#i used to take them a few years back but then i just. stopped | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daeniradraconis · 2 days ago

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Right Where You Left Me

So, hello lovelies ✨ I’m currently in Germany watching the Leafs melt down in Game 7, and there is never a better time to post this than during the game. Well, there’s not much to say — hope you enjoy this! I wrote this from an outsider’s perspective, and it’s a little bit of a filler chapter, but we need this to connect a few things for the future.

Themes/Warnings: Hannah Elise Hughes x William Nylander, grief and loss, coma, emotional distress, complicated grief, hospital setting, family tension, fragile health

Chapters: 01, 02, 03

Chapter 3: The Quiet Between

The snow hadn’t stopped all day.

Toronto in late December was always a strange mix of silence and noise. Too many cars, too many people—but somehow, days like this felt still. The kind of cold that bit your skin, but numbed your thoughts just enough to be welcome.

Luke Hughes stood in front of William’s condo building, staring up at it like he needed permission to go in. The small velvet box in his pocket felt heavier than it should. Not that it was much more than metal and memory, but that was the problem—memories carried weight no one could see.

He’d debated even coming. He’d told himself it was stupid. That William didn’t need this. But still Luke had ended up here.

He pressed the buzzer. William answered, his voice slightly muffled. “Hey?”

“It’s me.”

A beat.

Then, “Come up.”

William answered the door in a hoodie and joggers, hair longer than Luke remembered and slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times today. He looked... better. Still tired around the eyes, still a kind of shadow beneath his skin, but lighter somehow.

Luke stepped inside, shaking off the cold. “Sorry for just dropping by. I should’ve texted.”

“You’re good.” William shut the door behind him. “I’m not doing anything important. Just watching bad TV and pretending I know how to cook.”

Luke smiled, stepping into the warm space. “Still burning pasta?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

They sat on the couch, easy and quiet. It wasn’t awkward. Not really. It had never been awkward between them, just heavy. Grief made everything quieter, more careful. Like walking through a room filled with glass, afraid to knock anything over.

William grabbed two beers from the fridge, tossed one gently to Luke. “You still not twenty-one?”

“Almost.”

William raised an eyebrow. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

They talked for a while—about hockey, about Jack, about how surreal it still felt to see Luke in a Devils jersey, skating on real NHL ice. William smiled when Luke told him about his first goal, even asked if he’d kept the puck. It made Luke feel good. He’d known William since he was just a kid. Over the years, William had always felt like an older brother to him. And somehow, even now, that hasn't changed.

Then the silence came. The one Luke had known was coming.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the box.

“I found this the other day,” he said, setting it gently on the coffee table. “I forgot I even had it.”

William stared at it, unmoving.

“They gave it to us after... everything,” Luke continued. “Doctors said they had to take it off her for the scans. So I took it. I don’t know why. I think I just... wanted to hold onto something.”

William didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on the box, like opening it might detonate something inside him.

Luke took a slow sip of his beer before setting it down, his fingers brushing along the rim.

“I don’t know why I took it,” Luke said softly, his voice tinged with sadness. “I think... back then, I just needed something. You had everything, you know? The house. The dogs. Her clothes still hanging in the closet. Her perfume on the pillows. You were surrounded by pieces of her life.”

He paused, eyes fixed on some far-off point on the coffee table.

“I didn’t have any of that. She was gone, and I didn’t have anything that felt like her. I guess I thought... maybe the ring would help me stay close. Like I could hold onto something real. Sorry…I…I know it wasn’t mine to keep.”

William didn’t speak right away. His fingers rubbed against his jeans, slow, thoughtful.

“Did it help?” he finally asked, his voice thick with emotion. “Having the ring?”

Luke nodded. “Yeah. It did.”

William gave a small smile, almost more breath than expression. “Then I’m glad you had it. You’re right. I had everything else…a little too much, sometimes. It made it harder to let go. But if the ring helped you feel close to her, I think that’s exactly where it belonged.”

Luke swallowed. “Well... it’s yours now. I don’t feel the need to hold onto it anymore. And you signed the papers. I think maybe you need it more now than I do.”

William shook his head gently. “You can keep it, if you want. I’m not sure I can even look at it right now. I’ve had enough of staring at things I can’t change for four years.”

Luke’s voice softened. “Still. Even if you don’t want to look at it right now... it’s yours, Will. You picked it. For her. Maybe one day you’ll want it near. So take it.”

William nodded once. He didn’t reach for the box. Not yet. But he didn’t push it away either.

After a moment, Luke spoke again, his voice more hesitant this time. “I also wanted to say... thank you. For staying. For hoping.”

William exhaled, a soft laugh escaping like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Luke.”

“I do.”

“No.” William turned to him fully now. “Even if I was only her husband for six hours... I was the happiest man alive. And we were together since 2014, Luke. That’s my whole adult life. She was my life. I would’ve stayed longer if I could. God, I wanted to.”

He glanced down at his hands, voice softening. “But yeah, I still feel guilty sometimes. Like… every time I start feeling okay, it’s like I’m doing something wrong—like I’m betraying her just by trying to be happy again. And when I signed the divorce papers last week… Luke, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. In that moment, I felt lower than I’ve ever felt in my life.”

Luke’s eyes were heavy with something that looked like grief and compassion at once. “Don’t think of it like that. Please. She would want you to be happy. You held onto her with everything you had—but you can’t freeze your life forever, not for a chance that may never come.”

William looked up.

“We both know what the doctors said,” Luke said quietly. “There’s a point zero two percent chance. That’s not hope anymore, Will. That’s... punishment. And it’s not fair to you.”

William didn’t reply right away. Just stared at his hands again. Finally, he whispered, “It feels like giving up.”

“It’s not,” Luke said. “It’s choosing to live. And I know that’s what she would’ve wanted for you. To keep living. To maybe even—” he hesitated, “—have kids someday. If you want. To love someone again. That’s not betrayal. That’s surviving man.”

William blinked hard. He nodded once, slowly.

“Thanks, kid.”

Luke gave a crooked smile. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

William laughed—tired but real. “You’ll always be her baby brother. Doesn’t matter how tall you get.”

Luke’s smile softened, shifting into something gentler. “Every time I wondered how the hell you were getting through this... I’d see you still showing up. Still breathing. Still walking the dogs. Still being you. You never shut us out. I’m grateful for that, Will. For you. For how you stayed in our lives.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that either.”

“I do,” Luke repeated. “I just wish we had more time as a family. All of us. But no matter what happens—whether you get remarried or move away or anything else—I want you to know, you’re always going to be part of this family. Once you’re a Hughes, there’s no way out.”

William smiled, but it faltered with emotion. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to stay composed.

“That means a lot,” he said quietly.

They sat in silence again, but this time it felt full, not empty.

Luke stood up first. “I should get going. Need to catch my flight early in the morning.”

William followed him to the door. As Luke opened it, the cold air rushed in, sharp and clean.

Luke paused at the threshold. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

William smiled. Luke looked and sounded like a man—it still felt surreal.

“Same goes for you, Luke.”

And when the door closed behind Luke, and the apartment fell quiet again, William turned toward the table.

The box sat there, still closed. Small. Simple. Heavy with meaning.

He walked toward it, stood for a moment, and gently reached out.

He didn’t open it. Not yet.

But he took it back.

And for tonight, that was enough.

—

The Michigan house was quiet except for the occasional sizzle from the kitchen, where Jim moved around with ease. The scent of onions softening in a pan wafted through the halls—something simple for dinner, maybe stew or pasta, but warm enough to fill the house with comfort.

Ellen poured herself a glass of wine. She brought it into the living room and set it on the table beside the couch, sighing as she lowered herself into the cushions. Her knees weren’t what they used to be.

She reached for the box that had been sitting on the bookshelf for years. Inside, a small chaos of memories: photos, drawings, crayon-smudged cards with crooked handwriting, and the kind of things you don’t mean to keep but never find the heart to throw away.

She flipped through them slowly, one by one.

There was a photo of Quinn, barely two days old, tucked into the arms of a toddler with wispy curls and a too-serious expression. Eli. Her daughter. Her first. Her light. The little girl who had looked up at her baby brother and kissed his forehead like she already knew she was responsible for something sacred.

“I’m gonna protect him,” Eli had whispered that day, proud, sleepy and sure.

Ellen’s throat tightened. She traced the edge of the photo with her finger.

Behind her, Jim began humming softly under his breath. She heard the gentle clink of the wooden spoon against the side of the pan—the comforting sounds of ordinary life.

She took another sip of wine and picked up a photo of their first Christmas with all four kids. Jack had just turned four and was wearing a Santa hat two sizes too big. Luke was a baby, mostly interested in trying to eat the garland. And Eli—Eli had flour on her cheeks, a candy cane apron, and the brightest smile on her face as she stood on a stool in the kitchen next to Ellen, holding a misshapen gingerbread man in one hand.

“This is my favorite holiday, Mommy,” she had said, looking up at Ellen with sparkles in her eyes. “I love it so much, every year.”

And she had. Every year, Eli had taken charge of decorations, baking, gift-wrapping, even organizing the family movie nights. She made Christmas feel like something out of a storybook.

Now, the holidays felt dimmer. Quieter. Like the lights were still strung up, but the glow didn’t reach as far.

Ellen’s hand paused on a photo that made her laugh under her breath. It was one of the few she’d saved from the skating rink.

Eli, bundled up in a pink jacket, scowling in the center of the ice, her arms pinwheeling as Jim tried to keep her upright. Her expression was unmistakable: betrayal and horror in equal parts.

“She hated it,” Ellen said aloud, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She turned around on the couch in the direction of the open kitchen and showed the picture to her husband. “Our daughter. The only Hughes who hated skating.”

“I remember,” Jim said with a nostalgic smile. “She said her feet weren’t meant for frozen water. And if we ever forced her to do this again, she’d move to her grandparents’ in Florida so she’d never have to experience that cold rink again.”

“She was five and already dramatic.”

“Well, she totally got that from you.”

Ellen shook her head, but her smile lingered. “And she’s still married to a hockey player, Jim. I would never have guessed that.”

Jim’s stirring slowed, and the silence that followed stretched between them, gentle but weighted.

Ellen’s hand found Elis’s wedding photo.

The sun poured through the trees that day—golden, gentle, and somehow full of kindness. William stood at the altar, barely holding himself together. Eli looked radiant, like she always did when she was near William—their love seemed to glow through her.

Quinn had wiped his face three times before the ceremony even started. Jack had given Will a playful shove and whispered something threatening into his ear, trying to cover up his own tears. And Luke—sweet Luke—had held Eli so tightly after the vows that Ellen had worried for a moment he might actually break her ribs.

Ellen pressed the photo to her chest for a moment.

The wedding had been a dream. A soft, perfect blur. And then just a few hours later, it became something else entirely.

She didn’t cry now. She rarely did anymore. The tears had dried up in the second year, and what remained was something quieter. A hollow ache. An ever-present weight.

Ellen turned toward the kitchen again, watching her husband move slowly around the stove. He’d always wanted a daughter. She remembered the day Eli was born—how he had cried when the doctor said, “It’s a girl.” He had kissed Ellen’s forehead and whispered, “I’m gonna be a good dad. I swear I will. She’s gonna be my little princess.”

And she had been.

The accident had taken something from Jim—something she knew she could never give back. He never said it aloud, but she saw it in how he spoke about her less these days, and in the way he’d sometimes sit alone in the garage, staring into nothing for long stretches. Grief had silenced a man who once filled the room.

Ellen looked back down at the photo in her hand.

Her baby. Her daughter.

Not gone. But not here.

Alive in the most technical way, and yet unreachable. For four years, they had visited the hospital, touched her hand, whispered to her like she might hear it. And every time, they left a little more broken.

Near the bottom of the box, Ellen’s fingers paused on another photo — one that made her chest tighten with a fresh, bittersweet ache.

It was a photo Jim had taken nearly fifteen years ago, on a late summer afternoon. The four kids sat at the edge of the old wooden dock behind their Michigan house, their legs swinging just above the shimmering lake. The sun bathed their skin in a honeyed glow, while the water whispered softly beneath them.

Eli was there — so alive, so bright — curled up with a worn copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone resting in her lap. Her braid was loose, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, and she was reading aloud with that gentle intensity Ellen had always loved.

Quinn sat close, arms crossed, pretending to scold Jack — wild as ever — who was half-standing, half-jumping off the dock, his shirt twisted around his neck, wearing that wide grin full of mischief.

Luke, the littlest one with soft golden curls and chubby cheeks, sat right next to Eli, kicking his legs and babbling in that sweet toddler way only he could.

Then, in that photo—forever frozen in time—Luke’s face turned toward Eli. With a bright, clear voice that still made Ellen’s heart tighten, he spoke the word Eli had been waiting to hear for so long:

“HanHan.”

The very first time Luke said her name.

Everyone else called her Eli, short and simple — but Luke’s word was different. Full of wonder and love, spoken like a secret just between them. Eli’s face lit up with a smile that held all the joy in the world.

Ellen’s thumb brushed over the photo, her eyes stinging.

Four years had passed since the accident.

Four years since Eli’s laughter filled the house.

Four years since she slipped into silence.

Four years of holding onto memories like fragile glass — beautiful but easily shattered.

Looking at the picture now, Ellen could almost hear Luke’s voice echoing through the quiet house, calling “HanHan!” as he always did, full of hope and innocence.

She could almost see Eli turning toward him, happiness shining in her eyes, the way she’d drop everything to chase after her brothers, boss them around, love them fiercely.

Tears blurred Ellen’s vision as she whispered to the empty room, “My sweet HanHan…”

The name wasn’t just a memory. It was a thread connecting past and present. The hope that maybe, somehow, Eli was still there — still hearing, still loving, still HanHan to her brothers.

Ellen gently set the photo down and closed the box.

She stood up from the couch and walked toward the kitchen.

Jim stood at the stove, stirring quietly. Ellen leaned against the counter, her wine glass cradled in her hands, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up to her elbows. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it rarely was. After twenty-plus years of marriage, silence could just mean safety.

Still, Ellen’s voice broke the silence gently. “I saw William last week.”

Jim didn’t look up from the stove. “Oh, yeah?”

“When I was at the PWHL conference in Toronto, I decided to grab a coffee with him.”

“That’s nice of you, honey. How is he doing?”

“He looks… better. He finished therapy and seems lighter, I guess. Smiling more. I’m glad his parents convinced him to do it—it seemed to help.” She paused, searching for the right words. “And… he met someone.”

Jim turned toward her, the wooden spoon still in his hand. Surprise flickered in his eyes, but there was no anger. “Oh? Well, I guess we told him last Christmas to get out there and move on. Who is she?”

“Her name’s Lena Gunnarsson. She’s Swedish too and lost her husband, her first love 6 years ago. Same kind of story.” Ellen’s smile was faint, almost fragile. “I guess, grief recognizes its own.”

Jim raised an eyebrow but waited, sensing Ellen wasn’t finished.

“I think that’s why he’s drawn to her,” Ellen said softly, almost to herself. “Not because he’s falling in love, but because he doesn’t have to explain anything. She just… understands him. No explanations, no judgment. It’s safe.”

Jim set the spoon down on a folded towel, folding his arms. “You think that’s a bad thing?”

Ellen exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s exactly what he needs right now. But when I look at him—really look—I don’t see the same spark I used to. Not the way he used to light up when he talked about Eli or the future he dreamed for them.”

Jim nodded slowly, leaning back against the counter. “He’s been through hell, Ellen. No one would expect him to bounce back overnight.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I’m proud of him. God, I am. He stayed. He waited. He never gave up on our baby, not really.” Her voice cracked. “But I worry… I worry he’s building his future on a foundation of shared pain rather than hope.”

Jim reached out, resting a steady hand on her shoulder. “You mean he’s settling? Because it’s comfortable?”

Ellen nodded. “Maybe. It’s safer to be with someone who knows the ache, who understands the silence, than to risk the messiness of love again. But that’s not really living, is it? That’s surviving.”

Jim exhaled softly, his gaze drifting away as he absently wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.

“You remember what I told William, don’t you? To let go. To find something new.”

Ellen nodded slowly. “You were right. He needed to hear it.”

Jim looked down at the counter, voice quieter. “But now that it’s happening... it feels strange. Different than I imagined.”

Ellen stepped closer, voice gentle. “How so?”

Jim swallowed. “I thought I’d feel relieved. Like a weight lifted. Instead, it’s like... I’m betraying my own daughter. Abandoning a space that should only be hers.”

He glanced up, eyes filled with a mix of sadness and confusion. “It’s not anger, or resentment. It’s... guilt.”

Ellen reached out, her hand covering his. “Jim...”

“I love William. I always have. But this—” He gestured vaguely, “—this feels like I’m letting go of Eli in a way I’m not ready for.”

Ellen’s voice was steady but tender. “Jim, you’re not betraying anyone. You wanted the best for William—because you love him. Because you love Eli. Wanting William to find happiness again doesn’t mean you’re letting Eli go. Eli wanted that for him, honey.”

Jim nodded slowly but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “I know.It’s just… emotions don’t always follow logic El.”

Ellen squeezed his hand. “Yeh, that’s true.”

She took a breath, steadying herself. “That’s why I’m scared for William. Because I think he’s trying to do what’s right, instead of what feels right. Because he’s afraid of loving again, not because he doesn’t want to, but because the fear of loss is still so big.”

They stood quietly, the kitchen filled only by the hum of the stove and the steady rhythm of their breaths.

Ellen finally whispered, “I’m just scared for him. That he’s so afraid of losing again, he won’t let himself love again.”

Jim bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“We just have to trust him. Trust that he’ll find his way. Maybe it won’t be perfect. Maybe it won’t look like what we imagined. But it can still be something beautiful.”

Ellen nodded slowly, still holding his hand.

“I want him to have a future that’s more than just making it through. More than just breathing.”

“Me too, El,” Jim said softly, his voice thick with quiet emotion. “More than anything, me too.”

—

The envelope was still sitting on the counter.

Stephanie hadn’t opened it right away—just stared at the creamy paper like it had personally offended her. Now it was splayed open, invitation on display, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less surreal.

William & Lena

She read it again.

William & Lena.

It didn’t matter how elegant the font was or how understated the navy and gold design looked. To Steph, it was a soft betrayal dressed up in tasteful serif type.

She stood in the kitchen, one hand pressed to her belly like she was physically holding herself together, the other gripping a mug of now-cold tea. Her knuckles were white on the handle. The silence around her buzzed like static.

