#kind of guy to say hes taking his break and hes gone for three hours

[narcjsistx]

— 𝐒𝐅𝐖/𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐓. 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐈𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐒

✶ bunny came out less than 2 weeks ago and the fandom has completely GONE CRAZY, and im one of those who did. obviously, same usual disclaimer, nothing is known about his personality yet so don’t come to me in a few years all upset because he's described differently </3

✶ the first part is completely sfw, the second one has only some, like 3, of the nsfw alphabet. sorry if a little awkward !!

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

his kind of affection could be described as constant but meaningful, as if every hug or kiss carried all the weight in the world. bunny is someone who constantly seeks physical contact — even if it's just a simple caress or holding your hand at the most random moment of the day. he loves the privacy of his home because it allows him to kiss you freely, without being hounded by paparazzi, so he can take his time with you

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

i'd describe a friendship with him as pure chaos, where annoying you is the sweetest way he shows he cares. forget those friendships where kind words are the main focus, with him the most meaningful thing you can get is a sock thrown at your face, followed by a comment like "it suits you" or "smells like you" said with the most devilish grin you've ever seen

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

he’s the kind of guy who’ll say, right in front of you, that hugging a girl is weird — only to whine when you refuse to hug him. he’ll always do everything he can to avoid admitting it, but ending the day in your arms is what relaxes him the most. he loves physical affection, but it’s a little hard for him to admit it

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

he only starts thinking about things like that once the relationship has been going on for quite a while, so i'd say after at least a year, or something like that. in my mind, he's someone who can clean exceptionally well but doesn’t even know how to crack an egg, which is exactly why he prefers eating out or take a takeaway

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

he knows very well that even things that seem perfect often come to an end. he’d probably prefer to talk about it in person, but because of his work, he often struggles to stay in barcelona for long periods of time. so i get the feeling it might happen over a message or during a call

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

bunny is someone who, for a long time, felt like marriage was a bit too much — maybe because of his teammates, who always seemed to have multiple flings going on at the same time. still, even with that bit of hesitation, i get the sense that he wouldn’t be afraid to get married in the not-so-distant future if he knew he’d found the right person. marriage is absolutely off the table for the first two or three years, but after that? trust me, he’s already googling the best way to propose. he just needs his certainties, that's all

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

he wouldn’t really describe himself as the rude type, but truth is, he has no problem suddenly wrapping his arms around your waist — so smoothly that you barely even notice at first. let’s just say he’s much more gentle on an emotional level: i see him as someone who has absolutely no issue listening for hours — and, strangely enough, he actually gives pretty good advice, even if he’s a bit unconventional

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

his hugs are slow, he wants to take his time and feel how your warmth blends with his. he especially loves hugs from behind, trust me

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

i get the feeling he only says it when he knows he has to, otherwise you might explode. not because he doesn’t care, but simply because he prefers to show it in other ways: hugs, dinners at his or your favorite restaurant, little bows in your direction when he scores a goal. but he’s obsessed with how YOU say it with that slow and sassy voice. there, he completely loses himself

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

he’s actually pretty jealous, the kind of jealousy he doesn’t hesitate to show even in front of the person involved. he’s the type who might kiss you, walk away, and leave the other guy standing there totally confused, while he just yells from afar "don’t even try. she has way higher standards"

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

like i said about hugs, he likes to take his time. i think his favorite places to be kissed are probably where he has the scar and, quite typically, his lips. he also loves kisses on the neck — but he prefers to be the one giving them

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

he adores kids, but kids don’t always adore bunny. — at least, not at first. he enjoys chatting with his little fans, but some get a bit scared when they see his scar. he’s not offended, he knows it can be a little frightening to children, so every time he tells them he got it while saving a princess (you) from an evil dragon. that’s when the kids start to trust him more, and your cheeks get even redder

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

when he has the chance to fall asleep and wake up with you by his side, expect the slowest, sweetest wake-up ever. his mornings are always busy when he has training or is away from barcelona because of matches and workouts, so when he gets the chance to pamper you, even if it’s just with breakfast, you can be sure he’ll do it

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

setting aside those kinds of nights, he actually loves taking a bath after dinner with you by his side, not necessarily in a sexual way: it’s his way to relax his nerves, talk, and spend time with you after a horribly busy day

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

unfortunately, we still know almost nothing about his past, but im sure there’s some angst in his backstory. as Isagi said, bunny has an extremely sad smile — this makes me think that he’d probably take some time to talk about his past, masking reality behind the usual smile his fans know. would he open up? yes, but in due time

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

does he have patience? yes. does he use it? not necessarily. overall, he’s a pretty patient man — he knows that both in life and on the field, goals and achievements take time to come to fruition. but if he fixates on something specific? he needs to have it immediately, like right now

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

bunny isn’t someone who forgets, but someone who only shows he remembers when the time is right. he loves surprising you with sudden things — like giving you a bracelet you might have mentioned a month ago. he could never be with someone he doesn’t remember anything about, it would be senseless to love someone without knowing even the smallest, silliest details

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

it was probably the moment he realized that his scar didn’t scare or disgust you. the realization hit him so suddenly that for a few seconds it unsettled him — because he isn’t very proud of that mark, which he thinks mars his face. he doesn’t get offended when others are scared by it, but the fact that you actually said you, in a way, appreciated it? that’s when he understood you were the right one

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

he knows very well how the paparazzi are always on his neck, like hungry vultures. every time you go out and someone starts taking pictures, he prefers to give you his cap to cover your face, or even his jacket if you're feeling extremely uncomfortable. h'd rather hide you by pulling you close to his chest and maybe kissing your head —but hey, only if you're okay with it. he doesn't want to make the situation heavier than it already is for you

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he doesn’t know how to cook, he only puts effort into making breakfast. he’s strangely good at organizing dates because he knows which places you like and, at the same time, where you won’t be disturbed. he cleans the house, but please, don’t hand him a frying pan

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

he hugs you even when he’s still sweaty from training, and he does it on purposeand he does it on purpose. he drools a little on you when he sleeps on your chest buy yeah

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

if we ignore his worries about the scar, he’s actually someone who spends a lot of time in front of the mirror. maybe he’s getting ready and you’re on the bed — expect to see him flex for minutes, then turn to you and say "find someone like me. impossible. lucky you, you get to kiss me"

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

let’s say he’s used to the idea of not being close to you because of his job, but he doesn’t like it. he feels a little lost when he knows he’s really far away, but admitting it is out of the question

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

he’d want a bunny just so he could name it after you and not feel like the only one with an animal name. imagine being in a pet store: he’d turn his head if someone mentioned a bunny! so he loves calling the bunny and watching both of you turn around, confused

