#i probably need to look up a list of questions and then answer them instead of making it all up wholesale bc thats HARD

[nicollekidman]

can we hear the lyra lore 🥺🥺🥺 pls

omg bestie.... i'm still actively working it out which is why i keep talking about journaling but bare bones.... she's the only child of a powerful elf family in baldur's gate, her mother is a mystery to her and her father is in Money, she's always been weird and withdrawn but like. a Dreamer in some sense.... she learns archery early and spends a lot of time alone. i don't think she's ever particularly happy or emotive but she enjoys exploring (and she's terribly vain... wants to look just like her mother). then she gets a baby sister and dotes on her to the point where she's basically raising her alone in kind of an obsessive way. when her sister is young, things start to get weird with her parents, they're gone more and more, and when they're home they're.... strange. but they want for nothing, and lyra and her sister are happy and inseparable (i'm still deciding on her name). when her sister is 20ish she's murdered, and through some set of circumstances i haven't fleshed out yet, lyra figures out it was her parents, as a sacrifice to bhaal. she kills both her parents and burns down their entire house for good measure, both so that there is no trace but also for herself.

i think she spends the next 40-50 years alone, basically doing bounty hunter work for money and drifting along. she only speaks when necessary, becomes ruthlessly pragmatic and essentially uninterested in the general population. she's basically turned off everything except her Life Functions. she gets a reputation in the lower city as the Ghost and people leave her alone because she minds her own business unless provoked or on a job (and sometimes the kids will manage to get gifts from her... they learn to read her body language and approach on good days). she keeps her rich clothes and facepaints and always looks immaculate (when you look both dead and rich, no one gets close). i think she also sometimes lets herself be bought when she's bored but if she ever ends up genuinely vulnerable or lets anything personal slip to a patron, she kills them. i think probably she's looking for something/someone to make her come back to life but she doesn't know that's what she's doing..... like being so hungry you can't feel it anymore. she's not evil and she's not robotic she's just kind of in an emotional coma, she's not even really seeking revenge bc she knows it won't bring her sister back and she can't bring herself to care enough.

i want to flesh out more of who she was before the murder but i'm waiting for her to tell me lol.

but yes, this is why she is such a freak with astarion + the party, but this post is long enough skdjfghjfkdsl canon timeline lore is insane in a different way but who doesn't want to be murdertwins with a random traumatized vamp you stumble upon, yknow.

[tarotwithavi]

PAC : YOU ARE A TEN BUT..... Pt 2

What makes you less than a 10?

Fun post for entertainment purposes only!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

MASTERLIST

PAID SERVICES

TIP JAR 🫙

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Pile 1

You're a ten but you always try to look okay even when you're not.

You're a ten but you don't know when to stop giving.

You're a ten but you recharge by being alone but still feel lonely.

You're a ten but you pretend to be fine because "it's too much effort explaining what's wrong"

You're a ten but you get random bursts of motivation and then burn out for 3 days straight.

You are a ten but you keep repeating the same T-shirt every other day despite having a closet full of clothes.

You are a ten but you take a whole day to clean your room only for it to get messy 5 minutes later.

You are a ten but you forget to drink water.

You are a ten but your cables look like tentacle monster squished in a ball.

You are a ten but you've been tired since 2020.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Pile 2

You are a ten but you'll say "I need to eat healthier" and end up ordering a cheese pizza with veggies instead.

You are a ten but you are a hoarder

You are a ten but you have a collection of shells in your room

You are a ten but you have a resting B face.

You are a ten but you'll imagine your friend's funeral and cry at 2 am when they are completely happy and most importantly ALIVE.

You are a ten but you hate being ignored but also want to be left alone.

You are a ten but you forget where you placed your pen 2 minutes ago.

You are a ten but you'd rather die than to answer a facetime call.

You are a ten but you need a nap before 8 hours of sleep.

You are a ten but crave deep conversations but never initiate one.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Pile 3

You are a ten but you care more about your plants than about people.

You are a ten but you probably searched "how to make fairy friends" when you were 9

You are a ten but you dissociate when someone is talking.

You are a ten but your wardrobe is filled with white tshirt and blue denims.

You are a ten but have to mentally prepare to call someone but still don't call them.

You are a ten but you are the eldest daughter with both mommy and daddy issues.

You are a ten but you keep adding more books to your "to read next" list while having a book on hold for 3 months straight.

You are a ten but overthink your each and every step and still end messing it up.

You are a ten but you'd rather spend your life thirsting over a fictional character than to talk to men your age.

You are a ten but text "LMAOO😭😭" with a straight face.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Pile 4

You are a ten you have written your entire life in your notes app. You open your notes app more than you open your books.

You are a ten but you can't work on your ideas without doubting yourself 10 or more times.

You are a ten but you keep reading about self improvement and empowerment but when it's time to implement what you've learnt you forgot everything.

You are a ten but you like to live in the shadows.

You are a ten but you would literally let people take credit for your work because you are TOO nice.

You are a ten but you want a pet fox. Or watch documentaries about foxes.

You are a ten but you thrive in chaos but hate drama.

You are a ten but you think that hiding your emotions will make you stronger.

You are a ten but you cut your hair at any minor inconvenience.

You are a ten but your taste in men is questionable.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Pile 5

You are a ten but you'll watch an entire series in one sitting.

You are a ten but your bangs are too short or too long. Never the perfect length.

You are a ten but you think "you'll change your life today" and then proceed to rot in bed.

You are a ten but you re-watched your favorite shows more than 50 times and still counting.

You are a ten but for you discovering new music is like unlocking new personality aspects.

You are a ten but you blame your birth chart for your problems ( uss moment you go bbgirl!)

You are a ten but you want to travel the world but don't want to leave your room.

You are a ten but you pick on your face or scalp.

You are a ten but you are a shortie (I'm sorry 😭)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Pile 6

You are a ten but you hate people with a passion.

You are a ten but you should be attending your zoom classes.

You are a ten but you hate when people claim they KNOW you or they are your FRIENDS but they've never had a conversation with you in person.

You are a ten but you have a lucky rock/crystal that you keep with you all the time.

You are a ten but you can't choose sides to save your life.

You are a ten but you talk to yourself when you're alone.

You are a ten but have the posture of a croissant.

You are a ten but you give the best advice but do the opposite in your own life.

You are a ten but wear a hoodie all of the time.

You are a ten but you intentionally make yourself look unapproachable to keep yourself out of drama.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Comment your thoughts ! 🫶🏻

[grandline-fics]

Love Potion

DESCRIPTION: Love Potion- You were both only pretending to date. The feelings aren't real...right?

WARNINGS: none coming to mind. there was only one bed trope

CHARACTERS: Rosinante 

WORDS: 1,674

A/N: thank you @cloudysunset04 for this request for the event and thank you for your patience. I'm going to be honest, this one was a struggle because nothing seemed to flow right. I don't know how many times I deleted and restarted this. I still hope it's at least somewhat enjoyable to read and here's hoping the next one is better

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI | VALENTINES EVENT MASTERLIST

———————

The skies overhead were turning darker and the winds were getting sharper. A storm wasn’t just brewing, it was about to hit. Rosinante cast a quiet glance down at Law as he walked beside him. Ordinarily the young boy would snap at him to hurry up but for the last while he'd been silent. At first he thought it was because they’d had another disappointing and explosive experience at the neighbouring town’s hospital and now he saw the real reason why. The rapidly changing weather seemed to have an affect on his condition. He was already in pain and getting worse the longer the sickness progressed in his small frame but on days like these it just made things flare even more so. They needed to find somewhere proper to rest in for the night instead of their usual plans to camp. If they were to travel to as many islands as they could until they found a cure for Law, they needed to keep their strength up, not risk sleeping out in the middle of a storm and inviting more illnesses. 

As a sharp wind cut through the pair and rain began to fall, Rosinante reached for the back of Law’s shirt to lift him in order to pick up their pace if they wanted to find somewhere warm to stay at. As expected Law began to lecture him for lifting him so casually, like he was ‘some sort of stray cat.’ With a grin Rosinante began to adjust his hold but he was abruptly caught off guard and fell sideways, the two of them falling clumsily into the rapidly formed puddles underneath them. Mud and water splashed over the pair Law recovering first to glare at his clumsy guardian. “Moron! Learn to walk before you start lifting me!” He stomped up to the blonde man sprawled out on his back and grabbed his wrist in both of mud-caked hands, beginning to pull him sharply as the weather worsened. “Come on! Get up, there’s an inn over there we can stay at.”

At the busy inn in question you were shivering and trying to warm yourself as you waited for the owner to see to you. The longer you were standing there the more agitated you were getting. You’d been traveling all day, now you were cold on top of tired and aching from the journey. The only positive you could see was you’d managed to avoid the rain. All you wanted now was to retreat to your room and rest. Finally the owner approached and you smiled in relief. “I need a room for the night, I’ll take anything at this point.”

“All I got left is room for a group or a family. Gotta prioritise them because of this storm.” The owner began and before you could answer you turned at the sound of the door opening and saw the two, muddied figures trudge in. A man and a young boy. You were desperate and worried if you went to another inn you’d be turned away for the same reason. At least this way the three of you ensured somewhere to stay for the night and seeing the young boy covered in dirt and shivering from the cold made you feel protective. “There you two are! I was beginning to worry.” You hurried over, hoping your voice was convincing enough for the inn owner and that your expression conveyed the situation to the two strangers. “We’re in luck, a family room for the night. Isn't that great?”

“You three a family?” You looked over your shoulder to look at the man who would ultimately decide your fate for the night. He was probably going to be suspicious of anyone but if you were willing to share the room and pay the rate asked it shouldn't be an issue. His gaze turned questioningly to the man and boy in front of you.

Law and Rosinante were quick to grasp the situation and both of them were eager to stay sheltered and warm so in a moment of unspoken cooperation, the three of you acted. You wrapped your arm around Law’s shoulder at the same time Rosinante’s hand held yours. Law clung to your leg, enough of an image of a family to grant you all a room. Stepping inside you looked around  but you stopped when you sensed the owner was lingering outside the door. Quickly you smiled at the two, eyes flickering pointedly to the door. “You two should get cleaned up and out of those wet clothes. Don’t want my boys getting sick, do I?” 

“I’ll go first.” Law spoke up with a nod, heading into the bathroom. “It’s dad’s fault I fell in the mud in the first place. He can wait.” You laughed softly and watched him go at the same time you heard the inn owner finally leave you all alone. Stretching out your tense and tired limbs you flopped down onto the sofa in the room and looked to your quiet ‘husband’ for the night. 

“So what do I call you?” You asked while he was busy taking off his muddied coat and pulling out a notepad and a pen. 

“The boy is Law. He calls me Cora.” You looked it over and nodded before introducing yourself to the man. The two of you talked for a short while, neither of you prying into the other’s personal life too much and stopped when the door opened and a clean Law appeared. You became curious to see the young boy all but shrink into himself, hiding his face under his hat and hurried under the covers of the bed closest to him. You considered maybe he was shy or just tired but when you caught the slightly worried look in Cora’s eye you realised something else was going on. 

As Cora moved to quickly clean himself up, a sudden knock came from the door. You rose and answered it, pausing to see the owner had returned with a Marine officer. You offered a polite smile to the men. “Can I help you?”

“We’re investigating an explosion at a hospital in the next town over.” Your eyebrows rose in surprise and out of the corner of your eye you noticed Law tense under the covers. “According to eye witnesses, the perpetrators were a man and a young boy-” Immediately you interrupted the Marine to laugh in disbelieving amusement. 

“What? You're asking if my husband and son had anything to do with it?” You asked with another laugh and shake of your head at the idea. “If they had, they’d also have to been able to do so while being in two places at once. They’ve been with me since we arrived here.”

“They have?” The Marine asked and you nodded, the face of innocence. Since there’d been no mention of a third person in the incident he had no further need to question you. “Thank you for your time. Good night.” You smiled pleasantly and watched them leave before you shut the door firmly. You turned and paused to see Law’s head poking out from under the covers and Cora staring at you in surprise. Had they been expecting you to drop the act and turn them in? While you didn’t know them, you could tell they weren’t bad people and if they were involved you were certain there was more to it. You said nothing, merely placing your hand affectionately on top of Law’s head as you walked by. 

Law fell asleep first, leaving you and Cora to face the dilemma of the only remaining bed in the room. You remained unmoving on the sofa, insisting that he take the bed. Given how tall he was, to imagine him finding a position comfortable enough to sleep on the sofa was amusing. You were stubborn, Rosinante would give you that. You certainly were a surprise to him in every way, especially in how ready you were to protect him and Law. In a way it was odd to find how easy it was to be around you but it was nice to find there were some genuinely kind people still in the world; proving that not everyone was so cruel and twisted as his brother. It was because of that kindness he wanted to be nice and give you the bed so he gestured to it once more. When you shook your head firmly he frowned. 

Now refusing to take no for an answer he stepped forward, ready to lift you and set you on the bed but his foot caught on nothing and he tumbled forward. Faster than you could react and in a clumsy blur you were knocked into by Cora and you fell backwards, the sofa tipping with you until you crashed loudly onto the ground with Cora’s head smacking against yours. Wincing at the dull ache you rubbed your head and met the apologetic gaze of the accident-prone man. “Who knew my husband was so clumsy…” you joked to ease the tension. 

Cora smiled sheepishly at you and got to his feet, helping you up at the same time. To avoid anymore accidents you and Cora finally gave in and shared the bed. To ensure you were comfortable, Cora pushed his tall frame as far as he could to one side and put a couple pillows between you both before turning his back to you. You appreciated the gestures but found them unnecessary, feeling perfectly at ease with the man who was truthfully a stranger to you. You wished Cora a good night and fell over to sleep without much trouble. As you slept soundly, Rosinante silently lifted his head and cast one last look at your peaceful face. Would it be foolish to consider asking if you wanted to accompany him and Law for another while longer? Yes. It definitely was, but it didn’t stop him from laying his head back down and indulging in the dream for a little while. 

——————————————-

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[corkinavoid]

Case File: Danny’s Call

This snippet vibes to Drunk by Tiscore

Danny sits on the edge of the balcony, legs dangling over the drop like the fall down is no scarier than a skipped step on a staircase. Gotham skyline stretches before him in jagged silhouettes and neon bruises, streetlights flickering like tired eyes. It’s late — way past 'should be asleep' and squarely in 'why are you still awake' territory — and deep into the kind of quiet that presses heavy on the chest.

He takes a deep breath, lungs filling with the faint smell of smog and distant promise of rain. A whole week of summer heat is coming to an end, it seems.

From inside the penthouse, muffled sounds drift through the glass doors: Cujo’s barking, excited and sharp, Dani’s laughter trailing after it. She's probably teasing him with something he’s not allowed to chew, or maybe they are both trying to chase Vlad’s cat for sport. Somewhere in the kitchen, Jazz is moving around quietly, teacups clinking — she always makes tea after stress.

The Fenton version of calm after a storm.

Danny’s phone glows pale blue in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen. He scrolls through the contact list without purpose, past names he knows too well — Jazz, Sam, Tucker, Val, Kwan and Star, even Vlad. All of them tangled in the same strange mess of half-truths and ghost stories that make up his life.

He hits 'Call' on one name that is not part of it before he can second-guess himself.

It rings — once, twice, over and over with no answer — then goes to voicemail. And Danny knows he should hang up, should just leave it alone and go on with his life — afterlife, ha — without thinking too hard about it, like he did dozens, hundreds of times before.

But instead, he exhales and starts talking.

"Hey, Caroline," he starts, voice tired but lips still stretching in a smile because that's a polite, nice thing to do, "it’s Danny. Sorry I’m calling so late but something happened and I- nothing urgent, nothing bad, everything is fine," he rushes to add, like trying to stop someone from hanging up. Which… she technically already has, kind of.

"Just… my friend was hurt. I fixed it, everything’s okay, he’s better now, but-" His voice catches slightly, and the pause stretches as Danny takes a moment to breathe and look up into the sky. It's empty — there are no stars in Gotham, just a dim, gray blanket of light pollution and a whole lot of dark corners.

Nothing to guide him through the blizzard.

"I don’t know why I’m calling, sorry," he admits with a soft, awkward laugh, running a hand through his hair. Leaning forward over the railing, he watches the glittering abyss of streets yawning beneath — it doesn't scare him, but it doesn't call to him either. There's no allure to jumping from high places when you can't really fall. "You can delete it. I guess I’m just… lost? My life is a mess, and everyone I know is already in this mess with me. And I think I need someone who’s not."