Mitch stepped in from the hallway, unwinding his scarf and shrugging off the last of the cold outside. He saw her posture first—stiff, braced—then saw the envelope.

He didn’t need to ask.

“Steph,” he said gently, his voice a thread. “You okay?”

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on the invitation, like if she blinked, it might morph into something else.

“They’re getting married. In Sweden. In August.” Her voice was clipped, deliberate, like if she said it too softly it might sound reasonable.

“It’s like Eli never happened.”

Mitch exhaled, slow. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” she snapped. One hand stayed anchored on her belly like a warning. “He’s marrying someone else, Mitch. Just like that. After everything. After her.”

“It’s been almost five years, Steph.”

“Four and a half,” she corrected. Too fast.

Her voice cracked slightly, then hardened. “They’ve been together since they were teenagers. They married each other. And now he’s acting like she’s just a part to be replaced—like some role that can be recast.”

Mitch crossed the kitchen slowly, pulled out a chair at the table, and sat. He rested his arms on the table, calm and quiet, the way you approach someone who’s standing too close to a ledge.

“He’s not replacing her. No one could.”

“Then what the hell is he doing?” she said, each word sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like settling. Like he just got tired of being alone and picked the next safest option.”

Mitch hesitated, letting the words settle before he answered.

“Maybe that’s all he has left in him, Steph. Maybe Lena isn’t some grand, romantic love—but maybe she’s someone he can survive.”

Stephanie scoffed, moving again, pacing like she couldn’t stay in her skin. Her fingers twisted the sleeve of her sweater.

“She doesn’t even know him,” she said bitterly. “Not like Eli did. Not like we do. She didn’t see what Eli brought out in him. The way he used to laugh around her—really laugh. Like he believed in something. Now he just... floats. Like he’s underwater all the time. And this wedding?” She gestured toward the counter, voice rising. “This feels like a checkbox.”

Mitch watched her, letting her unravel, knowing she had to.

“A freaking wedding?!” she went on, shaking her head. “He couldn’t even call. Just had his assistant send out invitations like it’s some goddamn charity gala.”

“He probably didn’t know how to say it,” Mitch offered gently.

“Oh, but a monogrammed RSVP card says it better?”

“Steph…”

“No, Mitch. No.” Her voice was rising now, more broken than loud. “This is not okay. He doesn’t get to rewrite everything just because he’s tired of being sad. He doesn’t get to bury Eli under this new-life package just because he wants to feel normal again.”

Mitch stood slowly. He approached her like one might approach a wounded animal—deliberate, soft, steady—but didn’t touch her. He knew she needed space to bleed it all out.

“He’s not burying her.”

“He is,” she snapped. “He’s remarrying. That’s not some minor thing. That’s not therapy or smiling again or going back to the gym. That’s permanent. That’s him telling the world Eli is behind him.”

Mitch turned to the counter and leaned against it, arms crossed. His expression was tired but open.

“Steph, it’s been four and a half years. That’s a long time to stand still.”

“She’s still alive,” she hissed.

He looked at her.

“She’s not gone. Don’t talk about her like she’s gone. Don’t you dare.”

There it was—her line. The edge of her world. But Mitch didn’t flinch.

“I know she is,” he said softly. “But you know she’s not coming back.”

Stephanie shut her eyes. Her jaw clenched so tightly the tendons stood out along her neck. For a moment, she looked like she might scream just to clear the air.

“I hate that you say it like that,” she whispered. “Like it’s just a fact we’re supposed to accept. Like you’ve made peace with it.”

“I haven’t,” Mitch said. “I just... made space for it.”

“She was my best friend Mitch,” Steph said. Her voice was barely audible now. “We were supposed to raise our kids together. We had names picked out. We made stupid Pinterest boards. She would’ve been this baby’s godmother.”

Her fingers found the edge of the counter, gripping it like a lifeline.

“And now I’m supposed to send a gift and wear pastel and clap for this new chapter like none of that mattered?”

Mitch moved to her, slowly, resting his hands on her arm. She didn’t pull away.

“No one’s asking you to pretend.”

“Really?” she said, half-laughing, half-weeping. “Because this?” She pointed at the invitation. “This feels a hell of a lot like pretending. Like we’re supposed to accept Lena as the sequel and call it healing.”

He guided her to sit, crouched beside her, never letting go of her hand.

“Steph. You’re right. It’s unfair. It’s messy and yes, it feels wrong. But maybe for Will, it’s taken everything just to get to the point where he can even try again. Maybe this isn’t a betrayal. Maybe this is the bravest thing he’s capable of.”

Her eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. Her hands trembled.

“I don’t want to see him happy if she’s not there,” she whispered. “Is that insane?”

Mitch shook his head. “It’s not insane. It’s human.”

She looked away. “I just don’t want him to live a lie. He loved Eli in this big, messy, all-consuming way. And now he’s marrying someone who fits into the grief. Who doesn’t make waves. Who doesn’t make him feel too much.”

Mitch exhaled through his nose. “Maybe that’s all he can handle.”

“But is that love, Mitch?” Her voice cracked again. “Or is that just... not drowning?”

He didn’t answer. Just held her hand.

“Does it matter?” he said finally. “If it keeps him alive, if it gives him peace... maybe we don’t get to define it.”

“I want more for him,” she whispered. “Even if he doesn’t want it for himself.”

“I know,” Mitch said. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a long time. The kitchen ticked with the quiet hum of the fridge, the distant creak of winter settling into the house.

Then Steph stirred again.

“And you know what else?” Her tone shifted, sharper now. “She’s going to be one of us. A Toronto WAG.”

Mitch blinked. “Steph…”

“No, I know it sounds petty, but it’s not. You remember what it was like—Eli was part of our crew. She was real. We weren’t brunch-photo wives, we were actual friends. A unit.”

She rubbed at her face with her sleeve, half laughing in disbelief.

“And now Lena gets to wear the jacket? Sit in our row? Be invited to wives’ game night and act like she belongs?”

Mitch watched her with quiet sympathy.

“It’s just a label, baby.”

“You know it’s not,” she said. “You know what that space meant. Eli was the soul of that group. She loved it.”

Mitch wrapped his arms around her. This time she melted into him, boneless with exhaustion.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “But I also know this baby is coming soon. And your hormones are setting fires.”

Stephanie let out a choked laugh, half sob.

“So I’m irrational?”

“I’m saying you already lost Eli once, and now it feels like you’re losing her again. And that’s terrifying.”

She nodded against him, the tears finally free now. Her shoulders shook.

“I don’t want to be this bitter,” she said finally. “I don’t want to hate someone I don’t even know.”

“You don’t hate her,” Mitch said gently. “You just miss Eli so much you don’t know where to put it.”

Mitch whispered, “We’ll go. We don’t have to smile. We don’t even have to stay long. But I think we should go. For William. For Eli.”

“Alright,” she said, voice low. “But we’re sitting in the back. And I’m wearing black. No exceptions.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Black? Like funeral black?”

She gave him a look that was part mischief, part steel. “Exactly.”

He laughed softly. “You’re going to be a real joy at the wedding.”

“Someone’s got to keep things interesting.”

Mitch shook his head, smiling as he pulled her into a gentle hug again. “Deal.”

—

Jack pushed open the hospital door with a soft creak, stepping into the quiet, sterile room where his sister lay still — fragile as a glass sculpture, untouched by time but entirely changed by it. The faint beep of monitors was the only sound, steady and constant.

He stepped inside, slow. Careful. Like if he moved too fast, the moment would shatter.

It smelled like antiseptic and flowers that died three days ago.

Jack swallowed hard, the weight of five years and ninety-seven days pressing on his chest like it wanted to break something inside him. He hadn’t been here in weeks — between the season, the travel, the rehab — but today... today he couldn’t stay away.

He eased into the chair next to her bed, eyes scanning the stillness of her face. Peaceful. Pale. So fucking familiar. And so far away.

“Hey, big sis,” he said softly. “It’s been a while, huh?”

He reached for her hand — warm, soft, weightless — and curled his fingers around it. Holding on to something that felt like her.

“You took a long nap,” he whispered, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, weak and cracked. “Five years and ninety-seven days. But who’s counting, right? Just your favorite brother keeping tabs.”

His thumb ran over the back of her hand, slow and rhythmic.

“I told myself I’d come every other month. Sit here. Talk. Let you know what’s going on. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

He swallowed.

“I just... I hate seeing you like this, Eli. You’re here, but not. Breathing, but silent. It’s like someone hit pause on your life, and we’re all just... waiting. And every time I walk in, it feels like you’re going to wake up. Like you’ll roll your eyes at me and say I’m late or my hair looks dumb.”

He laughed — quiet, rough.

“I don’t want this to be what I remember when I think of you. This frozen version of you.”

He sat back, dragging a hand down his face, then sighed.

“Anyway. Catching you up.”

He sniffed and cleared his throat.

“Mom and Dad are... well, they’re Mom and Dad. You know. Stubborn and weirdly optimistic in ways that make no sense. Dad’s golfing like he’s on the senior tour. He’s either on the course or on YouTube watching some guy named Sven talk about putters. Mom’s pissed because he’s ‘wasting his damn knees’ but she’s been crazy busy, too. She took this new position with the women’s Olympic team — she’s basically coaching the coaches. Yelling at them and bossing them around. She’s so in her element it’s scary. You’d love it.”

He smiled faintly.

“They miss you. I mean, they won’t say it—not directly. But it’s there. Like... Mom still folds your hoodie and leaves it draped over the back of the chair, like you might swing by. And Dad—he keeps your old voicemail saved on his phone. Listens to it sometimes when he thinks no one’s around. Just stands there in the garage like he’s fixing something, but he’s not. He just... misses you.”

His jaw flexed. “They stopped saying your name after the second year. Like if they say it, something will snap.”

A beat passed.

“Luke’s in the NHL now.”

He gave a small laugh.

“I know, right? Baby Luke. He’s fast, cocky, impossible to deal with — so, basically perfect. You missed his first game. You would’ve hated missing it. He had your name inside his glove. We both did. He’s doing great. I mean, I live with him, so I also know that he leaves wet towels on the floor and eats pasta at 2 a.m. straight from the pot like a gremlin, but still. He’s killing it. I’m trying not to murder him. Mostly succeeding.”

Jack exhaled, shoulders slumping.

“Quinn... Quinn’s dating someone. Kinda. It’s a mess. He’s doing that thing where he’s emotionally constipated but still somehow kind of in love? He keeps texting me for advice like I’m some sort of love guru. I’m like, ‘Bro, I’m still figuring out if I’m emotionally available enough to own a plant.’ You’d be yelling at us both right now.”

He grew quiet.

“And then... there’s William.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck.

“He got married again.”

The words hung there, blunt and bare.

“It was a few months ago. In Sweden. Beautiful place. It was... nice. Really nice, actually. Candles everywhere. That soft, muted golden light you always loved—the kind that makes everything feel a little quieter. Everyone looked gentle, a little sad. Which, I guess, made sense.”

Jack shook his head, a pained smirk curling.

“I told him I was happy for him. And I am. Sort of. But it also felt like watching someone wear a jersey with the wrong number. You know?”

He hesitated.

“She’s not terrible, Eli. That’s what sucks. She’s... gentle. Respectful. She talks about you. Doesn’t pretend you never happened. She gets it, in this weird way. She lost someone, too. I think that’s the thing — they’re not really in love the way you two were. But they’re broken in the same shape. And I guess sometimes, broken finds broken.”

He went still again.

“But she’s not you. She’ll never be you.”

Jack drew in a shaky breath.

“Stephanie came to the wedding with Mitch. Nine months pregnant. Emotional as hell. She wore a black dress. Like, full black. Said it was ‘formal mourning attire.’ Mitch tried to stop her from wearing a damn veil. She was fighting him in the parking lot. You would’ve laughed your ass off.”

His face softened.

“She still talks about you like you’re gonna walk through the door any second.”

He looked at Eli again.

“I do, too.”

A long silence. The kind that settled deep.

“I had another surgery,” he said eventually. “Shoulder again. Missed a small part of the season and the full playoffs. Rehab sucks. But I’m doing better. Next year I’m back. I’ll score one for you. First game. Even if it’s ugly and I trip into the net, it’s yours.”

Jack leaned forward, his forehead almost touching her hand.

“I don’t know what’s left of you in there. I don’t know if you hear me. If you’ve heard anything.”

His voice broke.

“But I love you, Eli. I love you so fucking much. And I miss you. Every day. Every goddamn day.”

And then — something shifted.

A twitch.

Barely there.

A squeeze.

Jack sat up fast.

“Eli?” he whispered.

Her eyelashes flickered. Once. Twice.

And then her eyes opened.

Wide. Unfocused. Fragile as glass.

Jack’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“Eli,” he breathed.

She blinked. Her mouth parted. Confused. Silent.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eli.”

And for the first time in five years and ninety-seven days, Jack Hughes finally felt like he could breathe again.

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rhiannonsknife · 2 days ago

Note

Okay this might be long I apologise. But I’ve been really into tattoos lately, like both getting them myself but also designing and doing it on other people

sooooo, I was thinking a Nat(?) x tattooist!reader. Like maybe they were together before the crash and r was one of the first/only person who visited her after they came back

and I’m thinking like a few years later, early twenties maybe. They’re in r’s apartment, Nat pretty much lives there too. And one night they drink a little or something, and Nat asks r to tattoo her

I’m not sure what but maybe something silly like a couples tattoo or something. Maybe a sentence in r’s handwriting?

I don’t know I think it could be cute

I’m not sure which emojis are already used cause your anon list is so big now. Maybe 🦢 if it’s not taken?

── IS IT SHOWING OFF MY BRAND NEW LOWER BACK TATTOO?

— warnings: post-rescue nat. smoking. some slightly suggestive content. friends to lovers. i changed up the lore of your request a little, i hope you don’t mind 🦢 anon!

it’s late again; past midnight, probably. you stopped checking the clock ages ago, at least when nat is around. time doesn’t quite stop, it loses shape, becomes irrelevant in her presence.

the two of you are camped on the hardwood floor of your apartment, backs leaning against the couch, legs outstretched and toes brushing beneath a shared blanket that neither of you bothered pulling over your laps. the windows are cracked open, letting in just enough of the summer night air to keep the smoke from hanging too heavy in the room.

nat takes the joint from your fingers. “this is…a solid six,” she mutters after a long drag, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “maybe a seven”

you raise a brow. “six?”

“still tastes like the shit you used to roll in high school,” she passes it back, fingers brushing yours.

you snort, tapping ash into a chipped mug. “you loved that shit in high school!”

“i loved you in high school. different bar.” nat elbows you, glancing up from beneath the messy fringe of her newly-bleached bangs.

her roots are already creeping back, the blonde a little too bright and yellow still. a few weeks ago, nat showed up on your doorstep with a box of bleach and zero instructions, told you to “fix it” and you’d spent the better part of the evening in your bathroom, gloves on, both of you giggling like teenagers again.

it felt familiar, standing behind her in that tiny space, rinsing bleach from her hair while she blinked up at you in the mirror. it felt like before: before the crash and the funerals. before the grief of thinking you had lost her found a permanent home between your ribs for 19 whole months.

“you’re such a little shit,” you mutter, handing her the joint.

“mhm,” she hums, leaning against the couch. “you’re just mad i have taste now.”

now.

now things are almost like they used to be, a soft return to old habit. anything that happened before the crash is some long forgotten, locked-up chapter that you still think about frequently but wouldn’t dare to bring up. nat has got enough on her trauma loaded plate and you’ve always assumed dragging pre-incident memories into the light wouldn’t help.

so, your memories stay buried: the party. the spin-the-bottle. the kiss and how nat touched you as if she might have done it sober, too.

“y’know,” she says. “i think i like it here.”

you glance at her sideways. “in my crumbling one-bedroom?”

nat exhales, flicking more ash into the same mug. “yeah. kinda feels like home.”

hearing those words from her catches you off guard. for months, no, years now, you’ve been trying to be that for her; somewhere, steady, somewhere safe. and even though you never said it out loud, you’d always wanted her to feel like she could land here, with you. you just never thought she actually did.

your fingers brushing nat’s once more when you reach for the joint again and bring it to your mouth. then, so casually it almost doesn’t register, she says: “do you still have your tattoo kit?”

your head turns. “…yeah?”

her eyes are still trained on the ceiling and the drifting smoke. “you ever think about giving me one?”

“you mean like…right now?”

her shoulders rise in a shrug. “why not?”

“are you high?”

“little bit.”

“you’re gonna regret that.”

“only if you fuck it up.”

you laugh, shaking your head.

“c’mon!” nat says, nudging your foot beneath the blanket.

you roll your eyes, standing. “alright. let’s do this before you change your mind.”

the tattoo kit is tucked beneath the bathroom sink, zippered into a worn black pouch. you carry it into the living room, where nat has already pulled off her top and tossed it over the back of a chair.

the sight of her topless doesn’t usually send you reeling. you’ve seen nat shirtless countless times: hot mornings, locker rooms, sleepovers back in high school when she’d sneak through your bedroom window at 2 am because she couldn’t sleep at her place…still, it feels different now.

perhaps it’s the haze, or the fact that she’s already turning, back bared and ready for you to tattoo it.

or maybe it’s just that you remember. not just the party. not just the kiss. not just the press of her lips on yours, the feeling of her hand at your waist.

everything after: the slow way she returned, piece by piece, to this version of herself. to you.

nineteen months, you thought you’d lost your best friend. now she’s here again, more than she was before, and somehow nothing has been said about what has shifted between you.

you notice it. you collect it. tiny details you never paid attention to back then now bloom in your memory like smoke rings still curling towards your ceiling: the brush of her hand when she reached for the bleach. the flash of silver at her chest, twin barbells glinting in the bathroom light as you tried not to stare. her scent when she crawls into bed with you. the taste of her spit on the joint before you bring it to your lips.

you’re building a whole archive of her, just in case.

nat already has tattoos: there’s a jagged line of symbols on her forearm, another piece stitched over her ribs that she once said “just felt right” and one bigger tattoo spanning her upper thigh you’ve never seen fully, though you’ve caught glimpses when she pads around your apartment in her underwear. then, there’s that dumb one on the inside of her lip, the “bite me” scrawled from a night out and a bet you should’ve known she’d win.

“where?” you ask, crouching beside her.

nat doesn’t turn around, only lifts a hand and taps the space between her shoulder blades. “here”

you nod, clicking open the case. “and what am i putting on you?”

