#if only I was single back then I would be UNSTOPPABLE

[wingedhallows]

hello my beautiful wife!!

i have a request for you!! bodyguard!vi/!sevika taking a bullet for mafialeader!reader and they confess their love thinking that vi/sevika passed but they're very much still alive! 🔪🩸💸

I love you so much my ray of sunshine!! 💕💕💕

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄?

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈��𝐆 mafia!sevika x mafia!reader / 0.6 k words ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 blood, weapons ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 hi hi!! I'm back my babes!! i've had a hard week but i'm doing my best to get back at the requests and continue my other stuff so here u go! hope u like this one bby @moodient

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

The warehouse is chaos—raw, unrelenting chaos. Shouts echo like thunder, bullets tear through the air with vicious precision, and the acrid scent of gunpowder clings to your lungs.

You dive behind a rusted cart just in time, the metal shrieking as a bullet ricochets off its edge. Gritting your teeth, you cock your weapon with a sharp snap, a curse slipping through your lips. Your knee screams in protest, but you barely feel it. Not now.

And then you see her.

Sevika charges forward like a lioness unleashed, metal arm gleaming under flickering lights, raised high with fury and purpose. She’s a storm in motion—deadly, beautiful, unstoppable.

Your breath catches. Even in the thick of battle, when death feels like a coin toss, she’s here. She’s with you. And for a second, just a second, your heart forgets how to be afraid.

You pull in a shaky breath and rise, gun steady, eyes locked on your next target. He lunges, wild-eyed, swinging a pipe, but you duck low and fire—once, clean through the chest. He drops, and you’re moving again, adrenaline pumping, instinct guiding your every step.

A blur rushes past—one of your own, machete raised high—and you seize the opening to fire three quick shots into the enemy's flank. Screams mix with gunfire, but your eyes—your heart—search for her again.

And there she is.

Sevika, blood splattered across her face like war paint, her chest heaving, eyes alight with a fire you’ve only ever seen in your dreams. She’s chaos incarnate, and yet, somehow, the only thing that feels real.

But then— A shadow. A shape. Movement near the crates.

A massive figure rises from the smoke, his gun aimed straight at you. You freeze for half a heartbeat—but Sevika doesn’t.

Your eyes lock for a single breath. A lifetime lives in that glance. Words you’ve never spoken. Things you’ve never dared to feel.

And then she moves.

Faster than your mind can process, she throws herself forward—between you and the bullet. Her body slams into yours, knocking you back just as the shot rings out. The sound is deafening.

You see it before you feel it—the way her body jerks, the way she crumples to the floor, lifeless and heavy.

Your lungs forget how to work.

“No... no, no no—”

You don’t remember moving. One second she’s falling, the next you’re beside her, dragging her limp form behind cover with trembling hands. She’s dead weight—unconscious, maybe worse—and your vision blurs with panic.

“You idiot,” you breathe, voice cracking as your fingers search desperately for the wound, hot blood soaking your palms. “You stupid idiot—why would you take a bullet for me?”

Her blood coats your hands, thick and warm, and you press hard against the gash along her ribs.

“You’re not supposed to—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” you whisper, voice barely holding itself together. “Not you.”

The warehouse noise dims, the fight waning in the distance, but all you can hear is the wild, uneven beat of your own heart.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” you plead, eyes blurring. “I love you, Sevika. Do you hear me? I—God, I love you. So stay with me. Please.”

You don’t expect an answer. You’re rambling to the void, to the blood-slick shadow of the woman who’s haunted your every thought.

But then— A breath. A voice. Fragile, like glass cracking.

“Love me?”

It’s barely audible, but it hits you like another bullet. Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and your chest caves with relief.

“I do,” you whisper, raw and real. “Yes.”

And when her fingers—slick with her blood—find yours in a weak, trembling grasp, you know.

She does too.

[astonmartinii]

but daddy i love him [guilty as sin part two] | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x fem sainz!reader

when an unstoppable force (the sainz men when they feel aggrieved) meets an immovable object (charles and y/n)

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

carlossainz55

liked by landonorris, marcmarquez93 and 783,409 others

carlossainz55: never forget where you came from

view all comments

user100: insert cricket noises here

user101: who on your PR team said this was a good idea?

user102: they need to be fired, sorry not sorry

landonorris: i love your dad (tell him to stop beating me at golf)

carlossainz55: if he never lets me win he's definitely never letting you win

landonorris: so unfair i thought i was the third sainz sibling :(

carlossainz55: i'm an only child

landonorris: oh-

user103: i need this man to choke i'm being so serious rn

user104: that's so unbelievably fucked

user105: the fact his dad is probably co-signing this shit is insane that's YOUR DAUGHTER

user106: also someone give lando a lil slap around he's on the wrong side of history on this one

yourusername: scandal does funny things to pride

carlossainz55: if the scandal is betraying your family that's all you

yourusername: if we're talking about betrayal then that's your specialist subject mr. i've cheated on every girl i've ever been with - and while we're on the topic of betrayal, yes i was the one who told them

carlossainz55: i've never cheated why are you stooping to lies?

yourusername: you did it right in front of my face when i was a part of this family

carlossainz55: so you've always been comfortable going behind my back

yourusername: that's the thing, when you're treated like you don't exist by your family you learn that blood is not thicker than water

carlossainz55: i can't wait for charles to cheat on you

yourusername: btw i already called marca, they know any of those allegations from you or dad are false - good luck!

user10: obvs i know they should be doing this in private but MORE DRAMA FOR ME BABY LETS KEEP THIS GOING

user107: thank you for the validation y/n i KNEW THE SHIT STIRRING COMING FROM THAT PAPER WAS THE SAINZ CAMP

user108: and they've got the nerve to be talking about stooping - the call is coming from inside the house

maxverstappen1: ugly twins

carlossainz55: really?

maxverstappen1: i said what i said and i mean what i said

carlossainz55: i would say she's not going to fuck you bro but you really never know with her

maxverstappen1: she would never, homewrecking is a trait only the male sainzs seem to have

user109: OOP

user110: max is a real lestappen queen fighting the battles he knows charles can't

yourusername

liked by pierregasly, maxverstappen1 and 893,405 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: if you know within one glimpse, its legendary

view all comments

user114: i love how she goes from fighting her brother in one comment section to just showing off her hot bf

user115: tbf charles does have a face you'd go to war for so i get her

user116: i'd abandon my family for that face

yourusername: finally someone who fucking gets it

charles_leclerc: you made me believe in love at first sight

yourusername: awwwwww you're such a sweet talker the REAL smooth operator

pierregasly: i can verify it was love at first sight cause the man did not SHUT THE FUCK UP about you well... ever

charles_leclerc: is it a crime to love my girlfriend?

pierregasly: apparently!

yourusername: he's too cute to go to jail :(

charles_leclerc: they'd ruin me

yourusername: that's my job 🤨

pierregasly: you keep that to yourselves

user117: does this girl need to shade carlos on every single fucking post... yeah we get it he's the only reason you're relevant but god you reek of desperation

oscarpiastri: is this carlos' burner account?

user118: are the grid just sat around waiting to be tagged in to the fight against carlos?

oscarpiastri: what's he going to do? crash into me? he does that every weekend anyway

user119: uh oh carlos oscar is finally fighting back off track what are you going to do

user120: don't worry i'm sure he'll post a selfie with lando and try the whole carlando shtick to get some more PR points

maxverstappen1: oh this was not the shit slinging post i was hoping for

yourusername: something tells me you're having way too much fun with this

maxverstappen1: yeah you might have been abandoned by your family but have YOU considered that this is letting me express all my mean girl energy off track so i am level-headed on track

maxverstappen1: actually i don't even think i'm being mean tbf

yourusername: i'm glad my suffering could be your therapy

carlossainz55: BOO HOO you're not suffering ... it's something called the consequences of your actions (read: actions being a snakey slut)

yourusername: bro over here acting like i committed fratricide

maxverstappen1: TAP ME IN

maxverstappen1: not this man talking about the consequences of actions. kids, here's a little life lesson: if you spend all your time at your current job talking about how you have a much better job waiting for you and how you're too big for this job and plant stories about your co-workers, you can't be surprised that that same job doesn't want to keep you

carlossainz55: i am better than charles

yourusername: lying is a sin

maxverstappen1: and you're going straight to hell

user121: you guys might be mourning the loss of charlos (whatever the fuck that is) but i'm celebrating the absolute shit ton of LESTAPPEN we're getting

user122: max was like oh my bff is dating charles here's my excuse to be nice about him again

user123: if we're being real here the biggest crime of this whole situation is the fact that charles can't really dig the knife in

user124: @ silvia i have maybe £4.50 and a greggs sausage roll to my name but PLEASE LET CHARLES TAP IN

f1

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 1,298,006 others

tagged: oscarpiastri & carlossainz55

f1: f1... the sport that gives you just as much drama off track as we do on track!

view all comments

user125: at this point even before the whole carlos ousting his sister i think oscar was about 👌🏻 this close to rocking carlos nascar style we should let him do it

user126: i will personally pay his legal fees tbh

oscarpiastri: i'm only 23 i don't need two F1-related legal cases to my name

yourusername: i've watched legally blonde about ten billion times let me represent you

oscarpiastri: yeah sounds legit

user127: THAT'S IT WE NEED PROXIMITY CHAT IN F1

user128: the way we know there was a shit talking session like no other after this race

maxverstappen1: i don't kiss and tell but well - yes!

user128: okay since this is clearly a safe space... who was there please spill mr. verstappen

maxverstappen1: ME! charles, pierre, oscar, checo, alex and george!

user128: why the fuck were the last two there?

georgerussell63: i was on official GDPA duty 🤓

alexalbon: that's a lie we're just very nosey

yourusername: they're the biggest PTA moms ever don't even lie

georgerussell63: yes i'll make allergy friendly cupcakes for the bake sale but i'll also spit in them and gossip about your cheating husband - sorry about it!

alexalbon: he's not

georgerussell63: i'm not

user129: carlos slagging off y/n but she's really brought the grid together

user130: george and alex being like we do not care about that but we do want the latest scoop

alexalbon: oh don't get it twisted we're firmly team y/n

user131: we even got the f1 admin in on the drama

carlossainz55: she's probably fucking them as well

yourusername: BORING get a new bit babe

carlossainz55: if i see whore i'm going to say whore

yourusername: aren't you still in that damn stewards office?

carlossainz55: tell your little lap dog to keep his front wing away from my car and maybe i wouldn't

oscarpiastri: suck my dick

yourusername: now that's true poetry

user132: oH!

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, alexalbon and 763,409 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, logansargent & oscarpiastri

yourusername: florida !!!!!!!!!!! is one hell of a drug. no seriously what is in the water here i keep picking up these little guys everywhere i go

view all comments

user135: she's really like i AM spanish and i will colonise this grid

user136: stealing all the lil cuties for her cause

oscarpiastri: proud to be a part of this weird little circus thing we've got going on

yourusername: oh dibs on ring master

logansargent: i feel like my name is written all over tight rope walking

yourusername: okay yes skinny legend

maxverstappen1: obvs we're a cruelty free circus so no lions but if there were lions, that's me babe

maxverstappen1: SOME people could learn... cough, cough trophy hunters

charles_leclerc: idk i'll just take the one where i can sit there and be pretty

yourusername: and you would be the best at it

oscarpiastri: which one does the least? i'll take that one

user137: bro can we slow the fuck down i was just getting over osc telling carlos to suck his dick now we're talking CIRCUS?

user138: for real couldn't it have at least been cabaret i wanna see ALL of that

charles_leclerc: 🤨

carlossainz55: i think a circus is a perfect way to describe your desperate attempt to stay relevant

yourusername: don't you have a job to go to? oh wait...

carlossainz55: as if i'm threatened by a group with the likes of logan sargent in it

logansargent: bit harsh, i'm a nice guy (unlike some)

yourusername: carlos here's a little bit of a wild thing i'm about to introduce to you.... people have friends?

yourusername: also you WISH you had a face card like logie

carlossainz55: i have friends?

yourusername: no you have PR strategies, there's a difference

carlossainz55: bro learnt the word PR and ran with it

yourusername: tell me one person who would let you crash on their couch?

yourusername: QUICKLY.

fernandoalo_oficial: and don't even think about mentioning me

user139: she hit him with the bianca del rio

user140: OOP and also nando just popping up out of nowhere to diss carlos and never say anything again

charles_leclerc: the drug in question being puppy fever

maxverstappen1: tell me you didn't get a dog

yourusername: boy do i have news for you

carlossainz55: are you trying to baby trap him

yourusername: first woman in history to birth a dog you heard it here first

charles_leclerc: you simply can't be babytrapped when you would literally jump off a bridge if asked to

user141: @myboyfriend TAKE NOTES HONEY ^^^

charles_leclerc

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 1,745,093 others

tagged: yourusername & oscarpiastri

charles_leclerc: two kids in one month? someone stop us

view all comments

user142: y/n really lost an apartment and a brother and gained about 27 f1 drivers and a dog

user143: glow up of the century some might say

liked by charles_leclerc

yourusername: soz it's a coping mechanism

charles_leclerc: and that's okay <3

maxverstappen1: anything to help with that emotional CONSTIPATION

yourusername: have you tried to live with those narcissistic and emotionally unavailable men?

maxverstappen1: you're asking the wrong person that question honey

yourusername: girl are WE good?

maxverstappen1: no

yourusername: BUT THAT'S OKAY

charles_leclerc: not to rain on this parade but i think therapy would really be a positive move here

user144: i feel bad for charles cause i know these hoes are the type to just tell each other EXACTLYYYYY when they make poor decisions

maxverstappen1: true, no smart bitches would let their bff live with THAT man

yourusername: and let their bff constantly chat shit and ruin their image

maxverstappen1: can't ruin my image if i'm spitting FACTS

user145: max will nawt let this go

maxverstappen1: i'll forget you but i'll never forgive the smallest man who ever lived

yourusername: GIRL

maxverstappen1: whoops, one sec. spoiler alert: y/n unleased poetry. trigger warning: c*rlos s*inz

olliebearman: ollie bearman erasure

charles_leclerc: GASP OLLIE I AM SO SORRY

yourusername: no he actually is he's crying

charles_leclerc: it's the pregnancy hormones

olliebearman: it's okay i swear

charles_leclerc: I'M A TERRIBLE FATHER

carlossainz55: i could've told you that for free

olliebearman: why are you in our family buisness

user146: charles is channelling all of his carlos rage through ollie oh my

olliebearman: i am a happy conduit for my father who is in the ferrari PR jail

yourusername: can we send carlos here and throw away the key?

user147: charles is really out there like keep my girl's name out of your mouth cause even the bitch who stole your seat for a weekend is my SON

user148: y/n wasn't joking about with this grid domination

user149: but also i'm glad all of this fun stuff is happening amongst all of the shit that's been thrown at her from her family

oscarpiastri: a leclerc and proud (i race like my dad and throw shade like my mum)

yourusername: the best way to be

charles_leclerc: proud of you, you're such a good dog brother :)

oscarpiastri: i've just learnt to be patient after alpine and lando

yourusername: you still took your shoes being leo's personal bathroom really well

oscarpiastri: he's too cute to be mad at

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen, charles_leclerc and 824,109 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: first mother's day with my boys

view all comments

user150: gonna enjoy this super wholesome post before... he... ruins it

user151: manifesting a y/n post without that bitter old hag in the comment section

charles_leclerc: the best mother for our fur baby and our miscellaneous other children

yourusername: only the best with you :(

charles_leclerc: ugh i love you so much

yourusername: i love you even more

user152: they're so fucking cute

user153: damn carlos i too would be angry if my baby sister and my teammate outshined my third PR relationship in six months

user154: the sainz family have generational levels of hating, but one does it for good (poetry) and one does it for bad (anything carlos ever says)

oscarpiastri: happiest mother's day to my grid mum! here's to reading them to filth xx

yourusername: OSC!! i always knew you were my favourite aussie

danielricciardo: did my enchante PR mean nothing?