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

he thinks insulting someone’s appearance is the most senseless thing in the world. he can’t even conceive it, and it’s something he would never do to you because he knows what it’s like to have an obvious flaw (which isn’t really a flaw)

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

he sleeps on your chest and drools without shame, only to tease himself and you about it the next morning. he loves to have at least one hand on you when he sleeps

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his favorite part of his body are his hands, which can grab his favorite part of your body, your ass

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he’s wickedly playful, with absolutely no shame in pushing you to your limit and saying "already like this? are you really that weak?" all with the worst smirk ever seen on the face of the earth. he loves to push you to the edge just to leave you without any real payoff, only to hear a mess of frustrated moans from you

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

you're pathetically weak when you're the jealous one, so beautiful with your arms crossed and an overly annoyed pout. he knows that girls, especially his fans, often cheer him on and objectify him, but seeing you jealous? that’s priceless. no one can take away a long slow sex session where all he does is tell you he loves only you and that you don’t have to worry about the others, that they ever be in your condition like you are now, all fucked up thanks to him

[mission2mordor]

Hmmmmm, I’m having thoughts.

Give me 1987 Eddie Munson, who almost makes it big. His band plays all the time, they have demos in the works, and he has a gorgeous boyfriend who is so understanding and patient, and he almost has everything he wants and could have ever dreamed of.

Then, the night of Corroded Coffin’s biggest show yet, where they were going to be scouted, Al Munson rears his ugly mug. Eddie sees him in the crowd and trips over an amp cord. He goes crashing to the ground, smacking his head on a table and the stage on the way down. He hears Gareth go crashing over his drum kit, Jeff and Aaron throwing their instruments and Steve crashing into everything as they move to get to Eddie.

Eddie wakes up in a hospital bed three days later with no sign of his band. Steve sits next to him in a chair, clearly not having gone home.

The nurses check him over when they come in, careful not to wake Steve. Eddie lets him doze a little longer as he looks at his leg. Broken in three places. His hand. Two dislocated fingers from trying to catch himself and failing. Thirteen stitches in his hairline from the stage.

They missed their break. Everything in their lives had gone right, the stars all aligned for one night, and Eddie gets scared and makes them all miss their big break.

The boys creep into the hospital room around 4:40. They tell him about what happened after. How the scout never showed. Gareth’s broken arm from swinging on Eddie’s dad. They don’t mention his broken bones or his stitches. They just keep him company and talk about D&D until the nighttime nurses force them to go home. She moves to wake Steve and Eddie catches her wrist, shaking his head at her.

Steve wakes up a couple hours later and fawns over Eddie for all of seventy minutes before he asks him what made him so freaked out. Eddie explains himself as best he can and shrugs.

“I dunno what to do Stevie. It’ll take forever to build back up to that. To being scouted. And Corroded Coffin is pretty much over. That crashed and burned with the bass drum. I’m tired, Steve. I don’t understand how he can just ruin everything in five minutes like that.” Eddie says solemnly. He’s right and they both know it. Nobody will take the band on if that’s the kind of things happening at their shows before they’ve even been signed. They’re not Mötley Crüe. They can’t get away with bar fights. They’re not in L.A.

This is podunk, Indiana.

Steve gives him a smile and makes up a metaphor.

“You guys are butterflies. Your wings are just spreading and filling out. I’m sure you’ll find something out of all this. A way to clean up all the blood and keep going. A way to try again.” Steve murmurs, kissing Eddie on the forehead before climbing into the hospital bed to cuddle up with him.

“That would be a killer album name. ‘Butterfly’s Blood.’ You know it?” Eddie jokes but Steve echoes the idea and a seed is planted inside Eddies mind.

Two and a half years later,a band named CARNAGE rises to the top. Butterfly’s Blood is no. 1 on the rock/metal billboard charts. The first music video from the album includes footage from the hideout the night Eddie fell off the stage. When he hits the ground, the screen goes black. A bass line begins and then the song bursts through the speakers.

‘Hope for the Worst’ breaks records with the amount of calls to MTV about playing the video.

[piastrisun]

love me not.

pairings: lando norris + female reader.

summary: it started with one kiss. it kept happening. now you don’t know what hurts more — the way he holds you at night or the way he leaves you in the morning.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 7.7k. ⠀ warning: mentions of sex.

notes: inspired by ‘love me not’ by ravyn lenae. i feel this could’ve been more angsty but i’m happy with the result. hope you enjoy it a lot!!

you were best friends.

the kind of best friends who could sit in silence for hours and still feel like you were saying everything. you knew the passcode to his phone. he kept a spare hoodie at your place. you made playlists for each other and had a standing friday night tradition: pizza, films, and sharing one blanket on your sofa. it was always that way.

safe. easy. solid.

you’d grown up side by side, gone through break-ups, new jobs, bad days — all of it. you were the first person he called when he did well at a race. he was the one who held your hand when you failed your final exam. you were home to each other.

then it changed.

it was after a party. one of those nights that didn’t feel like it was supposed to matter. you were drunk, barefoot on his sofa in one of his old t-shirts. he was sitting on the floor, head leaning against your knee, telling you about some girl he wasn’t sure about.

“i just wish i liked her,” he’d said. “wish it felt like something.”

you laughed — tired, tipsy, warm — and said, “maybe you’re just waiting for the wrong person to feel like the right one.”

he looked up at you. eyes hazy. tired. quiet. and then he kissed you, not rushed. not hungry. just… gentle. curious, even. and you kissed him back.

the first time wasn’t planned.

you didn’t talk about it afterwards. you fell asleep in his bed, wearing the same t-shirt, pretending everything still felt the same.

and it didn’t.

the next morning, you made pancakes like you always did. he kissed your temple when he left. like it meant nothing. like you hadn’t just crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

you told yourself it was a one-time thing. a weird moment. something that didn’t need a label.

but a week later, it happened again.

and again. and again.

you told yourselves it was casual. just two best friends who slept together sometimes. nothing had to change. nothing would change.

except it did.

he stopped texting you good morning. you stopped telling him about the guy you’d matched with on hinge. the friday night film marathons got shorter. more skin. less talking.

you only saw each other late now. and even then, only when one of you was lonely enough to press send on a “you up?” text.

you used to talk until 4 a.m. now he leaves before sunrise. and now the friendship is gone. no more dumb inside jokes. no more teasing. no more comfort. just late-night sheets and fading laughter.

you still know how he takes his coffee. he still notices when you change your nail colour. but you don’t say those things anymore. you don’t talk unless someone needs a body. not a friend. not a heart.

just a body.

─────⠀ SCENE #1.