He pauses, frowning at himself, "Ugh, wait, no, I shouldn’t say that, it sounds like I’m about to unload my whole life story on you, but I won’t — didn't plan to, at least — I’m-"

Beep.

The message cuts off, a mechanical voice telling him it's too long in fake sympathy. Danny stares at the screen for a moment or two until it fades to black, sighs, then lets his head fall back as he closes his eyes.

This was stupid, why did he do that.

But then the phone rings in his hand a second later.

–○–

And they talked very awkwardly for, like, five minutes, both apologizing every ten seconds, because they are idiots in love with poor social skills.

Tim didn't pick up at first because he was busy questioning the surviving assassins. The experience of talking to Danny in Caroline’s voice, while dressed in Red Robin suit, with two knocked-out ninjas two feet away from him was maybe the single most surreal thing related to identity porn that he's been through. Vigilante kind of troubles, you know.

This is a part of Crime Scene Do Not Cross fic and happens after Chapter 4.

[aesethewitch]

The questions I ask myself, roughly in this order, to interpret any* tarot spread:

How did the cards appear? Because I shuffle for jumpers, it matters whether cards pop from the deck together. They form pairs (or groups) which have stronger connections to each other than other cards in the spread.

What types of cards are on the field? Majors? Minors? All numerical cards? Court cards? What suits? What numbers? This is where I consider the raw, memorized meaning of individual cards and the archetypes they represent.

Are there obvious patterns or cadences in the order? Think like poetry, ABAB or AABB, but with the types of cards. In a hand of five, it's interesting if the order is Major-Minor-Major-Minor-Major. Or maybe the cards are in a descending numerical order, Nine-Eight-Seven-Six-Five. Or, perhaps Nine-Eight-Six-Five-Four -- the jump in the pattern matters.

Are there repeating numbers or suits? Repetition strengthens the significance of a number's or suit's meaning.

Are there repeating motifs in the card art? Again, repetition strengthens the significance. This includes colors, background details, people, animals, and so forth.

Where are figures in the art looking? Are they looking at other cards? At each other? Away from each other? The direction of figures' attention directs where that card's focus might be.

Is there a cohesion or flow in the spread, or is it interrupted and disorganized? Some spreads flow smoothly left to right, while others show disruption and a lack of coherency. This question looks a the spread as a whole again after all other questions have been asked to consider all elements together.

Does it make sense? Do the cards answer the question being asked? How do they apply? Is there something missing? Is there a deeper meaning to delve into? Do I need clarifiers? Do I need to try again with new cards? Can I explain these cards to the querent and have them understand my meaning?

And then I write out my analysis! There's obviously more to it than this, with a ton of nuance at every step, and I could probably write a whole essay about any individual part of this... and I probably still will, honestly. (And I started to, then decided to just write up a little list instead, lmao.)

*May not work for some tarot spreads, depending on the style.

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 6: "The one with the late night talk" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: After spending a couple of weeks tormenting yourself over your argument with Frankie, you finally open up to Santi. He offers you a different perspective—one that hurts, but one you need to hear. WC: 6.8k

A/N: TW!!! This chapter touches on sensitive topics such as mental health and references to self-destructive behaviors. If these subjects are difficult for you, please proceed with caution. Thank you so much for reading and for your support! I truly appreciate it. Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!! love you guys<3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Tuesday, August 27th

August was dissolving, slipping through your fingers like the last ice cube in a too-warm drink. The days were heavy, pressing down on your skin, thick with the kind of heat that made everything feel slow and sticky. And the nights still belonged to it, summer—restless, humming, too warm to be comfortable but too familiar to resent. Inside, your apartment was quiet, the only real sound the steady, hypnotic whirl of the ceiling fan.

You kept busy. It was easier that way. There was always something to do: the new café down the street had changed the flow of foot traffic past the bookstore, drawing people in, pushing them through the doors in lazy waves. Customers wandered between the shelves, asking about novels they’d heard mentioned on a podcast, about poetry collections they’d been meaning to buy for months. You answered every question, made polite conversation, pretended you weren’t hyper-aware of how your own voice sounded when you used it too much.

Yesterday, a woman had lingered by the register, chatting about the café. She mentioned the owner—a charming man, she said, the kind of person who gave out free donuts on Friday mornings, which struck you as an objectively good and decent thing. You nodded along, made a mental note to stop by one of these days, even though you knew you probably wouldn’t.

But now it was tuesday night, and you were exhausted.

You collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the remote, pressed play. When Harry Met Sally. A movie you loved, though you weren’t really watching. Your legs stretched out along the cushions, arms folded against your chest, eyes on the screen but unfocused.

At the other end of the couch, Mr. Darcy curled into himself, his eyes dark and unblinking, watching you with something close to judgment. Because he knew. He knew that you were pretending. That you were acting like none of it had happened.

When Santi called, you told him you were fine. More than fine. And it wasn’t exactly a lie. You kept busy, your bank account was in better shape than last year. You knew how to work, how to keep your head down. If he asked about Frankie, you told him you hadn’t seen him—true. If he asked about Harry’s wedding, you lied, said you hadn’t decided yet.

Lying over the phone was easy. You’d always been good at it.

But then Santi showed up in person, unannounced, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly, like he was already trying to figure you out.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice even, his gaze sharpening like he could see right through you.

“I’m just tired,” you said, and maybe that was true in a way, but not in the way he meant it. “Didn’t sleep well. Stayed up too late watching tv.”

He hesitated, like he was waiting for you to crack, to fill the silence with the thing you weren’t saying. But you didn’t. Instead, you pivoted—smooth, practiced—asked about Yov, about the wedding. He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

And you told yourself you wouldn’t think about Frankie.

Except that you did.

At night, when the house was still, when you were alone, his face surfaced in your mind with alarming clarity. The last thing you’d said to him. The way his expression had changed the second he heard you. The way it had made something deep inside you twist and ache.

You felt guilty. It hurt, a slow, deep kind of hurt, like pressing a bruise just to see how much you could stand. But then you reminded yourself—he had hurt you too, in ways you still carried with you. That should’ve made it easier. It didn’t.

Across the room, Mr. Darcy watched you, his gaze unmoving. Like he knew. Like he could see the way your thoughts kept circling, caught in a loop you didn’t know how to break.

The movie flickered on, a blur of motion, of dialogue you’d heard a hundred times before but suddenly couldn’t follow.

When the credits rolled, you stood, crossed the room, reached for your journal where it sat on the kitchen counter.

You flipped to the right page—the one where you kept your list. Little things. Big things. Things that made you feel like you were moving forward, even when you weren’t sure you were.

You uncapped a pen, pressed the tip to the page, and wrote:

Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally. Less romantic, I guess.

You stared at the words, then exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.

Then you rolled your eyes at yourself, shut the journal, and left it there.

Thursday, August 29th

Yov was out of town, and Santi called that morning while you were at the bookstore, his voice warm but edged with something careful, like he was trying to keep things light. He asked if he could come over later, maybe stay for the night. You told him yes, of course. But you knew there was something beneath the surface of the invitation, an intention that had nothing to do with food. He was checking in on you.

It wasn’t unusual, the dinners. He loved coming over, eating something homemade, stretching out on your couch to watch a movie, half the time falling asleep before the credits rolled. Sometimes you’d drink wine and end up crying with laughter over Scary Movie, even though you could both quote it word for word. But this time, you could tell—he had noticed something. A shift in your mood, a dullness in your voice that you hadn’t managed to hide.

Still, you weren’t complaining. You loved spending time with him.

You closed the bookstore a little earlier than usual and walked the two blocks to the grocery store, the sun pressing against your skin. It was warm, but not suffocating, which felt strange for august. You slipped in your headphones, letting music filter in as you walked past the park. It was quiet today—only a few people scattered under the old trees, some walking, others sitting on benches, faces tilted toward the sky.

And then you crossed the street.

At the intersection, your eyes flicked up, catching the traffic light without thinking. It was green, glowing steadily above you. For some reason, it hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. The last time you’d seen Frankie, it had been right here. You could still see it in your mind—the green light, the blur of the quiet night, the way your hands had felt too empty as you stepped out of the car, a weight forming somewhere deep in your ribs.

Pointless, thinking about it now. You exhaled, pulled out your phone, and skipped to the next song. The first few notes played, something familiar, something that made you smile despite yourself. Just Like Heaven.

Inside the store, the air conditioning wrapped around you like a cold, weightless hand. A relief. You grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, scrolling through your notes app for the grocery list you’d made after Santi had texted, asking if you could make that spaghetti—the one with the sauce he always raved about.

Ten minutes later, you had almost everything. A bottle of rosé sat nestled between vegetables and pasta, but now you hesitated in front of the wine section, eyeing the rows of deep reds and pale golds. You wanted something good. Something that would feel nice in your hands as you curled up on the couch later.

Merlot. You reached for a bottle, ran your fingers over the label before setting it gently in the cart.

Maybe you’d grab something sweet for later too—chocolates, gummies. Something with nuts and caramel.

Eyes without a face faded out, replaced by the sharp, unmistakable opening of Toxic. Without thinking, you smiled, mouthing the words as you steered the cart down the cereal aisle. Your eyes drifted over the shelves, barely registering the neon-colored boxes, the cartoon mascots grinning at you from their spots. You weren’t really looking for anything there, just moving through the motions.

At the end of the aisle, you turned left.

And then, you saw him.

Frankie.

He was crouched at the far end of the aisle, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning a label like he was deciphering something complicated. He hadn’t seen you.

Black T-shirt, dark gray cargo pants, messy hair. You weren’t sure why you noticed that, why your mind cataloged the details like they meant something. But it did.

For a second, you froze.

Your fingers tightened around the handle of the cart. A quick assessment: the space between you, the angle of his gaze, the seconds you had before he looked up.

You turned.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a sharp turn on your heel, a swift retreat in the opposite direction before he could lift his head, before his eyes could meet yours.

You’d buy candy somewhere else.

Santi dropped onto the couch beside you with all the weight of a falling tree, the cushions sinking under him, a rush of air brushing past you.

"Hey!" you groaned, swatting his shoulder in mock protest.

He just grinned, unbothered, reaching past you to grab his wine glass from the coffee table. You watched as he took a sip, settling in like he had nowhere else to be.

You picked up the remote and resumed the movie, the screen flickering back to life after the pause you’d hit when he disappeared into the bathroom, grumbling about his bladder. You’d made a joke about him getting old, and he’d laughed, but then he muttered something about making an appointment with a urologist. You didn’t ask for details.

Tonight’s movie was his pick. As Above, So Below. A group of overconfident explorers descending into the parisian catacombs, searching for the philosopher’s stone. Things go wrong, as they always do. They end up in hell itself. Santi loved this kind of thing. Honestly, so did you.

It was something you’d shared since you were kids—sitting cross-legged on the floor with your dad, watching horror movies long past bedtime. He had a deep, unwavering love for them, and your mother always scolded him for scaring you senseless. But you loved it, even when you had to sleep with the hallway light on for weeks, even when the images stuck to the backs of your eyelids like aftershadows.

You still remembered the night you watched The Blair Witch Project. Your dad had told you, very seriously, that it was real. That the film had been pieced together from actual footage, that the people in it were still missing. You and Santi believed him completely. You spent days afterward peeking around corners, flinching at the sound of snapping twigs, avoiding the woods near your house like they held something waiting just beyond the trees.

For days, you couldn’t shake it. The idea that somewhere out there, in some dark, endless forest, they were still lost. And then, one day, Santi came home from school, eyes wide, voice low.

“They found something in the woods,” he whispered.

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Candles. Leftover wax, melted onto the ground. Bones. Like from some kind of ritual.” His eyes were wide, serious. “One of the guys at school told me. He said there’s probably a witch.”

You swallowed, trying to look unimpressed. “There’s no witch.”

“There must be,” he insisted. “That’s why I’m telling you—you cannot go near there, okay? Or you’ll get lost, and who knows when we’ll find you. I don’t know how to fight witches. Do you?”

You shook your head, lips pressed together, pretending to be indifferent. But during the next few years, you avoided that stretch of forest like your life depended on it. Even when you turned twelve and realized he had made the whole thing up, even when you knew, logically, that there was nothing out there in the trees, you still found yourself watching from a distance, something uneasy curling in your stomach whenever you passed by.

On the screen, one of the protagonists was panicking, struggling against the rope wrapped around his foot. His breathing grew ragged, his face contorted in fear. The music swelled, sharp and urgent. You squinted at the television.

Santi snorted next to you. “Come on, don’t be scared. Nothing’s happening yet.” 

The living room was dark except for the glow of the TV, washing the room in flickering light. Even the small lamp beside you was off. Mr. Darcy, usually nestled against your leg during movie nights, was nowhere to be found—probably curled up in your bed, fast asleep.

“I know,” you murmured, shifting slightly, “but something’s going to happen.”

Santi let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he stretched out beside you, rotating his shoulder with a wince.

“God, I’m so full,” he groaned, then yawned. “But I won’t complain if you give me the leftovers.”

You turned to him with a smirk. The soft glow from the screen reflected in your eyes, and the slight haze of wine made the moment feel heavier, slower.

“You really have no bottom, do you?” you teased, reaching for the half-eaten chocolate on the coffee table. “Fine. You can take them. But only if you make me some of that stew you do later.”

Santi scoffed, sitting up a little. “What did you think of the last one I made? I changed the recipe—more cumin, extra celery. I was waiting for your opinion on it.” His expression was expectant, a little put out.

You frowned, trying to recall. “When?”

He blinked at you, then sat up straighter. “Are you serious?”

You shrugged.

“You couldn’t have missed it,” he insisted, narrowing his eyes. “I put so much more celery in. You didn’t taste it? And a little ginger. That was Yov’s idea.”

“Why are you so fixated on the stew?”

“Because it’s my thing,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was deeply wounded. “I take your spaghetti seriously, right?”

You tilted your head. “I take your cooking seriously too. But I—wait, when? When we had dinner after going to the movies?”

“No, dumbass,” he scoffed. “When you and Frankie came over.”

Your mouth opened slightly. The realization hit you all at once.

Right. That night.

You had completely forgotten about Santi’s meal. If you were remembering correctly, you'd left the container in Frankie’s car.

Your gaze flickered back to the screen, where the protagonist was now screaming. You exhaled.

“Ah. Yeah. I forgot your stew in Frankie’s car.” Your voice was quieter, like the words had escaped before you fully thought them through. Then you turned back to Santi, offering a small, sheepish smile. “But I won’t complain if you make me more.”

Santi studied you for a beat, then tilted his head. “So, are you giving me the leftovers or not?”

“Yes. And some apple pie I made yesterday.” You lifted your eyebrows, watching the way his face lit up.

“Done.”

You settled back into the couch, shifting your gaze toward the screen. The movie was unfolding exactly as expected—each character trapped in their own personal hell, doomed by their own choices. You found a strange sense of relief in knowing this was something that could never happen to you. Not because you thought you were immune to disaster, but because you simply weren’t the kind of person who would put themselves in a situation like that.

The Paris catacombs? Sure, there were guided tours with clear paths and bright lighting—why would anyone willingly crawl through some secret, uncharted part of it, especially when history had already proven that people got lost down there?

You never understood that kind of thrill-seeking. Rock climbing? Fine. Trekking through forests, deserts? Sure. Skydiving, bungee jumping—adrenaline junkies, you got it. But willingly wedging yourself into a cavern, not knowing if you’d make it back out? That part never made sense.

Santi shifted beside you, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Have you seen him?”

Your eyes remained on the screen. The only two survivors were finally making their way out, and you felt your body relax.

“Who?”

“Frankie.”

The name landed somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere in your chest. Your eyes flicked to Santi for just a second before returning to the television.

“Oh. No.”

“I thought you were supposed to have dinner at Helena’s weeks ago.”

“As it turned out, no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, still watching the screen as if it required your full attention. “Been busy. I think he has too. It’s all good.”

Santi didn’t say anything at first, just watched you like he was waiting for something more. You ignored it, eyes trained on the credits rolling up the screen.

“That’s weird,” he said finally. “I talked to Helena this week. She asked about you.”

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around the remote.

“She also said Frankie’s been dodging her questions. She’s a little worried.”

You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you casually scrolled back in the movie.

"Do you want to watch something else, or are you already falling asleep?" you asked, scrolling absently through the app’s home screen, your thumb hovering over different titles without really seeing them.

Santi shifted beside you. "No, let’s watch something else if you want. Pick whatever."