yourusername: i mean i wear it all of the time... but it's osc ...

danielricciardo: true, i broke my hand before i could even think of accidentally hurting him

user155: also babe is looking so unbothered, moisturised and free we need the skin care routine

oscarpiastri: the tears of carlos sainz

yourusername: and cleansing your life of toxic family members

user156: okay clearly oscar was done with the whole "i'm so chill" bit cause since his adoption by charles and y/n he's been non stop on carlos' neck

oscarpiastri: i'm a ride or die for my mum cry about it

maxverstappen1: as the kids would say ... mother is mothering? @olliebearman did i do it right?

charles_leclerc: stop trying to steal my kids

maxverstappen1: BRO I'M TRYING TO COMPLIMENT YOUR GIRLFRIEND

charles_leclerc: that's literally my job 🤨

yourusername: tbf i'll take as many compliments as i can

charles_leclerc: are mine not enough?

yourusername: when you've got a self esteem this low, you gotta take what you can get

charles_leclerc: oh :(

user157: max and y/n fighting over who trauma dumps more about their upbringing

carlossainz55: this bit is very tiring. you'll be a terrible mother and all these people you think are your friends will drop you as soon as they know who you really are.

yourusername: you done?

carlossainz55: as you loveeeee to point out, i don't have much to lose anymore so i really wouldn't test me

yourusername: trying to make me homeless and stealing all of my money wasn't enough?

carlossainz55: charles will know the truth soon enough and you won't have us to come crying to

yourusername: i'll take those chances thank you

user158: hold ON what do you mean stole all her money

yourusername: i was never allowed my own bank account so all my earnings have gone to them!

user159: okay that's it WE RIDE AT DAWN

fin.

note: oh girl life has been BUSY!!! i just got a new job and have been looking desperately for a flat to move out to. also i've had family visiting and going here, there and everywhere. but i hope you enjoy! this was a lil more light-hearted lol (until the end) so enjoy the addition of the leclerc family lore xx

ALSO i wanted to say a massive THANK YOU FOR 6,000 FOLLOWERS love you all <3

note: hiii extra note from me here. first, i will fix this tag list at some point idk why it's not working rn. secondly, i have been made aware by multiple people that there is a series just like this one down to characters and the name of the series on here and i can't lie i'm bummed about it. as i said on the first part (?) this is an idea i've had since the release of TTPD (and people will back me up on this) so it bums me out that there are blatant copies coming out! i'm all for inspiration but sometimes there's a difference between taking inspo and copying especially when my masterlist was posted ages ago and my first part was posted on the 9th of may.... anyways that's all i have to say! enjoy xx

taglist: in comments!

[majinbangus]

was tempted to write more of this idea of simon x single mom!reader. ty to @weemansoap for the meet cute idea. mention of past abuse/domestic violence in one paragraph, nothing graphic.

-> more here

There's a young lad that can't be more than five or six years of age crouched behind the overgrown bush near the entryway that leads to his flat complex. A strange sight to come home to after months away on deployment. One he's not sure what to make of yet, but Simon approaches, coming up on the kid's blindspot. He doesn't see any parents around. Best find out what this kid is up to.

"Oi, what're you doin' out 'ere, lad?"

The kid startles comedically, nearly falling on his rump, but he manages to catch himself before looking up at Simon, a toothy, mischievous grin on his face. "I'm gonna scare Mama!"

Simon raises an eyebrow. "Your mum doesn't know you're here?"

"No." The boy giggles. "I ran ahead while she was putting on her shoes."

"You shouldn't do that," Simon says, though not quite admonishing him. "You probably scared your mum enough pulling that stunt."

The lad frowns. "I only ran away. What's so scary about that?"

A lot of things. Simon remembers his own mother frantically calling out his name once upon a time. The fear in her eyes. The trembling grip when she finally found him again. The sobbing. The apologies. The promises to be a better mother. The pain she experienced when his father blamed her for losing track of a son he didn't care about. Pain that was Simon's fault. Pain that his father later inflicted on him.

Lots of things are scary when a child runs away. But this lad doesn't need to know the extent.

"Your mum loves you, yeah?" He waits until the kid nods, continuing, "Then it'll always scare her when you runaway. Not knowing where you are. Thinking she lost you. Would it scare you if you lost her?"

"Oh..." The kid looks at the ground, penitent. "I didn't think of it that way."

Simon grunts, studying the lad, debating with himself before deciding fuck it. He clicks his tongue twice and the lad looks up. "Which floor you live on, mate? I'll bring you back to your mum."

"3C."

Simon hums thoughtfully. That one was previously vacant last time he was here. "Right next to me."

The lad perks up. "Really?"

He nods, gesturing towards the building, ready to guide the kid back home, but a voice suddenly rings out like a shock of ice water running down his back.

"Simon, you stay right there, young man!"

For a brief- very brief- second, Simon tenses up. He hasn't heard that angry motherly tone stemmed from fear directed at him since he was a boy. Part of him feels reprimanded, as if he needs to bow his head and meekly apologize for upsetting his mother, fleeting memories of his mum scolding him flashing through his brain. But the feeling quickly dissipates when he sees you, frazzled and anxious, running towards him like an unstoppable force that reminds him of the ocean wind.

It's a stunning sight, Simon notes absently; however, he doesn't take any longer to admire the view you make running towards him. Or, well, the boy. Rather than looking at Simon, you're looking at the lad he's been talking to, a wild, worried look in your eyes the closer you get, glancing at Simon quickly, warily, then back at the boy, the look of a mother bear ready to defend her cub gracing your features, and that's when it clicks.

Ah. Simon.

Your boy's name is Simon.

Funny, that. It almost makes him snort.

The lad in question doesn't seem to register your near feral state, but Simon steps away from your wayward son as to not aggravate you any further.

"Mama, I made a friend!" Your son announces proudly once you rush up to them. "He lives next to us! In, um..."

"3A," Simon interjects when the kid falters. You glance at him in acknowledgment before turning back to your child.

"Oh? How sweet." You smile tightly at the lad, giving him a subtle once over for anything out of place, and reach out to gently tug him further away from Simon, crouching to pick him up. "It's good to make friends with the neighbors, honey, but you can't go running off like that. I was worried when you took off without warning."

The boy in your arms looks properly contrite, bowing his head and wrapping his arms around your neck, voice muffled as he apologizes, "I know. I'm sorry, Mama. I won't runaway ever again. Promise. The nice man told me you would be upset."

"Did he?" You look at Simon, gaze still guarded but there's a hint of something grateful in your eyes. "Well, he was right. I was upset, but as long as you keep your promise, you're forgiven."

His little name twin perks up, giggling and hugging you tighter. "I will! I love you, Mama."

"I love you, too, hon." You give your son a tender look, pressing a kiss to his temple, but it drops once you look at Simon, studying him with a cautious look. You hesitate for a second longer before adjusting your hold on your boy then hold a hand out, giving him your name and your gratitude. "3A? Are you new? I haven't seen you around... Regardless, thank you for keeping an eye on this one. I hope he didn't cause you any trouble."

"I travel for work." He grips your hand and gives it a squeeze, "And he didn't. Your boy's a good lad. I'm Simon."

Your eyebrows lift, mouth dropping slightly agape and hand lingering in his perhaps a tad too long before you recover, letting go, and smile sweetly at your boy who stares up at him with wide, awed eyes. "My name is Simon, too!"

You don't make a sound, but Simon can see you shake with silent laughter, your eyes sparkling for the child in your arms. He catches your eye, and you tilt your head with a hopeful, doe-eyed look for him to indulge your boy a little longer.

Ah, what the hell.

"Really?" Simon raises a disbelieving brow. "Since when?"

"Since I was born!" The boy laughs and you shoot Simon a genuine smile. "You're funny, Simon."

Oh, Johnny could tell your boy just how funny he could really be. He can already hear the groan his sergeant would give.

Don't put the poor lad through that, LT.

He's not hearing any complaints, Johnny. The lad seems to appreciates his humor. And you do too from the looks of it.

"It's a fine name, innit?"

"Uh-huh! Mama named me!"

He switches to look at you. "That right?"

Your smile turns a hint shy under his attention, but you nod with a noncommittal hum, adding nothing more to the conversation. Instead, you start your own. An abrupt, obvious dismissal. "Well, sorry to hold you up, Simon, but we should get going. This Simon needs to go school supply shopping."

Your son pouts, but otherwise doesn't complain. Good lad.

"Say goodbye to," your eyes wash over him, darting up and down, properly taking him in, "Big Simon, Simon."

A rush of amusement passes through him. That's a new one. Not the worst thing he's ever heard, but certainly accurate. He might even like it.

Big Simon tilts his head, raising a brow, and immediately you fluster at the nickname you've given him, eyes widening and head ducking down so you don't have to look him in the eyes, but it's too late to take it back. Little Simon is already waving goodbye at him.

"Bye, Simon, it was nice to meet you!"

There's a flash, and for a moment, Simon sees another young lad waving at him in another mother's arms, another Riley's voice echoing in his ear, asking him when he's gonna settle down, but then they're gone in a blink and he's looking at you and Little Simon again.

It almost makes him pause, but Simon forces them out of his mind and focuses on you and the boy in your arms.

"Nice to meet you too, kid." He gestures to you next. "Be good for your mum. She's a lovely lady, and lovely ladies deserve the best, yeah?"

Your son agrees with an enthusiastic nod, but while he remains oblivious to your flustered state, Simon feels an unfamiliar sort of satisfaction when you stutter out your own goodbyes, leaving him to ponder on things he hasn't thought of in years.

Settle down, huh? That's not for him, but looking at you and your lad...

Simon can almost see the appeal in a domestic life.

-

wrote this kinda sleepy, idk how I feel about it hope its alright tho

[hitomisuzuya]

Aventurine becoming an unstoppable PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP machine because we started calling him Kakavasha and making out with his tattoo while praising his existence and oh boy he is not letting us go until we’re dry 🔥🔥

aventurine x fem!reader. smut. creampie. praise. licking/biting. kissing. spoilers for aventurine's real name.

all hail the amber lord? nah. nope. no. nahhh. all hail aventurine, the epitome of preservation.

aventurine's breathing is a little labored, and quick. for a moment he is helpless. lost in the sensation of your pretty body pressed delicately against his, your arms around him and your lips fastened to his neck.

he shivers, moaning softly as your wet tongue licks along the tattoo on his neck. he has always been sensitive on that part of his neck, his cock pulsing against your thigh.

his tattoo has always been a dark part of his life he likes to keep locked up tight. but you, you somehow are giving it new meaning. intimate meaning. if lady luck ever had a true, tangible form, it would be you. he didn't perch you in his lap while he gambled for no reason, after all.

he lets out a louder moan as your teeth nip at his tattoo, laving your tongue on it. "kakavasha, thank you for existing," you pull a fold of skin into your mouth, sucking on it for a moments, "you are the backbone of the ipc. they wouldn't have penacony if it wasn't for you," your fingers card through his soft blonde hair.

more precum beads onto his leaking cock head. keeping an arm securely around you, he put a hand on the back of your head, pressing your mouth on his neck more. "say it again," he moans, grinding his throbbing cock against your thigh, "say my name again."

"you are amazing," you take your lips off his neck, putting them close to his ear, "kakavasha," you whisper, reaching down and stroke his cock.

a string of louder moans keen from aventurine as you return your mouth to his tattoo. you flatten your tongue on it, licking the entire area as you kiss and suck. his hips twitch to rut his cock into your hand. he moves his head slightly to the side, giving you better access to his neck.

for only a few a moments, however before he lifts your head off his neck. as good as it felt, he couldn't keep it together anymore. "i need to hear that pretty mouth of yours praise me more, sweetheart," he is quick to reassure you that you hadn't upset him seeing your eyes widen in panic for a moment.

aventurine gives you a gentle, but hasty shove onto his bed. your cheeks flush as you spread your legs, and part the folds of your cunt for him. he sighs shakily seeing your glistening pussy. "offering yourself to me, how sweet," he dips a single finger in your juices, tracing the shape of your pussy up to your clit. "so wet. does praising me turn you on that much?" he teases, wagging his finger on your throbbing clit.

your clit throbs under the pads of his fingers. letting out a shaky whimper, you rock your hips up. "please, fuck me, kakavasha," you plead, reaching your hand out to him, "i need you inside of me." every fiber of your body is tense with need and arousal.

aventurine can't help but shiver again seeing the state you are in. he couldn't resist teasing the tips of his fingers against your quivering hole, chucking shakily as you let out a soft whine. "kakavasha, please!" you cry out, grinding on his fingers in an attempt to urge them even just a little inside of you.

he relishes in your second, more desperate sounding whine as he removes his hand. "i'll take care of you, shh, shh," he soothes, lining up his cock with your entrance, "i'll stretch you apart nice and perfect."

you moan at his words. your back arches so prettily off the bed as aventurine slowly pushes inside of you. "just keep praising me," he groans, bottoming out. the moment he feels your pussy clench snug around his cock, he snaps.

you are breathless at the pace his sets. his hips practically smack into yours, burying his cock deep into your sweet spot as your juices ooze around his cock. your nipples hard and your breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts.

"i'll make you cum hard for lavishing such sweet praise on me. i need to hear more," he moans, brushing his elegant fingers on your lips.

your tongue sweeps out to lick to his fingers. "you are the epitome of preservation, kakavasha!" you shamelessly moan, bringing your hand up to caress his cheek. "oh god, fuck me, kakavasha! fill me, cum inside me. the ipc would be nothing without you!" you are babbling now, further captivating him.

aventurine would bet his entire fortune on the guarantee that you are going to cum hard on his cock, your body twitching as your eyes fill the haze of fucked out bliss. his cock throbs almost unbearably. "so good for me," he moans, rubbing his fingers slippery on your clit.

"kakavasha! kakavasha! kakavasha!" you moan his true name like a mantra, your eyes welling with tears at the overwhelming coil of your orgasm.

your pretty moans of his name push him over the edge. his fingers are feverish on your clit, desperate to feel your pussy spasm on his cock as it empties inside of you. "let it all out, sweetheart," his moans mingle with your shameless ones, caressing your hip as you shake. "my pretty, pretty lady luck," he groans, his pace never flattering as he fucks his cum inside of you.

his cock head assaulting your sweet spot overwhelms your orgasm out of you. "k-kakavasha!" you sobs in pleasure, writhing in his grasp as you pussy creams on his cock. you are limp with pleasure, drooling as he fucks you through your orgasm.

"you look so breathtaking, cumming on my cock," he rolls your sensitive clit between his fingers, "i don't want to stop," he bends one of your legs up towards your chest, pulling out halfway to bottom out so deep again.

[keferon]

Odds of Survival Part 3

Unstoppable forces meets immovable objects.

Or Prowl finds new reasons to be concerned.

———————————————————————

While Prowl had destroyed the bombers attacking their end of the bridge, the other side had no such saving grace.

The opposite end of the sky bridge had broken off from the Commerce Tower and was now swinging downwards, creating a miles long ramp to obliteration.

There was a 4% chance Prowl could technically survive the impact. However he’d almost certainly be reduced to a sputtering spark trapped in a compacted pile of scrap that had once been his frame. Without instantaneous medical intervention, he would most certainly perish even in the event of the 4% survival chance occurring.

4% halved to 2% when Tacnet registered Jazz magnetizing his hands to Prowls frame.

Tacnet spun wildly and without traction. Whatever actions Prowl could have taken to mitigate the incoming damage was removed by Jazz’s inescapable hold. Every possible strategy terminated instantly in a flurry of error messages as Tacnet tried to factor for the impossible.