“don't loosen your grip, got a hold on me / now, forever, let's get back together.”

it’s sometime after 2 a.m. the city outside your window hums softly, distant and unbothered. the kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night, when even the streetlights seem tired. your flat is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow slipping through the blinds. your phone is in your hand. you’ve typed and deleted the same message three times.

you finally send it.

“you up?”

you don’t expect him to answer. not really. but when there’s a knock at your door ten minutes later, your heart trips over itself anyway. three soft raps, the kind only he does. and before you can even think about changing your mind, you’re opening it.

lando stands there, shirt half on, eyes tired but wide when they meet yours. his curls are messy, like he’d been tossing in bed or maybe hadn’t slept at all. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. you just step back, and he walks in like he always does like this is still his place too.

the flat is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. the silence between you crackles, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. you both know why he’s here. why he always comes back.

soon, you’re lying in bed, backs pressed against the mattress, shoulders just barely touching. the sheets are tangled, the air between you damp with something that isn’t quite love but feels too much like it.

he breathes steady beside you, like he’s already slipping away and something about that makes your chest tighten. you stare up at the ceiling, your fingers absently brushing against your own collarbone, grounding yourself. then your voice breaks the silence, low and soft like it might crack if you’re too loud.

“do you ever miss it?”

lando shifts a little, but he doesn’t turn to look at you. you see his jaw tighten just slightly in the dim light. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling like it’s safer that way.

“miss what?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

a small, bitter laugh escapes, but it isn’t really funny. you turn your head toward him. “us. before this,” your voice cracks a little. “when we could talk about stupid shit for hours and it didn’t end with you zipping up your jeans.”

the silence that follows is different this time, heavier. you swear you can feel it pressing down on your chest.

he exhales, long and slow, and finally turns his head toward you. you don’t look at him. you’re afraid if you do, the ache in your throat might spill out.

“i do,” he says eventually. quiet, but clear. “i miss it more than i say.”

you close your eyes. that should mean something. that should feel like enough. but it’s not. because you also know what comes next, the part where he pulls you close, kisses you like he means it, and then leaves before the sun comes up. the part where he pretends it’s nothing again.

“then why do we keep doing this?” your voice cracks despite you trying not to let it.

he doesn’t answer right away. he swallows hard, and you can see it, the way his throat bobs, the way his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s trying to hold himself still.

“because i don’t know how to not want you,” he says. “but i don’t know how to keep you either.”

your chest burns. that stupid mix of relief and heartbreak, like his honesty is a knife you asked him to twist. and in a way, you did

you finally turn to face him, and for the first time in weeks, your eyes meet in the dark.

“i don’t need you like that,” you whisper. “but i miss you. every time you go.”

he doesn’t say anything. just reaches out and brushes his fingers against your hand like he’s asking for permission to stay a little longer. and even though you know it’s going to hurt, you let him.

because you’re both already in too deep.

because you both lie.

and it’s all starting to crack.

his fingers graze yours, and your heart stutters, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. because he’s touched you a hundred times like this, maybe more. but it never feels casual, no matter how much you both pretend it is.

you don’t pull away. not yet. even though you probably should.

you shift slightly on the bed, turning toward him, your knees brushing under the sheets. the air smells like him, faint cologne and something familiar, something that always clings to your pillow when he leaves.

“do you ever think we ruined it?” you ask, barely more than a whisper.

lando doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah. all the time.”

that hurts. but what hurts more is how easily he says it, like it’s a fact he’s made peace with. like it’s something you’re both supposed to carry now, quiet and heavy and constant.

“i miss knowing you,” you say, and the words feel naked. “not just… this version of you. the one who only shows up when it’s late and no one’s looking.”

lando flinches, just a little. like the truth surprises him even though he knows it’s true.

“you still know me,” he says, soft but urgent. “more than anyone.”

“that doesn’t feel like enough anymore.” you don’t mean to sound bitter. but maybe you are, maybe that’s fair.

─────⠀ SCENE #2.

“it's hard to see you, but i wish you were right here / it's hard to leave you when i get you everywhere / all this time i'm thinkin' we could never be a pair.”

it starts in his car.

the windows are fogged from the inside, soft with condensation and blurred city lights that bleed through like bruises — purples and reds smudging across the glass. rain taps steadily against the roof, rhythmic and gentle, like a heartbeat. not yours, though. yours is lodged somewhere in your throat, pounding too hard, too fast. the air is thick with the scent of leather, the chill of the night air slipping through the cracks, and him, always him.

you hadn’t planned this. of course you hadn’t. you were supposed to just talk. to sit here, say a few things, maybe pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it does. maybe say goodbye, if either of you were brave enough to say the word out loud.

but then his hand brushed yours across the centre console — just a soft touch, nothing dramatic — and neither of you moved away.

you’re sat in the passenger seat, knees pulled up to your chest like they can protect you. your eyes are fixed on the streetlamp outside the car, watching the way the light flickers in the rain. like if you stare long enough, it’ll anchor you. keep you steady. because looking at him would ruin you. because looking at him means remembering everything you’re trying not to feel.

and then he says your name, quietly. like it’s fragile. like it might break if he says it too loud. “you okay?”

you nod. your throat is tight, but you lie anyway. “i’m fine.”

you’re not fine. not even close. because he’s sitting right there, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that you could just reach out and… touch him. and all you can think about is how much you miss him. how even when he’s this close, it still feels like he’s slipping away.

you finally turn to look at him, and your lips part, maybe to tell him to go. maybe to ask him to stay. maybe to scream. maybe to confess. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you don’t get the chance. because he leans in first, and, as usual, you let him.

it’s soft at first. barely even a kiss. like he’s asking a question. like he’s giving you a chance to stop this before it begins. but you don’t. you lean in too.

your fingers slide into his hair before you can think better of it, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. like you’ve done this before. like your body remembers him better than your heart does. the kiss deepens quickly, too quickly. all tongue and teeth and aching desperation. you move across the console like your bones were made for this, like you’ve always known how to get to him, how to reach him. like there’s never been any space between you at all.

his hands find their way under your shirt before you can catch your breath, and yours are tugging at his belt like it’s the only way you know how to speak now, through skin, through touch, through the kind of silence that says too much.

you end up in the backseat.

clothes half-on, half-off. limbs tangled. your breathing messy, mouths greedy, movements clumsy but real. it’s not perfect, it’s rushed, uneven, aching. but it’s honest. it’s desperate. you breathe him in like air, like you’ve been holding your breath for days, waiting for this exact moment to come undone.

you never tell him to stop.

not when the cold window presses against your back. not when his breath hits your ear, hot and shaky, and your name leaves his lips like a vow he doesn’t know he’s breaking.

because you don’t need him.

but oh god, you want him.

and in this moment, that feels like the same thing.

somehow, later, you end up back at your place.