“surprise me.”

“nat…”

“something small,” she says helpfully. “nothing stupid! just…i don’t know! something that feels like yours.”

so you snap on the gloves and try to steady your hands. it’s not the work itself that’s hard, it’s the trust nat puts in you to leave a permanent mark on her.

you focus on the familiar movement, sketching it lightly onto the skin of her back with fingers that won’t stop trembling, no matter how steady you try to make them. mercifully, or too high to notice, nat doesn’t ask what it is.

“you’re quiet,” she points out, her head tilted to the side as she smokes the last bit of the joint. “should i be worried?”

“no,” you murmur. “just trying not to fuck up.”

even with her back turned to you, you hear the smile in her voice. “you won’t. you’re good with your hands.”

you pause, needle hovering an inch above skin, suddenly not breathing. she doesn’t turn around, only takes another slow drag and exhales, smoke rising above her head.

“okay,” you say. “you’re gonna feel a little-”

“stabbing,” nat finishes. this time she does turn, lips twitching. “yeah. i remember.”

“then relax.”

the machine buzzes to life and you begin, the needle breaking skin in short, precise strokes. with one palm pressing against her skin to keep her in position, and your legs bracket hers where she’s sitting (still half-naked), you’re impossibly close to her.

you try not to think about the proximity as you work. not about the piercings, a flash of silver when her shirt rides up, or how your knuckles keep brushing the soft skin just beside them. not about the fact that she sleeps in your bed now, half the week, limbs tangled in your sheets. sometimes she wears a shirt. sometimes she doesn’t. and whether she notices the way you notice or just doesn’t care, you’ve never found the nerve to ask.

to keep the memories at bay, you try focusing on other things instead: the shimmer of sweat at the nape of nat’s neck, the faint freckles scattered across her spine.

even that backfires.

now all your brain can do is wonder what would happen if you leaned in and kissed her right there, soothing the stinging sensation of the needle.

you don’t, of course.

you finish the linework, wipe down the ink and wrap the fresh tattoo, smooth and professional, as if your hands haven’t been shaking since you first touched nat’s skin.

this is where you should step back, say it’s done and offer her the mirror. let her go.

your hand lingers, though, on skin still warm to the touch.

without thinking, you lean forward and press a kiss above the tattoo.

nat shudders.

her breath catches and doesn’t settle again. the pain’s over, the needle quiet, and you’ve barely touched her at all. still her body is reacting.

at first, she doesn’t move or speak: she just sits there, back turned to you, as if movement could ruin this.

when she does shift, it’s silent, afraid to break whatever is holding your moment suspended. nat’s eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up again, seeing if you’ll look away.

you meet her gaze and hold it, your heart hammering somewhere deep in your chest. her hand lifts, fingertips brushing against the hem of your shirt.

still, you hesitate. still, she waits.

it’s unbearable, that tiny space between you, so close her breath is warming your cheek, waiting for you to move.

and then, finally, gravity wins out over whatever instinct has been trying to keep you apart and you kiss her. it’s nothing like the party, not clumsy and drunk or full of laughter: this is months of restraint unraveling in an instant.

her lips are dry from smoke, soft despite it and her hands come up, curling into the fabric of your shirt (unlike nat, you are wearing one still).

you tilt into her, heat flashing beneath your skin.

her knees part to make room for you between them and the kiss deepens. her fingers slip to the back of your neck, thumb brushing along your jaw, and shivers run through your entire body.

nat makes a soft sound and pulls you closer, as if that single reaction was all she needed. you taste weed on her tongue. salt. her.

you taste her.

“fuck,” nat whispers, her tongue slipping past your lips before you can come up with anything to say in return.

she leans in again, kissing you harder now. following the pull of her body as she leans into you, you shift until there’s nowhere else for her to go but back; her spine arching, pressed flush to the cushions, your weight settling over her.

her hands slide up, trailing over your jaw, your neck, pulling you closer.

then nat tenses. her breath catches sharply and a pained sound leaves her. “shit,” she gasps, jerking back with a wince. “fuck- fuck!”

you pull away instantly, heart hammering. “what? did i-”

“back,” she winces, reaching a hand around to hover near the fresh wrap. “just- bad angle. forgot about the tattoo.”

you chuckle, collapsing beside her.

nat groans, draping an arm over her face. “you had to stab me and seduce me? fucking cruel!”

“seduce?” you echo. “who says anything about seducing you?”

she peeks at you from under her arm, deadpan. “you kissed my spine!”

“you asked for something that felt like mine!”

that shuts her up. her mouth opens like she might say protest, but no words come out.

“…so,” she does say eventually. “what if i wanted another one?”

you glance at her, the corners of your mouth twitching. “we’ll see how this one heals”

nat hums at that before she pushes herself upright and shifts closer, knees pressing into the couch as she climbs into your lap. grinning now, nat tucks her hair behind her ear, eyes never leaving yours. “i wasn’t talking about the tattoo,” she says.

— a/n: needless to say i don’t know shit about tattooing! i tried to write it in a way that leaves the design/motive up to your imagination, so this probably isn’t the most accurate portrayal, sorry in advance to any real tattoo artists out there! 😭

#˙💌 ̟ !! ─ my works #nat scatorccio #nat scatorccio x reader #nat scatorccio x female reader #nat scatorccio x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x female reader #yellowjackets x you #🦢 anon

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euseokz · 1 day ago

Text

@ sungchan — why are you this shitty ? . cws : toxic behaviour . use of ‘whore’ . unprotected sex . creampie . wc : 4.2k+ . genre : angst + smut

a/n : somehow included my babyboys leehan and jaehyun because i love them very much 😛

you knew it wasn’t a good idea to agree to go out with EX-BOYFRIEND! SUNGCHAN again.

and yet, you still did.

sungchan and you didn’t break up on good terms. in fact, you thought there were very few other ways that could be worse.

it all started with you befriending leehan — or better yet, rekindling your old friendship. leehan was an old friend from your childhood, you grew up as neighbors and spent basically every hour of every day together, your parents getting along just as well with his. as kids, you’d do almost everything together. go to school, eat lunch, take after school naps, play whatever silly new game you had come up with. it was sweet really. but then you turned ten, and around that time leehan’s family moved away because of his father’s work. it hit you hard, but you both promised to survive it, dramatizing things a bit because it truly felt like you were losing a sibling by being away from each other. your parents kept in contact with his however, and once or twice a year his family would come to visit, but by then you were teens, too caught up in your own worlds to care enough to create a bond in the few days he was over, knowing you’d lose it again soon enough. you grew further apart as you aged, even more when you moved away to another city for work, already in your 20’s, full of hopes and dreams, ready to build your own path — which was when you met sungchan.

he was the friend of one of your colleagues, and you only even met him because said colleague, sohee, was throwing a little summer get-together at his house and invited a lot of people from your work who were close in age to him and that he got along with, that somehow including you. you always saw it as a pity invite, a way to try to include the new girl and not make her feel left out, sohee was nice enough to do something like that after all. you took the invite gladly either way, seeing it as an opportunity to make a new workplace friend and also just make new friends in general!

it was a good time, it was warm out as the soft summer breeze and higher temperatures came in, a guy you later learned to be named eunseok behind a small bar making cocktails, not stopping even when sohee told him to just go have fun. he seemed to like being there, keeping a bit more to himself but still having fun in his own way, talking with some people and even dancing but still keeping what seemed to be a safe distance from the more erratic part of the afternoon, that being the loud music and half-drunk people by the pool. it wasn’t a huge gather by any means, but it also wasn’t small, probably around 30 people there, apparently more than sohee even expect since, from what he told you when you walked in, some of his friends brought plus ones, not that he seemed to mind, just happy everyone was having fun.

at some point you ended up by the makeshift bar, talking with eunseok about how pretty the sky looked, hues of orange and pink glazing it as the sunset drew upon it. eunseok was funny, he had a somewhat weird humor, kinda dry maybe, but he was funny, and also cute, cute enough for you to almost muster up enough courage to ask him if he was doing anything next weekend — until sungchan showed up, and all the sudden attraction you felt towards eunseok went down the drain.

sungchan was tall, wearing only a pair of swim shorts with a big seven on the side and a pair of flip flops, water from the pool still dripping from his hair and leaving wet trails down his toned body. he didn’t notice you at first, approaching eunseok directly and asking for a beer, looking like he was in a rush to go back to wherever he came from — the pool, you assumed — until eunseok let out a small, discreet cough, ever so slightly pointing towards your direction with his head before leaning down to pick up a beer from the cooler on the floor.

“oh, i didn’t even see you there, i’m sorry” were the first words sungchan ever told you, his smile staying in place as he spoke, his eyes sparkling a little more once they laid on you, or so you thought that happened. that was the beginning of it all, a small conversation turning into you two going to a calmer corner to keep the chat going, the date you thought about having next weekend ending up being with sungchan, taking only a few more before you were officially dating.

sungchan treated you like a princess, proud to introduce you to everyone he knew, happy to do anything you asked. you genuinely thought you would marry him someday, that hopeful day never coming.

it was a couple years after you started dating that you got a call from your parents saying that leehan was now living in your city. you didn’t give it much thought, only seeing him as a childhood friend now, no space for him in your life. but then you ran into him by some weird coincidence in a coffee shop you and sungchan frequently went to. he was there by himself, sitting in a small table with his laptop and a snack. it took you a moment to register who he was, his little boy features long gone and it wasn’t like you had seen leehan recently. more out of courtesy than anything, you went to greet him, sungchan looking from afar calmly as you approached an old friend.

“the long hair suits you” you spoke as you stood by leehan’s table. he looked up at you, also confused for a second before recognizing you.

“thank you” he answered, his smile the same from when you were kids somehow, even if almost every single one of his features had matured, his smile remained the same.

you talked briefly, and what was supposed to be only a courtesy greeting transformed into a trip down memory lane, that eventually ended with him sitting with you and sungchan, both of you sharing silly stories from when you were kids all while sungchan smiled softly, listening attentively, happy to see you so excited.

you and leehan kept in contact after that, and sungchan never had any problem with it, because why would he? he had his friends, you were allowed to have yours, right? right. that thought process of his didn’t last long, however, remaining until you and leehan got closer and started spending more and more time together. you never ditched on sungchan to be with leehan, you never broke any boundaries with leehan, you were genuinely just friends, no attraction involved from either side, a simple, innocent friendship connecting you. you knew that, leehan knew that, even sungchan’s friends saw that — but he didn’t. sungchan started thinking you two were too close, too intimate, spending too much time alone. it started small, sungchan making snarky remarks whenever leehan came up in conversation, escalating to him out right being rude towards leehan whenever you all hung out. it bothered you, bothered you enough for you to even talk to eunseok, ask what he thought about it.

“you’re just friends, right? sungchan is overreacting, probably just jealous, he’ll get over it” eunseok remarked, the problem becoming that sungchan never got over it, coming to a point where you had to put your foot down.

“‘chan, you have your friends, i never questioned any of them, never doubted your relationship with them as anything more, so why are you so mad about me and leehan? we’re just friends, that’s all!” you said, agitated, the issue between you two having already been going on for far too long.

“i don’t fuck my friends, that’s the difference” sungchan answered calmly, that sort of calmness that comes before a storm. you didn’t know where that came from, all you knew was that sungchan’s words led to a massive fight between you two, one that ended with you breaking up in the heat of the moment, throwing away years spent in a relationship over a stupid issue that could be resolved over a simple, honest conversation.

sungchan tried to apologize in the weeks following the argument, saying he was completely out of his mind, admitting what he said came purely from his own insecurities, claiming that he wanted to be together again. you accepted his apology, but much to sungchan’s despair, you didn’t take him back, saying you wouldn’t allow that sort of disrespect from a partner. sungchan wasn’t pleased with that, but he took the no for an answer, leaving you alone. it wasn’t easy, you cried most nights, wondering if you did the right thing, questioning everything that led up to it. you came to terms with it at some point tho, months passing and the pain fading away with them. you heard from sungchan sometimes, even seeing him rarely, the friendship you had built with sohee and eunseok remaining even after you broke up with their friend. they didn’t think what he did or said was right, that comforting you somehow, knowing that you weren’t crazy for thinking sungchan’s actions were completely out of line. leehan never heard any of it, that becoming the first time you ever lied to him, explaining that you and sungchan broke up because you simply started growing apart.

“i liked him, you know” leehan once said, almost a year having already passed since the break up. “he treated me a bit weirdly towards the end, but he was a nice guy” leehan continued, completely unaware of how sungchan actually felt towards him and what he thought of him. you giggled, and out of instinct, you hugged leehan, the sound of autumn leaves falling against the grass of the park you were in serving as background noise when you told him how happy you were to have found him again. leehan let out a small laugh, hugging you back, admitting he too was happy you had met up again — neither of you aware sungchan was just on the other side of the street, watching as a new girl held his hand, old malicious thoughts rushing back to his head. that was the start of it all.

the start of you getting to know just how shitty your ex-boyfriend truly was.

it started small. sohee started slightly avoiding you at work, never holding up a conversation for too long, even if his genuine smile always remained, some excuse always coming up as to why he had to go. he seemed nervous around you, uncomfortable maybe, as if he was doing something wrong by even looking in your direction. you found it weird, but thought maybe he just had some other issue going on in his life that he didn’t want to talk to you about, his personal problems probably affecting his usual behaviour. then, after a few weeks, you asked when you two and eunseok could hangout again.

“oh we’re both totally busy that day, i’m sorry” sohee replied through an anxious smile.

“i didn’t mention a date tho?”

“yeah but we’ll be busy” those were sohee’s last words before he ran off, that being what triggered you to realize something was definitely going on, and most definitely not just some problem he didn’t wanna discuss with you — so you went to eunseok. you hadn’t talked to him in a while, which wasn’t odd, he rarely ever reached out first, but maybe he could tell you why sohee’s behavior had been so strange lately.

“it’s sungchan” eunseok sighed once you approached him at his favorite bar, lucking out that he was alone there on a random friday night. “he’s been saying some shitty stuff about you and saying we shouldn’t come near you. i don’t believe any of his bullshit, i don’t think sohee does either, but you know sungchan, he can be an asshole when he wants, sohee probably just doesn’t wanna cause any trouble”

“what do you mean?” you asked after a second, confused, sitting down by eunseok’s side, now even more curious about what was apparently going on.

“look, you don’t wanna know, trust me. just forget about sungchan’s stupid ass, this will blow over and things will go back to normal” that answer, as intentionally vague as it was, only left you even more interested in what was going on so, after some more questions that almost made eunseok get up and leave to avoid problems on either side, he finally caved in.

“sungchan…” he started, sighing before proceeding “he’s been telling everyone that you cheated on him with leehan, that you two had something going on beyond just a friendship i guess”

“what?” you asked, more speechless than anything, incredulous that this was all coming back after so long.

“yeah, at least between us he has been calling you a whore, saying you were never worth his time” eunseok added, this time unable to lift his head, staring straight into the glass cup between his fingers. “if it matters, as i said, i don’t believe any of it, and i don’t think anyone else does. i know he’s my friend, but sungchan is just something else… not a bad person, just bad with relationships. he’s never gone this far tho” eunseok finished, blatantly trying to apologize for his friend’s behaviour. it didn’t work, if anything it only made you angry, so you left without another word, heading home before doing something stupid.

after that you started avoiding sohee at work, not because you were mad at him, but so you wouldn’t say something out of impulse that would just worsen the situation. for weeks you thought about what to do, how to get back at sungchan, but eventually you gave up. it was like eunseok said that one night, sungchan is an asshole, so you decided he wasn’t worth your time.

as time passed, more weeks and then months going by, things eventually got back to normal. sohee apologized when he found out what eunseok told you, which led to you three finally having your friendship again. some of sungchan’s closest friends also came to you later on saying they didn’t believe any word of what he said, one of them that you were never particularly close with, wonbin, even pointing out that the other few people sungchan talked about the matter with also never believed him. weirdly enough that made you feel relieved, knowing that sungchan’s credibility was below zero. from that point on you kept living your life as you intended, working, meeting new people, enjoying yourself without caring about some stupid ex-boyfriend you had. you even met someone new, jaehyun, a guy leehan met through a friend and that was just the sweetest. you weren’t actually dating, only going out here and there, getting to know each other at a slow pace, but it was nice to be reassured that not every guy sucked, especially since leehan really backed up jaehyun, saying he was truly a good guy, and his opinion mattered to you, so you took it as a good sign. all in all, things were going well — until sungchan reached out.

“can we meet up?” you read on your phone, the contact it came from named simply sungchan, no longer ‘channie with two heart emojis after it. you didn’t even know why you kept his number, didn’t even remember you still had it in fact, and something about it all felt off. why would he text you? why would he want to meet up? and most of all, why did you reply with a “yes, when?”.

you felt dumb, but after exchanging a few messages, two days later you found yourself ringing the doorbell to sungchan’s apartment. he opened the door without saying a word, stepping aside so you could come in. it looked different, most of the same furniture but placed in a different manner, the smaller decorations on shelves and such almost completely different, the frames that once had pictures of you two now showing him with another girl you didn’t know.

a few moments passed as you looked around, only able to see the small entryway and open kitchen to living room space, his bedroom tucked away behind it’s closed door, his bathroom too. it was dark, only the moon’s light extending through the space and somehow brightening it up enough for you to notice the small details. you had always liked that his windows were big, not only because you spent so many nights wrapped up with him on his couch with the room just as dim as it was in that moment, but also because when you woke up in his bed you had a perfect view through his living room windows. you shook your head slightly though, focusing on the present, a movement to attempt to let go of old, now basically meaningless, memories.

“why did you want me to come here?” you asked, finally looking at sungchan, his tall figure standing just a couple feet behind you.

“why did you come?” he questioned back, looking serious, which made you scoff. this has to be a joke, you thought to yourself, letting out a small laugh before starting to make your way back towards the front door. “wait!” sungchan suddenly said when he noticed where you were headed, positioning himself in front of you, his hands unsurely rising up and softly popping onto your shoulders. “i wanna talk”

“i don’t think we have much to talk about, especially after you called me a whore behind my back”

sungchan winced, looking away from your eyes for a second before focusing again, an almost pleading look behind his own gaze.

“i know what i did was wrong, all of it, from start to end… it was wrong, it was awful, and i can’t apologize enough to make up for it. but i still want to make things right” sungchan practically begged, his tone soft, softer than you remember it ever having been. he sighed, a long sigh, and you almost felt bad for him in that moment — better yet, you felt bad enough for him to accept what he said next.