Physically, Prowls servos moved on their own, driven by some core deep coding for self preservation that had him frantically clawing at Jazz’s back for either a hand hold or escape as Tacnet spat out a single coherent plan:

(Brace For Impact)

The Praxian briefly wondered if he’d crash before they crashed.

The mechs jolted as Jazz made contact with the bridge turned ramp. A fountain of sparks spraying from his pedes as Jazz hit the bridge upright and began skating down the buckling surface.

Jazz wasn’t just passively sliding along either. Prowl felt powerful legs tense and thrusters make quick adjustments to narrowly avoid lethal splinters of braking pipes and metal sheets.

Odds of Survival 5%

Odds of Survival 6%

Prowl watched the impossible as Tacnet slowly ticked upwards. Through some stroke of insanity, Jazz was controlling their descent. Analyzing the white mechs motions, Prowl concluded they were practiced. Unbelievably, Jazz somehow had previous experience with similar circumstances.

On what Fragging planet does somebody regularly go careening down incredibly steep slopes at high speeds with only their own athleticism to keep them alive?!

Skill alone wasn’t enough however, because Jazz was slowly loosing control. As the sky bridge swung inexorably downwards, their ramp was steadily becoming steeper. Prowl could feel one of Jazz’s legs beginning to involuntarily shudder under the continued strain. The obstacles kept coming faster and faster, the visored mech barely keeping pace.

If he dropped me, Jazz has a 23% chance at saving himself.

Prowl caught sight of a chunk of bridge breaking outwards that spanned the total width of it. No getting around it. The jagged edge lifted just high enough to bisect him just below the wings. Prowl turned away.

Jazz leapt.

The deafening vibrations of metal on metal grinding suddenly stopped. An instrumental segment filled the gap.

Gravity ended their short reprieve.

This time when they collided with bridge, Prowl felt Jazz land wrong and then suddenly the sky was whipping past his optics.

Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge.

Tacnet greedily took in their current velocity, rate of rotation, and angle of the sky bridges decent to inform Prowl that Jazz and his combined weight would land on his helm.

Thank you Tacnet, I hate you.

Jazz shifted and Prowls vision went white.

Despite Tacnets certainty to the contrary, Prowl was not unconscious or dead.

ERROR, moon, ERROR. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, ERROR, bridge, rubble. Stars, moon, bridge, rubble.

They were flipping through the air again.

Jazz landed on his feet this time but couldn’t stop their rolling. Prowl felt fast painful scrapes against his servos and peds.

Stars, bridge, rubble. Stars, bridge, rubble.

Tacnet took in their velocity and rotation again. Calculating their distance to the wreckage at the end of their fall.

Impact Survival 74%

Impact location Doorwings 87%

At least his doorwings were already offlined.

By then, the two mechs were no longer bouncing, but rolling fully across the remains of the bridge. Prowl locked himself around Jazz and braced for impact.

Collision was instant and deafening.

Prowls sense of balance was rubber banding. The instant stop after what felt like vorns of spinning out of control was just as disorientating as the fall itself.

In a lapse of memory, he onlined his doorwings.

Prowl remembered why he left them offline a click too late and sucked in a vent.

Except. They were functioning. The edges stung and the tip’s were badly chipped but both sensors were fully operational.

Blunt helm trauma. He must be having a severe processor malfunction. Prowl unlocked protesting joints and looked over his shoulders at his doorwings.

They were only lightly damaged, fully functional, and only a servos width from the pile of rubble he was being held above.

A black and white arm extended past his wings, buried wrist deep in the wreckage.

Jazz still had a death grip around his waist, visor pressed into Prowls shoulder.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried. If he put his vocalizer against his audial, the sound should carry. The music played out its final notes, leaving the silence of the moon in its wake.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried a little harder, pulling at the servo still magnetized to his back, unhooking his peds to kneel on the rubble. They had fallen into the 90 degree crook of the second cylindrical extension. The bridge had come to rest at last, kicking up enough moon dust to obscure their survival from any searching quintessons. For now.

Jazz slurred something in his native language, before repeating in common, “Gimme a click. I’m gonna throw up real quick.”

Prowl flared his wings, scanning the area. It was a relatively short drop to the moons surface. Once there, Prowl could transform and carry the both of them at speed to the outpost. Clearly, Jazz had no trouble holding onto him.

Speaking of, Jazz finally, slowly began to uncurl from Prowls frame.

He looked terrible. His visor had splintered crack’s across one side, the isolated fragments independently flickering. One horn was stuck pinned against his helm, sparking where shrapnel was jammed into the gap. He was visibly wobbling, and even with an em field Prowl could tell he was badly disoriented.

Jazz stared at Prowl for a while, before looking to his hand still buried in rubble. He tried pulling it free gently and when that didn’t work, got a completely ruined and mostly toe-less ped braced next to it and yanked

Jazz’s hand came free. At the same time something important looking snapped and fell out of his shoulder. The limb going limp.

Prowl didn’t have the bandwidth to process that at the moment.

Instead, he plucked up the chunk of shoulder into sub space. Tacking that onto the growing list of injuries they’d both needed tending to.

Cautiously, Prowl reached up to gingerly touch the back of his helm, fully expecting to feel exposed and crushed circuitry. Instead, he felt several dents, aligned in parallel. Very tender, but most certainly not as damaged as it should have been.

How?

Tacnet answered by mapping the contours of the dents, drawing Prowls optics to the back of Jazz’s obliterated servo.

The remains of the sky bridge shuttered.

Odds of Survival 45%

Prowl got Jazz’s attention and began pulling him towards the ledge they’d need to descend. Effectively deaf, probably blind, down an arm and forced to walk on two severely injured peds, Prowl only felt some relief when he finally wrangled Jazz to rest on top of his alt form.

Watching him struggle down the ledge was utterly disturbing to watch. Jazz limped along as if he was completely desensitized to pain, behaving as if he was more annoyed by his injuries than agonized.

Package secured, Prowl gunned it for the outpost. Even injured, he trusted Jazz to stay magnetized to his frame with whatever he had left to hold on with.

Out of the dust cloud, Prowl was intimately aware of how exposed they’d be. Confident he wouldn’t loose Jazz, Prowl focused entirely on plotting the most efficient route to the outpost.

The moment it came into view, Prowl pushed his engine past the redline as he registered sniper shots firing just past and above them.

Pursuing quintesson wreckers 78%.

Sure enough, a dead wrecker crashed into the moon dirt a short distance to their left.

Prowl managed a drifting slide past the out post gates, losing exactly enough momentum to match the speed of a running mech, then transformed back to root mode in the same maneuver. An exceedingly useful technique when chasing criminals and a damn effective way to shoulder someone on your roof through a door in the most efficient manner possible.

[Bluestreak, I’ve made it inside the outpost. I have an injured mech with me.]

[Heya Prowl! I saw you tearing it up out there with your backpack buddy! I’ve got a few more stragglers to take care of but you’re welcome to use the medic case I’ve got with me in here. I’ll ping the door for you.]

The primary medkit should be in the outpost storage closet. That is unless Bluestreak pulled it into his snipers nest to tend to his own injuries (22%). Or because Bluestreak pulled it there to force Prowl to bring his “backpack buddy” within conversational distance (92%).

He felt a tap at his shoulder, “Are we safe here?” Jazz yelled in the thin atmosphere. Visor flickering worse than before and visibly making an effort to stay balanced upright on eviscerated peds.

Priorities.

Prowl ignored his annoyance. He hit the trigger to pressurize the airlock and pulled Jazz’s good arm over his shoulders to stabilize the other mech. He had easily a dozen lines of questioning queued up in the backlog of his processor, every single one tagged with Jazz as the subject line. As much as Prowl itched to piece together the puzzle of why he was “Like that.” It’d have to wait until they were both in more stable condition. At least now his vents could actually do something to start cooling his overstressed processor.

“For now. We are somewhat safe.”

Prowl muttered quietly in addition, “Against all odds.”

———————————————————————

Bluestreak, seeing Prowl with some very obvious hand prints and very specific paint scratches: “What in the pit did he do to you?”

Bluestreak, seeing Jazz walk in after him with a broken arm, busted horn and an utterly torn up paint job across his back: “What in the pit did YOU do to him?!”

Either one or two parts left, next up Jazz pov.

-SSTP

OH HELL SSTP LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND REALQUICK THIS IS A FIVE STAR MEAL FOR MY SOUL FKKDJFG I JUST. I NEVER FUCKING GET TIRED OF THE WAY YOU WRITE I know I'm probably repeating myself at this point BUT IT'S JUST WHAT MY TRUTH LOOKS LIKE OKAY. EVERY TIME I SEE AN ASK FROM YOU AND START READING IT I GO "Oh M A N the author cooked so hard they should've made Ratatouille 2 about this way of placing words."

[rhaeheartzsquirrelz]

Sea Salt Cigarettes

Wife Sevika x Female Wife Reader (Fluff + Modern AU)

Not Proofread!! MEN DNI!!

Summary: On a honeymoon at the beach, you and your wife smoke a cigarette on the balcony of your suit.

Contains: Sexual tension, suggestive topics, and Sevika having both her arms.

A/N: Writers block is a reallll thing, but IM BACKKK!!

` 𓂃 ོ𓂃 `

Early mornings on the beach were beautiful.

The cool, summer breeze blew past you and your wife as the two of you looked out over to the sea from the balcony of your suit. The water was still and peaceful, so was the rest of the resort. You enjoyed the solitude with Sevika, for there were no crying children, no men, and not a single soul on the soft sand. The beach was bare and gorgeous.

Not to mention just how happy you were.

It had been a long night after your wedding, you knew it’d be. Getting your back blown was exactly what you’d expected, and you had to beg for her, your wife, to soften up, for that woman was going to tear your pussy open.

Staying up all night was a blast, really, and that’s what led you to lean against the railings of the balcony to smoke a cigarette. Sevika didn’t let you use your hands, she held the joint inbetween her fingers and did it for you. You didn’t mind, less work on your part, and you got to watch as the sun rose and shone it’s orange light onto the glistening, blue water.

You were a disheveled mess and were sure if anyone saw you they’d think you were a ghost. But even with your hair roughened up, mascara and lipstick smudged, tanktop thrown on without a bra, Sevika thought you looked stunning. Not to mention your stained shorts. Your wife, however, looked neat. She had on her usual wife beater, the only thing she’ll be beating is your pussy, and her casual shorts; the two fabrics covered her toned and muscular body. Her hair was out and about, flowing with the soft breeze that flew past the two of you.

She wrapped an arm around you as she held the cigarette to your mouth for you to pull the air into your lungs. Your wife only smiled before running her big fingers through your hair to even it out. “You alright?” She murmured, voice soft and gentle as she pulled closer and pressed a kiss on your head. “Yeah, why?.. Is it my makeup?” You, knowing her answer, gave her a playful smile. The smoke left you to get carried away by the wind. “Yes and no. You’re less chatty than usual..”

“True that.” You were “less chatty,” only because of the ache in your back, all that arching had came to bite, and the sore in your knees; which would give out if you tried moving too swiftly.

Your wife pressed another kiss on your head before turning her attention onto the cigarette in her hand. You follow suit and look down at the hickeys on your ankle, the two of you really went all out. There was a moment of comforting silence, the only things breaking it were the seagulls flying by and the waves crashing onto the shore.

“I thought honeymoons were for couples trying to get pregnant.” You, breaking the silence, playfully whisper out and elbow Sevika. “You’d be pregnant by now if I had a third leg.” She returned, her hand moving to pull you flush against her side. “Oh, like hell it’d be that big.” Your words were chuckled out as you leaned forward to take another inhale of the joint.

It would be big. Probably too big for you to handle.

Your wife only scoffed and turned her head to you. “It would, actually. That’s why I wasn’t given one, I’d be unstoppable.” You groan and cringe at her retort before blowing the smoke in her face for her to smile at. “Watch it, doll. I can have you right back on that bed again.”

Again, she was right, one wrong word and she’d throw you over her shoulder and fuck the audacity out of you.

“Yeah, alright..” you stare out at the sea, it was a sight you couldn’t get enough of. The sun had just come up and the sky was painted with oranges and reds. “Anyways..” your wife gave your waist a pat, “my earlier question; you okay?”

“My back hurts.” You answer, and, almost immediately, Sevika’s large hand traveled to your lower back to rub soothing motions on it. “Figured. Thought you’d break it on the bed earlier.” She teased, leaning closer to press a series of kisses on your head. “You’re gonna smother me with those,” “you don’t seem to mind.” She had you there. “I don’t. I’m just surprised you’re still this eager.”

You’d think Sevika would be satisfied with the amount of sex the two of you had, satisfied with the amount of different positions and the number of orgasms the two of you had shared, but no. The woman could go for more.

She flashed you an amusement smile all the while extinguishing the cigarette and turning to face you completely. “Eager? How could I not be?” Her tone full of fondness, she tilted her head. “I’m married to the prettiest woman alive, you expect me to be.. what? Casual?” With a huff of a chuckle, Sevika pulled you flush against her muscular chest and leaned down to close the distance between your lips and hers.

Her dark lips pecked a kiss onto yours and she pulled back, though she was still a breath away. “I.. really.. want you in that bed again..”

Like hell you’d say no to that.

“You have my permission to break my back.” You cup her face and let her kiss you towards the bed; where she’d, again, fuck you sore.

Your spine was screwed. Completely and utterly fucked, just like you were.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

[nina-ya]

you get hurt and luffy's mind flashes back to a certain moment in marineford

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

All Luffy could feel was cold, a numbing frost that clawed its way into his very bones, turning his entire being into ice.

In the blink of an eye you were standing strong fighting alongside him, and the next, you were stumbling towards him, hands clutching at your abdomen, fingers trembling as they tried- and failed- to dam the blood blooming between your fingers like cursed roses.

Blood.  So much blood.  Too much blood. 

The color was obscene, staining his world in crimson streaks that ran like rivers of guilt. His body froze, rigid as the shadow of death stretched its skeletal hand over his heart and ripped open the scar that lay there. And then his mind fractured. The present unraveled, dragging him back to that battlefield of loss, to the smoke-filled air and the weight of Ace in his arms. 

It was happening again. 

His trembling hands grasped at you, desperate to pull him out of the impending storm, but his grip was clumsy and weak against the memories that swallowed him whole. He couldn’t see you anymore- only Ace. Ace’s blood. Ace’s voice whispering final words. Ace’s fading heartbeat slipping through his fingers like grains of sand that he couldn’t hold onto. 

You saw it in his eyes; wide and glassy as if gazing into the abyss. He wasn’t there. Not with you. His soul had been dragged backward, shackled into a nightmare that he couldn’t escape. The terror etched into his features wasn’t for you. It was for someone he had already lost. 

“Luffy,” you whispered, voice cracking with pain. He didn’t respond, the sound lost to the screaming silence in his mind. “Luffy!” you tried again, louder this time, each word a lifeline thrown desperately in hopes of helping you both. 

Desperation clawed at you, drowning out whatever else you were feeling at that moment. Your hand, slicked with your own blood, reached for his face. The crimson smeared across his cheek was a cruel mimicry of the mark of a battle that neither of you had won. Your fingers pressed against his skin, forcing his gaze to meet yours and you saw the distant agony in his eyes- the ghosts of a past he couldn’t let go of. 

“This isn’t the same,” you rasped, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. “The pain in your chest made it hard to focus, but you pushed forward. “I’m still breathing. Luffy, Look at me!” 

For a single excruciating moment, he didn’t. He couldn't. But then your voice cut through the haze, the pain-laden scream of his name shattering the chains of memories past. His eyes flickered, frantic and wild as the present came rushing back. 

You. 

