but laced with something warmer.

“Thanks,” you replied, grabbing two beers and popping the caps off with practiced ease. “I’d say make yourself at home, but it looks like you’ve already got that covered.”

When you re-entered the room, there he was—exactly as you’d imagined so many times before. His jacket was draped over the back of the couch, his gloves neatly set beside it, and Bucky himself sprawled out comfortably. His metal hand rested casually on his knee, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes met yours.

“Here you go, Mr. Barnes,” you said, forcing a steady smile as you handed him the green bottle.

“To your first visit,” you began, raising your own bottle in a toast. You couldn’t help the way your gaze lingered, taking in the sight of his broad frame on your couch, the casual way he sat, the sheer presence of him filling the space. Warmth pooled low in your belly, and before you could stop yourself, you added, “May it be the first of many.”

His smirk deepened at that, a flicker of amusement flashing across his features. He raised his bottle silently, going for a sip—but you stopped him, your hand darting out to rest on his.

“Wait!” you blurted, your palm lightly pressing against his larger one.

His frown was slight, his gaze shifting between your hands before settling on your face. “Why?”

“You have to look at me when we cheers,” you explained, your voice a little breathless, a little unsure of what you were doing but too far in to back out now.

His brow arched. “And why’s that?”

“Bad luck if you don’t. Years of it.” You shrugged, suddenly feeling the ridiculousness of your own words but refusing to back down. “I mean, I can’t even count how many years... Probably best not to risk it.”

For a second, you thought he might argue. But then he chuckled, a soft sound that sent a flutter straight to your chest. “God knows I’ve had enough of that already, haven’t I?”

You giggled, your laughter bubbling out, light and carefree. The fact that he played along felt like a victory, a small but monumental crack in his stoic armor.

With a glint of something softer in his eyes, he tilted his head toward you, his gaze locking with yours. “Alright, doll,” he said, his voice quieter now, warmer. “Let’s do it properly.”

Eyes steady on yours, he clinked his bottle against yours, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet room. And then, he didn’t look away—not for a second—as he took a slow sip.

You followed suit, the contact between your eyes and his making your heart race so fast you thought it might burst. The heat in his gaze was steady, grounding, and yet it sent a thrilling, electric charge through you that made your knees nearly buckle.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, the faintest curve to his lips as he lowered his bottle.

“Much,” you replied, somehow managing to keep your voice steady, even as your pulse thundered in your ears.

The air between you seemed to shift then, heavier but no less comforting—a new tension that simmered beneath the surface. If Bucky noticed the way your gaze lingered on him, the way your breath hitched every time his hand grazed your knee as he reached for another beer, he never said a thing.

He was the perfect gentleman, as always. Even when you slid closer on the couch, settling beside him on the plush cushions - even though there were a whole three other seats available to you. Even when you turned toward him, resting your head on your palm, your eyes tracing the strong lines of his face while you rambled about the mission reports piling up on your desk. He didn’t even glance at your neckline when you leaned over him to grab the remote, though you couldn’t help but steal a quiet inhale of his scent—clean, warm, unmistakably him.

“Alright,” you said, breaking the quiet. “I feel like I’m torturing you by making you listen to all this. Do you feel like watching something?” Your tone was cheery, light, but your heart raced at the thought of sharing something as simple and intimate as watching a film together.

With your eyes fixed on the TV, you missed the brief hesitation in his expression—the flicker of doubt that crossed his face and quickly vanished. Yet, neither the guilt, the fear, nor the pain that lingered in his soul seemed strong enough to stop him from embracing what you offered so openly: a chance to simply be. For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky seemed just a little less burdened by the shadows of his past, a ghost of his old self and a lot of his new one urging him to give in.

“What’s on Netflix?” he asked, his voice low and casual.

Your head whipped around so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “How do you know what Netflix is?”

His lips quirked into a rare, genuinely amused smile, the kind that made your stomach flip. “I’m old, but I’m not that old, doll.”

“You’re 106,” you shot back, arching a brow.

“And yet, I still know what streaming is,” he countered, the smile growing. “I’m not living under a rock.”

“Well, I am impressed, Mr. Barnes,” you teased, settling back into the cushions. “What else do you know about modern technology? Please tell me you’ve at least heard of TikTok.”