he drives like nothing happened. his grip on the steering wheel steady, eyes forward, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. like your lipstick isn’t smeared down his throat. like your hand on his thigh isn’t enough to make him hard again. like neither of you are pretending that this is normal.

the door clicks shut behind you, and you’re on him again. it’s instant, automatic, like the moment you crossed the threshold, everything else disappeared. your backs hit walls. his mouth finds your neck. your blouse comes off, buttons lost somewhere on the floor. his shirt doesn’t even get a chance to drop, it stays crumpled in your fists like you’re afraid letting go of the fabric means letting go of him.

you don’t speak. you don’t have to.

this time, he takes you in the hallway. then the kitchen table. then finally, the bed, the one place you’ve never let him this far in, or at least you try to avoid.

he moans into your neck, murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, like it means something. and for a second — just one second — you let yourself believe it. you let yourself pretend this is love. pretend it’s real. pretend it isn’t just another night of pretending.

because loves you not, he loves you.

he holds you tight, then let you go.

he holds your waist like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

and you ride that lie all the way through. every kiss. every sigh. every time you whimper “don’t stop” when what you should’ve said was “don’t come back.”

later, you lie on your side, facing the window. his arm is draped around your hip. your bodies still pressed together, skin still burning. the room is quiet, but your mind is anything but.

your thoughts scream, you don’t need him like that. you’re better off without him. you’ll be fine in the morning. but right now?

you reach back. find his hand in the dark. your fingers wrap around his without thinking. you hold on. just for tonight.

because sometimes, want wins.

even when it will hurt like hell.

─────⠀ SCENE #3.

“soon as you leave me, we always lose connection / it's gettin' messy, i favor your affection.”

you weren’t planning to go out that friday.

but your friends insisted, and you didn’t feel like being alone with your thoughts. so you let them drag you to that bar in the city centre — the one with the overpriced drinks and the red lighting that makes everything feel a little too intimate, like even glancing across the room could mean something.

you’re halfway through your second drink when you see him.

lando.

same half-tucked shirt. same slouched posture, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching — and yet, somehow, he’s always the one everyone watches. not because he’s trying. because he never has to.

he’s not alone.

beside him — her. the girl. she’s pretty. effortlessly so. the kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, but gets it anyway, just like he does. she leans in when she laughs, head tilting just right, mouth parted like she’s rehearsed it. you see her fingers graze his arm. see the way he doesn’t flinch or step back.

she’s close. too close. laughing at something he said. her fingers brush his sleeve again like she’s done it before. like she belongs there.

and worst of all — he smiles. soft. familiar. not that smug grin he uses with strangers. no, this one’s different. it’s the real one. your one.

and it twists in your stomach like something sour.

you try to swallow it down. pretend it doesn’t bother you. pretend you’re better than this. but it does bother you. and you’re not better.

you stay long enough to let it sting. then you leave. like it doesn’t matter. like it didn’t crack something open in you. you make it home. sit on the edge of your bed. try to forget.

and fail.

later that night, your phone lights up.

“can i come over?”

you stare at the message, screen glowing in the dark. thumb hovering over the keyboard for a full minute. you could ignore it. should ignore it.

but you don’t.

“door’s open.”

you hate how fast you type it. hate that your heart jumps. hate that you’re already pulling on the sweater he left at yours three weeks ago — the one you swore you were going to wash and return. you hate that you glance in the mirror, just once, even though you tell yourself you don’t care.

it’s past midnight when he shows.

you don’t watch him enter, but you know the sounds of him — the soft click of the door, the quiet rustle of his jacket landing on the arm of the sofa like muscle memory. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he has. because you’ve let him.

you stay where you are, perched on the kitchen counter. legs bare, sweater slipping off one shoulder like it always does. the glass of water next to you has gone warm and untouched. your heart, though — wide awake. pulsing in your chest like it’s been waiting.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

your voice is steady. cold. detached — at least on the surface. “she looked nice.”

a direct hit. you don’t give him the grace of subtlety tonight.

he exhales hard. like he was expecting it. like he deserves it. “it wasn’t like that,” he says, stepping toward you. you see the way his hands twitch, fingers flexing like they want to reach for you. but he doesn’t.

you finally turn to face him. your expression gives nothing away, but your chest aches. every beat hurts. “neither is this,” you reply. “but here you are.”

and that’s the truth. the raw, ugly kind. the kind that scrapes at your throat on the way out.

he looks at you, eyes darker than usual, jaw tight. like he’s searching for something he already knows is there. and hates that it is. there’s guilt in him. you can see it.

but it doesn’t change a thing. guilt never stopped him before.

you slide off the counter slowly, deliberately. your bare feet hit the cold tile. you walk past him without a word. like he’s just another ghost in your hallway. like the heat between you hasn’t already begun to suffocate.

he follows. of course he does.

when the door clicks shut behind him, everything changes. like someone flipped a switch. emotion blurs into impulse. silence into heat.

your mouth is on his before he can speak. and he kisses you back like he’s been starving. like she didn’t exist. like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known. but you aren’t sure if that comforts you anymore. it just makes you want to break something.

your hands clutch at his shirt like you’re trying to rip her off him. erase the memory of her skin. take her name off his lips. you don’t care if it hurts him.

you hope it does. and he lets you. he always does.

clothes fall like lies — fast, careless. his shirt hits the floor in the hallway. your underwear ends up somewhere by the front door. you don’t even make it to the bedroom straight away. it starts in the kitchen, your breath fogging against the fridge. then the hallway wall. then, finally, the bed.

it isn’t tender. it’s desperate. messy. wordless.

you give him everything. let him take everything. because if this is all he wants from you, fine. let it be this.

he kisses you like he’s trying to forget. and you let him. even when your heart begs for something more.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling harder than you should. he groans into your neck, the sound raw, like pain and want all tangled up. his name falls from your lips like it’s a habit you can’t shake. and you hate that it still feels holy.

when it’s over, you’re twisted in the sheets. your back pressed to his chest. his arm draped around your waist like it means something. like he still belongs here.

like he’s not going to disappear before the sun comes up.

the silence is heavy. thick with everything you didn’t say. you should ask him why. why he keeps doing this. why he picks you at night but forgets you in the daylight. why it hurts more every time he leaves. but you don’t ask. because you already know the answer. and maybe hearing it out loud would hurt more than this.

so you just lie there. pretending the ache is enough. pretending the weight of his arm is more than just routine. pretending you’re not just a placeholder for something he hasn’t figured out he’s looking for.

because this is what it is now. not love. not friendship.

just him.

just you.

and all the ways you don’t belong to each other but still can’t seem to walk away.

─────⠀ SCENE #4.