“can we try again?”

you didn’t blink, you didn’t even think or breath before saying “yes”, a rush of emotions flooding you, things you thought you had forgotten or moved past crashing you harder then they ever should.

sungchan smiled incredulously, pulling you in for a hug, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, unsure of what to even do with himself so just going for a tight embrace. you placed your own arms around his waist, your grip looser than his. you didn’t know what possessed you to say yes, it felt wrong but also right. you thought of jaehyun for a second, what you’d tell him. you were just going out though, so it was fine you guessed, leehan’s pouting when you told him probably more of a hassle to deal with — and then you remembered about the photos around sungchan’s apartment, the girl with him in them.

“what about your girlfriend?” you asked, getting an instant reply “i broke up with her last night”

there was no hesitation in sungchan’s speech, even less when he backed away ever so slightly, hands moving to cup your cheeks softly, his eyes glued to yours before both your lids fell close, his lips pressing into yours.

it was soft, a simple peck, a quick touch of his lips on yours — but then he sucked on your bottom one, and as you always used to do, you kissed him back. no hesitation again, no second thought, just pure instinct you assumed, what you two had in the past meddling with how you acted in the present, all the bad things that happened suddenly meaningless.

you now pulled at sungchan’s loose shirt, each tug at it seemingly making both of you more desperate. this wasn’t what either of you had expected from this evening. sungchan was sure you’d just slap him across the face — if you decided to actually show up, that is — and leave his apartment without a word. you expected to hear some shitty apologies from him, which in all truthfulness you did get, and to walk out after calling him a total asshole. neither of you expected this, that not even a half hour after you came into his home you’d be laying on his couch, the plush surface as comfortable as you remembered, while sungchan was positioned over you, his top long gone, thrown somewhere probably across his counter, your own shirt pushed halfway up your torso as your ex’s hands — the same ex you were supposed to absolutely hate — roamed freely across your body, warm fingertips leaving lingering trails across your sides, digging into your skin as if he wanted to pull you as close to him as humanly possible, the way his tongue slid into your mouth and allowed you to suck on it most definitely not something you predicted would ever happen again.

it was fast, not rushed, but definitely a swift pace. neither of you completely undressed, apparently no time for that. apart from sungchan already being shirtless, he only bothered with pushing his pants down enough for his bulging cock to pop out, veins running up it’s length while a drop of pre shined on his tip. you, however, let your shirt be as it was, the fabric bunched just below your chest, only interested in taking off your bottoms, your panties going along with them towards the ground.

sungchan’s eyes focused on your pussy, your clit ever so slightly moving from how aroused you were, wanting his fingers or tongue to play with it, your folds wet with your own arousal. sungchan spread your legs even more, his left hand placed at the back of your right thigh, holding it up against your chest, your other leg assuming the same position automatically. his free hand wrapped around his cock, giving it one single stroke before pressing his pink head against your clit, moving it side to side against it. you let out a small sigh merged with a moan, the slight relief heavenly. sungchan smirked, not needing to look at your blissful expression to know you liked it — he didn’t spend much time toying with you like that however, pushing away for just a second so he could spit on his cock, smearing his saliva along it’s entire thickness before finally tapping his dripping tip against your hole, looking up at you as he slid in, your eyes locked as both your faces contorted into ones that showed explicit pleasure, moving his hips the full way until he bottomed out.

“you feel just as good as i remember” sungchan muttered “such a pretty pussy, taking me so well”

no time was wasted after that. sungchan’s strokes started growing in speed, starting languid until he was pistoning into you, both hands now pressing your thighs against your chest, damn nearly completely folding you in half, his eyes shifting between your glossy with pleasure expression and the sight of your cunt swallowing him whole, your clit twitching as your high started to build, your entire being so immersed in how good sungchan’s cock felt stretching you out it didn’t take nearly as long as it usually would for your orgasm to threaten to rupture.

sungchan kept going, fucking you steadily, his own bliss or the way your slick walls clamped down around his girth not stopping him from giving you everything he had, all the pent up need he had felt for you ever since your break-up releasing itself in that moment — all it took being one louder moan from you, your fingers digging at his arms and your body shaking ever so slightly for him to cum too, following your lead almost, his seed filling your pussy up nicely.

you both stood still for a moment, catching your breaths, your firm grip on sungchan’s arms loosening and his fingers losing strength from the hold they had on the plush flesh of your thighs. you were both in nirvana, so caught up in your own ecstasy you forgot everything, both your minds numb in pleasure before slowly coming back to yourselves.

minutes later, after you both cleaned up, you now laid on sungchan’s bed, his scent almost overwhelming, everything surrounding you his — the hold he had around you, his sheets covering you up to your nose, even the t-shirt you wore.

“does this all mean i’m forgiven?” he questioned, breaking the silence you had surrounded yourselves with.

“you're still the shittiest boyfriend a girl could ever have, so i don’t know” you answered, this time actually thinking about what you were saying.

“you are laying in my bed tho, so where does that leave us?” sungchan replied, a small chuckle between his words.

“i guess we’re both just shitty… that’s probably it”

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sturnboos · 2 days ago

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going nuts in Buc-ee’s

boyfriend matt with subby undertones if you squint hard enough, fluff/suggestive, inspired by their recent video.

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Just a bathroom break and a few snacks.

The second we walked into Buc-ee’s, Nick was already analyzing the fudge like it owed him money, chris went and ordered everyone pulled pork burgers and Matt found the shopping carts. “Babe, watch this,” he said, grinning like a five-year-old hyped on sugar.

“Matt!” I half scolded, already giggling. Too late. He kicked off and started scootering through the aisles, using the cart like it was his own personal scooter. His hair flopped effortlessly as he zoomed down the main aisle, nearly crashing into a display of beaver branded blankets.

I shook my head.

“Look at her! She’s jealous of my skills,” he said, spinning the cart in a circle. Matt came to a dramatic stop in front of me, grinning wide, cheeks flushed from the ride. “Rate the performance, babe. Be honest. Was it sexy?”

I leaned in, looping my arm around his waist. “You almost hit the blankets and the giant stuffed bucee beaver.”

“Exactly. I live on the edge” he whispered, brushing his lips against my temple before grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the candy aisle. “Come on. Time to get you something sweet” As if he wasn't already sweet enough.

We barely made it past the sour gummies before Matt dropped into a dramatic pose, grabbed a pack of candy, and without warning started dry humping the air. Right there. In the middle of Buc-ee’s.

“Matthew Bernard!” I gasped, trying not to laugh while also glancing around for witnesses. I hissed and gently push his shoulder. “There are children here!”

“What? I'm just showing you what happens when I think about you and sugar at the same time,” he said with zero shame, biting his lip in that way that made my knees feel a little too weak for a gas station.

Chris nearly choked on the peanuts he was eating from laughing. “can’t take them anywhere… right nick?”

Nick just kept walking. “I’m not responsible for any of this.”

Eventually, we made it to the slushie machines, which felt like a miracle. I was filling mine when I turned and caught Matt slowly, sensually rocking against the cart this time with full eye contact.“Matt…” I whispered, feeling heat creep up my neck. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” His voice dropped a little lower, eyes dark with that teasing glint I knew too well. “I’m just imagining this cart is you.”

My jaw dropped, and he smirked like he won the lottery. “You’re gonna pay for that later,” I muttered under my breath, trying not to smile as I shoved his shoulder.

“I’m counting on it,” he whispered, lips brushing my ear, fingers just barely grazing my lower back as he walked ahead leaving me flustered, blushing, and very ready to get back on the tour bus.

Buc-ee’s had no idea what hit it and honestly neither did I but despite the chaos and the secondhand embarrassment I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Buc-ee’s may never recover, but it was definitely a trip to remember.

Taglist: @blushsturns @blahbel668 @riasturns @iloveduckssm @cl1tlover3000 @emmaweasley @chrissbxby @sturnobessed @kayskreativeideas @tits4matt @cherryswifeyy @mattsfavho @sturniolobananas1 @courta13 @alexisa78 @chrisissos3xy @sturnobessed @mattschelseaa @sturniolos67 @norahsturns @dolliraez @jibitzlesscrocs

#sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo

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n9nno · 2 days ago

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darlin’ headcannons because i love them so much and i can’t stop thinking about them

darlin’ has a scar on their eyebrow. when they were with quinn they would lie and say they got it in a bar fight, when in reality they got it after tripping over gabe’s foot and splitting it open on a coffee table when they were younger

darlin’ is TERRIBLE with money. not because they’re a shopping addict, but because they’re always trying to buy things for others. “oh you’re hungry? here, take my card, go get something for yourself.” “oh you need x, y, and z? i’m going to walmart, i’ll go pick those up for you.” “no need to pay me back, i got it.”

darlin’ doesn’t have many pictures saved from over the years, but among the very few framed photos atop their dresser, there’s one of them, david, asher, and milo after their high school graduation, a tall and broad gabe standing behind all of them with a beaming smile, trying his best to contain all 4 of them in his arms. darlin’, in the picture, is holding their thumbs up, along with a painful grimace that gabe forced them to give for the picture.

when darlin’ is sleeping, they’ll get really hot (temperature wise, you freak), hence why they’re so restless during the night. they’re always taking the blankets off of them, putting them back on, flipping on their right side, then their left. sam is kinda like their cooling blanket this way.

darlin’ rides a motorcycle. in fact, they have 2 of them. one beautiful, navy blue honda rebel that they’ve had since they were 16, and one all-black yamaha R1 they got when they were 20. they don’t ride as much anymore, but occasionally they’ll take one of their bikes to a pack meeting and show off its beauty.

darlin’ got really good grades in school. like, unusually good. they were top 3 in their whole class.

fem!darlin’ used to have very long, thick, and healthy hair. they used to pride themselves on it, and would always be fiddling with the ends or just running their hand through it absentmindedly. when they got with quinn, he would always find ways to insult it. he would grab it when they would walk away from him, he would comment on how boring it makes them look, he would always say that he preferred short hair to others right in front of their face.

^ they cut their hair shortly after they split, the longest pieces just barely touching their shoulders, while some pieces ended right where their jaw was. it was messy, but charming (you can pull anything off when you’re the sexiest person in dahlia).

darlin’ has an RBF. it was way more noticeable when they were a teenager/young adult (with quinn), but they smile a lot more/look a lot more peaceful when they’re with the pack or with sam (or both), so their RBF never really shows too much anymore.

darlin’ is a chronic nail biter. they’ve tried everything—fidget toys, that gross nail biting stuff you put on your fingers, pulling their hair out, picking at their lips—but nothing works. they’ve just accepted it at this point.

^ expanding on this, whenever sam notices them biting their nails, instead of swatting their hand or yelling at them to stop like most people do, he’ll gently grab their hand and intertwine their fingers, temporarily stopping them for a while.

darlin’ is the tallest out of the listeners (in the pack). babe is a CLOSE second—like maybe they’re 2 or 3 inches shorter than darlin—but ultimately, darlin’ is the tallest. (i’m not giving a specific height)

#this is cringe i’m sorry #i’ve never written anything before #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted darlin #redacted headcanons #redactedverse

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jujutsukinkadamy · 1 day ago

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Sacrificial Lamb

18+ only!

Tags & CW : DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, DOVE IS ROTTING, extream sexual themes, rotcore smut, dubcon/non con, breeding kink, overstimulation, psychological manipulation, mind fuck, dégradation, corruption, horror erotica, piv, porn with plot, Trueform! sukuna, canon divergence, Double penetration (PIV/ANAL), Dom/Sub dynamic (extremely unbalanced), no safe words/aftercare, monster fucker elements (Trueform kuna), Moral blackness

note : don't ask me what was going inside my head when I wrote this. I just wanted some pure filth kuna in my life anyways, hope you enjoy reading this pure filth. Likes, reblogs and comments are always loved! Stay nasty, freaks!❤️

You were never supposed to matter.

Just another village girl with cursed-touched hands, born with too much silence in your blood and not enough purity to be saved. You healed the dying with a single brush of fingers. Drew rot from wounds like a sponge, taking it into your own skin. The elders said you were blessed.

They lied.

The truth came with whispers in the dirt walls of the shrine. With ancient scrolls inked in blackened blood, hidden beneath rice wine jars and crumbling bones. The truth was older than your village. Older than any clan.

You were not blessed.

You were ripe and ready to be sacrificed.

A womb made for sacrament. A vessel with just enough cursed energy to attract something long buried something divine and foul.

They began preparing you before you ever bled.

Fed you only rice and boiled roots. Bathed you in well water steeped with ofuda and ashes. Spoke to you in low voices like you were a reliquary, not a girl, but a gift.

You tried to run once. At thirteen. You crossed the mountain’s edge, past the river where bodies used to surface with bloated bellies and black tongues. You made it two nights before the dreams came, thick and wet and full of teeth. You woke with blood on your thighs and a sigil scorched into your shoulder that smelled like sulfur.

After that, you stopped trying.

By the time the ceremony came, nine years later, you were quiet. Obedient. Hollowed.

The shrine doors opened at dusk. They dressed you in red, not white because purity wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted a body already touched by ruin. A woman who knew rot in her marrow and could still kneel.

You remember the cold first. The way the air shifted when you stepped past the threshold, like stepping into the chest cavity of something long-dead and still breathing.

Then the silence. Then the pulse.

And then him.

He didn’t arrive in light. Not in smoke or glory. He bloomed, like a wound opening across the altar, like centuries of hunger made flesh. Four arms. Four eyes. Two mouths, all teeth and reverence twisted to mockery. A god not of salvation, but desecration.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Your name withered on your tongue.

He looked at you like prey, but spoke to you like a bride. Like he already owned your skin, your breath, the tremble in your thighs.

“You came well prepared by those pathetic people,” he said, voice split across mouths. “Good. I don’t like waiting.”

The doors shut behind you.

No turning back. No gods here but him.

And your ritual had only just begun.

It was never about purity. Sukuna doesn’t crave innocence. He craves fit. He chose you because your body is compatible, not with his power, but with his presence. You don’t repel curses. You draw them. Your cursed energy is passive, unrefined, but it’s open, like soft earth ready to take root. You don’t resist the rot. You breathe with it.

That makes you fertile ground.

In the lore of the Cursed Bride Rituals, only one woman in every few generations bears the right curse affinity, a passive attractor of malignant energy whose spiritual core does not collapse under it. Every other “bride” before you was either torn apart or driven mad before the ritual could be completed.

You will endure. You were made for it.

You were marked from birth. Not by fate, but by function. A natural vessel, an unclaimed, unworshipped body made to host something older than love. Sukuna could smell it in your blood. Could feel the openness of your cursed womb. You weren’t just capable of receiving him.

You were meant to.

But there’s more.

He chose you not just for your flesh. He chose you because you survived him, in dreams, in curses, in whispered rituals. When you touched dying things and gave them back, you didn’t realize it was his energy echoing through your touch. Untrained, yes. But raw. Perfect.

To Sukuna, that’s the highest form of worship, unknowing submission. You didn’t even realize you belonged to him right from the start. And that made you worthy. The ritual isn’t just about sex. It’s about ownership. Dominion. He's gonna mark you to bind you, not just to his power, but to his legend. You become part of his mythology. A womb-altar. A cursed relic. A bride whose body will remember his touch even after death.

He’ll bury himself so deeply into you—flesh, energy, name, that not even the strongest jujutsu sorcerer could cleanse you without tearing you apart. Just the thought of it made the smile draw wider on his face, crimson eyes glinting with excitement seeing you flushed standing like that.

You are desecration incarnate.

And he chose you because no one else could carry that honor without breaking.

.......

You don’t remember how the ceremony began. Only the weight of the ropes that bind your wrists and the incense thick enough to choke in your throat. You're kneeling, bare, in the center of a shrine carved into stone, walls slick with old blood, prayers long forgotten. Four paper lanterns sway, casting flickering light over talismans hanging around your ankles, wrists and neck, enough to seal. You're sacred now. Prepared.

"Bride of calamity."

That's what they called you before the offering. Now you're just meat on the altar. The chants outside have stopped. The silence is worse. A shift in the air like the world exhaling wrong. Then he steps into the shrine.

He takes his time.

Bare feet slapping on stone. Eyes drinking in the quiver of your thighs.

"Still breathing, are you?" His voice is velvet dragged across bone. One of his hands curls under your chin, tipping your head back until your neck aches. "Pretty little thing."

You tremble, not from cold. Not even from fear.

He smiles wider.

"Do you know what tonight is?" he whispers, mouth too close, too hot. “The gods demanded sacrifice. But I demand ruin.” A flick of his wrist and the seals burn, ink flaring, ropes tightening until your shoulders scream.

"You’ll be the first of my new bloodline. Womb of calamity, indeed." His claws trace down your chest, past your belly, to the aching heat between your thighs. "And you’ll be mine, long after your mind breaks."

Your protest dies before it starts. A second hand wraps around your throat. “Good,” he hisses. “Quiet little thing. Makes the taking sweeter.”

He spreads your thighs with brute force, two more hands pinning your hips down to the altar. You're opened, displayed, helpless beneath him. You feel the air pulse as his cursed energy blooms, hot, thick, violating.

His cocks, two, thick, veined, pulsing with power emerge as if summoned by your shame. Both are terrifying in size and shape, curved like weapons of war. He grins when your eyes widen.

“Don’t worry. You were made for this.” And then he begins.

One hand wrapped around your throat. Another teasing your clit in slow, cruel circles. His mouth speaks words in an ancient tongue, and your skin shivers beneath each syllable, your cunt clenching, heat flooding between your legs in involuntary pulses.

You hate that you’re wet.

You hate that he notices.

"You shame yourself," he chuckles. "Dripping like a feast offering. Maybe you want to be defiled."

The head of his cock presses against your entrance. And with one sharp thrust, he impales you. The stretch is unbearable. Raw. Your walls spasm around him, your mind blank with the shock of him splitting you open.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t let you breathe.

His other cock rubs against your stomach, smearing cursed fluid that burns like ice on your skin. You’re full, so full, and yet he thrusts deeper, harder, as if trying to force himself into your soul.

“You’ll be the perfect vessel for my offsprings,” he snarls, eyes glowing. “And you'll beg for more.”

You're choking.