His chest heaved with a desperate breath as he clung to you, trembling hands pressing against the wound in a distressed attempt to hold you together. Blood seeped between his fingers, the heat of it searing his skin as though the very weight of your life was right beneath his fingertips. Tears began to fall, hot and unstoppable, carving rivers down his cheeks and landing on your face in tremoring droplets.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, his voice cracking under the weight of dozens of emotions attacking him on all fronts. “I’m so sorry. I won’t let you go. Please, I can’t lose you too.”

Each word was a plea filled with raw guilt and fear. His body trembled with each sob, the sound hurting you more than any physical wound could ever. 

You wanted to comfort him. To tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the pain was dragging you into a haze of blurred edges and throbbing fire. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, but even in that haze, you knew- despite the agony in his heart, he would never let you go. 

Luffy couldn’t save Ace. But this time, he would save you.

[princesseilish]

QUIET GRIEF

Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: heavy angst, like just fully coated angst

Synopsis: Billie lost the love of her life but, Rosie lost her mommy

A/N: my last draft, yay mee !!

It had only been a month since Y/N’s sudden passing. A month that felt like years. Billie’s world had shattered into a million pieces, and the weight of that loss was something she still couldn’t comprehend. The love of her life, gone. Just like that. And now, she had to navigate this new life as a single mother to Rosie, their bright, beautiful little girl.

Billie postponed her tour—there was no question about it. Music was important, yes, but nothing was more important than being there for Rosie. She didn’t even know how to grieve properly. She couldn’t. Not while Rosie still needed her, needed her strength, even when Billie didn’t have any of her own to give.

In the first few days, everything felt like a blur. The funeral, the calls, the arrangements. And then the silence. The empty space where Y/N’s laughter and presence used to be. Rosie had been clinging to her mother since the moment they told her the news. The little girl had barely left Billie’s side, as if she couldn’t process it either.

But as the days dragged on, things started to settle into a new normal. A quiet one.

There were nights, though, when sleep wouldn’t come. Billie would lie awake, the empty side of the bed beside her mocking her. And Rosie—Rosie would often sneak into Billie’s room, needing to be close. Sometimes, they’d sit in the living room, trying to distract themselves with a movie, but it never worked. The silence in the house was too loud. They both missed Y/N. They missed her more than words could express.

One night, the silence was especially heavy. Rosie was sitting next to Billie on the couch, her tiny body curled up against her mother’s side. The TV flickered quietly in the background, some animated movie that neither of them was really paying attention to.

“I miss… I miss Mommy,” Rosie’s small voice broke the quiet, her words more fragile than she knew.

Billie’s heart cracked. Her little girl was still so young, and yet she was carrying so much weight. It was unfair. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Billie pulled Rosie closer, wrapping her arms around her tight. She didn’t have the words to fix this. She didn’t know how to make it better. But she had to be there. For Rosie. Because this little girl was everything Y/N had wanted. Everything they both had wanted. And now, Billie would have to fulfill that tsunami sized hole y/n left in Rosie and her hearts, all while still trying to heal from the brokenness inside.

“I miss her too, baby,” Billie whispered, pressing a kiss into Rosie’s hair, trying to steady her breath. She didn’t want Rosie to see her break. But the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable.

“I want her back,” Rosie whispered, her voice cracking as she nestled closer into Billie’s chest.

“I know, sweetheart,” Billie said, her voice shaking. She ran her fingers through Rosie’s hair, trying to find some comfort in the action. Trying to find a way to reassure her that it would be okay, even though she didn’t believe it herself. “I want her back too.”

The house was silent except for the soft sound of Billie’s voice and the occasional sniffle from Rosie. They didn’t speak for a while. There was nothing left to say. What could you say to a child who had lost her mother, who didn’t understand why this had happened? What could you say to yourself when you couldn’t even understand it?

Billie watched as Rosie’s eyes fluttered, the exhaustion from the day catching up with her. Slowly, the little girl drifted off to sleep in her arms, her tiny breath steady and peaceful against Billie’s chest. Billie wasn’t sure how long she sat there, just holding her daughter, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Y/N’s presence in their home until now. There had always been so much noise, so much love. Now, there was only silence.

Billie wanted to scream. She wanted to ask why. But the house was too quiet, too still. Rosie shifted in her sleep, her little hands clutching at Billie’s shirt, and Billie fought to hold back more tears. She had to be strong. For Rosie. For Y/N. She couldn’t fall apart in front of her daughter.

“I love you, Bug,” Billie whispered into the stillness of the night, even though Rosie was already asleep. “I’ll always love you.”

And as Billie sat there, the weight of grief on her shoulders, she knew that the pain would never go away. But in the quiet of the night, with Rosie in her arms, she promised herself one thing: she would keep going. She would keep fighting for Rosie. For Y/N. For their family.

The nights might be long, and the silence may never feel the same, but Billie wasn’t alone. She had Rosie. And somehow, that had to be enough.

[baocean]

piss off your parents

chapter thirty four - still pogue trash

two months later…

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her phone

your phone buzzes the second you hit the bed, kicking off your shoes and reaching for the blanket draped over your desk chair.

you've had three classes today, plus two hours of studying, and a club meeting mixed in. you're exhausted.

when you see jj's name on your screen, you smile. his conversations were always your favorite way to end a night, anyways.

when you swipe up into the conversation, your smile drops.

'dont freak out but im outside your dorm rn'

your heart races, your mind goes blank. and then, absolute chaos.

youre scrambling for your keys, nearly knocking over a laundry basket and some things off your desk in the process. your pulse is in your throat, your smile tugging wide and unstoppable.

but before you rush out, something catches your eye. taped to the middle of your bulletin board is a piece of paper, edges curled, ink smudged a little at the corner.

still pogue trash, still yours. you're gonna do great. — love, jj

it’s the note he had slipped into your things before you left, a small piece of him to keep with you when you unpacked your dorm room.

you stop. it hits you kind of hard. but youre smiling again because right now, youre at your dream college, happier than ever. and in just a few seconds, you're going to see the boy you're so deeply in love with.

the distance was hard, especially for jj. but between the facetimes and texts and hand written notes he would send you in handwriting so poor you could only laugh, there was never a moment you thought you wouldnt make it.

your phone buzzed again and youre snapped back into reality. with your id and keys to your dorm in hand, you go bounding down two flights of stairs to the lobby of your dorm.

the doors of the dorm swing open, and for a brief moment, everything around you blurs. the world outside is bathed in the warm amber glow of the streetlights, and the air is thick with the scent of rain.

you step onto the sidewalk, the chill of the evening air brushing against your skin, and you stop, suddenly aware of how quiet everything feels. and then, you see him.

he's leaning against his truck, hood pulled up over his messy blond hair, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn zip-up. it's barely enough to ward off the chill of october, but he’s here. jj maybank. the boy you’ve spent the past two months missing. the boy you've spent the last four loving.

“jj!” it comes out breathlessly, an exhale of laughter mixed with disbelief. he looks up just as you reach him, and before he can say anything, you’re crashing into him, arms going around his neck, pressing into the warmth of his body like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

"hey, bunny." he murmurs into your shoulder, turning his head to press a single kiss to your neck.

your hands move instinctively to his face, grabbing his chin to meet your eyeline. you trace the lines of his features like you’ve missed them more than you could ever explain. and then you kiss him.

when he pulls back, he looks at you with that familiar, crooked grin, eyes soft but full of something undeniable.

"you know," he says, accompnied with a grin, "i thought i could play it cool, wait 'til you came back... but honestly? i was dying to see you. couldn't hold out another minute."

you smile, fingertips brushing his jaw. “you never were very good at playing it cool, anyway.”

jj laughs under his breath, that familiar, boyish sound that makes your chest ache. “not when it comes to you, no.”

he kisses you again, quick, full of something desperate and lovely. the kind of kiss that makes the world go silent, leaving only the certainty that fills your chest. this. him. forever.

and somewhere, miles away, your parents are probably pissed about this.

perfect.

end.

masterlist

note from the author - omg im crying. thank you so much for staying along for the ride, there's enough love in my heart for you to fill oceans. i hope you guys enjoyed this book and the characters as much as i did writing them 🥲🥲

taglist - @dr3amgrlll / @murdockcastleslut /  @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 /  @abigailovesz / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily /  @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias / @4jjsbank / @blythee1

[matt-murdockk]

I can fix him (no really I can)

They shake their heads saying, "God help her" When I tell them he's my man But your good Lord doesn't need to lift a finger I can fix him, no, really I can And only I can

college!matt murdock x fem!reader | fluff— a whole lotta fluff | sorta friends to lovers? | fic from reader's pov, then a pov switch to third person

Matt Murdock famously doesn't stick around for longer than a month, tops. You were determined to change that.

Pre-law golden boy with an aura that exudes confidence, Matt was the person everyone either wanted to be, or wanted to be with. He knew that, and his faux modesty only made it worse for the masses desperate to get a piece of him. Am I one of—? Please, I'd fuck a tree before I fuck Matt Murdock. Not that I hate him or anything. I'm just not on the bed anyone with abs and a personality bandwagon. Good for him for all that attention he's getting, but my ties with him start and end in class. He's just a classmate.

Okay, maybe not just a classmate.

We share notes. Sometimes. Only when he forgets his, which is rare, because apparently being hot and capable is a combo this man insists on wielding like a goddamn weapon. Once, he offered to buy me coffee as a thank you and I made the mistake of saying yes. We ended up talking for an hour. One hour. And somehow I left that conversation knowing his middle name, his favourite diner his dad used to take him to, and exactly what kind of espresso he drinks before a big exam.

It was fine. It’s fine. People have conversations all the time. I’m not spiraling.

We became friends. Real ones. That was the problem.

Because here’s the thing: Matt Murdock is a disaster.

Not on paper. No— on paper, he’s perfect. He’s top of the class, charming when he wants to be, a little cocky, but in a way that makes you laugh instead of wanting to push him down the stairs.

But spend enough time around him and you start to notice things.

Like how he never lets anyone get close. Like how he flirts with half the campus but every single one of his flings ends in vague silence and awkward glances the next day. Like how he knows exactly how to listen to someone but refuses to let anyone hear him.

It’s not a red flag. It’s a goddamn red parade.

So of course I did what any completely normal person with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

I caught feelings for that bastard.

Of course, it's the emotionally unavailable mess with enough red flags to decorate a fucking carnival that catches my attention. Just my goddamn luck.

And, in a moment of sheer lunacy, decided I could fix him.

No really, I could. Just needed time. And patience. And maybe a crowbar for emotional extraction. Whatever. I’ve done harder things. If I can survive Mr Vasquez's class, I can survive whatever this is.

I just have to make sure he never finds out I like him. And also make him like me back. And maybe heal years of trust issues in the process.

Easy, right?

Well, it wasn’t.

Because what started as some deranged attempt to break into the fortress that is Matt Murdock turned into something else entirely. We became friends. Real friends. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about fixing him and started being about just… being there.

And God help me, I think he needed that more than anything.

It wasn’t just me and Matt anymore, either. Foggy came into the picture fast— bright-eyed, effortlessly funny, with an incredible ability to sniff out bullshit in under five seconds. The three of us? Unstoppable. Study sessions, lunch breaks, late-night coffee runs before an exam. They were my people.

So yeah. The plan backfired. Spectacularly. But I had friends for life now, so I couldn’t exactly call it a failure.

It didn’t mean it stopped hurting, though.

Matt’s life… it wasn’t easy. I could see it in the way he shut down when he was overwhelmed, how he buried himself in work instead of letting anyone in. Some nights he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, but he’d still crack a joke just to make Foggy laugh.

And when he was with other women— when he flirted like it was a language only he spoke— it hurt. Even when I told myself I didn’t have a right to feel that way. He wasn’t mine. I made sure of that.

I’d smile through it. Tease him, even. Make some stupid quip about his tragic taste in women and let the ache settle where no one could see it.

Except Foggy noticed.

He always does.

One afternoon— study session turned snack break in our usual booth— Foggy caught me staring too long. Matt was across the room talking to a girl from one of our electives, charming smile and all.

“You okay?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow.

I blinked. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You sure? Because that definitely wasn’t your ‘fine’ face. That was your ‘I’m swallowing feelings and pretending to be emotionally stable’ face.”

I sighed, resting my chin on my palm. “He’s not doing anything wrong.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I turned to him. “Foggy, I’m not gonna pull a dramatic ‘what are we’ in the middle of a group project. Matt may be a lot of things, but you really cannot force him to be something he doesn’t want to be.”

Foggy frowned. “But do you think he doesn’t want—?”

“Matt would probably suck at relationships,” I said, more tired than bitter. “Like, actual long-term ones. He likes the chase, he likes the moment. And that’s fine. He’s allowed to live how he wants. I just… I’m happy being his friend. Genuinely. Give it time. I’ll get over it.”

Foggy was quiet for a second. “That was… wildly mature.”

“Yeah well, personal growth is a bitch.”

He grinned. “Still. If it helps, he’s not as smooth as he thinks.”

I snorted. “No, but he is absurdly pretty. That makes up for a lot.”

We let the topic die after that. I figured that was the end of it.

I didn’t know Matt had heard.

—————————————————————————————————

Third Person POV

Matt had only come back for his notebook.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He hadn’t meant to hear that.

But he had.

He stopped just shy of the hallway corner, heart thudding loud in his chest. The way her voice dropped when she said “I’ll get over it.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

She thought he’d be a bad boyfriend.

Worse— she didn’t even think he was worth trying.

And Matt knew— he knew— he hadn’t been great. He had a lot on his plate, a whole goddamn feast of mess, but he never once thought she saw him like that. Not undeserving.

She didn’t know he stayed up wondering what it’d feel like to kiss her. For real. Without laughing it off or playing it cool. She didn’t know how often his fingers hovered near hers and didn’t reach. How badly he wanted to.

But if she thought he wasn’t capable of it? Of loving her the way she deserved?

He had to change that.

Not just for her. For him. For the version of himself he wanted to be—the kind that could love someone, openly and fully, without messing it up.

“Jesus,” Foggy muttered when he saw Matt later that night. “You look like you saw a ghost. Or rather... felt a ghost? I don't know, man.”

“I heard something,” Matt said, collapsing onto his bed, voice low.

“Define ‘something.’”

“(Y/N) said I’d be a bad boyfriend.”

Foggy blinked. “Okay. Context?”

Matt dragged a hand over his face. “She was talking to you. In the booth. Earlier.”

Foggy raised his brows. “You, uh, you were there?”

“I forgot my notebook.”

Foggy held up his hands. “Alright, okay. First off— she didn’t say you’d be a bad boyfriend. She said you’d probably suck at steady relationships. Big difference.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, because you’ve never tried a steady relationship. Which is kind of the point.”

Matt groaned. “I need to fix this.”

Foggy stared. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to walk me through your version of fixing this.”

Matt sat up. “I’m gonna prove her wrong.”

Foggy blinked. “You’re gonna… ask her out?”

“No,” Matt said quickly. “I mean— yes. Eventually. But first I need to become the kind of guy she thinks could be a good boyfriend. You know. Change her mind.”

Foggy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ. Just fuck already.”

Matt frowned. “What?”

Foggy threw his hands in the air. “You like her. She likes you. I have seen you two. Why do you think you want her to stay longer after we're done studying? Why do you think you linger? Why do you think you bring her coffee and save her a seat and remember her deadlines better than your own?”

Matt opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“She fell first, you fell harder,” Foggy said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know the drill, man.”

Matt stared.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. My brother in Christ, you’re in love.”

Matt exhaled.

“…Shit.”

——————————————————————————————————

Matt didn’t sleep that night.

He lay awake, headphones in, a lecture playing that he didn’t hear, the words echoing over and over again in his head.

“She fell first.”

“You fell harder.”

He didn’t even realize when it happened. Somewhere between her snorting at his awful Latin puns and handing him half her sandwich because he forgot to eat again— he’d fallen. And now she thought he was incapable of loving her the way she deserved.

It felt like a punch to the chest.

But instead of wallowing, he decided to do something.