“you gotta say that you're sorry at the end of the night / wake up in the mornin', everything's alright.”

the sun leaks through half-closed blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the tangled sheets. it’s the kind of light that should feel warm — gentle, even — the kind that belongs to slow mornings and shared breakfasts. but all it does is highlight the distance between you. it stretches across the bed like a quiet, golden reminder of how far apart you really are now. the dust in the air glows like ghosts, dancing in the silence, haunting the space you once called safe. there’s a stillness to the room now, like the aftermath of a storm, when everything has been said or broken or swallowed. and in a way, that’s exactly what this is. the quiet that comes after something violent. something real.

you sit on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, arms wrapped tight around your own body like it’s the only thing holding you together. your hoodie’s still on, sleeves tugged down over your hands, like maybe the fabric can shield you from the ache in your chest. it can’t. your hair’s stuck to the back of your neck, tangled and damp with sweat you didn’t bother to wash away. your skin smells like him. it always does after nights like this. nights where desire drowns out sense, where you let him in even though he never really stays.

and that scent, that ache, it clings. it always lingers longer than he ever does.

behind you, he’s getting dressed. you don’t need to look. you know the sound by now. the soft shuffle of denim, the faint metal hiss of a zip, the familiar clink of his belt. then that quiet sigh, the one you could recognise with your eyes closed. it’s the sound he makes when he’s trying not to feel. like he’s gently, deliberately peeling himself away from you, slipping back into the person he is when he’s not here. when he’s not yours.

and somehow, that hurts more than it should. more than you ever let on.

the silence between you thickens, stretching long and heavy, not just awkward — no, this is denser. fuller. it carries everything you haven’t said, everything you’re both too afraid to touch. but it pulses under your skin, louder than his heartbeat had been against your back only hours ago.

you break the silence first. you always do.

but this time, your voice isn’t soft. you don’t cushion the fall. you don’t offer him an easy out. “say something.”

your words drop into the room like stones. heavy. deliberate.

he pauses. long enough for your stomach to twist. long enough to make it feel like maybe he won’t respond at all. you know this version of him, the one that shuts down when things get too close, too real. the one that dodges truth with silence, always hoping it’ll be enough.

then he speaks, barely above a whisper, like he wants to say it without it counting.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

your jaw tightens. of course he doesn’t. of course he hides behind that. because to say the truth would mean facing it — facing you. it would mean admitting that this, whatever this is, matters. that you matter.

you turn to him slowly, carefully. your eyes sting, but you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed now too, his back turned, bare shoulders hunched slightly, the curve of his spine rising and falling with every breath. and god, you hate how much you love the way he looks. you hate how familiar he still feels. how much of you still wants him.

your voice is thin, shaking at the edges. but you say it anyway.

“say you miss me.”

he doesn’t move.

“say this fucks you up too.”

still nothing.

“say i’m not the only one who can’t sleep after you leave.”

your voice cracks on that last line, and it feels like failure. it feels like breaking in front of the very person who made you feel like you had to be unbreakable in the first place. you didn’t mean to fall apart, not again. but you’re so tired. tired of pretending. tired of swallowing your feelings. tired of being something soft when he needs it, and nothing when he doesn’t.

the silence that follows is different this time.

you hear the way he swallows. you notice the tiny hitch in his breath. and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. raw.

“you think i sleep at all?”

and just like that, it steals the air from your lungs.

because it’s the first thing that’s felt honest in weeks. and no, it’s not enough. not nearly. but it’s something. something real in a mess of half-truths, vague touches, and midnight lies.

you look down at your hands. they’re trembling now, gripping the hem of your hoodie like you can physically stop yourself from falling apart if you just hold on tight enough.

“then why do you keep leaving?” your voice barely makes it out. “if it hurts so much, why do you always walk away?”

you don’t turn to face him when you say it. you can’t. not when the answer might ruin you. and again, he doesn’t respond.

you think maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t know. or maybe he does. maybe the truth is too heavy. maybe it’s that he’s scared. scared of what it means to love you more than just friends. scared of what he becomes when he does. scared of staying — and scared of what might happen if he doesn’t. but what if it’s not like that?

for neither of you and the desire is the one talking. the ego trying to make sense of why he doesn’t want you like that.

you blink hard, trying to stop the tears from coming, but one escapes. a single drop, hot and slow, sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. you wipe it away quickly, almost angrily.

he stands. quietly. pulls his shirt on like it’s just another morning. like this is just another ending. you feel the shift in the room as he moves, and even though you don’t look, you know he’s watching you. maybe he wants to say something. maybe he almost does.

but he doesn’t. he walks to the door, it clicks shut behind him. and just like that, it’s over. again.

until the next time.

until you miss him too much to fight it.

until he needs something he doesn’t know how to name.

until one of you breaks and sends that same old message.

“you up?” “can i come over?” “door’s open.”

but for now, it’s just you.

in a bed that still smells like him. in a room that feels hollow. in silence that sounds more like goodbye every single time. and all the words he didn’t say are louder than the ones he did.

you lie back down, pulling the sheets over your chest even though they offer no warmth, no comfort.

and you try. god, you try, to breathe through the part of you that still hopes he’ll turn back. but he doesn’t. and deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.

─────⠀ SCENE #5.

“lord, take it so far away / i pray that, god, we don't break / i want you to take me up and down / and 'round and 'round again.”

it’s been a week.

seven whole days without a single word from you. not a text, not a late-night call, not even one of those dumb memes you always used to send when you were bored or trying to dodge something heavier. his last message? left on read. the one after that? you didn’t even open it.

because if silence is the only weapon you’ve got left, then you’re going to learn how to wield it properly. it’s your armour now. your boundary. your final stand. but now it’s 11:37 p.m., and there’s a knock at your door. and you already know who it is, you knew from the second your phone didn’t light up but your heartbeat did.

you don’t move at first. you just stare at the door like maybe, if you’re still enough, if you wish hard enough, he’ll vanish. maybe the knocking will stop. maybe he’ll get the hint. but it doesn’t. and your chest is tight, the kind of tight that makes it hard to breathe, and the air feels like it’s been holding its breath with you. so you open the door.

lando’s standing there, like he always does when it’s too late and he’s run out of places to go. his hair’s a mess, his jacket’s half-zipped, and his eyes—god, his eyes look like they haven’t seen sleep in days. he speaks, low and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “hey.”

you don’t say a word. just step aside. he walks in like he’s done it a thousand times before, because he has. like your home is still his home, like he still belongs here. “was starting to think you’d really shut me out this time,” he says, trying to keep it light, but it lands heavy.

you shut the door behind him, leaning against it like it might keep you upright. arms crossed. walls up. “i did too,” you reply, and there’s no softness in it. no invitation.