On breath, on heat, on the pressure of him inside you. His first cock buries itself to the base, grinding against your cervix with every brutal thrust. The second, slick and cruel, slides up your belly and leaves a trail of cursed fluid as it pulses with need, thick, leaking, the head brushing against your bellybutton, smearing shame across your skin.

"Already ruined," Sukuna growls, staring down at your convulsing body. "And I haven’t even used you yet."

He spits on your chest, hot, thick, demeaning then drags a clawed thumb through it, smearing the wetness across your nipple. You whimper. Your thighs twitch, instinct trying to close. His third arm grabs your leg and yanks it wide open again, hips slamming forward, sheathing his cock so deep you swear he's in your stomach.

A shrine of heat and slick flesh, turned obscene under the weight of a godless curse. One hand tightens around your throat. He doesn't squeeze, not yet. Just enough to let you feel it. A promise. A threat. His fourth hand finally wraps around his second cock and strokes it with lazy precision. “Two holes. One bride. Let’s see how holy you really are.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. So he does it for you.

"You’ll take both," he snarls. "You’ll be split open and carved to fit me."

The angle shifts. He pushes you onto your side, ropes cutting deeper into your skin as he adjusts, spreading you, positioning you. Fingers wet with your slick part your ass. Cold air hits. Then heat. Then the pressure.

You scream into the shrine air, sound muffled by the thick weight of his hand pressing your face into the stone. He shoves his second cock against your ass, stretching you mercilessly, feeding it in inch by inch while the first still pulses inside your cunt.

Too much. It's too much.

You twitch, gasp, go silent when both cocks finally sink in deep, one filling your pussy, the other buried in your ass, and Sukuna still moving, rutting into you like he owns every inch.

"You feel that?" he hisses, mouth at your ear now, all four hands locked around your limbs, your hips, your hair. "This is worship. This is what it means to be chosen."

Your vision goes white.

He fucks you with unholy rhythm. Not frantic, measured. Purposeful. Each thrust driving your body into the stone slab, your mind unraveling under the stretch, the ache, the heat.

"You were born for this," he snarls. "For me. Not to purify. Not to heal. To breed. To take every inch until your body forgets it was ever anything but a vessel for me." Your toes curl. You sob. You twitch around him, shuddering at the violent fullness. Then his hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. The world narrows.

Air gone. Heat blooming behind your eyes. His thrusts speed up, wet, savage sounds echoing through the shrine as your holes grip him, fluttering, clenching. Your body betrays you, orgasming around him in pathetic spasms as your brain flickers on the edge of black.

He releases you just before you pass out.

You scream as air floods back in.

You sob.

You climax again.

"That’s it," he pants, voice thick with lust. "Come on my cock you filthy slut." His tongue, a cursed thing, licks up your tears, tasting them with obscene delight.

He flips you over onto your back.

Your legs won’t move. Your arms are numb. You’re limp beneath him, wrecked, and he’s still hard—both cocks slick and angry, ready for more.

He leans down, all four arms caging you in. “Say it,” he growls.

You blink, dazed.

His hand slaps across your face. Not enough to leave marks, enough to sting. To wake you up. His tongue slips from his stomach-mouth and licks your now swollen clit. “Say you want it. Say you belong to me.”

You whimper.

Then nod.

“I- i- belong to you,” you whisper, voice hoarse, lips trembling.

He grins. “Louder.”

“I belong to you-!”

He shudders. Laughs. And sinks both cocks back inside you at once. A gut wrenching scream erupts from your throat.

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

No restraint. No ceremony. Just brutal, punishing thrusts, like a curse set loose inside your body, fucking you open, making you drip, scream, break. The altar beneath you is wet with your slick, cursed seed, and sweat. Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. Every slap of skin sends fire through your veins.

You don’t remember how many times you came.

He didn’t let you count.

Only suffer.

He comes with a snarl that rattles the shrine walls. Hot, thick, overwhelming, he floods both holes at once, cursed semen gushing into your womb and your ass, leaking around his cocks, seeping down your thighs.

And then he keeps going.

Even as you twitch, whimper, sob. Even as your body starts to shut down.

“I’ll mark you again,” he growls. “Until there’s no part of you untouched. Until you forget your name and scream mine instead.”

You already do.

Your body isn’t yours anymore.

It’s spread across stone slick with sweat, blood, and seed, limbs trembling, cunt raw, ass leaking. The shrine hums low under your spine, pulsing with something ancient, feeding off what he did to you. You can’t move. You don’t try to.

Sukuna doesn’t pull out. He shifts.

Both cocks still buried inside you, one twitching lazily in your overstretched pussy, the other plugged in your ass like a cursed seal. He leans forward on all four arms and breathes you in, your hair, your skin, the bruises forming around your neck. His mouth, presses wet, slow kisses along your throat.

“You look divine,” he murmurs. “Like a shrine after slaughter.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

He cups your face with a surprisingly gentle hand. Fingers soaked in the fluids he pulled from you, claws crusted with dried blood.

“You broke for me,” he says, pleased. "Stained, sanctified. I’m impressed.”

His other hand spreads across your lower stomach, palm flat, pressing down until your muscles twitch. You feel him release one final burst of cursed energy, a surge of heat that spreads under your skin, rooting deep.

Your womb pulses.

You cry out.

A glowing mark unfurls across your abdomen. Black ink made of curse script, spiraling out from your navel like rot blooming in slow motion.

“Mine,” he says again, voice low, absolute. “No one else will ever touch you without bleeding for it.”

He finally pulls out, both cocks dragging slow, slick, wet from your holes, leaving you trembling and gaping, twitching at the loss. His seed spills down your thighs in fat, obscene rivulets.

You're empty again.

And it hurts.

But Sukuna's not done.

He dips two fingers into the mess leaking from your cunt and shoves it back in. “Don’t waste it,” he hisses. “You’re meant to hold me. To carry me.” You moan, wrecked and ruined and so far gone.

His mouth opens, tongue lolling lazily. He presses it to the center of your chest, licking from sternum to throat, before biting down just enough to mark you. Not to bleed.

To claim.

“You’ll feel me when you wake. When you eat. When you dream. This body is mine now. You breathe because I allow it.”

His clawed fingers stroke your cheek.

“Do you understand?”

You nod. Slowly. Brokenly.

He smiles. All four eyes gleam. His seed still leaks from you like oil.

Sukuna stands, towering, cocks still half-hard, cursed power rolling off his body in waves. He looks down at you like a god at a monument built in his name. You’re already forgetting. The shrine pulses again. You close your eyes. And rot settles into your bones like devotion.

#sukuna ryomen #jjk ryomen #sukuna ryomen smut #ryomen sukuna #ryomen x reader #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna #jjk dead dove do not eat #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk darkfic #jjk dead dove #jjk

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wooahaes · 21 hours ago

Text

as sweet as frosting

pairing: non-idol!jeonghan x gn!reader

genre: fluff. very very slight angst (with comfort) toward the end. established relationship.

warnings: mentions of reader dealing with mental illness/implications of past suicidal thoughts. food mentions (cupcakes).

word count: 1.2k~

daisy's notes: i unearthed a post on my old account about how i never expected to make it to twenty-one and sometimes i still think about it the closer i get to twenty-five.

“Move in a little closer,” Jeonghan said to you, one arm curling around you as he tried to bring you in further. He held his phone out with the other to capture the two of you in yet another picture, adding another to the million he’d already taken today.

Sometimes it felt like you were getting glimpses of what kind of uncle or father Jeonghan might be (whether you wanted kids or not, that wasn’t important: it was the behavior alone that made you think of it). All you had wanted for your birthday was a nice weekend with him at this theme park, to go on whatever rides you wanted or see whatever shows they had around it… and maybe enjoy some of the pricier snacks, just to treat yourself. What you got, however, was Jeonghan taking as many pictures of you as he could. Whether it was a picture of you alone among the scenery or the two of you squeezing into frame (or him stopping the occasional passerby to snap a few pictures of the two of you), you’d noticed just how often it felt like he was falling into a “dad who wants as many pictures as possible” role… especially when you saw actual parents doing the same thing with their families.

“There we go.” He said once you had settled beside him, perfectly in frame.

The two of you smiled, and Jeonghan snapped a few pictures, turning his face to kiss your cheek in a few. You waited until he had lowered his phone again to pull away.

“Any reason you’re documenting almost every second of today?”

He smiled to himself, scrolling through the pictures to judge them. “I want a new picture for my desk at work. I like the one I have now, but…”

It was more than a few years old. You’d asked about him changing it out a while back, but he’d shrugged at the question and said he liked that picture: it’d been the two of you early on into your relationship, shortly after you went exclusive with one another. While you weren’t the only person he had pictures of at work, the two of you were one of the only ones he kept framed. The others were a picture of him and his family, the most recent one taken by you on a family vacation that now included you as Jeonghan’s significant other. The pictures from that trip that had both you and the Yoon family were framed in your home with Jeonghan, a little sign of how intertwined you had become in each other’s lives.

His fingers grazed the back of your neck now as he tucked the tag of your shirt back in without a word of acknowledgement toward it. “I like having pictures of us,” he added after a moment. “Maybe I’m getting sentimental.”

A comment about him getting older rested on the back of your tongue, but you held off: if you said it, he’d merely shoot back that today was proof of you getting older as well, and there’d be something underlying about how you both chose to do that together.

Instead, you settled for a different question, “Are you going to be like this when your friends have kids?”

His eyes twinkled a little as he slid his hand into your own. “Taking pictures?” He nodded after a moment, already guiding you toward another part of the park. “I think so. I think… It’s easy to get caught up in living just as much as it is in trying to capture things. If I can help capture those memories, I think I’d like to.”

Something about how soft he’d become made your insides melt. Of course Jeonghan would be thinking of his friends like that. As silly as he could be when it came to his friends, you’d fallen in love with him because of how much he genuinely cared about the people around him—not just you, although the early days of your relationship definitely showed how patient he could be when you needed it. A while back, the two of you had gone camping with some of his friends, and you’d seen the way he would quietly check in on the others when the louder members of the group began to overtake the conversation. He’d gently prodded Jihoon for his own thoughts at one point, only for him to share them and go back to enjoying the atmosphere.

It was sweet. Jeonghan had changed from just being a sweetheart to you (in your eyes) to someone who genuinely tried his best to care for those around him.

“I think there’s a place with themed cupcakes around here,” he mused aloud at one point. He caught your eye a moment later, smiling. “Are you hungry? I’ve heard they’re good. I don’t think I can get you a candle, but we can pretend.” His shoulder bumped against yours a little, that pretty, playful smile not leaving his face.

You let him lead the way, since he seemed to have a pretty decent idea of where the two of you were going. Once the two of you had found the little place, you’d parted ways with him to go find a place to sit in the shade, telling him to surprise you with something he knew you’d like. The wait had been a little longer than you expected, but he returned to you with two cupcakes and plenty of napkins, offering one to you before taking his seat next to you.

“Happy birthday, my cupcake,” he said, chuckling a little. The look he gave you seemed to ask was that too cheesy? But he shrugged, already peeling off part of the wrapper. “How do you feel?”

“I dunno. I stopped feeling older years ago,” you shrugged. “Feels weird to know I’ve made it this far, though.”

He nodded along. He knew about the struggles you felt while growing up, the fact that you never expected to make it this far. “I’m glad you did.” Jeonghan looked up, meeting your eyes. “Made it this far, I mean. I’m glad I got the chance to meet you in this lifetime.”

The gooey, melt-y feeling came back. Sometimes it made you scared to think about all the things you would have missed if you hadn’t kept living. You watched as Jeonghan took a bite of his cupcake, eyes shut for a moment as he savored the taste. Then he opened them again, watching you as he realized what was running through your head. His fingers brushed the underside of your chin, turning your face to his so that he could kiss you.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay, Jeonghan. It’s just…”

“It wasn’t a good time in your life,” he said, hand cupping your cheek. “Let’s talk about it later, okay? Your birthday should be a happy day.”

Shelving the conversation for later, you smiled, leaning in to steal another quick kiss from him. You could taste the sweetness of the icing on his lips. “Thank you, angel. I’m glad I got the chance to meet you in this lifetime, too.”

#wooahaes.25 #wooahaes.fic #seventeen imagine #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #svt x reader #svt imagine #svt x you #jeonghan fluff #jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan fluff #yoon jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x you

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careyakane · 2 days ago

Text

A fragment from my journal entry recounting December 31st 2024

That was the most wondrous of trips. Leaving Los Angeles at 10:30 AM, atop a cliff wrapped by the rising Big Sur tide for the final sunset of the year by 4:30 PM. Then to the dimly lit Big Sur Inn, with its worn fabric hanging from oak beams and vases of dried flowers cluttering old vanities and desks. Stained glass lamps hummed as we ate brown bread and chickpea soup off white tablecloths, exchanging words with a kind waitress with bright, wiry eyes.

It was well past 8 PM when we were denied entry to the Fernwood New Year’s Eve party, the only event within 50 miles. We settled down, unbothered, on a nice bench and watched the townies walk easily past the smiling face that had just scowled at us moments earlier when we informed her we did not, in fact, have tickets. A hot tea spewing up steam filled my hand as my eyes glowed, reflecting a 50-foot cedar tree dressed with warm string lights and colorful bulbs undisturbed since Christmas.

Encounter after encounter with the strangest of folks ensued: “Joe Mann,” with his paint-stained Carhartt and some rather funny joke I’ve forgotten, and then there was Nico the chef—pupils wide and red, his hands flying about him in slow motion as he threw a plastic bag containing a single mushroom at us and angrily insisted we take it and “GO DOWN TO THE CREEK AND GET OUT OF HERE.” Everyone knew him, but they always sped up while passing, careful not to get trapped as Kii and I were now in his drunken rambling.

Just as the California clock struck 10 PM, a family 15 members long with cowbells came announcing the New Year as the ball dropped three thousand miles east in New York City. The strange thing was that they were an hour late in their celebrations, but I held my tongue and smiled. An hour passed, and many things happened. The party ended, and it felt time to leave the bench. We drove north toward Monterey and turned right up Palo Colorado Road. We slept at its crown, a place called The Hoist, where the road only continues past locked iron gates. I’d been up there once when I stayed with Charlie the goat farmer—his old truck winding up snake-like dirt roads with holes four feet deep and thousand-year-old redwoods, straight and mighty, blocking out the moon and sun alike.

Kii and I, too tired to undress, covered up in a quilt, reclined our seats, and quickly found sleep. But the sleep was thin and short-lived. I awoke in a pale, milky darkness from the stars that seemed so close at this elevation that one might reach out and pocket a few for further inspection. A new year was upon us, but I felt unsettled and watched. I realized just a moment later how quiet it was—my window was open a crack, and not a wisp of wind; the stream far below sat mute, the trees creaked no more—and still I felt seen. My mind went to terrible places as I pictured mutilated mountain people cutting my brake lines and pulling us with three-fingered hands from the car to God knows where.

I whispered to Kii, and he answered immediately in an alert and fearful voice, echoing similar concerns. I didn’t waste a minute starting that car, and only once I had descended the four miles of redwood and broke through the cypress grove that reveals the ocean and Highway 1 did I take a breath and laugh a little at the whole situation.

We began north again and stopped a moment to turn our heads up in awe. The breaking sea filled my ears and comforted me as we pulled over to a regular spot of mine just past the Carmel border. Two other cars sat dark with sleeping silhouettes in the pullout, and I killed my headlights to join them.

Coming from the great quiet of Palo Colorado to this concoction of waves and passing cars, I found relief in the commotion and movement of the world. I woke often but never fearful. I was just as I had done so often as a boy… waiting for the first signs of light to break through the treeline, which back then was my agreed-upon permission with my father to leave my room and begin my adventures.

Now it would mean waking Kii and setting off for Santa Cruz, and past that, to San Francisco.

I waited in eternity—every minute stretched and melting together—but finally the show began, and from black to grey to blue the sky flashed, and an instant later the sun broke the unseen horizon and her gold rays showered over us and over our new year.

#thoughts #to remember

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 hours ago

Note

So I just saw that you want an ask about plus size reader and f1 driver👀 I'm a Lando Norris fan so can I please ask about him? Maybe plus size reader is his physical therapist and looks after him and makes him happy and he in return is so down bad that if anyone says or does sth disrespectful he is so defensive he always has her back and he shows that he loves her every single minute ❤️ I really hope you have many plus size reader asks cause as a midsize girl myself I really don't see many fics to represent us

All the ways you look at me||Lando Norris x mid size reader

Summary —Y/N lands the job as Lando Norris’s physical therapist, neither of them expects much beyond rehab sessions and recovery plans. But as shared glances turn into inside jokes and late-night conversations, a quiet friendship begins to blossom—one that tiptoes into something deeper to bad they are scared to take the fall into something more than friendship.

Word count—8k

Thank you @fuckoffbard for reading this for me!

A/n—depending on how well this does I’ll do a part two

"Come on. You can do this. It’s your first day meeting everyone; you’ve had plenty of first days, so this should be easy,” Y/n said to herself. She sat in the parking lot of the McLaren Technology Centre, where she was to meet her new team. Taking a deep breath, she let it out and opened her eyes. “Okay, I’m ready.” She opened the door to her car, stepped out, grabbed her iced coffee, badge, and bag, and walked to the building.

The scenery was beautiful. The McLaren Technology Center was secluded from the rest of civilization in a big field hidden behind trees. There were two buildings: the factory itself and the headquarters. That's where she was going.

Walking up the pathway, she admired the bean-shaped building with the little pond that was next to it. It was definitely something she could get used to seeing on a daily basis. Once she was up to the door, she took out her badge and put it up to the scanner to open the door. As the door opened, she was welcomed by the nice, cool air and the beautiful interior of the building.

The lobby was filled with F1 cars and cars that McLaren had produced over the years. To the right of her was the staircase and the elevator that led to the second floor, and in front of her were the trophy cases that held all the trophies that the team had won over the years. The building was truly beautiful with its simple and futuristic design.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

She cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Yes, hi, I’m Y/n, I’m the new physical therapist. I’m here for the team meeting. I'm supposed to meet everyone.”

The owner of the voice shook her hand and spoke softly but friendly, “Hello y/n, I’m Sarah, I’m part of the social media team. I’m heading that way so I can help you get there.” Sarah said, shaking Y/n's hand.

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,” Y/n replied with a smile.

Sarah led Y/N through a maze of corridors and open workspaces, the hum of quiet conversations and the occasional keyboard tapping following them as they walked.

“This place is like a spaceship,” Y/n murmured as she looked around.