Starting now.

The next morning, Matt showed up to your apartment with coffee. Your exact order. No text beforehand. No heads-up.

You opened the door in pajama shorts and a hoodie, one sock on and a pen still tucked behind your ear.

“Matt?”

He held up the coffee like it was a peace offering. “You mentioned your 9 a.m. was with Vasquez today. I figured you’d need a hit of caffeine and a minor miracle.”

You blinked. “…That’s weirdly thoughtful of you.”

He smiled. “I’ve been working on that.”

And then he left. Just like that.

No flirting. No lingering.

Just… left.

You stared after him, cup in hand, completely thrown.

It didn’t stop there.

Matt started walking you to class. All the time.

Not just when you happened to be heading the same direction. On purpose.

He’d show up at your building with some excuse— “I needed air,” or “Foggy wasn’t ready yet”— and fall into step beside you like it was routine.

Then came the favors. Printing your notes when the Wi-Fi was down. Fixing the broken strap on your bag. Letting you drag him to that awful late-night diner when you were too wired to sleep.

You didn’t get it.

This wasn’t how Matt Murdock operated.

Matt Murdock flirted, ghosted, and moved on.

This? This was effort.

It was also torture.

Because the more he did it, the more you started to hope. Stupid, dangerous hope. Maybe he did like you. Maybe this wasn’t one-sided after all.

But every time you thought about asking, about saying something— he’d flash that same unreadable smile and change the subject.

So you kept your mouth shut. Kept watching. Waiting.

Hoping.

Meanwhile, Foggy was losing his mind.

“You can’t just— Matt, you cannot boyfriend her without telling her.”

Matt frowned, folding his arms. “I thought this was the part where I prove myself.”

“To who? To her? She already likes you. You’re not proving anything except that you’re allergic to communication.”

“I’m building a foundation.”

Foggy looked pained. “You’re building a bad sitcom plot. Just tell her.”

Matt hesitated. “She said she didn’t want that. She said she’d get over me.”

Foggy sighed so hard, his soul probably left his body.

“Matt. Listen to me. She said that because she didn’t think she could have you. You have ghosted every girl before her, remember?”

Matt winced. “Not every—”

“Every.”

“…Fair.”

Foggy ran a hand down his face. “You’re gonna lose her if you don’t speak up.”

Matt didn’t respond.

Because deep down, he knew it was true.

——————————————————————————————————

It started with Foggy texting you.

Which was already suspicious, because Foggy never texted first unless Matt was—

foggy: hey can you swing by the quad after class?

foggy: matt’s planning something

foggy: i’m scared :,)

Now, when someone like Foggy— sweet, unshakeable, usually-down-for-anything Foggy— is scared, you listen. You changed your route and headed toward the quad.

And promptly stopped dead in your tracks.

Because what the hell were you looking at.

Matt Murdock stood on a bench.

On a goddamn bench. In broad daylight. Holding what looked like a beat-up portable speaker above his head like he was channelling John Cusack in Say Anything.

Button-down rolled to the elbows. Hair tousled like it’d been run through about seven too many times. Foggy was standing off to the side looking like he was actively regretting every life decision that brought him here.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “Oh no.”

A group of students was already watching, phones half-raised. Matt didn’t seem to care.

You watched, frozen, as he raised a hand and cleared his throat. Actually cleared his throat. Like he was about to deliver a valedictorian speech. You saw Foggy mutter don’t do it, like a prayer.

Matt did it anyway.

“I, uh… I know this is weird,” he began, voice carrying over the quad, “but I have something to say. Something important.”

The crowd murmured. A few giggles. One guy yelled “Murdock, you proposing?” which earned a sharp shut up from someone else. Foggy, probably.

Matt ignored it. His face was dead serious. “There’s someone I’ve been an idiot about. Someone smart and stubborn and too good to waste time on someone like me. But she did anyway. She does. And if she’s here—” his head turned slightly “— I want her to know I’m sorry. And that I like her. A lot.”

You blinked.

Foggy made frantic eye contact with you from the sidelines and mouthed stop him.

But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Matt continued. “I was scared, okay? I thought I’d ruin it. Ruin her. But then I realized I’d rather screw up trying to be with her than let her go without even trying. So, (Y/N),” he called, voice way too confident for a man committing this level of social suicide. “This one’s for you.”

A soft click, followed by the unmistakable synthy intro of Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden.

Savage. Fucking. Garden.

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Someone nearby went “What is happening?”

Matt? he looked hopeful.

And you— stupid, stunned, wildly endeared— were just about to take a step forward when—

Cue the sprinkler system turning on.

Every. Single. Sprinkler.

They sputtered, then blasted to life across the quad like a synchronized ambush. A collective scream rose as people scrambled away, books and phones held over heads.

Matt? Got hit square in the chest, earning a strained Jesus from him.

Foggy somewhere in the periphery muttering “I told him” like a man in mourning.

You? Soaked. Wide-eyed. Laughing.

You actually had to cover your mouth, you were laughing so hard.

Matt stepped down, water dripping from his sleeves. He looked around like he was being personally smitten by the gods. It was like the universe waited for maximum dramatic tension just to drop the punchline.

The song cut out with a strangled sputter as the speaker died a wet, heroic death. Students screamed. Matt cursed under his breath as he was immediately soaked. Foggy, who had clearly seen this coming, was already power-walking toward the nearest tree, muttering “I’m too pretty for this.”

You stood there in shock as water poured down on everyone.

And then— you burst out laughing.

You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it. You doubled over, drenched, laughing so hard it echoed louder than the chaos around you.

Matt stood on the bench, blinking water from his lashes, the speaker dangling uselessly from one hand. He looked like a wet, confused puppy. A hot wet confused puppy. Weird analogy. But still.

You pushed your hair from your eyes and walked over, completely soaked.

“This was your grand romantic gesture?” you asked between giggles.

He ran a hand down his face, sopping. “It was supposed to be better.”

You looked up at him, the pathetic speaker still crackling faintly in his grip. “It was absolutely ridiculous.”

A pause.

You smiled. “It was perfect.”

Foggy squelched up behind you both. “Okay, you’ve both had your romcom moment, can I go home now? My socks are... squishy.”

Matt turned to him, still trying to catch his breath. “Thanks for… whatever part you played in this.”

“I want that thank you in writing,” Foggy muttered. “And a refund for emotional distress.”

You turned back to Matt.

“Do I get to keep the boombox?”

He grinned. “It’s mostly water now. But sure.”

You took a slow step closer. “So… boyfriend material yet?”

He reached out— careful, gentle— and brushed a piece of wet hair behind your ear. “Getting there.”

And then you kissed him.

In the middle of the quad. Soaked to the bone. Surrounded by students who definitely started applauding and whistling, because of course they did.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Foggy just shook his head.

“Seriously. I hate you both.”

You smiled at him. “Love you too, Fog.”

And Matt?

Well, he didn’t run.

Not this time.

a/n: alright so the fic took a detour from what i had originally planned, it was going to be angst, reader was going to be fwb with matt, and well it's a whole thing, a lot of changes happened but i didn't change the title because well i got attached. i know it doesn't really make sense now with how the story turned out, but i'm leaving it in the story anyway, hope you liked it!

[oceansblvds]

tunnel vision — seven ; coriolanus snow

MASTERLIST

pairing ; king!coriolanus snow x debutante!reader

words ; 3.2k

about ; in the glittering world of panem high society, you were raised to be perfect — the prized daughter of a powerful family. your family was prepared to make the match of the season. but when king coriolanus snow arrives unexpectedly, announcing his intention to marry, everything changes.

warning(s) ; eventual smut, angst, courting (bridgerton style), eventual fluff.

chapter specifics: century specific misogyny, smut, fingering (fem receiving), p in v sex, lewd conversations, flirting, teasing, confessions.

authors note ; :3 lol

Although not a written custom, it was typical of a wife of high society to hold a ball for the season to showcase their new marriage and in turn, offer a beacon for the other unwed ladies to show them that marriage can be a happy, achievable thing. It was not mandatory, but as a lady, especially the new Queen, it was expected. The palace staff began making arrangements before you gave your assent, gowns commissioned, invitations dispatched.

You were to be the star of the evening, no one would know the truth that you lay awake at night with his hands still ghosting over your skin. You smiled, chose the flowers, practiced your curtsies. The grand ballroom was alight with gold chandeliers glittering like constellations overhead. A string quartet played in the corner. You peered into the giant ballroom through the cracks of the door, making sure that everything looked to be in order. It was customary for guests to arrive first and for the couple to make their debut once everyone was present. It seemed as though everyone was present except your husband, who seemed to be dealing with some last minute business. 

You exhaled slowly and stepped back from the door, smoothing your gloved hands down the front of your dark ivory colored gown. The fabric shimmered with touches of silver thorns and pale pearls, all in the shape of white roses. Your hair had been swept up in a twist, half-up half-down, pinned with diamond stars. A crown sat atop your head, a whisper of monarchy in its golden gleam. 

You resisted the urge to pace, to fidget. You weren’t a desperate bride. But just as the thought solidified in your spine, the door behind you opened. 

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” his voice drawled from behind you. 

Coriolanus stood just inside the doorway, dressed in a deep, blood red maroon coat. The color was brushed in black accents, a white rose pinned to his lapel. His curls stood strong against the crown on top of his head's urge to tame them. His gloves were still in his hands. And his eyes dragged over you, saying nothing for a long moment, only looked. 

“You are staring,” you said. 

“I am,” he agreed. 

He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. 

“You look like a man about to give a toast at a funeral,” you said carefully, lips curving in a light smirk. 

His mouth twitched. “Fitting. It is the death of your maidenhood season, after all. The Capitol must mourn.” 

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.” 

Coriolanus drew back, sliding your arm through his with the ease of ownership or of ceremony. “Shall we?” He asked. You nodded once, holding onto his arm as you walked to the entrance of the ballroom, where you could hear all of your guests chattering away. Just beyond the gilded doors, two guards stood at attention. The herald stood between them, giving a small, respectful bow. 

Then his voice rang out across the ballroom: 

“Their Majesties, King Coriolanus Snow and his new bride, the Queen.” 

The grand doors opened and the room felt utterly silent. 

At the top of the marble staircase, you stood poised at the Coriolanus’ side. You were the picture that they had all waited for. Royal and glorious. Your gown shimmed like starlight, his hand rested lightly over yours. Together, you looked unstoppable. A single nod from Coriolanus and the two of you descended the stairs. The second your slipper fell against the next stair, the applause began. When you looked out against the crowd, you could see all the girls that you had grown up with, all of them fawning over you and your match to the King. Looking even farther, you could see your family at the edge of the room. Your mother gave you a smile, your father whispering to some other men. You reached the bottom of the staircase and the crowd parted like silk. 

A pathway opened before you, the orchestra swelled. Coriolanus turned to you with a practiced smile, refined and hollow in the way that only he could manage. He bowed, leading you to the empty dance floor as you could hear multiple women fawn. You dipped into a curtsy, your lashes lowered, your face serene. And then he pulled you into him, his gloved hand pressed at your waist, the other clasping yours. 

You began to waltz. One step. Another. 

“You almost look like you are enjoying yourself,” he said, voice low against your ear as he pulled you closer. “You only ever look this happy when I’m in between your legs.”

Your heel nearly slipped. He felt it, of course he did. The arm that was wrapped around your waist tightened with dark satisfaction, drawing you in until there was barely an inch between you. Your nails dug just slightly into the fine material of his coat. “Careful,” you whispered. “People may think you’re obsessed with me.” 

“They’d be right.” 

He spun you again, more slower and indulgent, as if giving the crowd time to watch every movement. It had been a while of watching, and soon enough, more couples started to enter the floor and start dancing beside you. A few more minutes passed and the final note of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, the applause swelling through the room. Some couples left the floor to go and get refreshments or engage in conversation, while others went back to dancing to the next song. 

Coriolanus and you made it to the edge of the dancefloor, pressing a faint kiss to your gloved knuckles. Your arm rested lightly in his, the picture of new wedded bliss. 

“Darling.” 

Your mother. 

She emerged from the edge of the floor like a ghost from your old life, her gown a soft lilac color. Her eyes swept over you. She stepped close and kissed your cheek, her gloved hand lingering at your arm. You smiled with more grace. 

Your mother’s gaze flicked over to Coriolanus. “Your Majesty.” 

“Call me Coriolanus,” he offered. “After all, we’re family now.” 

Your father turned from his conversation, nodding to you and grabbing your mothers arm the way that he always did. “It was a lovely dance, you two move together beautifully.” 

“I find that partnership is forged in repetition, we’ve had practice,” Coriolanus said without missing a beat. His hand grazed yours, still holding you close. 

“I imagine that’s true,” your father said. “Though I can’t imagine how you find such time to rehearse with matters of state. Or is the queen involved in the affairs of our government too?” 

There it was. A subtle jab. 

You felt Coriolanus smile. It wasn’t warm. “She has access to anything she wants,” he said. “There are no closed doors between us. I enjoy hearing what she has to say. Your daughter is a very smart, capable woman.” 

A dozen hands kissed yours before the hour turned. Men bowed, women curtsied. You smiled and thanked them for their compliments and for their well wishes. Coriolanus stood beside you all night, never leaving your side for anyone. At last, the crowd began to thin, and Coriolanus was watching you say your goodbyes. 

“Ready to retire?” He asked. You nodded, exhausted from all the pleasing people. 

The doors to your chambers shut with a soft click and you sighed. Gone was the music, the perfume soaked air, the endless conversations you were forced to be in. You peeled off your gloves with ease, dropping them onto the vanity without a word to your husband. Behind you, you could hear the soft hiss of his coat sliding off, the faint metallic clink of his lapel pin. 

“You didn’t stab anyone tonight,” Coriolanus said casually. “I’m rather proud of you.” 

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Thank you. I definitely thought about it with Lord Hugo.” 

“That’s awfully confident for someone who nearly tripped during our final turn,” he spoke, beginning to unfasten the hooks at the back of your gown. You didn’t stop him, instead pushing your back closer. His breath brushed against the nape of your neck. “But it was fine. I was distracted. Your hips in that dress should be illegal.” 

He pushed the fabric lower, baring your back to him. His hands lingered at your spine. 

“You should’ve been knighted instead of crowned,” you said. “You’re very good at undressing damsels in distress with their complicated dresses.” 

“Only you,” he whispered. “Only ever you.” 

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes over your own shoulder, your breath brushing against his mouth. His hands moved again, finally sliding your gown down your hips, it pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk. You stepped out of it, standing in nothing but your corset and underthings. One of his hands slid around your waist, then up until his fingers curled around the laces at your back. “This,” he said, tugging at the corset strings. “Is where I lose my patience.” 

You smiled, your head tilting against his shoulder. “Careful, Your Majesty, that sounds dangerously close to greed.” 

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Greed is a sin, my dear wife.” 

“So is lust,” you added. 

Coriolanus tugged again at your corset, this time with more urgency. “And gluttony,” he murmured. “For wanting to taste the same thing over and over again.” You felt the tension in the corset strings give away, the fabric slipping down your torso. Your breath caught, reaching back without thinking and catching his wrist. It wasn’t to stop him, just feel him. You turned around to face Coriolanus, his other hand paused just above your ribs. For a moment, you both looked into each other's eyes and neither of you moved. 

Then his hand slid higher. Fingers grazing against the bare skin between your breasts, up until they curled loosely around your throat. Like he was trying to find your pulse. “You’re shaking,” he said softly. 

“So are you,” you whispered. 

He leaned in, brushing his mouth along your jaw. His nose nudged against yours. 

“Apologies, I just never imagined a wife I would adore as much as I do you.” 

His mouth claimed yours with a bruising pressure, one hand fisting in your hair, the other pushing against your hips to walk you to the bed. You walked backward until the backs of your knees met the edge of the bed, and you sank down, pulling him with you. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you breathed between kisses. “Not unless you mean them.” 