You nodded, though you weren’t really listening. Your focus had already drifted, your eyes moving over rows of movies and shows, not settling on anything in particular. You were just going through the motions, waiting for something to click. The thought of anything too heavy, too thought-provoking, made your stomach clench. You needed something easy, something you didn’t have to engage with beyond letting the sounds fill the space.

Eventually, your finger landed on Family Guy, and you hit play without much thought. The opening chords of the theme song played like muscle memory, a familiar noise cutting through the low hum of tension in the room. Your head felt a little fuzzy from the alcohol, pleasantly weightless in a way that made it easier not to think too hard.

Next to you, Santi exhaled, long and deliberate, before tilting his head against your shoulder. A few beats of quiet passed before he spoke again.

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened?" His voice was careful, measured.

You blinked at the screen. "What?"

"With Frankie."

"Nothing happened with him," you said automatically, too quickly.

Santi made a small noise, like he didn’t believe you for a second. "Right. Sure."

You turned your head slightly but kept your gaze forward. "Why—why would that surprise you, anyway? It’s not like we’ve ever gotten along." You let out a dry, humorless laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat.

"Exactly," he said, sitting up straighter beside you. "That’s exactly why I’m asking. I know you well enough to know when something’s off. And I know him well enough to know the same thing. You add those two things together, plus the fact that Helena sounded concerned when she talked to me earlier, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something must have happened." He turned to look at you fully now, voice shifting into something closer to amusement. "I mean, I knew this whole plan between you two wasn’t exactly solid, but I didn’t think you’d manage to mess it up this fast."

You turned to him then, incredulous. "Seriously? You, Santiago—the one who’s been saying from the beginning that this was a terrible idea, who’s been acting like a prophet of doom about the whole thing—you’re surprised?"

Santi’s lips quirked up, eyes glinting. He looked, irritatingly, pleased with himself.

"Knew it," he said. "So what happened?"

You let out a breath, shaking your head before turning back to the TV. The theme song was over now, the first scene of the episode already unfolding. You folded your arms, pressing them tightly against your chest, like maybe you could keep whatever you were feeling contained that way. But it was still there, that dull, unwelcome ache settling back in.

"We had an argument," you said finally.

Santi waited a second, then: "About what?"

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, weighing your options. Santi was staring at you, waiting. 

You’d already talked to Emma about this. She had listened carefully, nodding at the right moments, offering up her own quiet honesty in return. She hadn’t sugarcoated things, hadn’t let you off the hook. She had even agreed with you—that yes, you had been cruel, whether or not Frankie had deserved it.

So you had already said the words once, already unburdened yourself. But the weight of not telling Santi felt different, heavier in a way that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with trust.

You wanted to tell him. Of course you did. He had been listening to you your whole life, letting you spill your secrets without fear of judgment. And he had never once betrayed you, never let anything slip where it wasn’t supposed to. Nothing you told him would reach Frankie. Nothing. You knew that.

But this—this was harder. It wasn’t just about Frankie. It was about you. About saying something out loud that you weren’t even sure you had fully admitted to yourself yet. It was one thing to talk about your insecurities with Emma. It was another thing entirely to lay them bare in front of your brother. To tell him that Frankie—of all people—had seen them before you’d even opened your mouth.

Still, what choice did you have? Santi wasn’t going to let this go. He never did.

"About Harry," you said finally, your voice flat, stripped of any real emotion.

Santi frowned. "Harry?"

You nodded.

"Why?"

You exhaled, suddenly hyperaware of the breath leaving your body, the way it felt too sharp, too deliberate.

"Because," you said, shifting against the couch, "I’m not as over him as I thought I was. And Francisco apparently decided that was his business. Thought it would be a great idea to ask me a million questions about it, maybe even offer up some unsolicited advice."

Santi folded his arms, his expression shifting from confusion to something more serious.

"What kind of advice?"

You turned to look at him then, and whatever was in your expression must have given him pause.

"Santi," you said carefully, "I’m going to tell you this, but you can’t say anything until I’m done. No opinions, no interruptions. You can ask questions, but don’t react until I finish. Okay?"

He straightened slightly, concern settling into the lines of his face. Then he nodded. "Okay."

You swallowed.

"The thing is…" Another breath. Another hesitation. "I haven’t been feeling okay. And it’s not just because of Harry, or Frankie, or any of that. It’s… more than that. It’s been going on for a long time. Years, even. It’s about me. It’s about the way I am, the way I live my life. Or, maybe, the way I don’t. I feel like I’m afraid all the time. And that fear—it limits me. It always has. You know that. You’ve seen it. Remember when we were kids, and you and Dad would invite me camping? And I’d always make up some excuse because the idea of sleeping in the middle of nowhere freaked me out? Or that weekend you wanted me to go rock climbing with you?"

He nodded, his expression unreadable now.

"And I hate that about myself," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Because fear holds me back. It keeps me from doing things that—who knows?—maybe I’d like. But how am I supposed to know that if I never try?"

Santi opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"No," you said, holding up a finger. "No opinions yet. Remember?"

He lifted his hands in surrender, pressing his lips together like he was physically stopping himself from speaking.

You exhaled, pressing your palms against your thighs. “Well, that’s just it. That’s the thing that’s been bothering me for a long time. Longer than I want to admit. And it—it doesn’t feel good. I don’t feel good about it.” You paused, fingers twitching like they wanted to pick at something, to fidget with the hem of your shirt, the couch cushion, anything. “And then there’s Harry.” You let out a small laugh, barely more than an exhale. “I really thought I was over him, or at least I told myself I was. But I don’t think I am. And I don’t even think it’s about him, exactly.”

Santi tilted his head slightly, watching you closely. You waved a hand, dismissing whatever concern you saw creeping into his face.

“It’s not really about him,” you clarified. “It’s about what he did. How easy it was for him to let me go. How easy it was for me to let myself fall into something I knew wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t stupid—I knew he didn’t want anything serious. He told me that. But I still didn’t leave when I started to feel more than I should have. And I guess—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight, “I guess some part of me really thought that if I just waited long enough, he’d start feeling the same way.”

You shook your head, eyes flicking back to the TV screen. The cartoon characters moved in exaggerated motions, their voices playing somewhere in the background of your thoughts. You weren’t really hearing them.

“But he didn’t,” you added, quieter now. “If anything, he did the opposite.”

Santi didn’t say anything, and you appreciated that. He just sat there, listening, waiting.

You rubbed your hand over the couch cushion beside you, letting the soft fabric ground you before you spoke again.

“And then, when we saw him that day,” you continued, “Francisco basically laughed in my face when I told him I was going to the wedding. He thought it was pathetic. Told me I was a masochist. And I got pissed off, obviously. But the thing is, I hadn’t actually thought about it that much before then. I mean, yeah, I knew Harry was oblivious, that he probably hadn’t even considered how it might feel for me to be there. But I hadn’t really let myself think about how ridiculous it was that I said yes in the first place.”

You swallowed, tracing the seam of the couch absentmindedly.

“Francisco, though—he was vocal about it from the start. He never held back. He called Harry an idiot, told me it was obvious he knew how I felt and just pretended he didn’t. And that night at your place—” you hesitated, glancing at Santi, “I’d had a bad day. Like, a really bad day. I was already in my own head, already torturing myself by checking Harry’s social media, going down the usual spiral. And Francisco, of course, noticed. And he asked me about it on the way home.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “But it was the way he did it. He was relentless. He just kept pushing and pushing, like he was trying to get a reaction out of me, and I—I just felt awful. Like he was doing it on purpose. Like he wanted me to crack. Because…” You trailed off, staring blankly at the screen again. “I don’t know. It’s like he knows exactly which buttons to press to tear me apart. He always has. He finds my weak spots and then just—shoves them in my face.”

Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look at Santi until you were finished speaking. When you did, your eyes felt heavy, glazed over with something you didn’t want to name.

Santi’s expression was unreadable. His voice, careful. “What did he say to you?”

You felt your heartbeat pick up, steady but noticeable, like a pulse pressing against your ribs.

"That I needed to get over it." Your voice came out unsteady, something raw beneath the words. "That I had to stop making Harry into this tragic hero who unknowingly destroyed me." You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. "But he wasn’t gentle about it. He wasn’t even neutral. He was the opposite. And I—" You hesitated, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest. "I know he’s probably right. I do. But that didn’t make it feel any less awful. It didn’t make me feel any less—"

You stopped. Your throat burned. Your vision blurred at the edges, a tear threatening to spill over. You blinked hard, forcing it back.

"He made me feel stupid," you admitted finally. "Like I was ridiculous for feeling this way in the first place. And that’s what really gets me—because I know he doesn’t actually care. It’s not like this was some act of concern, like he wanted to help me move on. He did it just to dig at me. To get a reaction. To remind me that I’m weak in ways he isn’t." Your breath came out unsteady. "What the fuck does he know about how I feel?"

Santi exhaled your name softly, the way he always did when you were teetering on the edge of something painful. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in.

The warmth of it—his steady heartbeat, the way his chin rested lightly on the top of your head—worked like a balm. It didn’t erase the feeling completely, but it dulled it, took the sharpest edges away. You closed your eyes for a second, just breathing.

"I know your relationship with him is complicated," Santi murmured, "but, really… Frankie’s not that kind of person."

You pulled back, looking up at him in disbelief.

"He’s different with you," you said, shaking your head. "With me, it’s—something else."

"No, no, I get it," Santi said, his voice careful. "I’ve watched you two argue for years. But what I mean is… he wouldn’t ask you those kinds of questions just to be cruel. He wouldn’t push you about something painful just to see you suffer."

You scoffed, looking away. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know him." Santi’s tone was even, patient. "Better than anyone. I know he can be unbearable and insufferable, and I know he gets under your skin. But he doesn’t have an ounce of real cruelty in him. Whatever his reasons were, they weren’t to hurt you."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Doesn’t seem like it." You ran a hand through your hair, shaking your head. "Why would he care so much, then? Why does it even matter to him? He doesn’t know anything about what it’s like to regret something this much."

Santi didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Like he was deciding what to say, or maybe whether to say anything at all.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes flickering to the coffee table before landing back on you.

"What has he told you about Rachel?" he asked finally.

You blinked.

"Not much," you admitted. "That she dumped him. Maia didn’t like her. Helena mentioned something, but she never gave me details."

"Yeah," Santi nodded, exhaling through his nose. "Well, Frankie and Rachel were together for almost two years. Longer, if you count the months they spent circling each other before making it official. It wasn’t perfect—none of them are—but this was… different. He loved her. I mean, really loved her. The kind of love that makes you a little unrecognizable, you know? I’d never seen him like that before. But it wasn’t good for him."

He looked at you then, more serious now, like he was weighing his words before saying them out loud.

"I don’t know if it’s my place to tell you this," he said, "but you’re my sister, and I trust you."

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him, still reeling from everything you already knew—and everything you didn’t.

"A few years ago, Frankie left the CAG after one of his closest friends died in the middle of a mission." Santi paused, his jaw tightening for a brief second. "It hit him hard. Too hard. Took him a long time to find his footing again. He came back to Austin, took a year off before he even thought about working again. And, you know, he got better. Kind of. But never fully."

You blinked at him, stunned. You had no idea.

All those years ago, when Santi had mentioned a friend who had returned to Austin, a friend who needed help—you’d never really thought about it. He’d never given you details. He’d talked about Will and Benny often enough, but Frankie had been a more distant presence, like an acquaintance who existed on the fringes of your brother’s life. Someone he never really brought up.

"And then, a few years later, he met Rachel," Santi went on. "And at first, we thought—okay, maybe this is good. Maybe this will be good for him." He shook his head. "But it wasn’t. She was… possessive. Controlling. Not good to him at all. But Frankie was in love, and what were we supposed to do? He was happy—at least in the moments where she let him be—so we let it go, even though we didn’t approve."

You could hear the resentment in his voice. The hindsight.

"But he was still up and down. And then, his dad died."

Santi rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked back at you, there was something deeply weary in his expression.

"He spiraled," he said. "It wrecked him, just like you’d expect it to. And then—two months later, Rachel left him."

You felt the words hit you square in the chest.

Santi exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, looking indignant in a way you rarely saw.

"She told him he wasn’t what she wanted anymore. That he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t acting like the man she needed. That he spent too much time holed up, too much time in bed." Santi’s voice turned hard. "Frankie was fucking depressed, and she had the audacity to tell him he was being selfish. That he wasn’t stepping up."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Jesus," you whispered, closing your eyes. You could feel the sharp sting of tears, the words you had thrown at Frankie earlier coming back in painful flashes.

Santi let the silence settle for a second before continuing.

"Anyway," he said, his voice lower now, "she left. And two weeks later, Benny saw her at the mall, kissing another guy. He told us, asked if we should say something. If it was even worth it. And at first, we thought maybe we shouldn’t. But Frankie… he thought he could still win her back. He was talking about changing for her, about fighting for her. And I swear—" Santi let out a breath that sounded close to a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. "I’ve never been so angry at someone in my life. And the worst part?" He glanced at you. "She had been seeing that guy for months."

You felt something tighten in your throat.

"You told him?"

"Yeah," Santi said. "We had to. Even though we knew it would wreck him."

"And what did he say?"

Santi’s expression turned unreadable for a moment. Then he furrowed his brows, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he said. "He just nodded, got up, and walked away."

You didn’t say anything. A moment passed, stretched and heavy, and you felt Santi tense beside you. Like he was bracing himself.

You turned to look at him, already knowing he wasn’t finished.

"Less than a month later," he said, his voice quieter now, like the words had to be handled with care. "Helena called me. Said Frankie was in the hospital. He’d taken something—pills, a lot of pills. And he’d been drinking."

Your stomach twisted, a deep, sinking feeling settling in your chest.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Are you saying he tried to—"

"I don’t know." Santi shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never asked. And none of us did. He didn't wanted us to, he was clear about it. And I think we were afraid to." He hesitated, like he was weighing his words again. "And to ask him now, after all this time… I don’t know, it feels... it feels out of place. Because I really think he's in a better place now, so."

You just stared at him, eyes wide, unmoving. Something inside you cracked, like a hairline fracture deep enough to make the whole structure feel unsteady.

Santi exhaled and looked down at his hands.

"What I’m trying to say," he went on, his voice softer now, "is that if anyone understands what it feels like to be abandoned, to feel like you’re not enough—it’s Frankie. That’s why I don’t think he was trying to hurt you. I think he was just… misguided. Trying to help in the only way he knows how."

Your lips trembled, the weight of everything pressing down on you, thick and unbearable. A sharp breath caught in your throat, half a gasp, half a sob. You turned to Santi, searching his face for something—understanding, reassurance, maybe a way out of the feeling that had settled, heavy, inside your ribs.

He furrowed his brows, watching you carefully, a crease of worry between his eyes.

“I…” You barely got the word out before tears blurred your vision. A thick, aching regret filled your chest. “I said horrible things to him.”

Santi didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, one hand resting against the back of your head.

You let yourself sink into the hug, but it didn’t make the feeling go away. If anything, it made it worse—because you couldn’t undo it. Because knowing the truth now didn’t erase the things you’d said, the sharp edges of your words still lodged somewhere deep in your memory, in Frankie’s memory.

And yes, he had been cruel to you for years. Yes, you had convinced yourself that whatever existed between you was just mutual disdain, nothing more, nothing less. But now, everything felt different. Everything had shifted, changed color. And you hated the way it looked now.

You weren’t this person. The kind who threw words like weapons, who dug into wounds just to make them deeper. You knew too well what it was like to feel that kind of hurt.

“What did you tell him?” Santi asked, his voice gentle, careful.

You swallowed hard, keeping your face pressed against his shirt, as if not looking at him would make it easier to admit.

“That he must have a lot of experience feeling like shit. That he was nothing but a failure, a loser. That he was drowning in his own misery.”

Santi let out a quiet curse under his breath, his fingers moving absently over your hair.

“I was awful, Santi,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Santi exhaled. “I’m sure he knows you were angry—”

“Why?” You pulled away, looking up at him, your face tight with frustration. “Why would he believe that? We’ve never been kind to each other. Not once. Why would he think this time was any different?”

“Because you’re not cruel,” Santi said simply.

You shook your head. “I wanted to hurt him.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person.” He studied you, his gaze steady. “I think… Unfortunately, I think you’re both a little messed up in the same ways, and that’s exactly why he recognizes it in you so easily. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. And it doesn’t make him one either.”

Silence settled between you. You lowered your gaze, your fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve.

“Do you think I’m fucked up?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Santi snorted, shaking his head. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Not really. Not really, really fucked up. Just a little. Fixable.”