His expression shifted into something closer to a scowl, but the playful glint in his eye betrayed him. “I know about TikTok,” he said, sounding almost offended. “And dating apps. God, the horrors,” he added, shaking his head dramatically as he glanced at his phone like it was some sort of ancient relic.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and genuine, filling the cozy space between you. But beneath the humor, your stomach twisted with an unexpected knot. Dating apps?

“What about dating apps?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the curiosity in your voice was hard to hide.

Bucky groaned, slouching deeper into the couch as though the thought of them physically pained him. “I don’t know, doll. They just seem... unnatural. All these profiles and swiping left or right, like you’re picking a product instead of a person. Not my thing.” His voice held a certain distaste, and the casual way he said it made you wonder if he was speaking from experience—or just his own strong sense of principle.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the questions bubbling up inside you. Had he ever used them? Was he speaking from personal experience, or just from watching the chaos unfold around him? Your thoughts shifted uncomfortably, and you tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

“I get it,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s... kind of weird, honestly. It’s like shopping for a date, but with less... quality control.” You shot him a teasing grin, but the tightness in your chest was hard to ignore.

Bucky chuckled, the sound a low rumble that was soothing, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Exactly. I mean, if I’m gonna meet someone, I’d rather it be... I don’t know, real? Not behind a screen.”

For some reason, his comment made your heart stumble, a traitorous beat skipping out of rhythm. You quickly dropped your gaze to your beer, hoping the reaction wasn’t written all over your face. Was he hinting that he preferred real, in-person connections? That he’d rather... meet someone like that?

You cleared your throat, feigning casual interest to mask the swarm of uncertainty rising inside. “So, how would you go about it? Finding a date, I mean. Is Sam your wingman?”

Bucky nearly choked on his beer, shaking his head vehemently. “God, no! Can you imagine? He’s too busy being Captain America to care about my love life... except when he’s accusing me of flirting with his sister.”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, and your chest tightened with something sharp and unwelcome. Jealousy. You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to chase it away. “I didn’t know you liked Sarah,” you said, and to your horror, the disappointment in your voice was impossible to hide.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the shift in your tone. “She’s great,” he said with a thoughtful nod. Then his lips curved knowingly. “But not like that.”

The heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks was impossible to ignore, and Bucky’s sly grin told you he’d noticed. Your relief collided with your curiosity, the two tangling into a dangerous need to know more. “Oh,” you started hesitantly. “So... if not her, then who?”

He took another sip of his beer, the pause deliberate. “Had one date with the waitress from that Asian place we always order from. It… didn’t go well.”

Your brows furrowed. “And you haven’t tried again since then?”

“Not really.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, the movement deceptively casual. “You know how it is these days—apps, algorithms, everyone judging you by a couple of photos and a bio. And who’s lining up to date a former assassin, huh? People know too much, too soon. Real connections don’t happen that way.”

The self-deprecating edge in his voice made your heart ache. You tilted your head, studying the way his vibranium fingers tapped lightly against the beer bottle. “Maybe,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the nervous thrum beneath your skin, “you’re looking in the wrong places.”

His gaze snapped to yours, sharp and searching. “Oh yeah?” he asked, voice low, almost daring. “And where do you think I should look?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his question, his attention. “Maybe a little closer to home,” you murmured, eyes resolutely fixed on the beer bottle in your own hands.

The silence that followed was electric, charged with unspoken possibilities that hung in the air like static. His gaze lingered on you, steady and intense, and you could feel it even without looking up. It made your pulse race in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.

The truth was, you weren’t sure if you were just caught up in the moment—or if there was something more lingering in his words, in the way he was looking at you now.

You wanted to ask. The question burned on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. But a part of you hesitated, afraid of the answer. What if this was nothing more than friendly banter? What if pushing further shattered the comfortable connection you’d built?

“Closer to home, huh?” Bucky’s voice was a low rumble, breaking the silence but not the tension. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, and for a moment, it felt like he was closing the space between you. “And what does that mean, exactly? You got someone in mind for me, doll?”

There it was—that nickname. The one you pretended to hate but secretly adored. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the corner of your mouth twitch, betraying the smile you tried to suppress. His voice was so close it warmed you from head to toe. “I’m just saying,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral, “maybe you’re overthinking it. Sometimes the best things are right in front of you.”

His lips quirked, his expression softening as if he’d caught onto something unsaid. “You think so?” Bucky asked, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

You dared to turn your head and glance at him, and the way his blue eyes locked onto yours stole whatever breath you had left. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I know so.”