he exhales, and it’s almost a wince. like the truth winded him. like he expected a door slammed in his face, not honesty dropped at his feet.

then your voice breaks. just slightly. “i can’t do this.” the words fall out like they’ve been sitting on your tongue for days. like they’ve been aching to be heard. you say them like you mean them. like this is the line you’ve drawn. the point of no return. you want him to hear it and feel it and finally, finally understand. you want it to be closure.

but you don’t move. your feet stay planted. your arms don’t push him away. you don’t walk him to the door. you don’t ask him to go.

you never really do.

because every time he comes back, your mouth says leave but your body says stay, please stay. every time his hand finds yours, your resolve melts. not because you’re weak. not because you don’t have boundaries. but because they never stood a chance with him. because you never knew where to draw them. maybe it should’ve started the first time he kissed you like you were everything. maybe it should’ve started the first time he left without saying goodbye. maybe somewhere in the middle of all the things you never said about what this was… and what it never became.

you should tell him to go. you should mean it. but instead, you just stand there. breathing him in. and he steps closer — slow, tentative, eyes locked on yours, like he’s waiting. waiting for you to flinch, to speak, to push him away. but you don’t. you let him get close enough for the air between you to go warm, thick with history.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, like a dare. but he already knows you won’t. because you never have.

and you hate yourself for it. for the way your skin still hums for him. for how your body still reaches for something that’s always broken you. for the way he fits into you like he’s lived there. like he was made for it. and it’s you who leans in first. or maybe he does. maybe it’s both of you, meeting halfway like always. like inevitability.

your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. his hands are already under your shirt, like this is muscle memory. like you’ve both been here a thousand times and still haven’t learned. the sofa’s too far. the bedroom feels like a decision. so it happens right there. on the floor. on the same old carpet where you used to laugh until your ribs hurt. where you used to fall asleep in the middle of a film, limbs tangled, hearts calm.

now you’re tangled for different reasons. desperate. breathless. hungry for something neither of you dares name.

and when it’s done — when the world quiets — your head is on his chest, your legs still looped with his, and you let yourself pretend. just for a second. pretend that it’s safe here. that maybe, this time, he’ll stay.

but you already know how this goes. you’ve lived this story on repeat. because you never made the rules. because he never asked for them. and because you never thought you’d need them.

and maybe that’s the worst part, not that he crossed a line. but that you never drew one. not really. not where it counted. because you didn’t want to lose him. because wanting him always roared louder than protecting yourself from him.

and now he’s lying beside you on the floor, shirtless and soft, warm in all the places that still ache from him. your skin’s buzzing. your heart’s already breaking. because it’s never just physical. not with him. it never has been. and you knew that. and you let it happen anyway.

because at 2 a.m., when he’s right there, saying he’s worried you didn’t texted back with his hands instead of his mouth, it’s too easy to forget that he always leaves. and too hard to remember how to tell him not to come back.

then, out of nowhere, you laugh. quiet. unexpected. because you’re tired. because he’s still him. and for one second, it’s like it used to be.

he grins. soft and barely there. you both collapse back onto the carpet, side by side. legs tangled without thought, like instinct.

he nudges your knee with his. “remember when we slept on this floor after too much tequila and you made me rank every spice girls song?”

you smile, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “you said sporty carried the group.”

“she did,” he replies, mock offended.

a beat. you both laugh. and for a second… it’s easy. it always is, just before it hurts.

then he turns his head to look at you. his voice cracks a little now, like the joke chipped away something deeper. “i—i miss you.”

it’s quiet. honest. like something unraveling between you. like thread slipping loose.

you don’t look at him. just keep your eyes on the ceiling. “no,” you whisper. “you miss the part of me that lets you in at 2 a.m. and pretends it doesn’t hurt.”

he sits up suddenly. brows pulled in, hands through his hair — that move you know too well. “that’s not fair.”

and before you can stop yourself, your body follows his. now you’re both sat across from each other, legs crossed like kids. but your expression is sharp now. and your voice? even sharper.

“no,” you snap. “what’s not fair is holding me like i’m everything, just to let me go like i’m nothing. what’s not fair is the way you kiss me like you mean it, then disappear like you never did.”

his mouth opens. then shuts. his jaw tightens.

“that’s not how it is,” he says, quiet.

“then tell me what it is, lando. tell me what this is.”

silence.

he doesn’t answer. because he doesn’t know. because he’s scared. because giving it a name means risking it all.

“you always show up when you’re lonely,” you say, voice breaking now. “not when you miss me. not when you want me. just when being alone feels worse.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly, defensive. “i come because i—i don’t know where else to go.”

you laugh again. but it’s empty now. “wow. that’s so romantic.”

he winces. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you stand, grabbing the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around yourself like it might protect you from this ache. “you never do. and that’s the problem.”

he watches you. like he’s waiting for the shift. for you to fold. for you to leave the door open, like always.

but this time… you don’t.

lando stands slowly. his jeans are only half-zipped. his t-shirt’s bunched in his hand — the same one you’d pulled off earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is still pink. and he looks like every version of the boy you’ve ever loved.

but he doesn’t say anything.

not please, not don’t, not i love you. just silence. then he turns, walks to the door, opens it. you don’t stop him. he leaves.

and this time, you don’t cry. not until the door clicks shut. not until it’s real.

─────⠀ SCENE #6.

“oh no, i don't need you, but i miss you, come here / and oh, it’s so hard to see you, but i wish you were here.”

it’s been months. long enough that the sting of him has mostly faded, or at least, you’ve gotten good at pretending it has. you’ve stopped waiting for those texts at 2 a.m., the ones that always came too late and said too little. you’ve stopped pretending they didn’t break you. stopped staring at your phone like it might suddenly light up with his name and a miracle, some kind of answer to the mess you two made.

you’ve found a rhythm now. a way of living that doesn’t ache quite as much. a way of laughing that doesn’t feel like a betrayal. smiling no longer costs you something. you’ve learned how to lift your chin again without feeling like the weight of his ghost is pulling your shoulders down.

and for the most part, it’s fine. manageable. survivable.

the party is loud — too loud — with too many people, too many voices blurring into one constant hum against the bass of the music. you’re standing with friends, drink in hand, half-listening, half-smiling. trying. but then your eyes catch on someone across the room, and it’s him.

lando.

and just like that, the rest of the room fades. the noise quiets. his presence pulls you in like gravity, like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

his eyes meet yours. there’s no smile, no wave. just that look. the one that used to undo you. and even now, months later, it still finds its way into your chest, that familiar ache, sharp and bittersweet. you can almost hear his voice in your head, low and close, like it used to be when he leaned in just to say your name.

his lips twitch, like he’s about to smile. that same crooked grin that used to make you feel like you were the only one in the world.

but you don’t smile back. not this time.

instead, you turn your attention to the conversation around you. you laugh at your friend’s joke — louder than you need to — and take a sip of your drink you don’t really want. your fingers wrap tighter around the glass. you stand a little taller, a little stronger, trying to create distance between yourself and the ghost of him still lingering in your bones.

you won’t let him slip back in. not again. not now. not when it’s taken everything just to feel like you can breathe without him.

and then — your phone buzzes. you don’t have to check to know who it is, you already know, but you do anyway.