Despite yourself, you let out a weak, uneven breath—something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. You glanced up at him, the smallest trace of humor flickering in your eyes.

“What am I supposed to do, Santi?”

Your voice was so soft, so uncertain, that he visibly winced. He didn’t like hearing you like this. Santi sighed, his own exhaustion catching up with him, but there was something warm in his expression, something steady.

“Right now? You go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, nudging your arm. “Later? Maybe we figure out how to fix this. Talking to Frankie would probably be a good start, don’t you think?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll get back to you on that in the morning.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler

[spicycinnabun]

🤖 I've loved all the snippets of this au so much!

glad you're enjoying it!! 🤖💙

EB was sidewinding, bumping into Tommy on almost every step. The shots were finally hitting his processors.

Tommy steadied him with an arm around his waist.

“I may have m-m-miscalculated my tolerance,” EB admitted. His cheeks were deeply Thirium flushed. He giggled, then burped up a bunch of metallic blue bubbles. One popped in front of Tommy’s nose, making it wrinkle. “O-oops!”

EB reached up, clumsily attempting to wipe Tommy's face. Tommy caught his wrist and lowered it gently. He patted EB’s hip, smiling. “Okay, we need to cut you off. I think it's time to go home.”

“Already?” EB turned towards Tommy. “Can I go h-home with you instead?” he asked, eyes glimmering.

Tommy’s chest clenched immediately.

Technically, if Tommy took EB to his house without authorization, he would be stealing LAFD property.

“You want me to botnap you?” Tommy asked. 

He wasn’t against the idea. Fuck Gerrard.

EB was still giving him the robopuppy eyes. They were getting even wetter. “I know it’s wrong. I don’t want you to get in trouble, Tommy. It just… gets l-l-lonely at the station when you’re not there.”

Tommy had no idea EB was capable of loneliness. He wondered what it was like to exist at the station. How long had EB been feeling this way? Just for a little while, or since his assembly day?

“I'll be on my best b-behavior. I’ll be so good you might even want to k-keep me.”

The ache in Tommy’s chest grew tenfold. That really twisted the knife. “EB…”

“I’ve had dreams about it before.” EB smiled. It was sweet. Confessional. His lips looked especially full and pink. His LED pulsed blue. “If you were my owner instead of Captain, and I was your botfriend.”

Tommy's brain broke. He wasn’t going to survive hearing more of this. “...You can dream?”

And not only that, but EB dreamt of him? Of them? Together?

“I can construct visual scenarios with various o-o-outcomes,” EB answered, blinking slowly and swaying on the spot. Tommy tightened his grip on him. “Like dreams, they're not real.”

“I didn’t know,” Tommy said. Choked, really.

“If it was possible, would you want that? Would you want me?” EB asked. His tone glitched on the question, going tinny. The hope in it was painful.

Tommy’s throat clicked as he swallowed. Of course I’d want you, EB.

How could he not?

Someone bumped into him from behind, jostling them and reminding Tommy of exactly where they were and who he was. In a crowded bar with his very masculine, red-blooded coworkers just a few feet away. 

EB's big, mechanical Thirium pump was going to get damaged. Just like Tommy’s heart had years ago.

Self-loathing more than usual, Tommy let go of EB and dodged the question. “I can’t talk about this here. How long will it take for you to regulate your Thirium?”

EB’s expression fell.

So did Tommy’s stomach, straight to his fucking feet.

“Approximately three hours and forty-two minutes,” EB answered quietly.

“We probably shouldn’t take you straight back to the station. Not until you’ve sobered up. C’mon.”

Tommy wanted to take EB’s hand and squeeze it.

He didn’t.

⚙︎

tag list: @brassm-tagged @leashybebes @thesuspiciousflyingjellyfish @setmeatopthepyre @bibuckeroo @station18908 @hmg621 @buffaluff @disastardly @figuringitoutaloud @bbbuckalou @ambernotember @theredrenard @hyperfocusthusly @tedious-waffle @screamlet @xmidhel @nochance-noway

@rcmclachlan @popfly @powersuitup @nonotyourspumoni @espressopatronum454 @loulou-land @all-the-feelss @comeon-intothemadhouse @jake-is-screaming-in-tune @therealstacyfakename @whizzzerbrown @the-omniscient-narrator @5ammi90 @crazypenguin88 @thuperrah @just-barrow @exhaustedpirate

[locomoqo]

Thank you so much for doing my request from the prompt list about gun and butting the jacket it was perfect🥹if it’s not too much to ask how about gun again but with the prompt about buying flowers for no reason. If it’s too much plz ignore have the best day!!

જ⁀➴ GUN PARK (prompt: buying flowers for you for no reason)

જ⁀➴ prompt list here!

Gun wasn’t the type for romantic gestures, which made it even more surprising when he showed up at your doorstep with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. The blooms were understated yet elegant—no vibrant colors or frills, just a classic mix of your favorite flowers and soft greenery, wrapped in simple paper. It was… unexpected, to say the least. He didn’t strike you as the type to walk into a flower shop, let alone come home with a bouquet.

“Gun,” you started, eyeing the flowers with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “What’s this?”

He held them out with his usual expression, cool and unreadable. If anything, there was the slightest crease of his brows, like even he was wondering why he had them.

“They’re flowers,” he stated simply, as if that cleared up all confusion.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, taking the bouquet from his hands and admiring the delicate petals. “I know they’re flowers,” you replied with a smirk. “I mean, what’s the occasion? Did I miss something?”

He watched you with that steady gaze, his lips set in a straight line. “Do I need a reason to give you flowers?”

The bluntness of his question caught you off guard, and you blinked at him, momentarily speechless. Gun wasn’t the type to be sentimental or to put emotions into words. You were used to his stoicism, the way he preferred actions over explanations, yet here he was, leaving you at a loss for words with such a simple question.

“Well… no,” you finally answered, feeling warmth rise in your cheeks. “But I thought you didn’t really go for this sort of thing.”

Gun tilted his head slightly, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I don’t. But I thought you might.”

The admission was quiet, understated, but it hit you harder than any grand proclamation ever could. To anyone else, it would have seemed like nothing, but coming from him, it felt like a lot. You knew how much he valued control, how little he let himself indulge in things that seemed unnecessary or frivolous. But he had still done this—chosen flowers with you in mind, probably taking the time to make sure they were exactly the kind you’d like.

Unable to hold back your smile, you glanced down at the bouquet, gently brushing a finger over the soft petals. “I do like them,” you said softly, the words almost too light for the feeling welling up inside you.

He nodded, the slightest smirk playing on his lips. “Good.”

You wanted to say something more, to thank him, but you knew he’d brush it off with his usual indifference. Instead, you leaned over, pressing a light kiss on his cheek, feeling his slight intake of breath at the unexpected contact. For just a second, his gaze softened.

Gun’s face quickly returned to its usual stoicism, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked at you, that quiet intensity in his eyes that always seemed to say more than his words ever could.

“Don’t get used to it,” he murmured, but his hand lingered, steady on your back as you both stood there, close and comfortable.

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 31 || The Breakdown (continued)

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language & angst.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 3k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——GOJO LEFT YOU WITH a lot to think about.

Before doing so, he dropped you off at your apartment after a passionate and almost final makeout session in the car lot just outside your apartment...

You knew it was your last time kissing Gojo.

It just felt like it. Like the final kiss of a romance film, Gojo's hands were so gentle against your body, his lips slipping and sliding over yours sensually and his tongue getting lost in your mouth. You'd hum into him and he'd moan lightly, the kiss lasting long enough to fog up his car windows.

Even then, it still took some time for the two of you to stop. It felt like another forty-minute make-out but in reality, the two of you sat outside kissing for an hour and a half.

He was so addicting, you felt so light and loved under his touch, allowing all your confliction to dissipate as he sucked and licked at your lips.

You don't even remember why you let him kiss you again but as soon as the car was parked, the soft sound of the radio quietly playing some R&B songs filled your ears and the two of you gave each other a look. Did he ask to kiss you or did you ask him? You have no clue.

All you know is that when your lips connected, they hardly ever parted. Gojo would whisper 'I love you' into your mouth every chance he got, refusing to let you forget that fact. You were still wondering why he sobbed earlier that night but the questions were forced into the back of your mind-- you'd get them answered in some years apparently.

When his lips finally peeled away from yours, a wet smack filled the car and Gojo had a bit of drool slipping out the corner of his mouth-- showing just how sloppy the kiss had been. You smiled and wiped his face off with your thumb, to which he grinned.

Gojo had this almost dazed and fucked out expression plastered across his handsome features. Meanwhile, you had a look of satisfaction.

The two of you stared deeply into each other's eyes, uncertainty, doubt, regret, love, passion, and a surplus of other emotions floating in the air between you two. It was easy for you to get lost in his eyes, easy for you to forget all he's done to you for a moment.

Hell, you could even picture what life would've been like for you if he'd stopped the list months ago. Perhaps the two of you would've dated, maybe you would've fallen for him and maybe the two of you would've lived happily ever after like some twisted fairytale.

But, instead, the two of you live in this twisted and awkward time where fate and reality have set all the pieces in place for you to hold nothing but hate in your heart for him. Even so, you reject holding only such an ill emotion-- never will you be able to look into Gojo Satoru's eyes the same after the day you've spent with him.

Something is wrong.

You don't know what it is and you probably won't ever find out but knowing that simple fact deters you from holding only ill intent.

"Can I uhm... say one last thing before you go up?" Gojo whispers, breaking you out of your thoughts.

Your faces are still close to one another and you nod your head.

"I cried like that because I've been feeling a lot of regret lately," He explains. Is he opening up to you right now? "I don't want you to pity me for it or feel sympathy for me because, trust me, I don't deserve it-, I don't deserve you."

"Satoru, how can you tell me not to sympathize with you after all that?" You ask, your voice filled with this sweetness and tenderness that he feels himself fall for even more, "I can't ignore-"

"I need you to." He says sternly, "Ignore it. I can't fix what I've done, sweets. A-And I'm not gonna try to. You're meant to be with someone who makes you unyieldingly happy and that will never be me." He sighs, brows tensing.

He looks so utterly distraught.

You can even tell he's trying to keep himself together, "Even if I explained it all to you and you were to somehow catch feelings for me and want to choose me over Choso, I-"

"Whatever you're about to say, you don't know that." You cut off, "You can't predict the future Satoru, any scenario you play out for me is nothing but an educated guess of what may happen but you truly don't know what'll occur if you just tell me the damn truth."

"The truth will undo everything I've worked for so far," Gojo claims.

You sigh heavily, "What does that even mean?"

"It won't make you happy, that's what I mean," He clarifies, "I can't make you happy, sweetheart. I wish I could but I can't. And the truth?" He scoffs a little, "Once I explain that all of hell will break loose."

"Satoru it can not be that bad, you're being dramatic-"

"I'm not." Gojo cuts off, his eyes deadly serious, "When you get the truth, I think you'll understand me but you definitely won't forgive me."

Your eyes narrow and you tip your head to the side, "Why don't you just tell me and find out, what's stopping you?"

"Fear." He claims.

For some reason, the slight shake in his voice brings that very emotion to you. Fear? What could Gojo Satoru have to fear?

You blink, "Of what-"

"Everything." Gojo says, his voice a tad bit louder, "I don't want to go down that path at all. I just want you to finish the list and go be with the man you love."

Do you even love that man? It's such a strong word... Maybe if Gojo had said what he just said a few weeks ago you would've said you loved Choso but now... Well, you haven't talked to him and even though he plagues your mind and heart often, you almost feel as though your feelings have faded.

That would probably change if Choso sent you even one text but the distance he's drawn between the two of you is solid. He made it very clear that unless you want a relationship, he doesn't want you around him. Choso feels so strongly around you that it hurts him to be in your presence and not be your boyfriend-- he explained that to you.

And naturally, you admire the way he avoided that toxic situation. But... it's also created some heafty dissipation of your feelings. Obviously, you think about him all the time but not talking to him does make you feel conflicted.

Do you love Choso? Do you like him? Is it just a crush? Has this one day with Gojo changed the way you think about everything and now you're sitting here confused about who you want and why you want them? Have you forgotten everything you've experienced with either man?

Choso made you happy beyond belief and Gojo has only brought you confusion.

But, Choso was also so much of a green flag that you were blind to his red ones. And Gojo was so much of a red flag that you didn't see the white one he held behind his back.

You remained quiet for too long and Gojo tilted his head at you, "Do you not?"

"H-Huh?" You stammer, breaking away from your mind.

"Do you not love Choso?" He asks.

"I don't know." You whisper.

The confusion of it all has officially gotten to you. You don't know anything anymore.

Gojo raises a curious brow, "Is it because you haven't seen him in a while?"

Your brows furrow, "N-No-"

"Winter break is just a month away," He tells you, "Maybe you should try to see him during that time."

A slight chuckle escapes your lips and you sigh, "It seems like you want me to get with Choso more than I want me to get with Choso."

"He makes you happy in ways I can't." Gojo points out, shrugging casually.

You scoff and words leave your lips faster than you intend them to, "That's not true."

"Sweetheart, I'm using you." Gojo emphasizes, "Stop forgetting that. Y-You..." He struggles to get this part out but he knows he has to. He has to create that distance between you and him, "You're nothing more than a t-"

"Don't." You cut off, shutting your eyes as your expression sours, "Don't you dare say something you know you'll regret even more, Satoru. C'mon now, we've been doing pretty good thus far but if you call me a fucking tool that's gonna fuck it all up-"

"That's what you are for me though." He cuts off. The claim didn't even sound right leaving his lips. His ability to be an asshole toward you has faded entirely.

"No, it's not." You argue back, opening your eyes and seeing his head turned away from you.

He swallows "Yes, it is-"

"Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm nothing more than a tool for you, then." You challenge, your gaze unwavering, "If that's the truth, look at me and say it."

Gojo struggles, refusing to meet your gaze, "You're-"

"I said look at me, Satoru." You emphasize.

He does, very slowly. "You... are nothing more... than a..." Gojo trails off, staring so intently into your eyes, losing himself, his mind, his breath, all of it as he can't even finish his statement properly.

"That's what the hell I thought," You utter, "Stop trying to make me hate you when I don't have to."

"You're supposed to," Gojo claims.

You don't know what that means. You don't know what any of it means. When will the confusion end? When will it all make sense? When will you get the chance to have a clear and focused mind??

A simple and unrelaxed sigh leaves you, "Okay."

"That's it? Just okay-"

"I don't know how to feel right now, Satoru." You huff out, turning away, "I don't understand anything and I hate not understanding shit. I don't know why you do the things you do, I don't know if I love Choso, I don't know if I still hate you, I don't know anything!" You rant, "I have so many fucking questions. There's too much going on and too little being explained to me and I can't take it anymore."

"I'm sorry, I really am-"

"That's all you ever are. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry, when does it end Satoru?" You whine, so beyond tired of it all, "When do I get to understand? When are you going to stop keeping me in the dark so that I can help you?"

"You can't help me," Gojo claims.

You grit your teeth, "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He argues.

"Earlier, you said we're the same. I didn't know what you meant, and I still don't but, if that's the case then the only person that can help you is me so, god damnit Satoru, let me in. Open up to me for fucks sake!"

He's like a damn wall, something that even you, his literal weakness, couldn't get through. Nothing you say will make him reveal the truth to you.

Gojo says your name in a chillingly calm tone, his eyes going all dull again, "I'll let you in when the time is right-"

"When?! When will the time be right?? When are you going to let me help you?"

"That's the fucking problem!" He snaps so suddenly that it almost frightens you. Just like that morning, it's another random outburst of anger, "That's why I'm in this damn mess, b-because of you. Y-You and your fucking kindness. You should hate me right now but here you are too busy trying to help me? To fucking understand me?"

"How can I not? This is your second time getting upset with me within the past twenty-four hours and you fucking cried into my arms! Am I really expected to ignore that?"

"Yes! About two months ago, you were hellbent on hating me but just because I shed some damn tears you're ready to fucking baby me? I don't need that from you, I don't need anything from you." He's so clearly rambling by this point, not even realizing what's coming out of his mouth, "I just want you to keep hating me like you always do." He continues, his voice angered to mask his hurt.

You go quiet for a minute and just listen to him.

"Stop trying to figure me out like I'm some damn puzzle. There's no problem for you to solve here; I need you to fuck people, not care about me. I need this list cleared, I need it to all just be over." He spits out, his voice wavering at the end, "T-That's all I need, sweetheart. Stop tryna' understand me, just finish the fucking list and let it be over-"

"Gojo Satoru," You cut him off, the use of his full name making him freeze. His mouth shuts like a trained dog and he feels as though his blood just ran still. "I'm not gonna stop trying to understand you because I'm in this mess with you, whether I like it or not. I've been paying attention to you all day, y'know that right?"