Sarah laughed. “Right? Wait until you see the simulator room. Total sci-fi vibes.”

They stopped outside a wide conference room with frosted glass panels through the translucent windows. She could see shadows shifting and hear a few muffled voices from inside.

“You’ll be great.” Sarah said, giving her a small nudge, “Come on.”

Y/N took one last calming breath and stepped inside.

The room was already half full—engineers, mechanics, PR staff. A few people turned to glance at her as she entered, their expressions curious but friendly. At the far end of the table, there were two guys, one was balancing his chair on its two back legs while trying and failing to balance his pencil on his nose. The other one had an unimpressed look on his face while trying not to smile or laugh at the other’s antics.

Y/N immediately knew who they were—Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri. Even without the uniforms and team gear, their energy gave them away.

She took a moment to observe them from where she stood, unnoticed for now. Lando had that easy, magnetic kind of charm—the type that could dissolve tension with a grin and a well-timed joke. He moved with confidence, expressive hands, and animated eyes, clearly the kind of person who filled a room without even trying.

Next to him, Oscar was a striking contrast. He was quieter, his posture more composed, his words more measured. While Lando spoke with his whole body, Oscar listened with stillness. His eyes were sharp and observing, like he was always a few steps ahead in his head, even when he didn’t say much.

They worked like a natural counterbalance. Lando brought the lightness, Oscar the grounding. It was a rhythm—one teased, the other gave dry comebacks; one stirred things up, and the other reined them in without needing to say much. And somehow, it worked.

“They’re like opposites, but at the same time, they work so well together.” Y/N thought, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Suddenly, she felt a little less nervous. Because despite their differences, there was something oddly comforting about the way they fit together. Like maybe this place wasn’t going to be so intimidating after all.

Especially if Lando kept looking at her the way he just did.

His head tilted slightly like he was trying to place her. His eyes flicked from her face to the badge clipped to her shirt and back up again. Then he smiled—lazy, crooked, and so bright it made her stomach flip.

“You must be the new Physio,” he said, “I was starting to think they were making you up.”

Y/n blinked slightly, off guard by the friendliest tone of his voice.

“Nope, very real. I even brought an iced coffee and everything.” She joked, holding up her iced coffee and giving it a little shake.

A few people chuckled, the tension easing, and Lando's smile widened.

“Then we’re going to get along just fine.”

Zak Brown stood and clapped his hands for attention.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. She’s officially joining us this season as part of the performance and health team—working closely with you, Lando.”

“Lucky me,” Lando muttered with a grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully.

“We’ll see how lucky you feel after your first deep tissue session.”

More laughter followed, and a few people around the table gave her nods of approval or polite greetings. Someone even muttered, “Bold move on day one,” with a grin.

As the meeting began and the briefing started, Lando leaned slightly toward her seat, voice low so only she could hear.

“Seriously, though. Welcome. We’re glad to have you.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be here.”

But her heart was racing. Because while she came here expecting professionalism and a great work performance, she hadn’t expected him.

Over the course of the few months that Y/N joined McLaren, she really had made her mark on the team. She and Sarah are quickly becoming friends, the two of you often meeting up for coffee dates and other things that friends do.

Y/N’s office doubled as her Physio room, in the corner was her desk with her laptop and a couple of other personal items that made the space truly hers. On the other side of the room was a table where the mats, foam roller, and other supplies sat, and in the center was the padded table.

Y/n was reviewing Landos' training notes Landos's trainer sent to her tablet when the door creaked open.

“Morning,” came that familiar voice—soft, a little smug, a little sleepy.

She glanced up. “You’re late.”

Lando strolled in like he wasn’t, tossing his water bottle on the bench. “You’re early.”

Y/N raised a brow unimpressed “Try that again but imagine that I haven’t heard it from every cocky athlete I’ve worked with.”

He grinned, “touché”

She nodded towards the mat, “Shoes off, warm-up stretches, let’s go.”

He obeyed, stretching his arms overhead and settling onto the mat with an exaggerated groan. “You’re scarier than my last physio.”

“That’s because your last physio didn’t have to deal with you constantly flirting with him.”

“True. He didn’t look this good, either.” Lando remarked, admiring Y/N’s curves.

God, he would give anything just to hold her—to let his hands rest on her hips, fingers curling around the softness he admired far more than he probably should. She was all curves and comfort and warmth, and it was unfair how often his mind drifted to her when he was supposed to be focused.

He swore she was made for him. It just made sense. His hands were big—meant to anchor, to hold, to fit—and when he looked at her, he couldn’t help but imagine how perfectly she’d settle against him.

His thoughts flicked back to three months ago when they’d trained together outside under the sun. She’d worn those leggings—the ones that clung just right, hugging the shape of her legs, her thighs, her hips. He remembered watching her move, muscles working under soft curves, grace and power woven together. He hadn’t meant to stare. But he did.

And the worst part?

He still remembered how she’d smiled at him afterward. She didn’t even realize the way she knocked the air out of his lungs.

Y/n didn’t even blink when she turned to face him. “Flirting won’t save you from the foam rollers.”

“Damn.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “You are immune.”

Truthfully, she wasn’t. Not even close. But she had a job to do.

Y/N crouched beside him, guiding his leg into position. “How’s the left quad feeling?”

He shifted slightly. “Tight. Not awful, though.”

“Alright. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Her hands moved to his thigh, fingers firm but practiced as she applied pressure, feeling for tension. He stilled a little under her touch, his gaze flickering down to her.

“Are you always this focused?” he asked quietly.

Her brows lifted. “Are you always this chatty during treatment?”

“Only when I’m trying not to think about your hands being on my leg.”

That earned him a warning look, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Behave.”

He smiled—but it was softer this time. Not smug. Not cocky. Just…warm.

For a moment, silence settled between them, the only sound the quiet hum of the AC and the shuffle of movement. She moved around him to adjust his arm, her fingers brushing his skin.

He looked up at her. “You’re good at this.”

She paused. “Thanks. It means a lot. Especially from someone who can’t sit still for longer than a minute.”

He chuckled. “I sit still for you.”

That stopped her. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and something in his expression made her chest tighten. It wasn’t teasing. It was sincere.

Dangerous, that kind of sincerity.

Y/N cleared her throat and stepped back slightly. “Alright. Upon the table. Let’s check that shoulder mobility.”

Lando obeyed with a faint smirk. “Yes, boss.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks felt warm.

And he noticed. Of course, he noticed. He’d always noticed.

Truth is, Lando loved the way her face flushed, and then she bit her bottom lip trying not to give him the satisfaction that he made her feel this way, she was never successful.

And he found it adorable.

Y/N stepped around the table to check the alignment of Lando’s shoulders, her fingertips pressing lightly along his upper back. “Drop your right shoulder just a bit,” she murmured.

He obeyed, head tilted slightly toward her. “You know, you’re very serious when you’re in work mode.”

“That’s because I am working,” she replied, eyes flicking up toward him.

“Yeah, but like—intensely serious. Like mission control, seriously. I bet you’d threaten to take someone’s kneecaps if they did a stretch wrong.”

She snorted. “I’ve never threatened kneecaps. Hamstrings, though? Fair game.”

Lando grinned at that, leaning back slightly on his elbows, watching her as she made a few notes on her tablet. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I’m a riot,” she said dryly, glancing up. “But only if someone needs help foam rolling their Iliotibial band.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It was.”

He laughed, and for a moment it felt easy—normal. The line between physio and friend blurred slightly in the warmth of their shared amusement.

Y/N set the tablet down and nodded toward the floor again. “Back to the mat. Let’s work on hip mobility.”

He groaned but complied, flopping onto his back dramatically. “You just like bossing me around.”

“It’s not that I like it,” she said, kneeling beside him, “It’s that you’d be hopeless without me.”

He blinked up at her with mock offense. “Hopeless? Excuse me—I am an elite athlete.”

“Who forgot how to do a proper glute bridge three weeks ago?”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

Lando gave her an exaggerated glare, then pointed at her. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Oh?” she teased, adjusting his knee with a light touch. “Is that why you’re being so dramatic this morning?”

“No, that’s just who I am.” He gave her a soft grin. “But seriously—I do like working with you. You’re not like the others.”

Y/N paused, hands still on his leg. “Is that a compliment or a red flag?”

“A compliment,” he said, softer this time. “Most people treat me like a brand. You treat me like… I don’t know. A human.”

For a beat, their eyes met again. It wasn’t flirtatious-not-not-not-not-not-not—not really. Just honest.

“I guess I figure you already have enough people telling you what you want to hear,” she said quietly.

His smile widened a little, less cocky now. “You’d tell me if I sucked at something, huh?”

“Absolutely. No hesitation.”

“See?” He gestured vaguely. “Hopeless without you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. She pressed gently on his hip, making him flinch.

“Hey! Abuse!”

“Mobility,” she corrected.

“You enjoy this way too much.”

“Only when you whine.”

He grinned up at her again, and for a second, something warm settled between them. It was subtle. Easy. The beginning of something unspoken.

Once the session was over, Lando dropped onto the bench near the corner of Y/N’s office, sweat dampening the edges of his curls as he reached for his water bottle. Y/N tossed him a clean towel from a nearby shelf.

“Here,” she said, settling onto the floor across from him with her bottle. “Try not to collapse dramatically on my floor next time. I might not be so kind.”

He caught the towel with a grin. “You love it. Gives you an excuse to roll your eyes at me.”

She took a long sip of her water. “You give me plenty of those without nearly fainting mid-stretch.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, that was one time.”

“Twice, actually, and you faked it. Both times,” she replied with a smirk.

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

He pointed at her, mock offended. “You and Oscar are going to start a club at this rate.”

“‘The Times Lando Was Wrong’ club? I think there’s already a group chat.”

Lando laughed, head tipping back slightly. “God, you do fit in here.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“I mean it,” he added, more quietly now. “The team likes you. It’s been…lighter since you showed up.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly. “Lighter?”

“Yeah. You bring this kind of energy—like, calm but still sharp, you know? It’s a good balance.”

She wasn’t used to compliments like that, especially not ones that sounded so genuine.

“Well,” she said after a beat, “someone’s got to balance your chaos.”

He smiled at that. “You calling me chaotic?”

“I’m calling you exhausting.”

He laughed again, eyes crinkling. “You’re mean.”

“Only to the ones I like.”

He looked at her for a moment—looked. And for once, he didn’t shoot back a flirty line or a joke. Just smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. But then she smiled too, soft and a little surprised.

“Me too.”

They sat in the quiet for a few seconds longer, sipping water, the faint hum of the building in the background. Outside the window, the sun was high, casting soft shadows on the floor.

“I’ll probably regret saying this,” Lando said after a moment, “but you can drag me through those stretches again next time if you want.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised.

“God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head—but he was still smiling.

A few days later, Y/N and Sarah sat at an outdoor café nestled on a quiet street in Woking, the warm spring air wrapping around them like a soft sweater. The table was cluttered with two half-drunk iced coffees, a slice of cake they were sharing, and the occasional gust of wind that kept threatening to blow Sarah’s napkin off the table.

“I swear,” Sarah said between bites, “if we keep meeting here, the barista is going to start calling us regulars.”

Y/N grinned, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “We already are. The barista knows our order.I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“God, you’re right. That’s dangerous.” Sarah paused to sip her coffee, then gave Y/N a look over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of danger…”

Y/N raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Look who’s here.”

Y/N turned her head—and sure enough, Lando was walking across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, curls a little messy, sunglasses perched on his head. He hadn’t spotted them yet, distracted by something on his phone.

Sarah leaned closer, conspiratorial. “He looks relaxed. Like really relaxed. Must be your influence.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Stop.”

“I’m serious! I’ve worked with him for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this chill during a season. You’re good for him. He listens to you.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s because I threaten him with foam rollers and ice baths.”

Sarah laughed. “Maybe, but it works. You’re a good team, you know?”

Before Y/N could respond, Lando looked up and spotted them.

A wide grin immediately spread across his face, and he jogged the last few steps over to their table.

“Well, well, well,” he greeted, dropping into the empty chair beside Y/N without asking. “Didn’t expect to see you two here. Or should I say, the office dream team?”

Sarah raised her brows. “Crashing girl time? Bold move.”

He shot her a cheeky grin. “What can I say? I live on the edge.”

Y/N nudged his leg with her foot under the table. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Canceling all plans immediately,” he said, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Unless you’re kicking me out.”

Y/N bit back a smile, and Sarah just gave her a look—the kind that said this is exactly what I meant.

They chatted for a while, laughter threading easily through the conversation. Lando didn’t even seem to notice how comfortable he looked, slouched in his chair, legs stretched out, occasionally stealing bites of their cake. It felt natural. Uncomplicated.

And when Y/N caught Sarah looking at her with a knowing smirk, she just shook her head with a laugh and looked away.

Late nights had become something of a routine for them now. It started with playful iMessage games—8 Ball, Cup Pong, Darts. A way to unwind after long days. Eventually, the games were followed by texts, then voice notes, then full-blown calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning.

Y/N had learned a lot about Lando during those calls. How he hated olives but loved olive oil. He always watched one episode too many when he promised he’d go to bed early. How silence didn’t scare him, and how his laughter sometimes sounded like relief.

They’d grown close.

So close when the new season began, and she started to notice him pulling away—she noticed.

He was Lando, still cheeky and warm and kind. But now there was a weight behind his smile. A slump in his shoulders when he thought no one was looking. Most of all, there was tension in how quiet he got when scrolling through his phone, the way his jaw would tighten, thumb hovering over a screen that never seemed to offer good news.

The race hadn’t gone as well as they’d hoped. The car was temperamental, the strategy of. The media had been brutal. And Lando… Lando was taking it personally.

It was past midnight when Y/N’s phone buzzed.

Lando: You up?

Y/N: Always. Need to talk or need to be distracted?

It took a minute before the typing bubbles appeared.

Lando: a bit of both. I'm just… tired. Of people. Of messing up. Of feeling like I’m not enough.

Y/N’s heart sank. Without thinking, she called him.

He picked up after the first ring.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a shaky breath. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. The comments. The press. The expectations. But it’s like… I can’t shut it out this time. Everyone’s already written me off.”

“Lando…” she murmured, shifting on her bed. “You are not what those people say you are. You’ve done more in the past few years than most people ever get close to. You work your ass off. You care. You’re allowed to be disappointed—but not to forget who you are.”

He didn’t speak for a second.

“I just don’t want to let anyone down,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Especially not you.”

She blinked at the ceiling, her heart squeezing. “Hey. You couldn’t let me down even if you tried. I’m here. Always. Whether you’re on pole or P18. That doesn’t change.”

He let out a breath—this time, steadier. “I hate how you always know what to say.”

“That’s because you’re not very mysterious,” she teased gently. “Plus, I’m a genius.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Debatable.”

“Shut up. Let me hype you up.”

Lando grew quiet again, but this time it felt like peace instead of pressure.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said after a beat. “For always answering. For always being… you.”

“Always,” she whispered. “Now get some sleep. I’ll beat your ass at 8 Ball tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Dream on.”

But she heard the smile in his voice, and that was enough.

The paddock buzzed with media, team personnel, and the hum of anticipation. Cameras flashed, journalists circled like hawks, and mechanics moved with quiet urgency. But Y/N had learned to find her pockets of calm. She had her coffee, her notes, and her well-practiced ability to look like she was busier than she was.

She spotted Lando from across the garage.

Cap low, hoodie pulled over his race suit, jaw set.

But when his eyes found hers, something shifted. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, and his mouth twitched up at one corner.

He made his way over, slipping through the chaos like it didn’t faze him, though she knew better.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice only for her.

“Hey,” she replied, equally quiet.

“You beat me at 8 Ball,” he muttered.

She grinned. “Told you I would. Should’ve let me hype you up before the game, too.”

He laughed under his breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. And that felt like a win.

“You sleep okay?” she asked, watching his face.

He nodded, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “I did. You helped.”

“Good,” she said. “Now don’t let any of those trolls live rent-free in your head today. You’re here for you. For the team. And maybe a little bit for the drama.”

That pulled a wider smile from him. “You’re better at pep talks than my old sports psych.”

“Probably better looking too,” she teased, sipping her coffee.

He didn’t deny it.

They stood there a beat longer, just existing in each other’s calm before the noise swallowed them whole again.

Will called him over, and Lando straightened up.

“Time to go to work.” He said, turning away.

But before he went, Y/N called for him to come back.

He glanced back at her. “What is it?” He asked.

Y/n bit her bottom lip in the nervous way Lando loved, but he would never admit that, and walked up to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light peck on the cheek.

“For good luck,” she said, flushed.

Lando smiled, and he smiled hard. So hard that it hurt, and he carried that smile out onto the grid.

The roar of the crowd was still echoing in the paddock. Orange flags waved from the grandstands, mechanics were cheering, champagne sprayed somewhere nearby—and Lando stood on top of the world.

He’d done it.

His first win of the season.

It didn’t hit him all at once. It came in waves—the checkered flag, his race engineer yelling in his ears, the blur of the final lap flashing back in his mind. But now, standing next to his car with confetti still drifting down like slow-motion snow, it hit.

And he smiled.

No, he beamed.

Because the first thing he saw when he turned around was her.

Y/N had pushed through the crowd just enough to stand on the edge of the garage, a breathless grin on her face and pride in her eyes.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He jogged straight to her, still in his suit and helmet, sitting on the first-place table stand, and before she could even say a word, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground like she was weightless.

She let out a startled laugh, clinging to his shoulders. “Lando!”

“I did it!” he yelled, spinning her once before setting her back down, still holding her like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“I know! I watched it happen!” she said through a laugh, breath catching at how happy he looked.

He leaned his forehead against hers for a second, grinning like an idiot. “It was a kiss. I’m telling you. You kissed me and boom—podium. Easy math.”

She flushed. “I didn’t say it was that kind of good luck.”

“Too late,” he whispered. “I’m never racing without one again.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too widely to deny how much she cared. “You were brilliant out there.”

He pulled back enough to look at her properly. “You believed in me when I didn’t. I’ll never forget that.”

Her heart stuttered at the sincerity. But before she could answer, cameras started clicking furiously again, someone called his name, and he gave her one last squeeze.

“I gotta go do media stuff—but don’t leave, alright?”

“I won’t.”

He took a step back, still smiling like he’d just been handed the world—and honestly, he kind of had.

And Y/N? She just watched him walk off, her heart full and racing, a little dazed by how much that boy meant to her now.