He pulled back, pupils blown wide. He looked unhinged in the most beautiful way. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. Especially not to you.” 

You hated the way your chest tightened. His hands slid up your thighs, parting them. His hand brushed against your heat and you opened your legs to beckon him further. One of his fingers slid inside, then two, curling up into that spot that he knew all too well with maddening ease. “I think about you constantly,” he murmured, mouth brushing the corner of yours. “When I wake. When I’m working. When I leave your bed.” 

You gasped at his ministrations, hips bucking up against his hand. Your head fell back against the pillows, lips parted. He curled his fingers again, harder now, slower. “You pretend it’s just the schedule,” he whispered, lips now dragging along the column of your throat. “You pretend it doesn’t mean anything.” 

You whimpered, not from the words, not just from the pleasure, but from the truth. He was right. “I’m not pretending,” you whispered. “Maybe I did once, but not anymore. I don’t know what it means now.” His fingers stilled inside you, you could feel him trembling. His chest rose and fell like he’d been struck. 

He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean without breaking your gaze. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. You wanted to reach out to him, to pull him near, but he was already moving. You tried to help undress him in any way you could, unbuttoning his shirt with urgency while he pushed down his trousers. 

“You don’t have to know,” Coriolanus confessed. 

And then he pushed inside you. The stretch stole the breath from your lungs. Your hands flew to his back, your nails raking down his skin. All you could do was hold him as he finally began to move. It was slow and deep, unforgiving in its tenderness. Each thrust felt like a confession. Your legs wrapped around his waist, anchoring him to you like he may disappear. 

Coriolanus groaned against your neck. “You feel like home,” he whispered. And then, as if he hated himself for saying such a thing, bit gently at your shoulder, as if he needed to turn the softness into control. You took that moment to push him off onto the bed, flipping your position so that you were sat on top. He let out a breath of surprise, your hands on his chest, your thighs straddling his hips. 

You sat up, your chest heaving. Coriolanus stared up at you, as if in a daze. You rolled your hips, almost experimentally, against him, slow and punishing. His head tipped back against the sheets, hands coming to your thighs and gripping them hard. He didn’t try to take control, he let you move, let you use him. Your nails dug into his chest for balance, going deeper, fuller, until both of you were panting. You watched every twitch, every shiver. 

Coriolanus’ eyes fluttered shut, but you leaned forward, your hands sliding up to his shoulders. “Look at me,” you said, low and breathless. His eyes opened and he looked at you like he’d never stop ever again. You rocked against him, every thrust dragged a noise out of the both of you. 

You moved faster now, your moans rising in tandem with his, your forehead brushing against. You breathed in every breath that he let out, too intimate. It was too much. 

“I can’t —” he gasped. “I’m close —” 

“Give it to me, with me,” you whispered. 

And that was it. 

The tension snapped. Your body clenched around him as you came, trembling hard, falling into his chest. He followed with a low, guttural sound. His hands came to the small of your back and his hips thrust up into you. You collapsed, both of you shaking. When you finally came back, he helped settle you next to him, climbing under the sheets. 

You lay there, chest heaving, the sheets a mess around your tangled bodies. Sweat was beginning to cool against your skin, your heart still pounding against your throat. You should��ve detached, started the process of pretending it was nothing. But you didn’t, and neither did he. Instead his arm slid around your waist, his hand brushing softly against the curve of your spine. As if he needed to remind himself that you were real and that he hadn’t lost you. 

“You drive me mad,” he said again, softer this time. 

A confession against your skin. 

You closed your eyes, breathing him in. 

And maybe it was the darkness, the way he held you, or the simple, terrifying truth you had been carrying inside you for just too long. But you spoke, quietly and steadily. “I should hate you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. 

You felt his body go stiff underneath you. 

“I should hate you for what you did,” you said, tracing the scar on his ribs with the tip of your finger. “For the way that you took my life and tore it apart without asking. For the way you didn’t care about what my family thought was a proper betrothal. For the way you made me yours before I even knew what it meant.” 

You swallowed and he pulled you tighter. 

“I should hate you,” you said again, voice breaking slightly. “For the way you looked at me that first night in those gardens. Like I had lost the battle before we even began.” 

You pressed your palm flat against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heart. 

“But I don’t. I never really did.” 

You lifted your head to look at him, really look at him. Coriolanus’ pale blue eyes were open, watching you with an intensity that stole air from your very being. There was no crown between the two of you now. No throne, no Capital. Just him, just you. Just the terrible, beautiful truth stretching raw and exposed between you. 

“I understand you,” you said. “I understand why you do the things you do. Why you destroy things before they can destroy you. Why you fight so hard for what you want, so that you don’t have any ability to lose them. You think that it makes you a monster. But it doesn’t, Coriolanus, it just makes you human.” 

You felt his hands tighten against your body. “And I love you for it. I love you for every single broken, ruthless, desperate part of you.” 

Silence stretched between you, thick as blood. You waited for him to say something, to say anything. But Coriolanus didn’t speak, he didn’t move. But his eyes were burning into yours. You’d never seen him like this, he looked like you’d struck him, like your words had murdered him. You didn’t look away, didn’t soften or apologize. You meant every single word that you said. And he knew. 

“I don’t deserve that,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you.” 

Your throat tightened, eyes stinging. “That’s not your decision to make.” 

“I took you away from your family. I was too careless with your virtue, with your honor. Everything that makes you, you. I forced you into this life because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself and kissed you in that garden. You could’ve had someone good. You could’ve had someone . . . not me.” 

“I didn’t want someone good. I wanted you,” you said softly, reaching up and putting your hands on his cheeks, fingertips brushing along his jaw. 

Coriolanus closed his eyes. “I never gave you a choice.” 

“But I chose you anyway,” you said. “I could’ve fought harder, I could have stayed cold. I could have hated you. I tried, believe me, I tried. But you saw me, from the beginning. You looked at me like I was already yours. You looked at me because you saw something in me, something powerful, that I was more than just a simpering lady on the ton looking for a husband.” 

“You were never meant to fade into the background,” he rasped, opening his eyes to look at you again. Coriolanus let out a shuddering breath, half a sob, half a laugh. And then he kissed you, a kiss that said thank you and I’m sorry all at once. When he finally pulled back, his hands cradled your face. “You’re the only thing in this world that scares me,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” 

And somehow, hearing that made your chest ache worse than any type of declaration of love ever would. It was so entirely him, entirely real. You pressed his hand against your lips in a silent vow that you wouldn’t ever leave. Not ever, definitely not now. You simply curled into him closer, letting him pull you against his chest. His hand slid through your hair in slow, absent strokes. 

For the first time — you let yourself fall asleep in his arms. 

taglist : : @ib525 @m-ichelles-world @coryosnows @ryomensgirll @mixedfandxms @feyres-fireheart @sxftiebee @c1garette-nightmares @mer-rey

[bueckers-sturniolo]

the alchemy.

paige x fem!teammate! reader

word count: 2k!

warnings: uhhh, cursing? literally one suggestive-ish comment, if i think of anymore ill come back and lyk!

authors note: HIIII! this is my first time ever writing anything whatsoever, and i can’t tell if i genuinely enjoy or really hate this. you gotta start somewhere though, right? 🤔🤔🤔

go read part two here!

this happens once every few lifetimes; these chemicals hit me like white wine…

you and paige were inseparable. it didn’t go unnoticed by fans, not by any means. you were a year younger than paige, you started playing for uconn her sophomore year. as soon as this was announced, paige followed you on everything, immediately commenting on any post the uconn instagram page made about you, commenting something along the lines of just saying your name in all caps with a bunch of emojis, or even, when she was feeling bold, “Theres our girl! 🤩🙌 (or, ‘my girl’ if she was feeling silly that day),” and even on your own, individual posts about yourself, she’d like and comment some form of encouragement or a subtle compliment just to hype you up, as she does the rest of the team.

she couldn’t deny her nearly unbearable attraction toward the minute she first had laid eyes on you. even if it was over a tiny screen. the first time she saw you was when geno had shown the team videos of you playing and explained to them who you are, where you’re from, what position you play, and all other things they should know. you were around 5’10, and you were a point guard. you had gotten a scholarship to uconn, and obviously, you took it up. the first time paige physically saw you play, she knew you two would become close. not only working together on the court, during games and practices, but also, off of the court.

and you guys did. by the time the season started, you were sure you guys were unstoppable. every practice, you guys were fully locked in, becoming an outstanding duo together. that is, until, she got a tibial plateau fracture. she sat out a whopping 19 games after her surgery, and it was sad to see. she was such a powerful player, and now one of your best friends. games and practices didn’t feel nearly as good without her, but she made you promise that you’d work everyday to improve your already very strong talent, to play for ‘the both of you,’ as she said. she’d come to practices, games, and even just to your personal training sessions to provide some form of support.

what if I told you I’m back? the hospital was a drag, worst sleep that I ever had, I circled you on a map; I havent come around in so long, but im coming back so strong.

as soon as paige was cleared by doctors to begin playing again, she worked several hours, every single day. she came back as a fucking beast. since the day she got cleared and started working her ass off, she earned the nickname ‘sniper’ from you. your nickname for her was ‘killer,’ which, is kinda where she got the idea for sniper. you both were very powerful point guards. every day since she came back, you were amazed by just how hard she was working to get back up to her already impressive level of skill. and as time went on, she got even better than before. from the wise words of your guys’ coach, geno, she literally ‘came back better than she was when she was named player of the year.’

so when I touch down, call the amateurs and cut ‘em from the team, ditch the clowns, get the crown. baby, im the one to beat. cause the sign on your heart said it’s still reserved for me. honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?

one night, after a practice, you guys are sitting on your couch, scrolling on your phones in the living room of your apartment. she was over there often. you didn’t live in a dorm, but she did, so this is where you typically hung out. you didn’t get a dorm, for mainly one reason, living on campus is expensive. you personally thought that if you were gonna pay so much to live somewhere, might as well be somewhere bigger than the dorms at uconn. your parents somehow agreed, and helped you through paying for it your first few years. you’re now a junior, and paige is a senior. though, she was technically going into her junior year of playing basketball, but it was her last year as a uconn ‘student.’ over the past several months, it’s been…. flirty, to say the least. you’ve always been not ‘just friends,’ but, you never talked about it. it was just ‘normal’ to you guys. you had talked about to kk once, and the conversation didn’t really help. at all. not in the fucking slightest.

“well, i mean… yeah, we all notice it. she just…. acts so different around you…? it’s not a bad difference, per se… it’s just like, why the fuck is she so nice to you? she’s constantly like… on her knees praising you. it’s crazy, lowkey. but none of us wanna say that, so we kinda just have accepted it all season.” kk says, finally looking up from her phone at me, sitting on the edge of her bed, giving her a ‘please help me’ look.

i stare at her for a few seconds, then sigh. is it actually different? does she really do that, or is kk just exaggerating, like she always does?

“kk, i don’t- i don’t know, dude. i don’t notice it. it’s just- like-“ kk interrupts me, knowing i couldn’t find the words to explain what i was feeling, “normal to you?”

i nod, putting my face in my hands and letting out another sigh. “yeah, i get that. but, also… like, how do you not notice it? it’s like- remember that guy she said she had a crush on, like- 7 months ago or some shit?” she said, sighing.

“yeah, why?” i say, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion on where the fuck she could possibly be going with this.

“she literally flirted with you more than she flirted with him. then, she rejected him, and said there was ‘no reason behind it….’ is that not suspiscious to you? in that one picture of you guys and the weird ass dude she apparently liked, she’s leaning closer to you than she is him? does that not even slightly spark a tad bit of suspiscion?” kk says, getting frustrated that im not seeing her point here.

“i mean- no? i didn’t even notice it, kk.” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “exactly my point,” kk says, sitting up to really try to get her point across. “she acts like she’s in love with you, and heaven forbid you notice it even slightly. i could name so many things that just, like- we have all noticed, and paige knows we’ve noticed. like, that time that one bitch was pushing you on the court the entire game, and paige eventually got pissed off and pushed her back off of you, then got a fucking technical foul over it…? or, how about when she gets drunk, she literally is all over you. like, hugging you, holding you, falling asleep on the couch with you literally on top of her? is that not somehow making you just use that little brain in your head?” kk says, and i just stare in thought. maybe she was right. maybe it is more than a close friendship.

you snap out of your thoughts as paige says your name, looking over at her. “yeah?” you say, trying to seem cool.

“are you okay? you just spaced out for like…. 10 minutes…” paige says, turning her phone off sitting her it down on her chest. “oh, yeah,” I say, chuckling. that’s fucking embarrassing, you thought. but why wouldn’t she notice it? she notices everything about you.

“y’know… you did really good today,” paige says smiling at you. you smile too, looking down at your hands, “thanks. you literally always do good, so. no point in boosting your ego any more than it already is.” you say, looking back up to meet her gaze.

“i call you killer for a reason, you know that, right? you’re fucking phenomenal.” and she meant it. you were a goddess, in her eyes. if there was any person closest to heaven on this earth. it’s you. everything about you. she couldn’t get enough of you, and if it was up to her, she’d show you just how perfect you are to her. you smile, shaking your head in disbelief. “you’re insane.”

“im literally complimenting you, idiot- how does this make me insane,” paige says, laughing. you shrug, shaking your head. “you know, you’re my bestfriend, right? like, the best, best-friend i’ve ever had? ” paige says, after a few seconds of silence. you look back up, your gaze softening, your big grin also softening into a sweet smile. kk was right, you thought. you knew what that was. you knew what she meant. she is in love.

hey, you. what if I told you we’re cool? that child’s play back in school is forgiven under my rule. i havent come around in so long, but I’m making a come-back to where I belong.

you sit in your room in silence, staring at the ceiling. you keep replaying things in your mind, things she’s said. things she’s done. you knew you liked girls, you knew you liked paige. but, at what cost? did your whole friendship form from the attraction you guys had from the start? was this random to her? were you guys ever going to talk about it? this whole situation is ridiculous. right now, paige is visiting her family in minnesota. you’ve met them before, and you loved her little brother, drew, like your own brother. he was precious to you. but, this time you didn’t go, you had to stay back and practice. which, sounds ridiculous to paige given that you’re already the best player in the world to her. but, you knew you’d been slacking on practicing and certain skills you were supposed to be good at. you didn’t want to let her down. or the team, of course. but, paige specifically.

these bloakes warm the benches, we’ve been on a winning streak. (s)he jokes that it’s heroin but this time with an ‘e.’

today, you guys had a game. you were always pretty hard on yourself, but, today was worse. paige noticed this, quickly. as she always does. right before halftime, you shoot a three. you make it, but, it still was kinda sloppy. not all of your shots were sloppy, of course. but, today you felt like shit and were on your period. you didn’t feel great, and you were pissed off that the girl guarding you was on your ass all damn game. the girl in question was no other than kate martin, who was always on your ass specifically, when you guys played iowa. it was infuriating, and not to mention that you kept getting fouls called on you by a ref who clearly doesn’t realize that kate won’t stay off of your case. as soon as half-time hits, you walk over to the bench, muttering a ‘holy fucking shit’ under your breath. you sit down, paige immediately following after you, sitting beside you.

“hey, killer…. it’s okay, i promise. you’re doing so, so good.” paige says, leaning closer to you trying to reassure you in a soft, gentle tone.

“doesnt feel like it.” you say, grumpily, grabbing your water and taking a drink of it. “i know, but hey,” she says, smiling. “you’re fuckin’ killing it. if it makes you feel any better, you scored and knocked her down because of how close she was to you, maybe she’ll back off. but…” she says, pausing. “do not get a tech because of her.” you look over at her, slowly nodding. “yeah, im trying. but, the next time she gets in my face, i’m knocking her to the fucking ground again.” you say, quietly. paige smiles, “no being too aggressive… i mean, yes, be aggressive. but, no techs.”