“come here.”

it’s just two words. harmless, almost. but they knock the air out of you.

you read it once. then again. and again. staring at his name like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once.

your chest tightens. your throat burns. because you can hear it: his voice, soft and quiet, like he’s standing right beside you. like he’s saying it not just through text, but through the silence between you, the memories, the weight of everything that still hasn’t been said.

you want to reply. god, you want to. but you don’t.

you slide your phone back into your bag. your hands shake slightly, but you steady yourself. because this time, you’re not doing it. not going to be the girl who folds for a late-night message again.

and somehow, that decision — that silence — feels like the bravest thing you’ve done in months.

you turn back to your friends. the music is too loud, and someone is laughing too hard, and it all feels like a blur. but you lean into it. you let it drown out the noise in your head.

you don’t look back.

the night carries on in flashes, lights, drinks, words that drift in and out. you smile and nod and dance and breathe. and when you finally get home, your heels kicked off, makeup smudged and hair still carrying the scent of smoke and too many people. the silence wraps around you like a blanket.

except it’s not comforting. it presses in on you, heavy and unforgiving.

you sit on the edge of your bed, the message still unopened on your screen, glowing faintly like it’s waiting for you to break.

come here.

you still get him everywhere. in the spaces between dreams. in the lyrics of songs you weren’t expecting. in the way your hand reaches for your phone just before sleep, even though you already know exactly what’s there. but this time, you won’t open the door.

because you’ve learned what his love feels like, all shadows and silence. he only comes when the night is quiet and the world is still, when the loneliness creeps in and he remembers you were once warm and easy to find. but you need more than that.

and he’s never been that person.

you can’t keep being the girl who waits for someone to mean it. who takes scraps and calls them love. and that realisation, it hurts more than you’ll ever admit aloud. it tears through your chest in the dead of night when no one is looking.

you press your fingers to the side of your phone, wishing it could erase the part of you that still aches for him. that still wants to believe the words he sends when he’s lonely. but you can’t stay there. not anymore.

and across the room at that same party, lando stands near the door, phone still in hand, the message sent and left on read.

he stares at the screen. rereads it. wonders if maybe you just didn’t see it. but he knows.

he knows that silence.

it isn’t distance — it’s a choice.

he’s done this too many times. come crawling back when it’s dark and empty and he can’t pretend anymore. he’s always shown up when it’s too late. when you’ve already put the pieces of yourself back together.

and now, watching you from afar, he feels it. the weight of what he’s broken. what he never gave you.

you don’t look back. you don’t seek him out. and god, he deserves it. but it still cuts.

you were the one thing that felt like home, and now you’re just a stranger in the same room.

he sends another message — i miss you — but even as he types it, he knows it’s not enough.

he’s sorry. he is. but he also knows that sorry isn’t love. sorry isn’t showing up when it matters. sorry doesn’t fix the way he only ever came to you when he was empty.

and maybe that’s why you finally stopped waiting.

he looks down at his phone, your silence louder than any answer you could’ve given.

because now he knows what it really means. you won’t come back — not unless he learns to want you in the light. not unless he learns how to stay.

and the worst part is… he’s not sure he ever will.

the space between you is wide and echoing. and he’s left standing there with nothing but a quiet screen and the realisation that he let you go.

one of you was falling harder every time, the other pretended they weren’t feeling a thing. who was who?

and the truth: you were both lying. and now it’s over.

there’s only ache and the strings are attached forever. either you are want it or not.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[rinawantstosleep]

𖹭༉‧°𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪

bf satoru x fem single mom reader

wc: 1.1k

— a pair of troublemakers residing in your house; both of whom are (unintentionally!) dead-set on making themselves the death of you.

"I don't like your stupid, white hair." 

"And I don't like your boring, brown hair, buddy."

"W-well... well, I don't like your ugly, doo-doo face!"

"Your mama does." 

The two could go bickering like this for hours on end if you let them. What may seem to be a mutually digressive arrangement is actually an oddly adorable bonding in disguise. Satoru and your son put on a front of being annoyed at the other's presence, but you've never seen them apart for longer than a few minutes at a time. They've grown on each other; much like how moss grows on a statue that's been lingering out in the open. An indispensable cycle of life that's truly inevitable. 

"No, she doesn't! She doesn't! She likes... sof- sofis... sofistogated guys."

"You mean sophisticated?"

"Shut up!" 

You'd been terrified that your little one wouldn't have a father-figure to rely on anymore after you divorced your husband. However, it was something you had to do for his sake. The child deserved to live in an environment that wasn't always reeking of alcohol, where he wasn't subjected to the constant, drunk yelling of a pathetic excuse of a father who couldn't get his shit together and lazed around at home all day while you did all the work. If that meant that you'd have to raise him on his own, then so be it. At least he'd be raised properly. Signing those papers was, by far, the easiest decision you'd ever made. 

"I'm not shutting up because a kid in clothes too big for him is telling me to."

"You... you're the one always wearing tight clothes around the house to impress my mama."

"No, that's because I'm ripped. Gotta show off what I've got. And your mama loves that." 

"Oh, yeah? That means you show off your... your - um... ugly, doo-doo face!"

Would you regard it a miracle that Satoru just so happened to stumble into your life around that very time? Well, relatively. Meeting him wasn't something you'd planned, nor anticipated. The kind stranger who offered to pay for your order at a café a year ago has somehow, thanks to quite a romantic sequence of events, turned into your boyfriend; a rock to lean on for when you need the support. And, also, someone that your little one can look up to (with the fun, bonus benefit of the pair getting into silly, childish quarrels nine times out of ten). What is Satoru if not a three-hundred-and-thirty-six-month-old toddler, too? Puts your five-year-old to utter shame with the way he acts. 

"Enough. Baby, we've been over this before. Behave."

"But, mama, he's being a meanie!" "But, babe, he's acting all pretentious." 

The responses come simultaneously: one is high pitched and whiny, and the other is your son. Sometimes, you have to pause and ask yourself how you haven't gone insane yet. It's the love that keeps you from falling apart. How could you ever harbor any other feeling for these two, except for wanting to cherish them? You just... need to work on a pet name that doesn't apply to the both of them at once.  