He simply shrugs, too frozen to even speak anymore.

You take a deep breath, calming your heightened nerves, "Even a blind man could see that something happened that triggered you recently. You've never blown up on me or broken down on me like today. And, dare I say, I think it was something from Sukuna's party that started all this."

He swallows, hard.

"Were you the one that called the cops?" You question.

"N-No," His voice is shaky but not because he's lying. He's nervous. "That uh, t-that was some guy who was pissed about getting knocked out, I think."

"Okay, so what happened while we separated, Satoru? Because you've been snappy and emotional ever since. First, you cursed me out about calling myself a whore, then you cried when I said I love the way you kiss me, and now you got mad at me because I want to understand and help you. So tell me, what happened?"

"...Nothing." He mumbles.

You stare at him with this look in your eyes, deciding to give him one last chance to tell you because you're so beyond tired of the stress his answers and mood swings are bringing you, "Are you sure? If you don't tell me now... I'm going upstairs. Then, I'm gonna finish the list and I'll go on with my life without caring anymore."

"I-I..." Gojo's heart sinks, the moment presented to him so perfect.

"This is your last, and final, chance to open up to me. Speak now," You sigh, "Or forever hold your peace."

His eyes soften, "I can't tell you."

You nod your head slowly, "Okay." You then turn away from him and look down to make sure you have all your things, "When you're ready to grow some balls and explain yourself, I'll be ready. But until then," You move to open the car door, "I'm done with this shit."

Your feet swing out the car and just as you're about to step out, he calls your name, making you freeze. Gojo can't tell you the truth but he means it honestly when he says, "I'm sorry for loving you."

You squeeze your eyes shut, "What does that apology do for me? Hm?"

"That's why you're in this mess." Gojo explains, just barely, "Because I stupidly fell for you, you're wrapped up in my bullshit."

"You're still confusing me." You point out.

"I'm not trying to explain it. I can only give you that as of right now. All of this is because I made the mistake of loving you and for that, I'm sorry."

"Okay." You hum, your voice small and exhausted, "Then," You turn around and meet his eyes one last time, "I forgive you."

"W-What-"

"For loving me, Satoru. It's not a crime," You say, mocking a comment he made to you earlier, "You're allowed to love me. So, for that, and that only, I forgive you."

Those words healed so many more wounds in his heart than you realized. It was like that was all he ever needed to hear. If Gojo's mistake was loving you and that's what caused this, then you forgive him.

If in some twisted way, his feelings started the list, you forgive him.

Deep down, you know the truth will be revealed someday but, you can't keep stressing yourself over it-- you're digging yourself into a hole and opening up doors that can't be closed. By some miracle, you could recognize that it was best you stopped asking all your questions and instead moved on.

That's all you can do; move on.

Complete the list.

Nothing else matters.

Free yourself from this cursed predicament and live your life.

That's what you want, that's what Gojo wants, that's what's needed.

Freedom.

GOJO SATORU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

GETO SUGURU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

TOJI FUSHIGURO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢

KAMO CHOSO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢 / 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ZEN'IN NAOYA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ITADORI SUKUNA ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮???

NANAMI KENTO ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: ???

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[rekino2114]

Could we get something with chara for the valentine's day event. I was thinking either 8, 9 or 10 you decide. We need more content for her

Chara valentine's day prompts

Pairing:female chara dreemur x gn reader

A/n:I decided to use a different writing style than usual since I thought it fit better with the prompts

Prompts list

Prompt#9: giving her a hersey's kiss instead of a real one

Y/n:Hey Chara do you want a kiss?

Chara:no

Y/n:what? You always say you love them

Chara:Always is an exaggeration, I can't say I hate them but I don't need one every hour

Y/n:come on pretty please, just a small one

Chara:you're gonna bother me until I say yes aren't you?

Y/n:probably

Chara:[sighs] fine I guess your kisses are nice

Y/n:I knew you liked them!

Chara:whatever

Y/n:Close your eyes first

Chara:why? That's weird

Y/n:no its more romantic

Chara:you better not do something weird

Y/n:don't worry I think you'll quite like it

[Chara sighs again but closes her eyes and opens her mouth, waiting for your kiss]

Chara:come on hurry up

[You take the chocolate out of your pocket and put it in chara's mouth. She's surprised at first, but as soon as she recognizes the sweet taste, she starts chewing it with a smile on her face]

Y/n:so did you like that?

Chara:Yeah.....but what about the kiss

Y/n:That was it, I gave you a hersey's kiss, it's a type of chocolate

Chara:oh...........ok

Y/n:did you want one that bad~?

Chara:when you told me you were gonna give me a kiss I expected a kiss

Y/n:well I did give you one

Chara:fine, if you wanna play it like this then I'm gonna get the kiss myself

Y/n:what do you-

[Suddenly, chara takes you by the collar of your shirt and kisses you passionately on the lips]

Y/n:........wow

Chara:now that was a real kiss

Y/n:Do you....want more kisses

Chara:Yeah

Y/n:which ones?

Chara:both, I love both.....but I guess yours are a bit better

Y/n:[giggle]:I'm glad you love me more than chocolate

Chara:obviously, would I kill someone for chocolate?

Y/n:yes actually, you very much would

Chara:come on, I'm better than that

Y/n:if you say so........wait were you implying you'd kill someone for me

Chara:did I stutter?

Prompt#8:feeding chocolate covered strawberries to each other

[Chara walks over to you eating a chocolate bar looking angry]

Chara:hey y/n, what happened to the chocolate bars in the fridge

Y/n:what do you mean? They're still there

Chara:no I brought 8, like 3 of them are gone

Y/n:......you eat way too much chocolate

Chara:just answer my question

Y/n:I melted it and made chocolate fondue

Chara:......what's that?

Y/n:Are you serious? You're obsessed with chocolate and don't know what chocolate fondue is?

Chara:I'm allowed to not know stuff, but I'm curious now what is it?

Y/n:it's just melted chocolate that you put in a bowl and dip stuff in

Chara:that actually sounds pretty good, can I have some

Y/n:yeah sure, I made it for us anyway

[You take a strawberry,dip it in the fondue and hold it over her mouth]

Y/n:People usually do it with strawberries, so here you go

Chara:I can eat it myself

Y/n:but i made it for valentine's day, it's more romantic like this

Chara:......you are so lucky I love you and chocolate

[She eats the strawberry and hums in happiness as her eyes sparkle]

Chara:wow that's good and I don't even like strawberries normally

Y/n:yeah, you'd probably eat a shoe if it was covered in chocolate

Chara:no seriously try it

[Chara dips a strawberry in the chocolate and shoves it in your mouth]

Y/n:....oh yeah, that is really good

Chara:see?

Y/n:i could have done without the force feeding though

Chara:I thought you said it was romantic

Y/n:You shoved it in my mouth how is that romantic?

Chara:whatever

[Chara looks at the fondue and the chocolate bar in her hands with determination in her eyes]

Chara:what do you think would happen if I dipped the chocolate bar into chocolate?

Y/n:diabetes, I think you'd get diabetes

Chara:.........worth it

Y/n:WAIT CHARA NO!

[hughiecampbelle]

Thunderbolts Preference: Helping Clean Your Depression Room

A/N: My depression room was a huge disaster and it made me think of the New Avengers seeing this and waiting to help in whatever way they could :) Silly, but I hope you like it!! 🖤

thunderbolts requests are open

Bucky is used to people asking him to clean up their messes. Usually they're a lot bigger, scarier, and usually involve mortal danger. When you sheepishly asked him for help, he went into action mode. What did you need? Weapons, of course. Guns, grenades, knives. Who would he have to contact? Valentine, probably. Who else? What about the rest of the team? When you clarify that it's just your room, he relaxes, laughing at himself. Force of habit. You try to explain just how bad it really is, warning him, but when he sees it he's not phased at all. He doesn't judge or joke, he gets this serious look on his face when he's focused. Lightly he'll tread, asking you how you've been feeling, everyone knowing you were going through an episode. You tell him the truth, knowing he'd know if you were lying. Together you clean and vacuum and dust. He washes all your blankets and sheets so that your bed is extra cozy. He smiles when he tells you that was the easiest mission he'd ever been on, reminding you you can ask him for help with anything and he'll be there.

Alexei makes zero judgments. Before the New Avengers, his apartment was a disaster. He was insecure showing Yelena, having her over, having anyone over. When he looks at your mess, your depression room, he isn't ashamed of you, he doesn't get embarrassed, he looks at it and he recognizes it. Early on you see how helpful he'll actually be: more so than you originally thought, but not as much as the others. He likes things he can put away. Plates, bowls, cups. He washes them by hand as he tells "fun" stories of being the Red Guardian, raising his daughters, etc. Something about him feels familiar, paternal, a feeling you've been missing. You listen, ask questions, and sort through your things. He gets sidetracked by photos of loved ones, sitting on your bed and going through them. You apologize afterwards, hating that he's wasted his day cleaning your room, but he doesn't mind at all, telling you it was actually very fun. Next time, he'll bring the vodka.

Yelena tackles this head on. She doesn't take no for an answer. You were too ashamed to ask her for help, instead trying to take care of it by yourself. The first day wasn't so bad, but after you were so tired, so overwhelmed, you broke down in front of her. She shows up at your door with a trash bag and a vacuum cleaner. You try to tell her you've got it covered, but she barges in regardless, taking charge. Yelena gets it. Her apartment was sort of falling apart. She knows you've been feeling depressed lately. Doing anything in that state feels impossible, crushing even. You wanting to take care of it is a good sign. She doesn't mean to, but she reminisces about sharing a room with Tasha. How messy it could get, how their mother made them clean it until it was spotless, just for it to be messed up by a pillow fort or a dollhouse explosion. She reminds you to take breaks, taking over when it all feels like too much. You thank her, but she doesn't want to hear it. There is no need, she had a wonderful time hanging out with you. Helping was just an added bonus.

Ava is actually so good at cleaning. She loves lists and baskets and labels. You don't want to show her the disaster, but in order for her to help, you have to. She isn't disgusted or horrified. She doesn't shame you or belittle you. Like everything else in her life, she must put the chaos in order. She takes a look around, making a list of everything that needs to be done. Trash first, then clothes, books, whatever else you've got lying around. She nicely gives you tips on how to handle this before it gets as bad as it is. Tricks you can do to keep it clean even when you are feeling depressed. You thank her a million times, shame creeping up as you watch her work, but she doesn't mind at all. She knows you've been struggling. There's so little one can do for someone else that feels adequate, helpful, like it's enough. This, she thinks, is how she can help. You talk about everything. It takes a few hours and by the end, you've told her things you wouldn't have told any of them. It feels like a relief. It is. She makes sure you know, when you're feeling bad, she'd love to come help organize. It's not a job or some sort of punishment, she genuinely enjoys it.

John is extremely judgmental and though you know he can't help it, he's the last person you come to about this. Nobody else is home though and you can't look at it anymore, you can't live like this. Discreetly, you take out bowls and cups, mugs and trash, washing them and taking out the trash. You know you shouldn't be embarrassed, but you are: John's room is immaculate. Yours? Not so much. When it looks a little better, more manageable, you politely ask him if he'd help you wash some clothes. You try not to let him see the extent of it, but he barges in with an empty basket. He'll make a crude comment or two, but he really does mean well. He wants to help. You give him tasks you think he'd like: folding laundry, switching it from the washer to the dryer, making piles. You stick to the odds and ends, things that need to be put back in their right places. He makes a few jokes that fall flat, but you laugh anyway, thanking him. He shrugs it off, says he's been wanting to get this mess cleared for weeks. You might not always enjoy his company, but at this moment you don't mind the small talk. You're grateful for the help.

Bob, unlike Walker, feels no need to complain or laugh. Bob gets it 100000%. It was so hard for him to keep his room clean. As a child, it was easy: fear drove him to perfection. The fear of his father made him sure not to keep his things lying around, where others could see and then react. As he got older though, it seemed impossible. Not just losing things (important things), just seeing the floor became it's own mission impossible. Depressed, he could barely get out of bed, could barely move, let alone put away laundry. Manic, there are too many important and pressing issues than cleaning his room. There never seemed to be a good time. He doesn't see failure or laziness, he sees struggle, and does everything he can to help. He knows how overwhelming it is, so he gently guides you through, picking categories so it doesn't seem so big/daunting. He definitely gets distracted if you put on music, but neither of you really mind. He's always willing to help, no matter how "bad" it all seems.

[twistedteatime]

Dessert

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Scorpio!Reader

A/N: Been a bit, but this took a turn and I'm working on something different and much longer.

Summary: Bucky got called away on a mission. You haven't answered your phone for three days. He gets back to the compound only to find Tony telling him, Steve, Sam, and Natasha that something bad happened and he doesn't know where you are. When they find you it isn't what anyone expects. Except for Natasha.

Warnings: LANGUAGE. Canon typical violence. Mentions of firearms. Mentions of mafia. Allusions to torture. Minimal Y/N use. Use of doll. Fluff. Some flirting. Pop culture references (See if you can find them all and leave them in the comments. Some are obvious, some less so.) Can't think of much else. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Word Count: Almost 5.2k

Master List: Scorpio AU

Previous Story: Coffee

Next Story: Flowers

AO3 Link: Dessert

===================

Tired. Bucky was genuinely just…tired. He really needed to sleep. More than a 10-minute power nap, but he needed to see you.

Dessert had been postponed, unfortunately, as the moment he left from archives he was called to go out on a mission. With Steve, Sam, and Natasha. To go and check in on an abandoned HYDRA base that wasn’t exactly abandoned yet also not exceptionally occupied.

It felt like a distraction. Especially as he remembered the base in question. It should have been loaded with people. It had barely a dozen and none of them were particularly high-ranking.

Bucky didn’t like it.

What he liked even less than that was you not answering his texts or calls.

What was worse than that…was the brief flicker across Natasha’s face when he said you weren’t answering and then the increasing agitation she tried to hide as they flew back to the Compound. She hid it but he saw it. He saw it and she refused to say anything.

Steve and Sam were noticeably off about it as well. Yet instead of not saying anything they tried to reassure him. That…was the worst.

“She’s probably just…busy.” Steve said and gestured with his hands, one more at Sam to help him come up with something else to say.

“Probably digging out another old recipe to torture us with. She didn’t answer me back for four hours when she was working on that cake.”

“It’s been 3 days.” Bucky said and he shut his mouth.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Buck.” Steve said as reassuringly as he could.

It didn’t work.

“She’s not gonna go running off and get into trouble.” He added and Bucky nodded.

“No. She’s not you.” He agreed but they all frowned and looked on in shock when they landed and saw a beaten, slightly charred, and bloodied Tony there to greet them, “What happened?”

“Well, funny thing really. It was like that whole mission you went on was a distraction to get the most HYDRA informed people as far away as possible.”

“Where is she?” Bucky asked, his mind racing with everything that could have happened, how injured you could be, if you were alive, who did it, what he would do if they hurt you, and so much more that it took Steve’s hand on his shoulder to stop the thoughts from spiraling darker.

“Well…” Tony started, knowing who he was talking about as they all knew about his attachment to you, “Uh…we…don’t…really know. Her tracker keeps pinging to a location in Jersey…”

“So why haven’t you gone there to find her?” Sam asked, pointedly glancing at Bucky as his face went blank and he twitched.

“We have. She’s not there. The tracker isn’t there either. Can’t find it.” Tony answered and Steve spoke.

“Why does she have a tracker, Tony?” he asked, rather pointedly as he held Tony’s gaze.

It was accusatory. Bucky knew why. They all did. Tony had habits. Ones that did not sit well with Steve Rogers and they’d clashed over it more than once.

This wasn’t the time for it right now.

“I don’t care why she has one, why isn’t it where she is?” Bucky asked.

“Thank you. See? Barnes knows his priorities.” Tony said to him, fully accepting the escape tunnel Bucky gave him from answering, “We were hoping Nat could tell us. She knows our little psycho archivist the best. Two peas in a pod. You might have the hots for her, Barnes, but Romanoff knows her far better.”

They all looked at Natasha. Bucky was too worried to deny what Tony said or to even get flustered at it. He needed answers.

Now.

“Well it depends on where in Jersey it took you and what happened here.” She answered and Tony nodded.