The party had faded hours ago. The team had cheered, the champagne had flowed, and Lando had done more interviews than he could count. His face hurt from smiling, his voice was half gone, and his suit still smelled faintly of victory and engine oil.

But now… now it was quiet.

Lando stepped out on the rooftop lounge of the hotel wearing a t-shirt and some joggers. The night air was cool against his skin, the concrete still warm from the day’s sun. He wasn’t even sure why he came out here—just needed space, maybe. Air that wasn’t full of flashing lights and praise.

And there she was.

Sitting on one of the lounges, looking up at the stars, sipping from a bottle of water, like she’d been waiting. Or maybe just knew he’d show up eventually.

Y/N looked up and smiled, soft and familiar. “Hey, champ.”

He walked over and dropped down beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re still awake?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” She handed him her spare bottle.

He took it, twisted the cap, and drank without question. “Can’t sleep. Still buzzing.”

“Kind of hard to crash after your first win of the season.”

He chuckled. “You make it sound cooler than I do.”

“It is cool. You were incredible, Lando. No one could’ve taken that win from you today.”

He leaned back on his palms, glancing up at the stars above. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

They sat in silence for a moment, their legs stretched out in front of them, ankles nearly touching. Somewhere down the road, a car whooshed by. People were humming in the streets down below.

“You ever wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s ever going to be enough? Like… you do everything right, you win, you prove people wrong—but then there’s always more. More noise. More pressure.”

She looked over at him, eyes steady. “Yeah. I wonder about that a lot. Especially when I see you carry the weight of it like it’s your job, too.”

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just stared ahead, letting her words settle.

“But you don’t have to carry it alone, you know,” she added gently. “Not when I’m around.”

His gaze shifted to her, something raw and open in his eyes. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

Another quiet stretch passed, filled with everything they weren’t saying out loud. And then—

“You’re kind of my favorite person right now,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Just right now?” she teased.

Lando smiled slowly, turning to face her fully. “Alright—maybe longer.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, heart thudding a little too loudly in her chest. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

And they sat there, side by side, under the stars—two friends teetering on the edge of something more. Not ready to fall just yet, but both were wondering what would happen if they did.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends anymore, either.

Sometimes Y/N would catch herself mid-laugh, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, and her stomach would twist. Not in a bad way—just that damn it kind of way. The kind that made her fingers itch to reach for him. To hold his face. To kiss him like she’d imagined one too many times in the dark.

And Lando? He was no better.

There were nights he’d finish a race and instinctively check his phone—not for the media, not even for his team—but for her. Just a little “Proud of you” text with the star emoji she always used. That’s all it took. That one sentence could undo him. He kept screenshots. He reread old messages when he couldn’t sleep. And there were moments, more than he could admit, where he caught himself imagining what it would be like to wake up to her in his bed. Not even for anything explicit—just her, warm and sleepy, stealing the covers and smiling at him through the sunrise.

They hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet.

But the tension simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but always there. It was in the way her hand lingered on his back just a second too long. The way his gaze dropped to her lips when she was mid-sentence. The way they always seemed to lean just a little too close when they laughed, like gravity was slowly pulling them together.

And when they hugged now—because they did, often—it wasn’t the quick, polite kind anymore.

It was slow. Intentional. Bodies pressed close. Hands-on waists, fingers at the nape of a neck. Heads tucked into shoulders. His heart was thundering.

Y/N wasn’t sure who would break first.

But sometimes, when he looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, she thought maybe it would be both of them.

But where it truly got complicated… was in the physio room.

There was only so much distance you could keep when your job involved touch.

Y/N was a professional. She’d worked with dozens of athletes. But none of them made her heartbeat do stupid things when she slid her hands down a tight quad or helped them through a stretch. None of them made her pause before every session and breathe, just to stay grounded.

Lando was different.

At first, it was subtle—his breath hitching when her fingers pressed into the muscle at the back of his shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed for a second longer than necessary. The way he’d hum quietly, almost to himself, whenever her hands found the spots that needed working out.

But lately, the air between them had changed.

His eyes lingered when she bent down to adjust his posture. Her fingers hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but want. His body relaxed under her touch in a way that felt like trust. Like surrender.

And sometimes… their touches lingered.

Like that morning when he came in early, hoodie tugged over his curls, voice still raspy with sleep.

She had him lying flat on the padded table, one leg bent, her hand gliding over his thigh to feel the tension. Her other hand braced his knee, her eyes locked on his body as she worked through the tightness.

“You okay?” she asked softly, fingers pausing at the sensitive spot.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Feels good.”

Too good. Too intimate.

She glanced up, and he was already looking at her—eyes soft, lips parted, breath shallow.

It would’ve been so easy. Just a little lean forward. Just one second of bravery.

But then he blinked, and the moment passed. Barely.

Another time, he sat shirtless on the edge of the table, and she stood behind him, helping him stretch out his shoulders. Her hands slid up his back, over the planes of muscle and the little freckles she was trying not to memorize. He leaned back slightly into her touch, head tilting until it nearly rested against her shoulder.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

The air was thick with something unspoken. His hand dropped, fingers brushing against her leg.

It should’ve meant nothing. But it did.

Their sessions grew longer. Not because he needed more treatment, but because neither of them wanted to leave.

Because physio had become the one place where they could be close without questions. Without pressure. Just them. Quiet. Tense. Comfortable. Dangerous.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends either.

And more and more, when Y/N found herself thinking about him—about his laugh, about his hands, about the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—it wasn’t professional.

Not even close.

And Lando? He couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He thought about her when he fell asleep. Dreamed about her touch. Missed her even when they’d just seen each other. He lived for her voice. Her calm. Her presence. Her hands.

He was falling.

They both were.

And one day soon, one of them would break.

Lando had finished P2. A hard-fought, tooth-and-nail race that left his adrenaline spiking and his heart pounding. The kind of race where the sweat felt earned and every muscle in his body ached in the best way.

And when he climbed out of the car and saw Y/N waiting just outside the garage with that quiet smile—smile-the one she saved just for him, it was better than any champagne on the podium.

“You were unreal,” she beamed, reaching for his water bottle, like always.

He leaned in without thinking, resting his forehead against hers for a beat. He was still in his helmet, visor up, and he could feel her breath against his chin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured.

She flushed. He loved it when she flushed.

But before they could say anything else, someone behind them cracked a joke—too loud, too thoughtless.

“…Guess Lando needs extra weight in the garage to balance the car out, huh?”

A pause.

Someone snorted. A second of awkward laughter from a couple of junior engineers nearby. They didn’t mean it maliciously. Just idiots being idiots. The kind who thought fat jokes were still funny.

Y/N didn’t even flinch. She’d learned not to. Instead, she looked away, jaw tight, the smile slipping off her face.

But Lando?

Lando snapped.

He turned so fast that his helmet nearly swung into someone.

“What the hell did you just say?” he barked.

The laughter died instantly.

The guy, the one who’d said it, froze. “I was just—just joking—”

“No. You weren’t. You were being a disrespectful prick,” Lando said, voice sharp, unwavering. “She does more for this team than you ever will. She’s the reason I’m standing here right now with a trophy in reach, and if I ever hear you talk about her like that again, I swear to God—”

“Lando,” Y/N said quietly, her hand brushing his arm. But he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care who you think you are. You want to stay on this team, you treat her with respect. She’s family.”

The word family landed heavily.

Everyone was silent.

The guy mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and disappeared fast. The others avoided eye contact, scattering like roaches.

Lando turned back to her, face still flushed with anger, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes softened immediately. “Don’t. Don’t you ever apologize for other people being assholes.”

She looked at him, her throat tight. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not. And I won’t be.” He reached out and took her hand, just for a second. But it felt like a lifetime. “You mean too much to me.”

That part slipped out.

Neither of them moved. Not even when Will called for Lando to get to the media.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, voice quiet again. “Don’t disappear, yeah?”

She nodded, heart thudding.

And when he finally walked off, she stood there for a moment longer, hand still tingling from his touch, replaying his words.

You mean too much to me.

Maybe this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

Maybe it never had been.

The gym was quiet—unusually so. Just the soft hum of machines, the occasional thud of a dropped weight, and the low murmur of a playlist that neither of them was paying attention to.

Y/N sat on the mat, stretching out Lando’s leg, focused on his hamstring. Or at least pretending to be.

Lando was lying on his back, shirt clinging to him with sweat, one arm slung lazily over his eyes. But she could feel the way his body had gone still under her hands. Not relaxed. Not tense. Just waiting.

Waiting for something to break.

Her fingers moved gently, working the muscle. Slow, practiced, familiar. And yet it felt anything but.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, voice soft and scratchy from the heat.

Y/N glanced up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just focusing.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Because stretching me out is so mentally taxing.”

She gave his leg a push, just enough to make him grunt. “Don’t tempt me to bend it the wrong way.”

That pulled a laugh from him, but even that sounded off.

A beat passed. Another. The air buzzed with something unsaid.

“I meant it, you know,” Lando said suddenly, lowering his arm so he could look at her. “What I said last week. About you.”

She froze, fingers stilling just above his knee.

“Lando…”

“No one’s ever stood up for you like that?” he asked, sitting up slowly. “That’s what you told me.”

She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either. “People don’t usually think I need it.”

“Well, I do,” he said. “I see how you carry it all. The weight. The pressure. The way you make space for everyone else. I just—I wanted you to know someone’s got your back too.”

Their eyes locked, and everything in the room went still.

Her heart pounded in her ears. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

“I’ll always choose to.”

That hung in the air.

And then she was moving, standing, grabbing a towel, pretending to need a break—but Lando followed and stopped her just short of the water cooler.

He stepped into her space, one hand coming up to brush a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered, soft and warm against her skin.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Y/N…” he said, almost like a warning. Almost like a prayer.

She leaned in just slightly, barely a fraction.

But a door slammed in the hallway, laughter echoing down from a nearby group, and they both stepped back at the same time, like the spell had been broken.

She swallowed. “We should… finish the cooldown.”

He nodded, jaw tight, eyes still locked on hers. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as they returned to the mats, neither of them could focus. Her hands still trembled faintly every time they brushed his skin, and he didn’t stop watching her like he’d never seen her before.

And maybe… just maybe… that was the beginning of the end of pretending.

Race weekends didn’t leave much room for downtime, but somehow, Lando always found time to text her.

Lando: u up?

Y/N: classic

Lando: It’s not what it looks like

Y/N: uh huh

Lando: Okay, it’s a little what it looks like

Y/N: insomnia or overthinking?

Lando: both. You?

Y/N: same. Plus hotel pillows suck and Sarah snores.

Lando: Want to come upstairs?

She stared at the message for longer than she’d admit.

Then:

Y/N: I’ll bring the gummy worms.

Y/N smiled to herself as she climbed out of bed, scribbling a quick note for Sarah to let her know where she was going.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside Lando’s hotel room, knocking gently. The door opened almost instantly.

Lando stood there in sweats and a hoodie, his curls a tousled mess, eyes soft in that way they only ever got when he was tired—or when she was near.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, eyeing the bag in her hand.

“I never joke about sugar,” she replied, stepping in.

“Just don’t tell Jon, he’ll flip if he finds out.”

“Don’t worry, your secret's safe with me.” Y/n joked poking Lando lightly on his chest.

He closed the door behind her, the air between them thick with the things they weren’t saying. The things they almost said yesterday.

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, legs brushing, the bag of gummy worms between them.

For a while, it was easy. Familiar. Joking about the media circus, roasting each other over their old Spotify-wrapped playlists, comparing race notes with mock-serious expressions. The kind of rhythm that came with trust.

But somewhere between her laughing too hard at one of his impressions and him watching her like she hung the damn moon, the silence started to hum again.

“About yesterday,” Lando said softly.

Y/N looked over at him. He wasn’t smiling now. Just studying her like she was something he wanted to memorize.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said, voice quiet.

“I want to,” he replied. “It’s not just what they said. It’s that they thought they could say it. That they thought no one would care.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight.

Lando shifted closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the heat of him. “I care.”

She met his eyes, searching. “I know. I just… I didn’t expect it. You’re kind to me, Lando. And I don’t know what to do with that sometimes.”

He reached out, hesitating only a second before taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I just want you to feel safe with me.”

Their hands lingered like that—twined and quiet and warm.

Then she laughed under her breath, the sound a little breathless. “You know this is dangerously close to being a rom-com moment.”

“Is it?” he asked, smirking. “We already share gummy worms and trauma. What’s next, joint taxes?”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

And neither of them kissed the other.

But God, it was close.

Closer than it had ever been.

And it was getting harder to pretend they didn’t want more.

The dining area was quiet, tucked into that early hour when most of the paddock was still asleep or off on their morning routines. Y/N sat at a corner table with her usual coffee, toast, and a notebook open beside her.

Lando showed up like he always did lately. No grand entrance, just that familiar presence sliding into the seat across from her, hoodie up, sleepy eyes.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, glancing at the mess of his curls.

“Some,” he said, voice rough with morning. “You?”

“Eventually.” Her mouth quirked. “The sugar crash helped.”

His eyes softened at the memory of gummy worms and everything that nearly happened after. But he didn’t say anything about it—not directly.

Instead, he reached for a slice of toast from her plate, and she didn’t stop him. Their legs brushed under the table. Neither moved.

They talked about the day ahead, strategy notes, and the weather. All the surface-level things that kept them steady. But the air between them was still humming, still warm with the weight of almost.

She caught him watching her once, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his coffee cup. When she looked up, he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Before she could respond, someone slid into the booth beside her.

Sarah.

Y/N blinked. “You’re up early.”

Sarah grinned, setting down her plate. “Early bird gets the paddock pass upgrade.”

She looked between the two of them, and her brows lifted just slightly.

“What?” Y/N asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nothing,” Sarah said innocently. “Just… the tension in this booth could cook my eggs for me.”

Lando choked on his coffee. Y/N elbowed her.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Sarah continued, eyes dancing. “You two are acting like you didn’t almost kiss last night.”

“Sarah!”

“I knew it,” she crowed, pointing her fork at Y/N. “The way you were texting him before bed? Girl. Come on.”

Lando’s ears had gone pink. Y/N looked like she wanted to melt into the booth.

But still, neither of them denied it.

Sarah grinned, looking way too smug for someone holding a half-eaten croissant. “Well, let me know when you two do something about it. I want front-row seats. Or at least to plan the wedding playlist.”

Lando finally laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s relentless.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance, fighting her smile. “She’s not wrong, though.”

His eyes met hers, something quiet and serious beneath the teasing.

“No,” he said softly. “She’s not.”

The room was quiet, tucked away from the buzz of the paddock. Just padded floors, low lights, and the occasional thrum of the bass from the nearby garage.

Lando lay on the mat, one arm slung over his eyes, his race suit pulled halfway down to his waist. Y/N knelt beside him, helping him stretch through his usual pre-qualifying routine.

It should’ve been routine by now—she knew the shape of his body like muscle memory. But something about today felt different. Like they’d both woken up with the echo of what could’ve happened the night before still lingering in their skin.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” she murmured, guiding his leg into a deep hamstring stretch.

He let out a breath through his nose, shifting slightly under her touch. “You’re good.”

But his voice was rough, and she could feel the tension—not just in his body, but in the way his fingers flexed slightly every time her hands brushed his thighs, her forearm skimmed his ribs.

He didn’t pull away.

And neither did she.

When she leaned in to adjust his shoulder, her breath hit the side of his neck. He shivered.

“Cold?” she asked, low and teasing.

“No,” he said, and when he looked up at her, his eyes didn’t blink. “Not even a little.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She was straddling one leg, hovering over him, face barely inches away.

It would be so easy.

His hand came up like he might tuck her hair behind her ear or maybe just touch her cheek—he stopped himself.

Barely.

A beat passed. And another.

Then the door creaked open.

“Lando?” Will’s voice broke the spell. “Time to suit up.”

Lando blinked first. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Be right there.”

Y/N rolled off him, trying not to look rattled. Lando stood, tugging his suit back on, eyes flicking to her once more as he paused by the door.

“You coming?” he asked softly.

She nodded, grabbing her clipboard, trying to calm the heat in her chest. “Always.”

He smiled—small, knowing, charged—and disappeared down the hall.

She exhaled hard, gripping the edge of the table.

They were right on the edge of something dangerous and wonderful.

And neither of them had quite decided if they were brave enough to fall.

36 notes · View notes

wannabanauthor · 2 days ago

Text

I think I would be less angry at Buck

If he talked about his hesitation to get back with Tommy. While Buck screwed things up after the hookup, Tommy was the one that broke up with him.

Maybe he's too scared of screwing up again and driving Tommy away for good. But he's not saying that. He's just doing nothing.

He wants to get back together with Tommy but makes no effort to do so. And he doesn't give a reason why. Or the narrative so far hasn't explicitly said it.

I understand that Buck now has bigger issues than his love life, and he does deserve time to figure himself out and create a new life without Bobby.

So logically, his thing with Tommy is the least of his worries. I can understand if the narrative takes a while to bring Tommy back. But Bobby's death didn't happen in a vacuum.

It came after the breakup and hookup. And Buck hadn't made any effort to fix things with Tommy before Bobby died. He acknowledged that he needed to call and apologize, but then he did absolutely nothing except ask Tommy for a favor.

Even when Tommy said that he was helping for Buck too, Buck still said nothing. And that's the part that irritates me. It looks incredibly one-sided even from a shipper's POV. I can imagine Tommy is thinking the same.

I think maybe Buck forgot that he hasn't told Tommy about his feelings. But that wouldn't make sense either. He knows what he said that morning after and has done nothing about it. He asked Tommy for a favor and thanked him for doing it. That's it.

At this point, I feel like he doesn't even care but claims he does. He never talks to Tommy about their issues, but he'll talk to everyone else and jump the gun. Is he waiting for someone to give him permission or something?

I just hope that he realizes that Tommy is not going to wait around for long. He's in his early 40s, and he wants something serious with someone who is serious about him. Buck isn't that and isn't even trying to be that.

Maybe Buck hasn't realized that he hasn't given Tommy something to wait for. I think the best thing for Season 9 is for Buck to see Tommy dating other people. But then again, Buck might still be stupid and do nothing about it. And it doesn't even match how he was with Tommy in Season 7. In season 7, he made more of an effort, apologized and everything.

This past season he just bitched and moaned about a situation he created but never fixed. Tommy has no reason to reach out to him. Buck's going to take too long and end up losing Tommy for good.