“yeah, yeah. okay, idiot face. i’ll try.” you say and paige smiles wider, shaking her head.

as the game continues, we’re up by a solid two points. youre now in the last 45 seconds of the game. iowa has the ball, clark scores a 3 on paige. of fucking course, you think.

kk gets the rebound, and we get the ball, finally. with now only 30 seconds left, you’re panicking. you’re losing by one damn point. geno calls a time out out to the ref, the ref granting him this and you all huddle over. paige leans over to you, mumbling a, “you’ve got this, killer. im leaving this up to you. you won’t let me down.” you smile, nodding. she smiles at you for a few seconds. she is so whipped, and it’s obvious. you’re addicting. you’re like heroin, but with a fucking ‘e,’ paige thinks.

shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads. beer sticking to the floor, cheers chanted, cause they said, “there was no chance, tryna be the greatest in the league.” where’s the trophy? (s)he just comes runnin’ over to me.

as the game resumes, the ball is passed to paige. 15 seconds. the time is ticking, so, so fast. paige does a pump fake, immediately passing the ball to you. you catch it, turning slightly so you can dribble around martin, who’s still on your ass. you nearly lose the ball. you’re wasting too much time time, you think. you glance up at the clock. 5 seconds. you try to think fast, then quickly preform a fake pass to paige, then as soon as kate turns her attention toward paige, you shoot directly behind the point the three-point line, and you make it. the buzzer sounds. you look over at the score counters, wondering if it’s able to be counted. they announce it is, and you feel like you’ve never been happier than in that damn moment. your entire team is screaming, all of the fans in the bleachers standing up and cheering. you place your hands on your knees, leaning down and panting while smiling. that’s when you see paige, her shirt is lifted up so her stomach is showing, still cheering. smiling ear to ear, she suddenly runs over to you from across the court. she hugs you, picking you up and spinning you around.

this type of shit only happens once every few lifetimes. who are you to deny your love for her any longer? who are you to fight the general chemistry between you two? who are you to fight the alchemy?

a/n: RAHHHHHH I HOPE YOU LOVED IT IM SORRY IF IT SUCKS ASS!!!! IF YOURE READING THIS RN I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

[lee-the-yeen]

Yeen's Blitzwing Headcanons!

Been going nuts about analyzing this big silly bot so here's some HC's

So, to start, I don’t think Blitzwing was one bot split in three, but two smashed together.

Blitz’s Icy face was a seeker, the off-color spaces on his cheeks even being the perfect place for where his theoretical vents would have been.

Hothead was a tanker, and while we get only one example of a “pure” tank cybertronian in TFA in the form of Warpath…

…you can see my vision here, right?

If you go with the ”split” method, no matter which face was the “original”, the other elemental power and alt mode had to come from somewhere.

But if Icy was the jet, and Hothead was the tank, where does Random come in? To answer that, I wanna get into the process of becoming a triple-changer.

The procedure could have been a way to try to make a super soldier, master of the land as well as the sky. Adding on Icy and Hothead’s elemental powers, the resulting individual would, in theory, be an unstoppable force.

If this sounds somewhat familiar, it should. A possibility for how Safeguard exists could be because the Autobots caught intel about the Triple Changer experiments. However, they would have had to make some serious adjustments since canonically, every single attempt to create a Triple Changer has either failed or ended up wildly unstable mentally. Blitzwing might even be in Megatron's inner circle purely because he’s the only “functional” Triple Changer to exist.

My thoughts for how the process goes is that not only are the frames and abilities combined into one, but their minds are combined as well.

Two consciousnesses being forced together, with all their memories and experiences preferably intact (that way your perfect soldier doesn’t have to re-learn to walk and talk), it causes an existential dissonance. Imagine being bombarded with the memories of someone else, and expected by everyone around you that they are yours now.

The resulting existential crisis burns out the processors, offlining the lucky, and maddens whoever manages to survive.

You have to be the cybertronian equivalent of drift compatible in order for it to go even decently well. Blitzy’s components were close, but not there yet.

What spared them the fate of other failed Triple Changers is a few precautions from Blackarachnia. She had the foresight to stick a third, empty processor in Blitzwing’s head to act as a buffer for the huge influx of data, as well as EMP-ing him as soon as the Existential Dissonance was occurring. This wiped the majority of his memories of his life before the procedure, but even all that wasn’t enough.

The trauma of the procedure, being torn apart and put back together again, as well as the Dissonance (whether they remember it or not), it was too much...leading Random to manifest within that empty processor.

Now, what brought me to this conclusion? Time for my amateur psychoanalysis under the cut!

To start, the expected disclaimers.

I am not a psychologist, and I do not claim to be. This whole thing is just for fun, and over-analysis of media I like is a big pastime for me. I also do not have DID, and anyone who does that has objections and/or critiques of my analysis, I fully encourage you to voice your thoughts.

Also, keep in mind that cybertronian brains likely don’t work one-to-one with how humans do, and that there’s no true equivalent to what Blitzwing is in terms of human psychology.

With that out of the way, with these headcanons in mind, Icy and Hothead are not alternate personalities in the psychological sense, seeing as they were once completely separate bots.

But Random is.

Random acts as something of a mediator or moderator for Icy and Hothead, in order to keep them somewhat balanced and working as a team. See the Jet-Tank argument, with him popping up to propose a compromise.

While all three faces can and do hold their own, to me Random especially acts as a protector. Examples being him headbutting Lugnut in ‘Lost and Found’ and his sudden change of trajectory in ‘Velocity’ (Never give up, never surrender, nevermind!). Bringing up the Jet-Tank argument again, he notably pops up while the sirens of the “autobot reinforcements” are getting closer and louder.

As for why Random pops in just to make jokes, humor is often used as a coping mechanism [he just like me fr], and not only did Blitzwing’s components go through the Triple Changer procedure, but millions of years of war. It’s no wonder, really.

And while a lot of Random’s jokes are very much “haha I’m so craaazy”, that feels like it’s more of a cry for help. Blitzwing is hyper-aware of his condition, and self depreciates as a way to cope [he just like me for realllllll :,)].

In conclusion, someone get this mech in Rung’s office, he desperately needs a psychotherapist (cyber-therapist?).

As a side note, something I really like is that, despite the nicknames for his faces in the Almanacs (that I used here mostly for clarity), Blitzwing is just referred to as Blitzwing, no matter what face is up front.

[burningembers91]

War-Torn Love - Baek Kang-Hyuk x Fem!Reader

Please note this storyline will deal with issues of PTSD, and negative body image issues.

Synopsis: Two years ago, Dr Baek Kang-Hyuk saved your life. Separated by war, you've searched for each other since that fateful day. But the war changed you, physically and mentally, and you're no longer sure you're good enough for the man you fell in love with.

A/N: I binged four episodes of The Trauma Code last night am I am OBSESSED!!! Give it a watch on Netflix, it's so, so good.

Some nights, the pain still kept you awake. The searing, burning, tearing agony that ripped its way from your left hip, down across your thigh to the top of your kneecap. The scar was ugly and red, a twisted, knotted mass of tissue that ached when you were too cold, burned when you were too hot, and stretched your skin to almost breaking point every single day. You never wore skirts or dresses anymore, too ashamed and embarrassed for anyone to see the disfigured flesh. You hadn’t had a boyfriend, or even a date in two years. No one would want to be with someone as mangled and broken as you. Some days the stiffness in your leg was so bad that you limped, your figure hunched over like a frail pensioner. You didn’t feel like you anymore. When you looked in the mirror, you saw a woman in the prime of her life, but you felt well past your best.

Even if you did have the courage to date, no one would ever live up to your expectations. You’d had those met and exceeded by the man who had saved your life. You were still walking the earth thanks to one man who had so selflessly put his life on the line to save yours. Two years ago, tired of the mundanity of the everyday and looking to give something back, you decided to volunteer with a small charity, providing assistance to countries ravaged by war. It was your job to help distribute food, clothing and sleeping bags to families escaping conflict. You’d been based in Afghanistan, and that was where you’d met Dr Baek Kang-Hyuk. The man was unstoppable, a force of nature that not even God himself could bring down. He never seemed to stop, never seem to tire. He’d helped countless people, working round the clock to save the lives of men, women, and children.

You’d worked together for six months, a friendship blossoming somewhere between the derelict buildings and war-torn agony. He was quite a reserved man, but during the long, lonely nights, you’d sit and talk while he kept an eye on his patients. You learned he was originally from Seoul, that he’d trained to be a trauma surgeon because he wanted to be just like his dad. He’d spent time in the army and could hit a target point blank with his eyes closed. He was kind, if a little cocky, and he made you feel safe. Somewhere along the line, you felt your friendship change. It was small at first, a little crackle of electricity in the dark night, barely noticeable, but then it slowly burned into something more. Stolen kisses in the corridor of the makeshift hospital, a comforting hug when the world seem a little too heavy. You never took it further than that; you couldn’t afford to be away from the patients for long enough, but you both longed to spend the night together.

You only had a week left of your volunteer work when disaster struck. You’d been heading back to the hospital with a supply of food and water when the car bomb went off only meters from where you stood. You were thrown backwards, your body ravaged by shrapnel and rubble. You don’t remember much about that day; you only remember it was the last time you saw Kang-Hyuk’s face. It had been him who had saved you, him who had stopped the massive arterial bleed, who had given you his own blood in an emergency transfusion on the side of the road. You’d been airlifted to safety shortly after, and that was the last time you saw him.

You had no other information on your saviour, other than his name and the fact he lived in Seoul. He had no social media presence, no Internet presence at all. Once you were out of hospital, you searched desperately for him, phoning all your charity contacts to see if anyone could find him. But you had no luck. You were even desperate enough to travel to Seoul to see if you could find him. For two years you never gave up, setting down roots in the city he called home. You didn’t even know if still lived here, didn’t even know if he was still alive. But you couldn’t give up, not when he’d fought so hard to keep you alive.

You’d taken a job at Hankuk University Hospital in the administration department, slowly building yourself a life, but never really allowing yourself to fully live it. you felt empty without Kang-Hyuk, felt so lost and alone. Those six months you’d spent with him had been the best months of your life, and he’d been ripped away from you so callously.

But fate was a funny thing; and she knew you’d you waited long enough. A new attending trauma surgeon was due to start at the hospital. You weren’t privy to any more information, you administration position making you one of the lowest in the hospital ranks. But as you strolled through the corridors, your left leg dragging ever so slightly behind your right, you saw him. He’d bulked up a little more, his broad chest and shoulders filling out his designer suit. He strode through the hospital with such purpose, his very presence commanding authority. He always had been a cocky bastard, but in the best way possible. He didn’t notice you as he walked, too focused on getting to his destination. But you’d waited so long to see him, and you couldn’t let him slip through your fingers again.

“Baek Kang-Hyuk!” You shouted his name, passersby stopping to stare at you. He turned, a look of annoyance on his chiselled features. But then he saw you, the girl he’d given his own blood to in order to save. The girl he’d spent the last two years trying to find was standing right in front of him. “It’s you,” he choked, closing the gap between you. You didn’t care if people were watching, tears streaming down your face as Kang-Hyuk pulled you into his chest. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, holding your face between his hands as he took you in. You’d changed since he’d last seen you, the stress and anxiety that had plagued you since that awful day had made their mark on your face, but you were still so beautiful. “I looked for you,” you told him, “I never stopped.” “Neither did I,” he smiled. He wanted to kiss you, wanted to wrap his arms around you and never let go.

“Dr Baek to trauma bay 12,” a voice over the intercom broke through your happy reunion, tearing you apart once again. “Take my number,” he said, thrusting his business card into your hand. “Text me. I can’t lose you again.”

As he hurried down the corridor to the next emergency that awaited him, you looked down at his card. You weren’t the same person you’d been two years ago. You’d change, and not for the better. You were bitter, scared of your own shadow, and ashamed of the body that had been wrecked by the car bomb. You wondered if he’d still want you when he realised your scars hadn’t healed. You wondered if he’d want you when he found out you still woke up at night screaming, your body and sheets soaked in sweat as you relived your fractured memories.

You wrote and rewrote your text to him a dozen times that day, your head and heart battling against one another. Every time you went to press send, the image of your scar-ridden body stopped you. You were damaged goods, and now you’d be working together it was probably best to keep things professional. You didn’t want to risk falling in too deep and getting your heart broken again. I look forward to working with you, Dr Baek. You kept it nice and simple, and wholly professional. Two years you’d been searching for the man you’d fallen in love with. But now that you’d found him again you realised, you’d never stopped to think whether he’d still want you. You were the girl with a broken body and a damaged mind. You’d never seen Kang-Hyuk so much as flinch, but the slightest noise sent you running with your tail between your legs. He was brave, and you were just a scared little mouse.

As much as it broke your heart, you’d keep the man who saved your life at arm’s length and save you both the heartache when you no longer lived up to his expectations.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 - chapter one f1 grid x fem! driver! reader ( fluff / angst ) series summary . . . a mortal who dared to defy the impossible. Of grit forged in fire, and dreams that refused to yield. In a world where heroes are born, and few rise to become legends. You are a force to be reckoned with. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Indomitable. (1.8k words)

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I - THE FEELINGS WILL PASS BY YOU Your first year of Formula One, 2012.

content warning . . . ( minor mature themes in the last scene, non descriptive smut, Yn is 19 years old in this chapter )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The champagne stings your eyes, but it only adds to the surreal quality of the moment. Standing tall on the second step of the podium, you feel the comforting weight of the silver trophy in your hands, its cool, solid surface grounding you amid the chaos of the roaring Australian crowd. Your cheeks ache from the endless smiling, but you can’t stop. The joy coursing through your veins is unrelenting, an electric current you never want to end. P2 in your debut race. It’s a dream realized, a milestone etched into the fabric of your soul.

The cameras flash, capturing every angle of your elation. You can almost hear the headlines being written, the stories being told: the rookie with a star’s debut. Your mind is a blur, filled with a single, resounding thought—This is it. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Instinctively, you glance to your left. Lewis Hamilton stands on the third step, his claps measured, his expression unreadable save for the tight smile stretched across his lips. There’s a legend standing just feet away, a man you’ve idolized for years, and now you’re sharing a podium with him. The significance isn’t lost on you, and your grin widens.

“We did it, Lewis! What a start, huh?” Your voice is a burst of excitement, practically glowing as it carries over the deafening cheers. You’re buoyant, wanting to share even a fraction of the exhilaration pumping through you.

He nods, the gesture curt and almost too calculated. “Yeah, we did,” he replies, his tone flat against your enthusiasm. His eyes flicker, betraying something you can’t quite identify—a shadow of something restrained. You brush it off, too intoxicated by the moment to dissect his response.

What you don’t see is the way his gaze lingers on your trophy for just a second too long, or the faint downturn of his lips before he forces them back into a polite smile. You don’t catch the subtle clench of his jaw or the simmer of irritation just below the surface. Why would you?

This is your moment. The cameras love you, the crowd chants your name, and the world feels impossibly bright. You’re too caught up in the high of it all to notice the edges fraying in the background, too focused on this monumental step to sense the quiet storm brewing beside you.

Because in this moment—your moment—the only thing that matters is the realization that this is just the beginning. The dream is no longer intangible; it’s here, real, tangible in your hands. And as the champagne sprays, the confetti falls, and the anthem echoes, you make a silent promise to yourself: this is where you belong.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Cuban national anthem swells through the air, each note resonating deep within your chest, as though it’s synced with the pounding of your heart. You’re at the top of the podium, the metallic gleam of the winner’s trophy clutched tightly in your hands. It’s heavier than you imagined, but the weight is welcome, grounding you as the reality of your achievement washes over you like the tides.