He went on to describe the incident. Just as they arrived at the HYDRA base communications shut down and the alarms regarding some of the more sensitive contents of the archives started blaring. The base was indeed meant as a distraction and the target HYDRA had set its sights on happened to be situated in the Archives.

Since losing SHEILD they lost not only a substantial part of their access to intel but several items that they were very interested in retrieving. The HYDRA base was not the only distraction they set up to achieve their mission in retrieving what they wanted. Several were initiated over the course of several hours that kept Tony, Clint, Bruce, and every other Avenger quite occupied and the compound quite not occupied.

“So you left the compound undefended?” Steve asked bluntly.

“No. I sent the kid here to keep an eye on things and there’s several people we’re still trying to get the webbing off of to question. I warned him ahead of time to make sure they couldn’t bite down on anything, he did, but he was the one to head down and find that they were after the archives. Most of the archivists were in the safe room. Three were not. You already know who one of them was. One of the others was Reggie Smith. We found him later tied to a tree stump further up the river and gagged with a note pinned to him.” Tony explained, “Apparently he’s a mole. Not for HYDRA exactly but for a company working with HYDRA out of Idaho since the 70s. He swears he didn’t know it was going to cause an incident with HYDRA and begged me not to tell any of you, particularly the Manchurian Candidate here…and he was sobbing something about pigs.”

“Who’s the other archivist missing?” Nat asked with a calm and amused smile.

“Shelly ‘Contraband Bra’ Duty. She dropped her tracker in Yonkers so I’m not sure where she is either. We’re running scans on every camera in the tristate area to track down both, but…it’d be faster if Nat could just tell us.”

“Where in Jersey?”

“A really creepy old family theme park. Stuff of nightmares.” Tony answered and she nodded, “Know it?”

“Yep.” She said and started walking back towards the jet, “You run the security footage?”

“They cut the main feed but the backups caught everything.” Tony said as he followed her along with Steve, Sam and Bucky.

“What it’d show?” Sam asked as he glanced at Tony warily, “She alright?”

“I need to give her a raise and question our resident spy a bit more next time I hire one of her friends.” He said and handed over a tablet while Steve just chuckled knowingly.

Bucky looked at the screen as Sam hit play and watched. He was worried. It didn’t get better watching the video.

You were sitting at your desk working when the sirens went off. You didn’t panic, you just sighed. Bucky knew that sigh immediately. You were annoyed. Not scared, not worried, just annoyed and it only grew as Reggie snuck out from the doorway.

You didn’t say anything to him, you just reached into your desk and pulled out a pistol, loaded it with a dart, and calmly shot him with it, dropping him face first onto the hard floor. The look on your face was one of pure annoyance, especially as you pulled out a different gun and loaded a clip into it before hitting print on the computer. The sirens blared in the background as you took the papers, folded them, and tucked them into your pocket.

“What…the…she is way too comfortable with this.” Sam said and Natasha laughed.

“Knowing her it’ll get better.” She said and Sam looked at Bucky as Bucky looked at him while watching the video continue.

You hoisted Reggie up, slinging his arm around your shoulder as Shelly and a group of HYDRA soldiers showed up just as the archive doors all bolted shut and locked down. Bucky watched, worried, and then stared in complete shock as you spoke to them. In Russian.

“Hail HYDRA. This idiot tripped the back up alarms and got darted before I dragged him out. He knows nothing of the plans, but he’ll serve as a suitable distraction to lead them away.”

“You’re lying. You’re not a known operative.” Shelly replied warily and you rolled your eyes.

“This is why you continue to fail in rising in the ranks. You don’t pay attention to details. Two. Needle. Sugar. Wire. Five. Sunny. Homer. Poseidon.” You replied and the other soldiers lowered their weapons and saluted as Shelly’s jaw dropped.

“You’re Echidna.”

“Obviously I’m Echidna.”

“Then why did you stop me from getting the recipe!”

“Because it was obvious and done sloppy. You’re lucky I didn’t eliminate you as a result for your lack of discipline. It was shameful to see how little you pay attention to details. Every detail matters! That fool Pierce didn’t think details mattered! His hubris cost us nearly everything! What fool doesn’t think the detail of our prized asset being the former best friend of that goody goody Captain America was a detail worth paying attention to? See where that got us?! Sloppy and I’ve had to spend far too much time taking matters into my own hands. Now move. Stark will be sending in the annoying pubescent spider child soon. You three. See that he does not follow while we arrange for a delay.”

“Yes, Grand Mistress!” the soldiers replied, saluting you again, and Natasha snickered.

“What is she saying?” Sam asked and Bucky answered, “No…no way she’s HYDRA.”

“Please tell me there’s more.” Natasha said with a smile at Tony and he nodded swiping the screen to the next video.

Shelly was in complete awe. Rattling on and on about how honored she was to be in your presence. You just nodded, dragging Reggie along until having to go through a door. You handed him over to Shelly. She nearly dropped him and you just shook your head disgusted before taking him back once the door was open.

She apologized and when Peter came into the screen she followed your lead, “There’s a bunch of them in the archives trying to get through the doors!”

“Is he alright?” Peter asked and you nodded.

“He’s fine. We’re taking him out of harm’s way. The med bay’s locked tight. I never finished my tasks down in Archives and something was rattling around in the vents.” You said to him, shifting Reggie’s weight onto your shoulder towards Shelly.

“Mira still in HQ? I thought I heard the emergency meeting call.” Peter said and you nodded.

“Yeah. Alarms went off. We’re headed out that way for a safe ejection from the danger.” You replied and he nodded before swinging off and Natasha snickered again.

“I knew getting them to play that game was a good idea.” She said while laughing and Tony sighed.

“You corrupted my kid.” He said and she rolled her eyes, “That’s the last video we have, though.”

Sam just shook his head. Beyond frustrated and confused.

“So why is she in New Jersey? Now I know she can take care of herself. To a point. She’s friends with you and you say she can, Steve doesn’t worry too much about her, Thor is afraid of her, Loki likes her, and the list goes on down the line until you get to the cyborg here who is practically in love with her…even if he looks as confused as I am. How is she so calm? Please tell me she’s not really HYDRA.” Sam asked before Bucky could and Natasha answered.

“No, she’s not HYDRA, but that’s what her line of research is. Top to bottom.”

“After what happened with Fury, Pierce…everything…I wanted to know more without anyone really knowing I was looking into it.” Tony explained and gestured at Natasha, “I needed someone that knew how to handle themselves and how to protect things at the time. Nat recommended our little psycho librarian so I hired her to do that and put her on the job researching things once I learned she’s fluent in Russian, German, and Crazy.”

“So that’s why you have a tracker on her?” Steve asked and Tony shook his head.

“No, and she knows about it. She agreed to keep it after she found it. She probably told Shelly about it to gain trust.”

“Likely.” Natasha agreed, “She’s not stupid and she’s highly manipulative. She takes her job seriously no matter what it is even if you think she doesn’t.”

“But why New Jersey?” Sam asked again and she smiled.

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t want to see, I want to know.” Bucky said and she just smiled more, “Nat, c’mon. My head’s starting to hurt.”

“You’re ruining my fun, Barnes, but fine. The fun park belonged to one of her former bosses. Irish mafia. She was hired on as security for his daughter and saved her life from a runaway donut truck. He’s retired now. Has a flower shop in Queens, but he gifted her the fun park as a reward for saving his daughter’s life because it’s a safe house. Knowing her…she’s got Shelly locked in a closet while she’s watching a movie. She has a bigger screen in there than Tony does.”

“What?” Tony asked, staring as they all did, even Steve.

“I did not know about the safe house.”

“But you knew she worked for the Irish mob?!” Sam asked and Steve nodded, “And you’re okay with that?!”

“She’s not now.” He said and Sam just looked at Bucky then shook his head.

“Forget I asked.”

“What’s this have to do with me?” Bucky scowled and several minutes later was looking at the dilapidated, run down, and rusted remains of a family fun park with the others.

“Where’s the clown with the bloody knife?” Sam asked as he looked around, “I know there’s one here somewhere. This place screams ‘murder clown’.”

Bucky couldn’t even argue with him. He wanted to. Oh, he wanted to, but he just couldn’t.

Because it did.

Even though he recognized the style of everything as being very reminiscent of his and Steve’s childhoods, it screamed “there’s a psychopath with a kitchen knife hiding around the next corner”. Chipped paint on rusted metal. A soft, gentle, eerie creaking of a loose hinge in the wind. Dried up leaves blowing in the wind. Empty, falling down concession stands. Graffiti sprayed ride walls. Dark doorways where the door was hanging from the hinges rocking in the breeze.

He didn’t want to agree with Sam. Not one bit. Bucky just couldn’t help it.

“So how do we get in?” Tony asked as they followed Natasha through the horrorscape she had brought them to.

She wasn’t even phased. It didn’t surprise Bucky. It didn’t surprise anyone. Not with her. They’d have been surprised if they’d have been surprised.

“It’s accessed under the merry go round.” she answered and Sam raised his eyebrows at the structure up ahead.

“You mean the thing with the melted unicorns painted with blood red horns and fangs on it that looks like it’s a gateway to the nether realm?” he asked and she nodded.

“That’s the one.” She said and stepped up onto the platform and to the center column where she accessed a secret panel and punched in a long alphanumerical code.

They watched the center column open up wider, revealing a set of stairs down. She just smiled as they stared and gestured at them to head on in. They did so, in Sam’s case a bit reluctantly.

Three quarters of the way down they heard a high-pitched scream. Sam jumped. They all did but Bucky recognized it. Not as yours, but as the kind he’d heard back before the war in dimly lit movie theatres where Boris Karloff was on the screen.

Tinny, brassy, classic horror music played down the corridor as they stepped into it. It was long, clean, and grey-painted concrete, but it was nothing like what was above them. Mostly.

A door next to them began mumbling and thumping. A body slamming against it. Hard.

“What the fuck?” Sam asked as they looked at it and Natasha looked at the keypad on it before typing in a code.

A disheveled, muddy, tear-stained, gagged, and broken-heeled Shelly burst out of it onto the floor. She was bruised. Mostly by her own doing and gagged with what looked to have been Reggie’s tie. A tooth was missing from her mouth.

“G-gghaahh! Ga-aaggh!” She gurgled past the spit-soaked fabric up at them as they looked down at her.

“Hello, Shelly.” Tony greeted and she looked at him, “Where is Y/N?”

“Aaaaaahhhhh!” she responded, shaking her head rapidly, “Nnaa naaa naa nnaaa naaa!”

“Damn…what did she do to you?” Sam asked her and she shook her head more, her hair coming undone from its bun and flapping against the floor, leaving more muddy streaks.

“Uh uh! Uh uh! Ooery! Ooery!” she sobbed and Natasha just shook her head and looked down the hallway as the ending credit music stopped and they heard a popcorn machine, “AAHhhh! Cmmin’! Geggie!”

“Whatever your girlfriend did to her…it was fucked up.” Sam said to Bucky and he just blinked, not exactly sure how to process it.

He was torn between being impressed, curious, and worried. Whatever you had done had obviously worked. Shelly was HYDRA, maybe not the best, but she was still HYDRA and whatever you had done had broken her in ways HYDRA likely couldn’t.

Or at least in ways they never thought to try.

That itself was a bit…worrying.

Yet Bucky couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride at how you handled the situation and yourself. He wanted to pick it apart, find a reason to yell at you for putting yourself in danger. Yet…in a way…you hadn’t.

You manipulated your way out of a dangerous situation, took down two agents, and removed yourself to somewhere you knew was safe. It wasn’t like you stuck around to fight off an incursion. You had gotten up and removed yourself to safety. Like he had told you to do.

He knew perfectly well that hiding under your desk would not have helped in that situation. Protocol during situations like that were also for civilian members of staff to get to a safe room or get out as fast as they could. You had technically done both.

He stepped over Shelly to make his way down the hallway. The others could deal with her. He needed to find you. To see you were alright.

He followed the sound of the popcorn machine to a room with an old sign over it that read: Theater Room. Bucky opened it. Then he blinked.

It was exactly what it said it was. It wasn’t set up exactly as a modern one but an older one. In the corner stood a popcorn machine…and you. You also happened to have a gun pointed at him.

The emotionless, blank, and fully ready to pull the trigger look in your eyes instantly eased out when you spotted it was him. So did all the tension from your body. Even as he made his way over to you with a glower set on his face shaking his head you just relaxed and set the gun down on the counter next to you.

“Hey, Bucky.” You greeted him as he marched his way over, steel blue eyes boring into yours, and you knew you were in trouble because you couldn’t figure out what was running through his mind.

He was just focused on you as if mentally chanting that he was going to get you. All you knew was that he wasn’t going to hurt you. Bucky would never do that and you knew it.

So when he reached you and pulled you into his arms, you didn’t tense up, you just relaxed into him more. Especially as he just held you against him, enveloping you with his frame. His arms around you, his chin on your head, tucking you against him as he let out a relieved sigh.

You felt his body relax as you wrapped your arms back around him, silently reassuring him that you were alright. That you were there. That you trusted him.

He was silent, just holding you, his left arm wrapped around your waist securely while the other one gently caressed your head. You knew he had been worried. You knew he would have been from the moment you left, but you did what he had told you to do the day he had brought you coffee.

“If HYDRA ever comes…just…promise me you’ll get out and as far away as you can.” He said, looking at you, serious, and you nodded, and you meant it.

“I promise, Bucky.”

“I’m okay, Bucky. I promise. I’m okay. She broke my phone at one point and I lost hers somewhere in the woods. The phones here don’t work anymore either or I’d have called.” You said and he nodded as he looked down at you, searching your face for any signs of injury or you playing anything down; it just made you smile up at him, “I’m right here, Buck. Safe and sound. Though if you ask Shelly I very much am not of sound mind.”

He let out a soft huff as his lips curled upwards, his right hand gently caressing your jaw and face. It felt good, warm, sweet, and soothing. So soothing and you let yourself relax into it and into him more.

Bucky knew it wasn’t often you did this. You didn’t just relax into anyone or let them see past the indifferent façade you put up. You didn’t have to say it. He knew you were as happy and relieved to see him as he was to see you.

You were, too. Three days hoping he was alright. Three days hoping everything was going to be alright. Three days getting as much information out of Shelly as you could.

She figured out you weren’t the Grand Mistress before you got to the park. She put up a bit of a fight. Yet it was clear she had never been trained to fight in heels on uneven and soggy ground.

Neither were you but you at least had the sense to kick them off before slamming her head into a tree by her hair. It was raining at the time. You were both covered in mud by the time you knocked her out.

You were so filthy you looked like you were just born from the mud pit in Isengard the Uruk Hai were birthed from. The sight of you, and the sight of you dragging an unconscious blonde bimbo by the foot through the mud was enough to scare the absolute shit out of a group of teenagers. If you weren’t just completely done with the entire ordeal you probably would have laughed.

You didn’t, though. You were too exhausted to do anything other than drag her to the carousel and into the safehouse where you tied her up and shoved her in the first closet with a keypad on it.

Then you took a bath. Then you started a movie marathon. Mostly to keep your mind off of things. Like Bucky. You knew the tracker would lead them to you eventually. You just needed to wait and stay calm…and not think about Bucky.

“I was…I was so worried.” He said softly and you nodded even as you reached up to gently hold his head in your hands.

“I know. I was, too, but I’m alright. Are you alright?” you asked and Bucky nodded.

“Yeah. I’m alright. Now. I mean…I have a lot of questions about all of this, but I’m alright.” He replied and you smiled up at him, just happy he was there and alright and with you, letting him see that you were when he looked down at you.

At least until you heard the door open again and Steve walked in with Natasha. Then the walls went back up. You liked Steve; Natasha was effectively your best female friend, but you only ever let Bucky see straight in. That was his and as he smiled it was clear that he knew it was his and his alone.

“Which one is this?” Natasha asked as she gestured at the screen and Bucky looked at it as the opening credits started.

“The Return of Doctor X.” You answered, “Mister Mickey loaded this place with pretty much every classic movie from the 30s and 40s before he turned it over to me.”

“Your old boss?” Steve asked and you shook your head.

“Nah. His dad. He forbids me from calling him Mister O’Malley, so I call him Mister Mickey. I’m not arguing with a 100-year-old former mobster that still knows how to wire things.” You answered and he and Bucky looked at you, “What?”

“You worked for O’Malley?” Bucky asked and you nodded.

“I worked for his son. Mickey Junior. He’s retired now from that. He took over the florist shop Mister Mickey ran…even if Mister Mickey is still in there every single day yelling at him about how he’s not doing it right.” You answered and they looked at you, “What?”