I bet you that Buck won't even mention Tommy in the first few episodes of Season 9. By the time he remembers that Tommy exists, it'll probably have been a year since the breakup.

What's worst for us is that us BuckTommy shippers have 4+ months of nothing before the show comes back. Tim and the writers are letting us stew for months with no progress made and betting on us and others coming back to watch the show. Of course, they're not thinking of that, but Tim really has the worst timing.

The breakup happened the same week as the election. Bobby died and then so did the IRL Pope. And now there's been no progress for BuckTommy, so we get to be angry and frustrated the entire summer and probably talk ourselves out of watching the show again.

Again, Tim Minear is not a good enough writer to keep up this will/won't they trope between Buck and Tommy. I don't know if they're intentionally dragging it out or they just lack common sense or writing skills.

I know 9-1-1 isn't the BuckTommy show, and that there are multiple main characters, but the writing for them has been shitty too. Everyone almost dies or goes through the same type of trauma repeatedly. And they pissed off the Bvddies.

Honestly, only a white man could fuck up a show on so many levels and continue to fuck up with no improvements made. Maybe Tim is phoning it in. I don't know.

It just seems like Tim has made so many bad writing decisions that aren't popular with audience, and he refuses to stop and re-evaluate things to make the show enjoyable again.

#bucktommy #911 critical #tim minear is an idiot #911 discourse

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faithwritten · 2 days ago

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Lacy! I finally threw together her references :3 as usual, more information under the cut!

she/her, 18~ + cisgender female & bisexual.

Lacy was raised at the orphanage, but she moved out a few years back when her sister Ingrid (my partners PC) managed to escape the orphanage and/or paid her debt. She currently lives in an apartment in the Barb Street flats and her sister is her legal guardian.

Her newfound freedom and borderline amnesia of the things that happened to her in childhood has led her to forget what it was even like to be an "orphan". This has made her cocky, naive to the horrors of doltown and overconfident, and most can find her at school as one of Whitneys "goons"- spreading rumors about the PC to lower their reputation. She enjoys to assert control over people in this way, and will get frustrated when people don't inherently play into her palm or confront her.

Looooves Kylar, and enjoys watching them get beat up, then swooping in afterwards to ice their wounds and saying that they were soooo brave. Loves how pathetic they are, Kylar is like a sad little pet to her. She's drawn to people she thinks are pathetic, and will giggle and kick her feet when she gets to soothe their wounds and make them dependent on her.

She thrives on attention, both negative or positive, and will act out for attention if she feels like she's being ignored or if she's not the center of attention. This has made her the victim of a lot of Fake Friends, or people who take advantage of her promiscuous nature. She'll do just about anything to be popular, which allows her to be compliant in anything people do to her- thinking she's in control.

She takes on a hypersexual persona to convince herself she's "in control" of the things around her, and ended up finding Briars Brothel this way- and she took the first chance she could to get into sex work. She does it for "fun", and doesn't understand or empathize with those who are forced into it.

Other than that, she works at the massage parlor and enjoys that too! Uses most of her revenue/income on piercings, nails, clothing, and tattoos- dreams of having a full sleeve eventually.

Bullied Tianfei in childhood and never really stopped. Kind of teases Winnie and brings her around whenever Lacy goes to the mall. She likes that Winnie is a yesman to whatever she does- and she likes her boys collared.

#oc | lacy the naive #dol #dol pc #degrees of lewdity #tag | my art #my daughter who is the worst I think

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mooncello · 3 days ago

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—it's a strange feeling to finish a wip after not touching it for five months. a strange thing to finish a fic that I started over a year ago. because my writing has changed in that time. maybe not dramatically, but it's evolved. I'd like to think my craft has developed in certain ways over the past year. I've changed, as a person and a writer, but the fic itself still takes place within a three-week period. I don't want a sudden vibe shift yfm?

in the past month, I've re-read the entirety of more than a footnote multiple times, to ensure I get into the headspace, re-familiarize myself with their voices, remember all the threads I want to tie off, the themes I want to bring home in a satisfying way.

that all being said. chapter 9 is a vibe shift. ✌️

I always knew that I wanted to give my guys some time together. to be happy after all that pining angst, sure, but to also figure out what it means to be with one another in this new way. because they've still got their issues yk?

personally, I really dislike stories that end right after the two characters get together. like. it's just about to get really good?? the relationship stuff is WHERE IT'S AT for me.

so that's chapter 9. navigating the new, getting away from Watford, new scenery (including the seaside!), new characters (say hi to Niall's mums, Bridget and Paloma). I feel like the chapter has awtwb vibes. it's long. I've panicked to a couple friends about that this past week (how long is too long? are ppl gonna hate this?), but whenever I read thru my current draft, it feels like stepping into another world. it feels like a cup of tea on a rainy day. a momentary reprieve. I think I really like it. I hope you all like it, too.

one more POV to write, then it's off to betas. omg, I can't believe this one is almost over.

for today: I'm sharing a few short snippets from the chapter. nothing too long or immersive. more like a little sampling.

peace and love y'all.

we've got some moody Baz:

Baz’s smoky eyes slide over to us, lingering on where Dev’s hand rests along my waist. A flicker of pained longing crosses his face, more a facial twitch than anything else, and then smooth neutrality once more.

we've got kissing:

"If you wanna keep staring at me, I suggest you get dressed." Then I kiss him, fast and hard and a little bit filthy. "I'm leaving for breakfast in exactly five minutes."

we've got a precious mother-son moment:

“He’s happy with you.” I shoot a startled look at mum. “He always has been.” I’m not sure what to say to that, so I swirl another piece of biscuit in my tea. It’s soggy and threatening to collapse by the time I take a bite. I press the gingery mush to the roof of my mouth and then swallow. “Did you know?” I ask quietly. “Know what, darling?” “That Dev, uh, has liked me?”

oh, and angst makes a reappearance:

My eyes burn with tears, and I stab my knuckles into them. Hard. Until colourful sparks light up behind my eyelids. No. I will not cry. If I cry, I won’t be able to stop.

and:

“This isn’t just a party.” His voice the crack of a whip, the snap of a tree branch in the middle of a storm.

and:

Dev sinks to his knees in the sand, his spine curved against the sky. I drop beside him, not really knowing what the fuck I’m supposed to do, but stroking his hair anyway because if I’ve learned one thing this past week, it’s that Dev secretly loves tender touch.

and we've got more sex:

My back hits the mattress with a soft thump, and Niall climbs on top of me, his legs straddling my waist. He drags his nose along the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply. “God, you smell so good,” he rasps, and then latches his teeth onto my skin, sucking hard with the intent to mark. “Oh fuck,” I moan, as he bites a second kiss over my pulse point. I’m gonna carry his bruises tomorrow, and that thought wrings another moan out of me.

thank you for the tag today @leithillustration (hell yeah mermay content!!)

tags and ✌️:

@drowninginships @valeffelees @run-for-chamo-miles @blackberrysummerblog @confused-bi-queer

@youarenevertooold @shrekgogurt, @hushed-chorus @whatevertheweather, @cutestkilla

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @artsyunderstudy, @emeryhall, @imagineacoolusername, @leithillustration

@iamamythologicalcreature, @bookish-bogwitch @thewholelemon, @best--dress, @rimeswithpurple

@ileadacharmedlife @skeedelvee, @monbons, @alexalexinii, @j-trow-95

@theimpossibledemon, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @larkral, @messofthejess, @talentpiper11

@fiend-for-culture, @stitchyqueer, @roomwithanopenfire + anyone else who would like to join

#in the home stretch omg #what am I gonna do when this is over?#write more DeNiall #obviously #holler if you enjoy long-ass chapters #so I can feel better lmao #more than a footnote #deniall #wipsday

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i-hate-people-1 · 18 hours ago

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Assholes deserve to get kicked in the nads!

Single dad Eddie Munson x single mom reader

Single dad Eddie has one daughter Melia Willow Munson 4years old

Eddie and Meilas “mom” dated for a little bit when they found out she was pregnant they tried to make it work but birth giver left around when Melia was 16 months she has no memory’s of her

Single mom reader has two daughters Matilda Mae Carter 4 years old and Hunnings blue y/l/n 17 months old

Reader and “dad” had Melia and were together for until she found out she was Pregnant again and “dad” did not react well hence why Hunny and Tilly have different last names.

***

“Melia Willow Munson, come eat your breakfast, or I’m gonna do it for you!” Eddie yelled to the 4-year-old as he pulled the milk out of the fridge to pour her a glass to have on her poorly cooked pancakes with a whipped cream smiley face and drenched in syrup, something he hoped would help this morning go easier.

“Okay, Daddy, I’m ready for work.” She toddles out of the bathroom in a pair of coveralls and sunglasses shoved up to hold her wild curls out of her face.

“Milly, we talked about this. You’re starting prek today, remember?” He asked it taking every fiber of his control not to coo at the girl.

“No, I decided I can’t go. I have to help you in the shop,” she tells him plainly, climbing up into the chair, ready to reach for more syrup.

Eddie lets out a deep sigh. He knows he shouldn’t have gotten her so used to coming into work with him, but what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t afford a babysitter, and Wayne had to work too. Plus, Mr. Baxter had been nice enough to let him after Melia’s mom skipped town when she was a 16 months old.

“Mils, you know I love taking you to work with me, but school’s important. Besides, you can come back to the shop with me after I pick you up.” His attempt at reason falls short as an undeniably pitiful pout pouches itself on her bottom lip.

“But who will help you at the shop?” she barely gets out as the waterworks come right on cue.

It took him a whole thirty minutes to get her calmed down and another thirty to get her changed and ready for school. He’d had to bribe her with her nice leather jacket to get her to let go of the coveralls, and he didn’t even attempt to take back his sunglasses still perched on the top of her head. By the time he was pulling up to the school, they were thirty minutes late, and after a tearful goodbye, he was finally on his way out of the building before someone knocking into him nearly knocked him off his feet.

He wraps his arms around her, steadying them so they don’t fall to the ground, pulling her back, searching for any damage that could have been done, feeling a little relieved when he sees nothing visibly wrong. “Are you okay?”

***

“Close your eyes!” A shout from the bedroom instructs.

“Alright, alright, they’re closed,” you call back, peeking slightly to feed the baby in the high chair another spoonful of oatmeal.

“Tada!” The 4-year-old jumps out from the hallway, giving you a twirl so her dress floats around her. Her tiara falls a little crooked as she comes to a stop.

“Tilly Mae, you are just the cutest!” You gush, scooping the girl up in your arms and kissing all over her cheeks as she giggles. “Mama, stop.”

“Fine,” you sigh, dramatically setting her down in her chair. “But only so you can eat so we’re not late.”

“Tilly, we’ve got to go; we still have to drop Hunny off at daycare,” you tell the girl running around the living room frantically as you put on your youngest daughter’s shoes.

“But Mama, I can’t find my princess shoes.” Tilly whines, searching under the couch.

“Matilda Mae, you better not mess up those braids,” you scold, stopping her from crawling underneath. She pouts, arms crossed over her chest, beginning to pout. “Tilly, wear your tennis shoes for today, and then once we get back, we’ll turn the apartment upside down to find them,” you tell her, scooping her up once more to put the shoes on her feet.

With a few tears, a girl on your hip, and one’s hand in your own, you finally make it out of the house.

“Mama, walk faster; we’re late,” Tilly whines, zooming through the halls.

“I know, Tils, but please watch where you’re going,” your full attention on the girl. Though it seems you should have been following your own advice as you bump into something.

Strong arms steady you before you can fall backwards. You look up at the figure, a man with long dark hair that gathers in messy curls slightly below his shoulders. His brown eyes search your figure before you have a chance to react, pulling you away from his chest but keeping a hold on your elbows. “Are you okay?” His silky voice is laced with concern.

You don’t get the opportunity to answer before Tilly is tugging on one of your arms. “Mama, let’s go.”

“Yeah, um, sorry.” You rush out before letting yourself get whisked away by the girl.

***

“Where is she? What’s wrong?” Eddie burst into the room; he’d come to pick Milly up only to be ushered into the principal’s office, the woman escorting him answering none of the questions he’d berated her with.

He feels the blood drain from his face as his ears are met with sobs, to his surprise. Melia isn’t the one crying; instead, it’s a girl in a pink dress with a frilly tutu and blonde hair pulled back in neat braids that fall over her shoulders as her head’s turned down to look at the broken plastic tiara clenched tightly in her hands while Milly sits beside her, rubbing the girl’s back soothingly in the way he and Wayne always do when she cries. He scans the rest of the room on the other side; a boy sits beside a short blonde woman already angrily pointing and glaring at the girls, her squeaky voice almost indecipherable as she yells at the man sitting in a chair tucked behind a big wooden desk.

“I want her punished!” Eddie can make out this his head whipping toward the woman, ready to respond, before the man’s loud voice stops him. “Calm down, Mrs. Blake; we’re still waiting on one more parent.”

Eddie bites his tongue, deciding to focus his attention on the girls instead of the woman.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie greets his daughter, softly tucking her hair beside her ear that had fallen into her face.

“I only did it because he was mean, Daddy.” Melia gushes, tears welling up in her eyes. Eddie chooses to ignore the scoff that comes out of the woman in the corner.

“It’s not her fault; don’t be mad at her,” the little blonde girl adds, finally looking up from her lap.

“Hey, hey, I’m not mad,” Eddie tries his best to comfort both girls. Milly tucks herself into his chest, and he uses the hand not around her to wipe the other girl's tear-stained cheeks.

“But Daddy’s always get mad.” Eddie’s brows furrow at the blonde’s words, but he doesn’t get time to react before the door is pulled open again.

It’s the woman who ran into him this morning, only this time carrying a baby on her hip.

“Tilly girl,” you let out the greeting, instantly rushing to the girl kneeling in front of her, scooping her up onto your other hip with ease.

You make eye contact with the man you’d run into this morning, brows furrowing deeper in concern at the little girl softly crying in his arms. He nods his head behind him, pointing you towards the young boy pouting beside a woman sending her a sharp glare.

You look back at the man with wide eyes and have to stop yourself for laughing out loud when he mouths “total bitch” above the little girls head he smiles chucking softly at your poor attempt at hiding your laughter.

“She’s here. Can we start now?” The woman snaps sassily at the man in the chair.

man groans, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Which is how you end up sitting shoulder to shoulder with a man you recently found out is named Eddie on a small bench, the girls sitting on the floor whispering amongst themselves, Hunny perched in your lap peacefully chewing on her teether, while the man behind the desk mr. Heart, as the nameplate on it reads, explains why you’re here.

“Mrs. Blake, Mr.Munson, Mrs. Carter, your—“

“Sorry, it’s actually Ms. Y/l/N,” you interrupt him, eyes shifting nervously around the room.

“Right, sorry, Ms. y/n.” He gives you a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your kids had a disagreement—“

“It wasn’t a disagreement; she kicked him,” the woman shouted incredulously, jumping up and pointing a finger at Milly.

“Mrs. Blake, sit down!” Principal Heart yells, clearing his throat and gaining composure.

Eddie’s arms are crossed over his chest jaw is clenched, and by the glare he’s shooting the woman, you think she’s lucky to still have the finger.

“From what the children tell me, Cooper went over to Matilda in the sand and stepped on her crown, causing it to break. Cooper then started to make fun of Matilda for crying. Melia walked over to tell him to stop, and Cooper, quote, called her a baby, so she kicked him in the privates.” Mr.Heart looked up from the paper the incident had been reported on through his glasses at the children.

“His child kicked my son; I want her punished,” the woman snaps, though Eddie pointedly ignores her with a deep roll of his eyes.

“Is that true, Mils? You kick em?” Eddie asks the girl, nodding his head to the boy.

“Yes,” she admits, avoiding his gaze. “But Daddy, he was an asshole, and you always say assholes deserve to get kicked in the nads.”

You once again struggle to keep in your laughter as Mrs. Blake gasps, clutching the pearls draped across her neck.

“Aren’t you going to correct her?” She asks Eddie, a disgusted look on her face.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Eddie nods at her in mock sincerity. “Milly, we don’t call boys like him assholes; the proper word is ‘little bitches,” he tells the girl, who nods at him thoughtfully. This time you don’t bother to hide your laughter. “Better?” He asks the woman, flashing her a smug smile.

“Ugh, I should have known you wouldn’t do anything. You Munsons are trailer trash, and you act like it,” Mrs. Blake barks a cruel laugh.

“Excuse me?” Eddie asks, standing to match her stance.

“Eddie, please, you can’t fight a girl,” you say it like you didn’t just meet the man pushing him back onto the bench.

“Yes, sit down.” It’s her turn to shoot him a smug smile.

“Oh, you misunderstood me. He can’t, but I can hold my baby,” you instruct, setting Hunny down in the man’s lap before turning back to the woman.

“Ms. y/l-,“ principal Heart starts, but you hold a hand up to silence him.

“Ahh, my turn to talk.” You’ll apologize for the rudeness in a minute“. His daughter was defending mine, so if you want her to be punished, you better expect the same for him. Oh, and that crown was 5 bucks, so you better cough it up, or we can forget this whole thing, each punish our own children as we see fit, and handle this situation like mature adults who aren’t pointing blame at 4-year-olds,” you finish with a pointed finger.

“You’re all disgusting humans.” She scrambles, gathering her purse and her son by the wrist to storm out of the office.

“Very sorry for shushing you,” you smile politely, though Mr.Heart looks less upset than impressed. “Are we done here?” He nods wordlessly.

You turn your attention back to Eddie and the girls reaching for Hunny, who reluctantly pulls her hands out of Eddie’s hair.

You make it out of the building, the girls skipping in front of you hand in hand once again giggling amongst themselves.

“Thanks, I uh, totally would’ve hit that lady if you hadn’t said anything,” Eddie tells you, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“Don’t mention it. If she’d have pointed her finger at my kid like that, I’d have jumped her.” You smile up at him as you make it to the sidewalk where the girls had stopped to wait for you.

“Daddy, can we have Tilly over for dinner? We want to play more.” Milly asks both girls, looking up at the two of you with puppy dog eyes.

“I don’t know, sweetheart…” Eddie trails off, “But maybe we could go out for dinner.” He immediately caves, though, in his defense, they did pull out the big guns with a pouty lip. “But only if Tilly’s mom is okay with it.” All three of them turn to you, waiting on your answer.

“How could I say no to you cuties?” You agree, noticing the way Eddie’s ears began to burn.

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