Tears streak down your face, hot and unrelenting, carving trails through the grime and sweat of the race. You can barely hear the crowd over the rush of your own pulse, but the roar of their cheers is unmistakable. They chant your name, over and over, until it blends with the melody of the anthem, becoming a symphony of adoration.

This is everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve sacrificed for. The countless hours of training, the heartbreaks, the doubts—every single one of them led to this moment. You glance down at the trophy in your hands, its polished surface reflecting your tearful, beaming face. Youngest driver to win a race. The words feel surreal, as though they belong to someone else. But they’re yours now, etched into history alongside the greats.

You lift the trophy high above your head, your arms trembling slightly with the effort, and the crowd erupts in a fresh wave of applause. Your team below explodes in celebration, the vibrant red of their uniforms a blur of motion as they cheer, jump, and hug one another. Champagne sprays into the air like liquid fireworks, and you can feel its sticky sweetness in the air even from where you stand.

In the garage, Lewis watches in silence. P8. His day had spiralled from bad to worse, mechanical issues compounding an already difficult race. His body aches with the weight of frustration, but it’s nothing compared to the bitterness blooming in his chest.

His gaze fixes on you, standing on the podium with a radiance that makes his jaw tighten. Your smile is uncontainable, lighting up your entire face as the cameras capture every triumphant angle, every joyful tear. The commentators gush over your performance, their voices reverent as they discuss your flawless drive, your historic achievement.

And then, they say it. Breaking his record. Least amount of race entries before a race win.

The words sting more than he thought they would. He remembers holding that same trophy, feeling the same exhilaration when he set the record all those years ago in his rookie year. And now, watching you bask in the glory of your victory in your own rookie year, he feels a cold shadow creeping over him. Every cheer for you feels like a blow, a reminder of how far he’s fallen.

But you don’t see him. You don’t notice the storm brewing in the corner of the garage. You’re too caught up in the moment, too swept away by the sheer joy of it all.

Your team surrounds you as you step down from the podium, their cheers blending with your own laughter. They pull you into hugs, their words tumbling over each other in a chaotic symphony of pride and excitement. Someone pops another bottle of champagne, and the fizz sprays over you, drenching your race suit. You don’t care. You’re too busy laughing, too busy soaking in every second of this magical moment.

Lewis stays where he is, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s always known this day would come. He just didn’t expect it to sting this much.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’ve always admired Lewis. You can still picture yourself as a wide-eyed kid sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching him cross the finish line to win his first race in 2007. The sheer audacity of his talent, the way he carried himself with a confidence that seemed unshakable—it was mesmerizing. That moment sparked something in you, igniting a belief that maybe, just maybe, the impossible could become your reality.

And now, here you are, sharing the same garage, wearing the same team colors. Sometimes, you catch yourself staring at him during briefings, trying to reconcile the Lewis Hamilton you idolized with the flesh-and-blood teammate sitting across from you. He still carries that air of greatness, that effortless poise, but up close, you notice things you didn’t before—the way his brow furrows when something doesn’t go to plan, the weight of expectation in his eyes.

You try to connect with him, to bridge the gap between icon and teammate. In the brief moments between sessions, you chatter to him, throwing out lighthearted jokes to cut through the tension. When he’s poring over telemetry, you offer quiet words of encouragement. You mimic his relentless work ethic, studying every aspect of his process with the kind of awe reserved for legends.

But it doesn’t seem to work.

At first, his responses are polite, if a little distant—a curt nod here, a brief “Thanks” there. But over time, you notice the way his jaw tightens when you approach, the way his shoulders stiffen when you try to lighten the mood.

You tell yourself it’s just his focus, that he’s always been intense, but the truth is harder to ignore. Your optimism, your unrelenting sweetness—it doesn’t inspire him. It irritates him.

Every time you bound into the garage with a smile, brimming with ideas or congratulations, you can feel his patience fraying like a worn thread. To him, you’re too nice, too bubbly, too... much.

And what stings the most, what neither of you ever say out loud, is that you’re outperforming him. Lap after lap, race after race, the numbers don’t lie. The younger, fresher face of the team is rising, and his shadow feels smaller by the day.

He doesn’t lash out, but the tension is palpable. It’s in the way his replies become shorter, his glances sharper. The moments when he leaves the room just as you enter.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Brazil. The final race of the season. Brazil. The championship isn’t in play anymore, but you still push, still strive for excellence. P5 isn’t what you wanted, but you shake it off. You’ve had an extraordinary debut season, and you’re determined to end it on a positive note.

After the race, you join the team in the paddock, grabbing drinks for everyone, your smile as bright as ever despite the pang of disappointment in your chest. You’re halfway back when you hear voices—familiar ones.

“I can’t wait to move to Mercedes,” Lewis says, his voice low but clear, the relief in his tone unmistakable. “I won’t have to deal with her anymore. She’s too sweet, too. . . annoying. Always smiling, always talking. I just can’t stand it.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. The warmth of the evening vanishes, replaced by a cold, sharp ache in your chest. You clutch the champagne bottles tighter, your knuckles white, your vision blurring as tears fill your eyes.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Jenson finds you, his expression softening instantly. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks gently, concern lacing his voice.

You try to shake your head, to brush it off, but the dam has broken. The tears spill faster, and your shoulders tremble with quiet sobs. Jenson doesn’t press. He simply wraps an arm around you, leading you away from the noise, away from the crowd, to somewhere quieter.

Later that night, after too many glasses of wine and whispered reassurances, you find yourself in Jenson’s bed. His touch is warm, his hands steady, and for a fleeting moment, you feel safe. Wanted. Seen. The ache in your chest dulls, replaced by the comfort of his embrace.

But as dawn breaks, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your emotions a tangled mess. The sport you love feels different, showing its true nature in the light, harsher, colder. It isn’t just about winning or losing—it’s about surviving.

And as you watch the early morning light seep into the room, you make a promise to yourself.

Because survival isn’t just an option—it’s the only way forward.

[theladyismyshepard]

My Lady In Death

My interest has shifted towards Baldur's Gate 3 and call me obsessed, almost as much as I was for RE:V... This is my headcannons for the main ladies of the party... careful, it's a long post

How the Ladies Would React to Your (Tav's) Death

Shadowheart –

It’s funny… it’s so funny… There was a battlefield roaring its rage to the Heavens in the sky. A melodic thrum of agony and death and yet there was a single sound that rose above all else: the sound of your body crashing to the ground, a loud grunt forced out from between your lips.

The strong “Ignis!” caught itself in Shadowheart’s throat, subconsciously forfeiting her turn as she stared wide-eyed at your fallen form. Her lips were moving, yet no sound was escaping. No spell, no incantation, no anything– She was so frozen in disbelief, one could mistake her for being under a stunned or immobilizing spell. All she could do was watch your shaky movements as you attempted to hoist yourself to your feet, only to receive a final concussive blow that left trails of blood leaking from your nose, mouth, and eyes

“NO!” The scream was so raw that almost everyone in the party felt the shredding of their own throats

Karlach reached forward to intercept the cleric just as she showed the first signs of darting thoughtlessly across the battlefield towards your dead body, but when Shadowheart showed an ounce of determination, she proved unstoppable. She sidestepped Karlach’s hand, ignored the resulting string of curses from Lae’zel, and darted towards you. Not only did she have faith in her teammates (well, Karlach) to guard her back, she had faith that Shar would guide her forward.

Which raised a few questions: Why was Shadowheart fearing this loss in a way she never felt before? Why was she so desperate to counter the inevitable? Why couldn’t she let Shar take you away? Shadowheart swallowed thickly as she dropped to her knees beside you, pulling your head into her lap. Her trembling fingers reached into her travel pack and she didn’t stop fumbling around until she produced a Scroll of Revivify. She untied the knot keeping it together, and rested the parchment atop your chest.

Her voice shook the entire time she spoke through the words of the scroll. Her eyes were blurred so thickly with tears that the obscured spell was nearly illegible to her. Shadowheart’s left hand was tangling its fingers in your hair, an absent gesture of comfort more for herself rather than you at the moment. She was aware of the sudden company of defense that swarmed and encircled the two of you, but she couldn’t afford to pay them any mind, not when you were growing colder by the second and Shar’s grip of darkness was taking its hold on you.

There was a glow surrounding your body for a moment, and when it finally dimmed, the scroll burned itself to a crisp and faded away on a gust of wind. There was a pause that had Shadowheart’s heart stuttering against her ribcage and then you were taking in a large breath of air, and it looked so natural, as if you had never stopped. Shadowheart released a breath of her own and it nearly had her bowing over, her tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

You were here, you were alive, you were going to be okay… She indulged herself in stealing a single kiss atop your brow, her left hand gently scratching your scalp before she pulled back abruptly.

Shadowheart… turned her back on her lady. All color drained from her face, all relief she had been relishing in dried up, all fear she had dislodged back anew, but directed for herself now– As Shar’s servant, she must accept darkness, accept loss almost to the point of wishing for it. You were well within Shar’s merciful grasp

And Shadowheart stole you back… It’s only natural to struggle with your religious guilt after saving the one you care so much for. Give her time to process this.

Lae'zel –

Disbelief. That is the only emotion Lae’zel found herself able to process for an entire minute; Disbelief that your body was crumpled and shredded down in the dirt; Disbelief that this unorthodox hero that was supposedly “meant to save the world” had fallen so easily… Disbelief that she allowed your death to happen.

Next was the fury that almost visibly burned in licking flames. Death would not take you, not if she had anything to say about it. Not when she was standing right there and these fiendish goblins had the audacity to strip your life from your body before her very eyes. No… Lae’zel was fury, she was death, and she would avenge you before she would think to resurrect you.

That half-elf, she had powers of healing and while Lae’zel loathed Shadowheart on a good day, she knew the cleric to have enough wits to know to respond to their fallen hero with haste (lest she meet her own untimely end at the edge of her blade). The fight was a blur, and it was over before any of the other party members could land another hit.

Lae’zel was a flurry of strikes, one after the other, each enemy dropping with a thud before they could so much as raise a shield in defense. Her blade cut through their armor, and with each slice, she couldn’t help but to associate it with the final blow that cut you down. Each wet shluk as her sword went through reminded her of the very sound of your own flesh giving way to iron. She didn’t even feel the blood washing over her enough to get to relish in the victory– this was no victory.

“They’re all gone, soldier,” came Karlach’s small, but steady voice, though Lae’zel still felt rage, she couldn’t shake it…

It was a familiar feeling her people associated with, almost like lifelong friends, but this was driven by a loss that she had yet to experience, and she was damn near close to cursing the Comet himself for allowing such a person like yourself to come into her life and just… change her very being… or at least her standards. But she was cursing you.

Cursing you for coming into her life, showing her tolerance, showing her affection, showing her love… and then just as you had gotten her to fall, you fell at her feet in a pool of your own blood. Lae’zel’s grip around her silver sword tightened, her form trembling in a mix of rage, sorrow, and hatred. Hatred at those who killed you, hatred for you for how easily you went down, but mostly, hatred for herself for not throwing her own body on the blade before it could ever reach your perfect skin.

“Lae’zel… love,” 

The sword dropped as did her mouth. Right… You were intelligent enough to stock up on Scrolls of Revivify when the party was last in Baldur’s Gate. Lae’zel pulled herself together, grabbed her sword, and regained her signature scowl.

“I suggest we keep moving forward unless anyone is seriously injured… then we head for camp and rest… no matter, Tav, I need you in my sight at all times,” You couldn’t help the smile when she took your hand in her own, checked you over once for any lingering injuries, and pressed on before anyone could even answer her question.

Karlach –

Gravity was betraying Karlach on this particular day in so many ways. The way her stomach was dropping to her feet had her fighting back the urge to puke. The lightness of her soul wanting to leave behind the overheating engine that kept her in place. It was all so disorienting, but most of all was the gravity that dragged your body down into the abyss, completely disappearing from sight.

“NOOO!” she bellowed, fire engulfing her body, threatening all who were foolish enough to draw close.

“Karlach! It’s okay!” insisted Shadowheart urgently, “Their soul, look!”

Karlach always knew your soul would have a calming aura about it. The tiny, cool, blue ball of light was beckoning the fiery red that was Karlach’s being. There was still a stray archer somewhere out of sight, but that was of no concern to her. She needed to get to you, to protect you… She had to nourish your soul, feed it life from one of the scrolls that had to have been crafted from the very Gods themselves

You two still had so much left to explore together… The party had just encountered Dammon and had supplied enough infernal iron to ensure an upgrade to Karlach’s engine. Boy did you two celebrate that night after she received her first real hug in a decade. It was all fire and all passion, and that was everything that Karlach needed in life. You were everything she needed.

So forgive her if she refused to give you up so easily after finally, finally receiving the happiness she was denied for so long. She’s done her waiting… Ten years of it! In Avernus… You didn’t give up on her, not when a misguided Wyll had sent you on a path to kill her, and not when you found out she was a ticking time bomb waiting to blow. She would fight through all Nine Realms of the Hells to do the same for you.

Karlach reached the floating orb that was your soul, forced herself to relax enough to extinguish her own flames, and cradled it in her palms as if it was the grandest treasure in the world… to Karlach, it was the world. She had the world in the palm of her hands and she couldn’t help but burst into tears. You were too good to have had any hiccup in your heartbeat, to have been taken so early that Karlach had to bend the very will of fate to bring you back.

“Call me selfish, I don’t give a shit,” Karlach muttered to anyone who was listening. No one would dare to argue her in such a state as this

Gently repositioning your soul into one palm, Karlach reached into her pocket and withdrew a Scroll of Revivify. She swaddled the orb in the scroll, as if tucking it into a warm blanket on a cold night before bringing the entirety of it to her lips and whispering the incantation as if it were a prayer. Your body materialized before the party’s very eyes and you soon found yourself pulled into Karlach’s crushing embrace before she apologized and supplied a Potion of Supreme Healing.

“Try to stay on firm ground from now on, eh?”

Minthara –

Oh Gods, oh Hells, oh shit… May the Gods grant mercy on the soul that decides to cleave your soul from your body, leaving you a mangled mess of what Minthara had come to claim as hers. She was not finished with you and the rush of high you brought with, and she would part the Heavens or douse the Hells to rip you back into her life, and she was about to demonstrate such at this very moment.

Gortash was a formidable foe, he was Chosen for a reason… and that was because Minthara thought herself too good to be a God’s plaything. Second best must answer to her scorn and no longer will anyone question that the wrath of Minthara could shake even the Gods.

The entire scene shifted, and no more were Gortash’s semi-invisible minions, or his tangible, looming fist. He was on his knees, a quivering mess as he gazed into Minthara’s eyes and saw nothing but his own pitiful reflection.

At last, there was a change in her features as a cruel grin slowly twisted the edges of her lips. She would draw this out and savor every last scream he had to offer. It was one thing to threaten the safety of the entire world, but to outright target and end your life, with Minthara standing there no less… it was a direct insult and a loss that she couldn’t even really bring herself to feel.

Minthara is calculating, and while she refuses to ever witness your soul leave your body again, she also knew that she was resourceful if not intimidating. There were ways of bringing you back to life, and every option was at her fingertips, it was just a matter of who or what she wanted to exploit.

After driving a dagger straight through Grotash’s eye and into his skull, Minthara hardly even basked in the quivering of his pained body as he dropped and convulsed in a pool of his own blood. No, she was too busy turning towards Shadowheart and barking orders.

“You! Call upon your deity and demand them to revive your allies with half their health. I’m aware that you are granted this wish only once, and I have yet to have seen you use it.” It was done with only a minimal amount of glaring, and suddenly you were stiffly rising to your feet with a groan.

“You were careless with your life, and I am severely unappreciative of that… You would do best to not piss me off as such again, okay?”

You were nodding along without a word, but you couldn't help the flutter of your newly restarted heart when Minthara carefully put her arm around your shoulder as a means to both guide and protect you from what more is to come.