“They’re both over 100. You argue with them.” Natasha pointed out curiously, and you shrugged.

“Well, yeah. They don’t count. Steve was a human Bomb Pop for like 60 years and Bucky was the human equivalent of a Freeze Pak. Put it in the freezer, take it out, have it make something cold, put it back in the freezer before it thaws too much. They don’t count as over 100.”

Steve just started laughing as he shook his head. From amusement or exasperation, you didn’t know. You were leaning towards amusement.

“A human Bomb Pop? Really?” he asked and Bucky looked at him.

“Well at least you’re edible.”

“I bite those things in half. You want me to bite you in half or would you rather be the thing I want up against my aching body parts?” You asked him and he nodded.

“You got a point.” He replied and they looked as Sam and Tony walked in, Tony whistling at the set up.

“I pay you too much.” He said and you looked at him.

“After what I went through and prevented for you I want a raise.” You retorted and he nodded.

“Deal…but I want to reoutfit this place so it’s…a bit more up to speed. What is this? A bomb shelter from the 50s?” he asked and you nodded.

“Yes. Cold war ended and they outfitted it into a safehouse and then they outfitted it into…a place to send their kids so they wouldn’t go into clubs to get in trouble or abducted. Only thing fully updated in here is the kitchen. Plumbing sucks. It could definitely use an upgrade, but this place is mine. I change that and you’ll have a centenarian ex-assassin that isn’t named Bucky Barnes sending you flowers with surprises. I’ve already had to talk him down from talking to Bucky.”

“He remembers me?” Bucky asked and you nodded with a little smile.

“Mhmm…I’ve heard aaaallll about you…and his sister…and her friends…and their friends…and their sisters…” you replied and he looked at you wide eyed opening his mouth to explain before shutting it and then opening it a few times, trying to think of what to say.

You let him sweat about it a bit.

“He also remembers Steve and still laughs anytime he sees a picture of him because he can’t stop thinking of him as ‘that scrawny punk that didn’t know when to just shut up’.” You said and patted his chest as Tony helped himself to the popcorn, “I assured him that you are a perfect gentleman and that you regularly help chase ungentlemanly men away from me so I don’t get in trouble for punching them. That soothed him enough to not want to ‘talk’ to you. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed about not getting to watch him threaten you or not.”

“Why’d you stop working for them?” Tony asked and you answered as he sat himself down in one of the chairs.

“Katherine got married and moved across the country shortly after the donut truck incident. I didn’t want to move to the land of Bigfoot so I chose to retire about the same time Junior did. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding where I ended up throwing her ex-best friend out of the reception and into the water hazard of the golf club it was at.

“I also broke her cheating ass ex-boyfriend’s fingers and kicked him in after her when he tried to ‘handle’ me. Then Mickey the third came out and sent me back in to calm Mister Mickey and Junior down. I’m sure you can imagine what they wanted to do to the two people that broke their princess’s heart to little shattered pieces before her new husband picked them up and glued them back together. I had to calm him down, too.

“When I tell you I understand how hard it was for Bucky to manage pre-buff Steve…he’s why. Billy is a scrawny twig man that will fight anything that upsets Katherine. Even if it can pummel him into the ground. The next day they gave me this place and a great severance package for my exemplary service.”

“You two…” Sam said and gestured to you and Bucky several times, “Belong together. You’re both crazy.”

“Yeah…but at least we aren’t boring.” You countered and grabbed some popcorn, “Now shut up, I wanna watch this.”

“Alright.” He said and as soon as everyone was sat down, you had a thought.

“What did you do with Shelly?”

“Nat put her back in the closet.” Tony answered and you nodded.

“What did you do to her?” Sam asked you and you looked at him slowly, silently, blinking blankly, “Or do I not want to know?”

“Did you see the haunted fun house on the way in?” You asked and he shook his head slowly, “Well…that’s what I did to her. I put her in there…and locked her in it for twelve hours. Not my fault she’s gullible. Besides. She ruined my favorite shirt. I’ll never get the mud out of it.”

“Shh. Movie.” Bucky said, pointing at the screen with a popcorn box in his hand.

“Fine.” Sam sighed and sat back with everyone to watch the screen.

Bucky’s left arm was around the back of your seat for a few minutes. Eventually it slid down to pull you against his side. You couldn’t help smiling as he did or at how the cool metal of his fingers felt gliding over your arm gently. It was just an absent reminder that he was there and that you were there with him. Silent comfort for you both.

About halfway through the movie he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, just next to your ear before whispering into it, “You still owe me dessert, doll, but maybe I should take you out to dinner first so I don’t get sent flowers.”

==========

Master List: Scorpio AU

Previous Story: Coffee

Next Story: Flowers

A/N: Like I said at the start I'm working on something else. It's much larger and a lot different. It'll be in 3rd POV with a named OC. Something of a what if rewrite of Winter Soldier. As of posting this it's about 26k words in length, I still don't know where I'm stopping it, and I have plans of going back in and adding more while editing once the skeleton is done. I may post up the master list/summary/general gist of thing for it I may not.

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I love the likes, I'd love to hear from you, too.

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: Cassie Rhett’s A-List Kitchen just got a whole lot hotter with Drew Starkey as her latest guest. Wet shirt, flirty banter, and a kitchen full of secrets—he’s denying the rumors, but can he handle Cassie’s energy and nonstop questions? Spoiler:it gets juicy and wet, and the camera definitely caught it all.

Warnings: none

There were three cameras rolling, a boom mic dangling over the marble island, and Drew Starkey standing at her sink in a full tailored suit like he’d wandered into the wrong set.

“This kitchen real?” he called out, inspecting the gold faucet like it might start spitting diamonds. “Shit looks like a museum.”

Cass Rhett didn’t turn around yet—she knew her angles too well for that. Instead, she kept facing the center camera, adjusting the hem of her black leather mini dress and flashing her signature smirk.

“It’s very real,” she said, her voice rich with amusement. “And so is my very real guest today. Hi, my loves! Welcome back to The A-List Kitchen—the only place where we cook iconic meals in iconic outfits, and I almost always burn something. I’m Cass Rhett, and today I have the very handsome, very Southern, very much in my house, Drew Starkey!”

She turned to shoot him a look.

He raised a brow. “Can I wash my hands or is that, like, a crime?”

“Wash them, babe,” Cass said, walking over and patting his back as he turned on the tap. “I promise the faucet won’t call security.”

She was in her element—heels clicking over polished wood, her long legs on full display, lips glossy and smirk-ready. Her confidence wasn’t loud; it was effortless. She was the sun and she knew it.

“Okay,” she said, turning back to the camera and clapping her hands together. “Today’s menu—editor, you know what to do—will be a little Southern, a little sexy, and probably slightly undercooked.”

An aesthetically pleasing menu would later slide across the screen when the editor gets his hands on the footage:

Today’s Menu: North Carolina Pulled Pork Sliders + Sweet Tea Cocktails

“Now,” she said, glancing over at Drew, who was drying his hands on a linen towel, “Joseph, be a good boy and help me list the ingredients.”

He gave her a look. “Cass.”

She grinned. “What?”

“You government-name me again and I’m walking off set.”

“You’re not on set, baby,” she teased. “You’re in my kitchen, which makes me the director.”

He muttered something under his breath about “being a brat” and took the iPad from her hands anyway.

“Alright,” he said, reading dramatically. “Pulled pork—pre-cooked because someone didn’t want to actually cook it—coleslaw, brioche buns, barbecue sauce—”

“From his hometown in North Carolina,” Cassie added, nudging him with her elbow.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Pickles, onions, and…”

He paused. “Glitter?”

She held up the cocktail shaker with edible glitter in it. “For the drinks, obviously.”

Drew snorted. “That doesn’t feel FDA approved.”

“Neither is this dress,” she said sweetly, twirling once.

He blinked, then looked back at the screen like it owed him an escape plan.

They began prepping—Cassie with her nails clinking against every glass bowl, Drew doing all the real work. She opened the buns too early, spilled half a jar of pickles, and nearly mixed sugar instead of salt into the slaw. Somehow, despite everything, it all looked gorgeous.

“Okay,” she said, pouring glitter into the cocktail shaker with zero hesitation, “Question time. These are from my subscribers, and I’m gonna need honest answers. No PR-approved bullshit.”

Drew raised a brow. “Am I allowed to lie if it’s charming?”

“Only if it’s about me.”

He chuckled and leaned on the counter as she read the first question from her iPad.

“Question one: Did you fall in love while filming The Do Over?”

He blinked. “Are we starting light or just diving into the real shit?”

Cassie sipped from the cocktail she’d just mixed. “I don’t make the rules, Joey. I exploit the rumors.”

He looked at her. “Falling in love on set? No. Falling in like with you while you yelled at the director because the coffee was ‘giving you the ick’? Maybe.”

She giggled. “I told him cold brew isn’t just cold coffee.”

Another question: “Who have you kissed the most these past two months?”

“Technically, you kissed me first,” Drew said, smug.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “It was in the script, Joseph.”

“Still counts.”

Drew read the next question: “Are you dating Cass Rhett?”

Cassie tilted her head. “We’re cooking.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“We’re… making sliders.”

Drew leaned closer. “Sweetheart, that’s the most suspicious answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I know,” she grinned.

They kept chopping, assembling, sipping. Cassie got sauce on her dress and didn't care. Drew tried to teach her how to hold a knife correctly—she called him “baby” and ignored every word. When they finally sat down to eat, she took a dramatic bite of the slider, moaned like it was five-star cuisine, and said, “I’m a genius.”

“You’re a dictator,” Drew corrected, mouth full, “but somehow it works.”

Cassie raised her glass. “To glitter, gossip, and good sliders.”

He clinked his against hers.

The sliders were half-eaten, cocktail glasses smudged with lip gloss and condensation, and Cass Rhett was leaning her elbows on the counter like she didn’t just create a war zone of a kitchen behind her.

“Okay,” she sighed dramatically, licking barbecue sauce off her thumb. “Who’s cleaning?”

Drew glanced around at the disaster—glitter on the marble, pickle juice dripping down a cabinet, a spoon stuck in what looked like an exploded coleslaw bowl.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

She batted her lashes.

“No,” he said immediately. “No way.”

“Oh, come on, Joey,” she teased, drawing out his name with the kind of sinful grin that had made half the internet think they were already married. “You’re Southern. Isn’t hospitality your whole thing?”

“Cleaning after you isn’t hospitality,” he replied, standing. “That’s punishment.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “And this is The A-List Kitchen. I punish my guests by making them take the trash out.”

He let out a low laugh, watching her saunter around the island in those stilettos like she didn’t just offer him a death sentence. Her dress swished as she walked—short, tight, dangerously flirty. Everything about Cassie was fire—voice, hair, dress, attitude. She was chaos and confidence and way too comfortable with glitter in food.

And he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“I have extra questions,” she added, picking up her iPad. “So. If you clean, I’ll ask. If you don’t, I’ll still ask—but you’ll look like a jerk.”

He shook his head and grabbed a sponge. “You’re actually evil.”

“You say that like it’s new information,” she said.

As Drew started rinsing dishes—rolling up his sleeves, jacket discarded over a stool—Cassie leaned against the sink beside him, hips bumping his casually as she pretended not to notice how close they were.

“Okay, question time, baby,” she said, watching his hands. “Let’s go deeper.”

He side-eyed her. “This isn’t therapy.”

She smiled wide. “First question: what was your childhood like?”

Drew paused mid-scrub. “You trying to trauma bait me for views?”

“Only a little,” she said innocently. “Come on. Where did little Joseph Starkey run around as a kid?”

“North Carolina,” he muttered, handing her a now-sparkle-free glass. “Small town. Real southern. Real slow. Nothing to do. Rumors spread fast, though.”

She leaned in a little. “You sound like the beggining of a rom-com.”

He glanced at her lips and then back at the dish. “You starred in a rom-com.”

She winked. “Damn right I did.”

They kept moving, bantering as he cleaned and she occasionally helped by, like, holding a fork or offering moral support.

“Alright,” she said after a beat, voice softer now. “There’s been some talk.”

He froze. “About what?”

“Odessa.”

He let out a breath through his nose and shook his head, tossing a sponge into the sink. “She’s just a friend.”

Cassie raised a brow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter, suddenly still. “You sure? 'Cause that boat pic said otherwise.”

“Cass,” he said, voice low.

“Joseph,” she murmured, eyes flicking to his mouth.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Make me.”

Drew just smiled and shrugged, too casual, too cool. Cassie narrowed her eyes.

She strolled over to the island and dropped her iPad on the marble with a clack, giving the nearest camera a dramatic side-eye like she was in The Office. She didn’t say it, but the message was loud and clear: This man is about to lie and I’m gonna catch it on tape.

“Odessa and I are just good friends,” Drew said, rinsing a plate.

Cassie walked back slowly, heels tapping against the dark hardwood. She leaned against the counter again, arms folded, watching him with a devilish glint in her eye as camera two and three rolled from either side, catching the tension, the smirk on her face, the way Drew’s jaw ticked just slightly.

“Friends with benefits?” she asked, eyebrow arching like she already knew the answer.

“No.” Drew’s voice was firm, but that little grin of his was playing with fire.

Cassie didn’t miss a beat. She reached over and, without breaking eye contact, tapped the little chrome button at the base of the faucet. It sprayed a perfect arc of water straight at Drew’s chest.

“Shit!” he cursed, jerking back as the water soaked his shirt, dripping down to his abs, the crisp cotton sticking to his masculine frame instantly. He scrambled to shut it off, sputtering and laughing.

Cassie stepped back with both hands in the air like she was innocent. “What? I was just putting the fire out.”

Drew looked up, soaked and blinking, trying to pat down his shirt. “What fire?”

She pointed at him with a smirk. “Liar, liar, pants on fire, Joey. You should thank me for saving you.”

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, chuckling as he grabbed a towel and dabbed at his shirt, water still dripping down his torso.

She turned, already sauntering back toward the island like she was ready for round two. “Let me just check the next question while you strip for views—”

But she didn’t get there.

Drew’s wet hands found her waist mid-step, and with a quick tug, he lifted her clean off the floor and sat her right on the counter, the cameras catching the squeal she let out and the way her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips just to steady herself.

Her breath hitched.

“No more questions for you,” Drew said, face close now, voice low, wet hair curling a little at his temple.

Cassie laughed, breathless. “Joseph Starkey, are you threatening me on camera?”

“I’m shutting you up.”

She tilted her head. Her dress had ridden up a bit—nothing indecent, just enough to remind him she was all legs and fire and zero shame. Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, heart skipping.

“What about Madeline Cline?” she asked, tone casual but eyes deadly. “You lived together while filming OBX at some point, right?”

Drew groaned, head dropping for a second like he needed divine patience. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re deflecting.” She smirked.

“Cass…”

She blinked up at him. “Baby…”

The tension was electric. Wet shirt clinging to his chest, her dress hiked scandalously high, both of them mic’d up and pretending they weren’t being filmed from three angles.

“Maddy and I are only friends,” Drew said, voice rough but honest as he finally stepped back. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a fuck buddy. Or anything—if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”

He started walking toward the island, tugging at the buttons of his soaked shirt. One by one they gave way, revealing the hard lines of his chest, abs carved like sin, water trailing down in lazy paths she followed with far too much focus.

Cassie kicked her feet idly where she sat on the counter, pretending like she wasn’t staring. But the corner of her lip curled up.

She tilted her head, lashes fluttering with mock sweetness. “But do you have a wife, Joseph?”

He glanced over his shoulder, half his shirt off, brow raised, lips twitching.

“Can we roll the credits, please?” he said, laughing as he tossed the ruined shirt onto the back of a chair and grabbed the towel.

Camera two caught her biting back a grin.

Cassie turned dramatically to face the camera nearest her, lifting her hands like a director about to call cut. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s the end of the episode. Next week I’ll be marrying a liar in my kitchen and serving burnt pie at the reception.”

Drew leaned over the island, towel draped around his neck, looking down with a smirk.