The moment stretched between you, fragile and heavy with unspoken words. You swore he was leaning closer, his gaze flickering briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. And suddenly, the question burning in your chest felt inevitable.

“Bucky…” you began, voice trembling slightly, unsure of what you were about to say—or what he might say back.

“Yeah, doll?” Bucky’s voice was gentle, a thread of warmth in the charged air between you.

You hesitated, but the weight of your emotions was too much to carry any longer. “Is this a date?” you finally blurted, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself.

For a moment, his expression didn’t change, and then he shook his head slowly. “It’s not,” he said, his voice steady but quiet.

Your chest tightened, and the disappointment hit hard, like a blow you hadn’t braced for. You tried to mask it, but your face betrayed you, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the rejection. The ache in your heart grew with every second of silence that followed, the room feeling colder with each passing beat.

What you missed was the storm raging behind his steel-blue eyes—the internal battle he fought against his demons, the ones that screamed he wasn’t good enough for you. Wasn’t good enough for anyone. He’d carried those ghosts for too long to ignore them now. But he wasn’t blind.

He’d noticed the way your smile softened when it was meant for him, brighter and warmer than it ever was for anyone else. He’d seen how you fretted over him after missions, your hands fluttering with concern even at the smallest scratch on his skin. And he’d felt the hope radiating from you tonight when you’d invited him over, your words laced with a vulnerability you rarely showed.

Bucky knew. He’d known for a while. And that knowledge both terrified and thrilled him. Love, in any form, was fragile—he’d learned that the hard way. But tonight, sitting here with you, he realized he couldn’t keep running from the possibility of it.

He wanted you. Your laughter, your kindness, your stubbornness, your touch. He craved all of it. And maybe he didn’t deserve it, but for once in his long life, he wanted to try.

Bucky set his beer down, his movements deliberate, and leaned closer. His flesh hand brushed against the back of your arm and the touch sent a shiver up your arm. 

“It’s not a date,” he repeated, voice low but filled with a quiet resolve that made your breath catch, hurt twisting at your heart.

Your brow furrowed, the downturn of your lips impossible to hide. “Heard you the first time…”

“This isn’t a date,” he pressed on. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he added, “But it could be.”

Your heart skipped, his words hanging in the air like a lifeline. “Bucky…”

Cutting through your hesitation, his gaze locked onto yours, unflinching, steady. “If you want this… if you want me, I’m yours. I want to try.”

The vulnerability in his voice left you breathless, stealing any coherent thought you might have had. For the first time in what felt like forever, hope blossomed in your chest, warm and radiant. You didn’t hesitate this time, your lips curving into a soft, trembling smile.

“Is this because you’re afraid of the apps?” you teased, the quip breaking the intensity just enough for you to breathe. But your voice wavered slightly, and your eyes glistened with the tears threatening to spill. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal your virtue?”

Bucky chuckled, low and genuine, the sound sending warmth curling in your chest. “I’m not a damsel in distress, doll,” he said, his tone playful as his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. The simple touch sent shivers down your spine, and you leaned into it instinctively.

“And you’re also not the big bad wolf you think you are,” you countered softly, your voice tinged with both affection and defiance.

“Well, technically…” His lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “I am the White Wolf.”

You rolled your eyes, the tension breaking into something lighter, something safe. “He jokes,” you said, shaking your head. “He could be kissing instead…”

His grin softened, and for a beat, he just looked at you, his hand still lingering near your face. Then, as if your words had given him permission, he leaned in, closing the space between you in a way that felt both inevitable and extraordinary.

“Guess I’ll take your advice for once, doll,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your lips.

The moment his lips touched yours, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. His kiss was gentle at first, a question rather than an assumption, as though he wanted to be sure this was what you truly wanted. His warm hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your cheekbone, while his vibranium hand rested lightly on your knee, grounding him in the moment.

You sighed into the kiss, your hand instinctively reaching up to thread through the short hair at the nape of his neck. The movement drew him closer, and he obliged, deepening the kiss with a soft groan that sent a shiver down your spine. His lips were soft yet firm, moving against yours in a way that spoke of patience and restrained hunger, like he was savoring every second of this moment.

His vibranium hand finally moved, finding your waist with surprising tenderness. The cool metal was a stark contrast to the heat of his other hand through the fabric of your shirt, but it pulled you to the reality of him—both the man he was and the one he’d fought so hard to become.