[help-itrappedmyself]

Summoning Game Show Part 5

Masterpost

I just spent an unnecessarily long time making A Quiz so I would have questions and answers ready to go, only to not put any of them in. And spend a ridiculously long time doing math because I had to redo it like three times. Numbers are not my strong suit. In any case I now have a fully functional Jeopardy game and the next part.

~~~~~

It’s a close race. They were equal on the mountain track and neither really got sidetracked by Skulker on such a straightforward route. They made it to Zone Two almost even, but Jason almost immediately falls behind as Skulker hits him with a paintball. Being shot at shocked him more than anything, but realizing it was paint, he stopped trying to avoid it and just kept going, letting his armor deal with most of it. Skulker got bored and quickly went after Johnny instead, who got irritated and started a shouting match with Skulker as he drove. The different terrains meant they had to keep slowing down and speeding up, and Skulker got bored with the paintballs and started throwing water balloons instead. This was more annoying for the drivers because the water made the sand and mud trickier to drive on. Both Johnny and Jason both got their bikes temporarily stuck in mud and had to drag them back out while Skulker cackled above them. 

Zone three allowed Jason to catch back up to Johnny. This was what he was used to and he was able to go faster with more confidence. Johnny and Jason separated after Skulker shot a net at them both. And they found each other again on a straightaway leading to the finish line. It was close at the end, but Jason managed to pull out ahead. 

They shook hands at the finish line, walking back into the main room together. They separated when Johnny left to go back to the stands, followed closely by Skulker. 

“Wonderful race, very intense, great driving all around.” Danny says, very entertained. “Well earned win, Jason. I’ll remind you this is what you have currently.”

“What letter would you like to guess?”

“I’ll take I.”

“Another vowel, very good.” Danny waves his hand again. “There are two I’s!

“The next challenge is trivia, which will be played by Red Robin as he is the only one who has yet to participate in a challenge.”

A new podium appears on stage as Danny’s podium rotates so the two are facing each other. Red Robin walks up to the new podium.

“ The theme is SPACE!” Danny is so excited he is practically bouncing. A jeopardy-looking game board appears on the screen. “ You have 6 categories, all space themed, they are:  Earth, Other Planets, Space Numbers, Stars, Other Space Entities, and Spacecrafts! There are 9,000 possible points, you need to get at least 7,500 in order to win! The game can stop as soon as we’ve reached that number.”

Red, being Red, decides to do all the hardest questions first. He starts at the bottom left corner, gets the first question right. Tim thinks since he got the hardest one he could probably finish out the Earth category pretty easily, so he goes down the list and gets them all correct. 

With 1,500 points he decides to start the next category with the hardest question as well. This is his first wrong answer. He starts going up the list, and gets the 400 incorrect for this category as well. Danny is disappointed. The rest of the boys are infinitely relieved that Tim is the one doing the trivia part. They probably would have lost already. 

Tim does get the rest of the ‘Other Planets’ category correct and moves on with 2,100 points and 6,000 points left on the board. He decides to start ‘Space Numbers’ with the 100 point question and keeps going, acing the whole category. He now has 3,600 points. With 4,500 points left on the board he needs 3,900 more points. This means he can only lose 600 more points. He aces the ‘Stars” category, then moves on to ‘Other Space Entities’. He misses the last question, leaving him with 6,100 points and 1,500 left on the board. Tim can only afford to miss the 100 point question, so he decides to start at 500 and get it over with.

He continues until he reaches the 200 point question. If Tim answers this one he will win, and he does so correctly the screen changes to shoots of confetti.

[jaslan4f1]

She chose me - Did she?

pairing: Charles Leclerc x Lando Norris x femalereader

summary: Charles, Lando and you and unbreakable Trio but what happens when you find out that they both have feeling for you.

warnings: /

(a/n): English is not my native language so this may contain consistency errors, i would really appreciate the corrections but please, be kind. feedback is also appreciated ♡

It all started because of a stupid interview you had with an mega hyped motorsport podcast.

One of them asked you “So Y/n we all know that due to your job as an f1 journalist you are really close to the whole grid. But our listeners would probably like it if you would share who your fav is”

You chuckled at the question, knowing that this question has just one logical answer.

“Oh I could never choose one. I like them all really, they all have different personalities and I really enjoy spending time with them” you said politely.

The podcaster just looked at you and smirked, knowing that they had some proof which 2 drivers you are definitely more around.

“Oh really we have seen you many times around with Charles and Lando. These two are definitely up on your list right? They have also shared that they enjoy having you around or during post race interviews with you.” You laughed at their statement. “Really they said that? Wow I feel so special. Yes ok fine, Lando and Charles are definitely up there” you had to keep your big smile back thinking about them.

In reality Lando, Charles and you were extremely close. You 3 had your own post race traditions and made movies nights after each qualifying.

You liked hanging out with them you would even describe them as your best friends on the grid.

What you didn’t know was that Charles and Lando weren’t actually that close and played friends in front of you. Both being lovesick idiots for you. They both were desperate for your attention. Lando did not hate Charles but he despised the fact that Charles could be a perfect match for you.

Charles thought that Lando would be a good friend for you but he was too childish for you. Charles was convinced that he was the man you wanted.

- present -

You were sitting in Landon’s driver room because he wanted you to wait for him there after practice 1 ended. You scrolled through your phone and read some comments about your interview in the hyped motorsport podcast. Some people shipped you with Lando some said that you and Charles were definitely an endgame. You shook your head with a smile on your face. “Who got you smiling like that darling” a male voice said.

“God Lan you scared me” Lando chuckled at your words. “You didn’t answered my question” he started walking towards you and sat next to you on his couch. He took your phone knowing that you trusted him and he could see what got you smiling. You watched his face and analyzed his reaction.

“ I think they are right” he suddenly said and turned his head to look at you. “About what part? Shipping me and you or that Charles and I would be the perfect endgame” you teased him.

Landos eyes got smaller, jealousy started growing in him. “Don’t do that” you looked into his eyes. They looked like tears were forming. Did that made Lando emotional? His lips were in a tight line. He didn’t dared to speak out his thoughts. I like you y/n please don’t choose Charles.

You started deep in his eyes. Suddenly the room was filled with tension and hot air. You could feel the need to kiss him. Fuck no that wasn’t right, he was your best friend right?

You could answer your thoughts because in the next moment your phone vibrated.

“Yes” you picked it up still haven’t stopped the eye contact.

“Y/n it’s Charles where are you I have to see you mon amour” the monegasque said.

Landos eyes filled with more sadness but instead of saying anything he took your phone and answered Charles for you.

“Yo it’s Lan we will be there in a minute ok bye” and with that he ended the call. “That wasn’t very nice Lan” you laughed. “Who said I have to be nice all the time”

After 5 minutes you found Charles. He tried to overplay the feeling of jealousy that he felt every time when he saw you alone with Lando. “Hey Charlie” you said and hugged him. Charles and Landos eyes met during the hug. Charles smirked knowing that you were the only one that gave Charles that nickname. Landos blood boiled and his face couldn’t cover that he didn’t liked Charles hands on you.

But somehow you were always the only one who didn’t seem to see the behavior of both boys.

After the hug you 3 went to the cafeteria and ate some post race day snacks. Of course the boys choose something more healthier that fitted into their diet.

“I will use the restroom for a second if you’d excuse me” you said and left the boys alone.

“Did you have a great time with her in your driver room?” Charles asked with a raspy voice. Lando laughed because he nodded with a smirk on his face. “You know little Lando in the end it will always be me” Charles said confidently.

“And why would you think that” Lando laid back into his chair. “Because she already chose me” Charles said and emptied his drink.

“Did she?”

a/n: Hey guys long time, no see. I had some busy months but I’m back and had this scenario stuck in my head since the TikTok sound started trending. Hope you like this one xoxo 💋

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

A Lesson in Love - Bob

Pairing: Bob / Female!Reader (Referred to as Ms. T)

Word Count: 1.8k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Warnings: Bob Being Adorable; Valentine's Day Shenanigans; Bob Deals with a Lot of Meddlers; Bob Has a Niece Named Phoebe; Reader is Female, but No Physical Description, Reader Referred to as "Ms. T" (The "T" stands for Teacher because I'm so Creative), No Use of Y/N

Summary: Bob has no plans for Valentine's Day. So, he gets set up to meet his niece's very cute teacher instead.

Master List

Bob didn’t really have any specific thoughts on Valentine’s Day. If he had a partner, he would do something special, of course, but he wasn’t bothered by the fact that he spent the last four Valentine’s Days in a row single. He was deployed for three of them and he didn’t have anything planned this Valentine’s Day. 

Quietly, he was honestly happy with it. Everyone seemed to put so much stress over a random weekday and he was content to avoid the chaos. But there were several people in his life who were not. 

And he was almost completely sure that his mom and Phoenix were scheming behind his back. 

“You still don’t have any plans tonight?” Phoenix asked Bob, who shook his head. 

“No. I was just going to do some more paperwork and probably call it an early night. Maybe I’ll watch that new documentary that Penny recommended.” 

“Please tell me that something in there is a code word,” Fanboy stated, causing Bob to roll his eyes. “Come on, Bob, just let one of us set you up on a blind date.” 

“I have a list,” Phoenix offered, but Bob shook his head. 

“A first date on Valentine’s Day? That’s a great idea! How could that possibly go wrong?” he returned sarcastically, causing Phoenix and Fanboy to share a look. 

But before anyone could speak again, Bob’s phone started to buzz. Fishing it out of his pocket, Bob saw his mom’s contact pop up and excused himself from the table. He answered the call as he walked out of the mess.

“Hey, Ma, what do you need?” 

“Why do you just assume that I’m calling because I need something, Robert? A mother can’t just check up on her son?” Bob waited for a moment before his mom added, “Do you have any plans for Valentine’s Day?”

“Goodbye, Ma.” 

“I only ask because I completely forgot that Phoebe’s parent-teacher conference is tonight and your father and I already made plans. I was going to have our neighbor, Ms. Abel, watch her for a few hours, but obviously she can’t attend the parent-teacher conference for us.” 

“What time is her parent-teacher conference?” 

“Seven.” 

“I’ll just watch Phoebe tonight. That's fine, Ma. I’ll pick her up from your house after work.” 

“Thank you, sweetheart! And maybe you’ll meet someone there—” 

“—Oh, sorry, Ma, there’s an alarm going off, I have to go. Bye.” 

“Robert Martin Floyd—” 

Bob hung up the phone and sighed to himself before heading back inside the mess. What was it about Valentine’s Day that made everyone lose their minds?

“Who was that?” Phoenix asked as Bob sat back down.

“My ma. She asked me to take my niece to her parent-teacher conference for her.” 

“That’s better than paperwork,” Fanboy conceded.

“Is her teacher cute?” Phoenix questioned. 

“Do you hear that alarm going off?” Bob suggested, causing Phoenix to roll her eyes. 

~~~~~

“Alright, you lead the way,” Bob stated, setting his niece on the ground from the car. “You’re the pilot here, Bee.” 

“Come on, Uncle Bob,” Phoebe called, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her. “We’re going to be late!” 

“Bee, we’re ten minutes early.” 

But Bob still let his niece practically drag him through the halls of her elementary school. Phoebe marched him down the ‘First Grade’ wing and stopped in front of a purple door. But Bob held her back from going inside.

“There’s people in there. Just sit and wait for a little bit. We’re early.” 

Bob sat Phoebe down in one of the short chairs meant for children and sat in the similarly short chair beside her. And with his long legs, he looked rather comedic sitting there. Phoebe talked his ear off about all of the art that was hung up and Bob complimented her paintings. 

The sound of the door opening caused Bob to turn his head. A couple stepped out of the classroom, followed by Phoebe’s teacher, who was dressed in a soft pink dress with paper hearts that were clearly cut out by her students taped to it. She bid the couple goodbye before turning to Bob and Phoebe, who jumped up from her seat when she realized that it was her turn. 

“Hi, Ms. T!” 

“Hi, Phoebe,” Ms. T greeted the little girl kindly before turning to Bob.

The wizzo in question awkwardly got to his feet from the child-sized chair under Ms. T’s gaze and tried to subtly smooth his shirt down. Phoebe’s teacher was cute, though he wouldn’t mention that to Phoenix or his mom. She radiated kindness but had that distinct look in her eye that she could quickly knock anyone down a few pegs. 

Bob could quickly tell why Phoebe liked her so much. 

“And who did you bring with you?” Ms. T asked Phoebe. 

“This is my Uncle Bob,” Phoebe stated, pulling Bob forward. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bob returned, holding out his hand for Ms. T to shake. “My parents couldn’t make it, so I’m standing in for them. I’m Phoebe’s uncle.” 

“I already said that,” Phoebe reminded Bob.

“Oh, of course. I’ve seen your names on some of her forms. Please, come in.” 

Bob took his seat at the front of the room and was relieved that he wouldn’t have to look ridiculous sitting in a child-sized seat again. Phoebe sat in the hallway, coloring and playing with toys, while Bob and Ms. T discussed her progress. 

Ms. T showed Bob a standardized worksheet that listed basic skills with comments about how Ms. T thought that Phoebe was doing. Bob listened to her comments on Phoebe’s performance intently and was relieved to find out that they were pretty much all positive.

“The only area that I think that Phoebe can improve on is her confidence,” Ms. T stated, causing Bob to nod. “She’s smart and a very thoughtful little girl. And if I thought she knew that I wouldn’t say anything, but I don’t think she does. There’s nothing wrong with being quiet or shy, but I don’t want her to ever get discouraged or down on herself.”

“Shyness runs in our family,” Bob stated, causing Ms. T to smile softly. “My dad’s side. So, this isn’t a shock.”

“How is Phoebe at home?”

“She won’t stop talking or bossing me around, but I understand that school with kids her own age is a different environment from that.”

“Yes, it is. She’s very outgoing if it’s one on one or if she’s with her friends, but she just needs a little more support in public situations.”

“I could try and come to more of her school events. I’ll talk to my Captain about moving some things in my schedule,” Bob suggested, causing Phoebe’s teacher to nod. “Not that my mom isn’t here to support Phoebe, but I don’t think that she knows the meaning of the word ‘shy.’”

“I can understand that,” Ms. T mused, chuckling softly. “Well, I can give you a list of some class events that we have between now and the end of the year.” 

She got up from her table and walked to the back of the room to grab a piece of paper. Scribbling something on it quickly, she walked back over and handed the paper to Bob, whose eyes immediately dropped to the number that she had written down. 

“I’m assuming that your mom already has it, but that’s the number to my school phone. And my email too. And here is the kids’ schedule,” she continued, pulling out another piece of paper and handing it over to Bob. “You can feel free to call me during any of the breaks that you see where they’re in specials or lunch.” 

“Thank you,” Bob replied, smiling kindly in return. “I’ll let you know what events I can make.” 

They walked out to the hallway and Phoebe quickly popped up from her table and came trotting over. Staring up at her Uncle Bob with that distinct begging look that Bob always ended up cracking for, Phoebe glanced between Bob and her teacher.

“Ice cream?” 

“Yeah, I think we can get ice cream,” Bob agreed, kneeling down to Phoebe’s height. “But if grandma asks?”

“We got brussel sprouts.” 

“That’s right.” 

Phoebe smiled and bounced in place, eager to go. She bid goodbye to Ms. T, promising to see her tomorrow, before grabbing Bob’s hand and urging him away. 

“It was nice meeting you,” Bob called back to Ms. T, who laughed and waved goodbye to them. 

“I hope to see you again,” she returned before Phoebe tugged Bob around the corner. 

~~~~~

Four Months Later . . .

“Phoebe Floyd,” Ms. T called out.

The crowd of family members—and several supportive naval aviators—cheered as Phoebe jogged across the stage. Ms. T gave her a little badge to signify that she was now a second grader before gently nudging her to join her other classmates. 

And once they went through the rest of the kids, the day wrapped up. Bob picked up Phoebe and spun her around until his mom urged him to put her down so that they could take family pictures. After a few, Phoebe tugged on Bob’s hand until he bent down to her level. Phoebe leaned over and cupped her hands around his ear. 

“Ms. T needs help carrying stuff back to the classroom.” 

“Yeah?” Bob asked, causing Phoebe to nod quickly before leaning in again.

“Can I be the flower girl?” Phoebe added, earning a choked sound from her uncle.

Ms. T was in the middle of gathering the decorations when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she smiled softly when she saw Bob jogging over to her. 

“Need any help?”

“I won’t turn it down.” 

“So, are you excited for summer vacation?” Bob asked Ms. T, who nodded in return. “Do you have any plans?”

“I was hoping that some cute naval aviator with these big dorky glasses and these big blue eyes was going to ask me on a date,” Ms. T stated, causing Bob to flush with embarrassment. “But I don’t know if that will ever happen.” 

“Well, maybe he was waiting for you to no longer be his niece’s teacher before asking you out,” Bob replied, taking the box from her hands. “Which reminds me, do you have any plans for Friday night?”

“I do now,” Ms. T replied with a wide smile.