When you parted briefly for air, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths mingling with yours in the small space between you. His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and brimming with emotions he didn’t have to say out loud.

“Doll…” he whispered, his voice rough and full of awe, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

But you weren’t done. You weren’t ready to let the moment slip away. Sliding your hand from his neck to his jaw, you tilted his face back toward yours, brushing your lips against his again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him. He responded immediately, his grip on your waist tightening as his mouth moved against yours with more certainty, more passion.

The kiss deepened, growing warmer, more insistent. Your bodies angled closer together, his presence consuming your senses. You could feel his heartbeat against yours, steady and strong, and the faint rasp of his stubble as it brushed against your skin only made the experience more intoxicating.

You weren’t sure how it happened—one moment you were pressed against the back of your couch, his hands and lips demanding your full attention, and the next, you were straddling his thighs. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as your harsh breaths mingled, the taste of his tongue intoxicating and impossible to resist.

For all his claims of being a man out of his time, Bucky Barnes knew exactly how to touch a woman. His hands were a perfect dichotomy: one warm and strong, the other cool and unyielding, but both equally firm and commanding. His touch left no room for doubt or hesitation, responding to every unspoken plea you hadn’t yet found the words for.

And his kiss? God, his kiss. You could write sonnets about the way his lips moved against yours, the way his tongue teased and claimed you, coaxing a need from you that you hadn’t known you were capable of. None of your wildest fantasies could compare to the reality of him, his body pressed against yours, solid and capable. The things it could do—what it was doing, what it promised to do—set your whole body alight with yearning.

You kissed him harder, deeper, needier, your hips moving instinctively against his. His groan rumbled low in his chest, a sound that only made you crave him more. But just as your movements grew more desperate, his vibranium hand clamped firmly on your hips, halting your rhythm. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, gentle but insistent, forcing you to break the kiss.

“Doll…” His voice was rough, laced with a warning that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

You blinked at him, still dazed, heat crawling under your skin as you realized what you’d done. “Yes, I’m sorry, I know—I’m sorry,” you stammered, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

His breaths came heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours as his steel-blue eyes bore into yours. The hunger there mirrored your own, and the restraint in his grip only made you want him more.

Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile, your own need warring with the desire to break the tension. “Seems like I really am trying to steal your virtue, huh?” you joked, your voice light but shaky as you turned your head to press a soft kiss to his palm.

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through the hunger. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, his hand slipping from your jaw to trail gently along your cheek, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips.

Your free hand wrapped around his vibranium one, your thumb tracing the grooves of the metal. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with promise as you leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the charged silence stretching as his hands anchored you, holding you steady but never pushing. His restraint was palpable, and you knew without a doubt—if you wanted more, he would give it to you willingly. But only if you asked.

You wouldn’t, though. Not tonight.

Instead, you leaned in, brushing soft, sweet kisses against his lips, your movements unhurried and tender. Each kiss felt like a promise, an unspoken assurance that there was no rush, no need for anything more than this moment. It took superhuman strength—the kind he had—not to let it escalate.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips tingling and your cheeks warm. His eyes searched yours, and the way he looked at you—like you were the most precious thing in the world—made your heart swell. His thumb grazed your cheek, his smile soft and genuine.

“How about that movie?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes betrayed a depth of emotion that made your breath catch.

You laughed, the sound breaking the last remnants of tension and filling the cozy space around you. “Alright, fine. Let’s find something to watch, then. Any preferences?”

“Anything but those baking shows Sam keeps trying to get me into,” he muttered, his lips quirking in faint exasperation.

A giggle bubbled out of you at the mental image of Sam dragging Bucky into a world of frosting, sprinkles, and delicate pastries. The idea was so absurd yet so perfectly Sam that you couldn’t help yourself. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, your lips lingering just long enough to feel the faint rasp of stubble. “Deal. No baking shows.”

As the two of you settled back onto the couch, scrolling through movie options, the tension between you shifted again—this time, it was softer, lighter, wrapped in a warmth that felt safe and steady.

Bucky stretched his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers absently brushing against your shoulder as you leaned into him, your body naturally seeking his. And for the first time in a long time, you noticed something different about him. The shadows that usually haunted his expression seemed to have lifted, replaced by something quieter, something calmer.

Here, with you, Bucky wasn’t the broken soldier or the ex-assassin haunted by his past. He was just… himself. And in that moment, you realized that’s all you’d ever wanted him to be.