"I don't want to hear it. Sweetie, finish your lunch. And, Satoru?" 

"Yes, honey-who-loves-me-and-my-'ugly, doo-doo'-face?" He's smirking, snickering, while saying this, the sly bastard. When will the pair ever relent on trying to one-up the other? 

"Why have you got one of my hair ties on your wris- never mind. Don't forget to change the sheets in our room. I'd do it myself if not for the meeting I need to get to in an hour." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

Cue a tiny gasp. 

"But, mama..." The voice of your little one breaks the peaceful silence at the dining table once again. His legs start kicking back and forth - a sign that he's growing restless - from the chair they're dangling off of. He's got a protest already forming up in that head of his. "Toru said he'd take me to the skate park today. And he promised to get ice cream after."

Toru, huh? That's new. You can't help the smile that paints itself on your lips. The two have been getting along pretty well, it seems, contrary to all the bickering they do. That's always nice to know. It's amusing to see the dynamic they've built. One second, they're riling each other up to no end, the next, they've already formed a secret alliance to go out and have fun together. How cute. "Is that so?"

"Mhm! So that means we need to leave riiight after I finish my lunch. Don't get mad, okay?" 

It's the small things like these that warm your heart. Some sacrifices can be made if it's in regards to this adorable (step, even though you haven't married Satoru yet)father-son moment. The sheets are insignificant right now. "Awwh. Of course I won't get mad, baby. It's good for you to want to spend more time with Satoru. Isn't he a fun guy?"

"... maybe." 

. . . 

"Just make sure he's safe out there. Helmet and gear on at all times, no big ramps. And don't let him eat too much sugar. He'll get hyper. Once the rush dies down, he'll get cranky -"

Satoru's arm wraps around your waist before you can finish your sentence, pulling you overwhelmingly close to his frame. Instinctively, your arms move to wrap around his neck, just the way Satoru likes it. Oh, how he wants to just throw everything else out the window and drag you to the nearest room with a lock in place.

"You -" A quick peck to your lips, followed by a nibble on your bottom lip. "- worry -" Another peck. "- too -" Another. "- much." Then, an unexpected bite on the shell of your right ear. "I'd never allow myself to let that little demon get hurt; or hyper."

Large hands wander across the curve of your back, resting firm on your butt. Satoru doesn't want to expose your son to the way he's squeezing your plush flesh with his long digits, so he shifts to have your back pressed against the wall. A perfect opportunity to kiss you - which the man can't help but seize. What else is a smitten boyfriend to do while waiting for your son to get ready and come down from his room upstairs? Lips against lips until one of you pulls away for air. "He's safe with me, okay?" 

"Okay." 

"Atta girl. Now, you go to that meeting of yours. And, tonight, after we both get back- oww."

"Groooss! Don't kiss my mama, or you'll make her ugly! Like youuu!"

"Baby, no. Don't kick Satoru's ankles-"

"I'm saving you, mama."

with 𖹭, rina !!

[milessunflowers]

welcome back to bear does role reversals!!

twitch streamer!lando norris x f1 driver!reader :P

-bear

twitch streamer!lando makes me so happy omg

twitch streamer!lando norris x f1 driver!gn!reader

synopsis: nobody realizes that their favorite twitch streamer is dating their favorite f1 driver until they show up in one of lando's streams

author's note: guys i actually wrote something other than headcannons?? holy shit?? i feel like a small blurb or whatever it is called (can't remember for the life of me) fit this vibe more than anything so yeah! hope you guys like it

finally, it was winter break. you had had a long season, ending it in third overall for the world championship. sure, it wasn't ideal, per say, but you were incredibly proud, and so was lando. in fact, the two of you went out on a last-minute date, sharing a nice burger before heading back to the hotel.

with the season finally over, you now had all the time you could wish for and more to spend with your boyfriend. most of the time, you and lando attempted to make dinner, had movie nights, and oftentimes played whatever games lando wanted with each other. it was a nice break from the high stress of driving cars at upwards of 375 kilometers an hour. plus, you had gone pretty much off the grid to detox from the heavy drama and rumors swirling around your career.

with lando, you could just be you without the stress of pr or the looming presence of your contract. lando was a breath of fresh air, even if he was a bit intense and chaotic at times. you loved him more than anything.

tonight was more or less normal. you were sitting on the couch, waiting for your food to arrive, and watching the tele. lando was in the home office, streaming like he usually did on friday nights. he was screaming and laughing, chatting with max while they shot insults back and forth at each other. you found it hilarious, especially since you teased them for acting like an old married couple.

behind lando was your collection of helmets and trophies. of course, people knew you lived together and somehow never put together all the puzzle pieces. you thought it was quite funny as it was blatantly obvious. you never hid your relationship from public view, nor did you ever want to. your fans and his just never seemed to connect the dots.

you hadn't minded, though. it was nice having a more private relationship, even if it wasn't exactly private. lando, and you were always openly affectionate with each other in public. especially lando, who is constantly hanging off your arm and kissing you.

you are snapped out of your thoughts when the doorbell rings, signaling your take out has arrived. you thank the delivery woman, tip her extra for being so kind, and enter the apartment once more. you set everything up before calling your boyfriend.

"lando! babe, dinner's here!" you call to him, hoping he can hear you over his high-pitched giggling. you wait a spell, seeing if he will come out of his cave as you have come to call the office. "babe!" you shout again before sighing and heading towards the office door.

you open it to find lando bright red from laughing. "lando, babe!" you say, approaching him, in view of the camera, and pull his headset off. "dinner's here." he looks up at you, annoyed before he smiles.

"why didn't you call me?" he asks, turning to see the chat blowing up eith question marks. he giggles again before looking back st your half annoyed expression.

"i called you at least three times, baby," you tell him, rolling your eyes at the cheeky look he was giving you. you gently shove his face away and laugh. "c'mon, love. gotta eat before it gets cold."

"can you pretty please bring me a plate? today's the longer stream, and i can't end it," he tells you, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. you close your eyes, throw your head back, and sigh heavily.

"fine, but only if i can eat in here with you too," you respond, leaning down to give him a short kiss before going to grab him a plate of food. lando cackles when you leave as his chat is absolutely shocked with your relationship.

"chat, don't be so surprised. i've been with them for years," he tells his chat, rolling his eyes. "and yes, i have been to their races. it literally says 'twitch streamer and y/n l/n's partner' when i'm shown on the tele. are you guys actually that dumb?!"

"well if they watch you, mate-" max starts before lando is yelling again, causing max to cackle as well. you barely step back into the room before you are met with the hynea sounds that assault your ears.

"what the hell?" you announce, handing your boyfriend his plate, your reaction unfortunately making him cackle louder. "never mind, just eat." and he does. he eats and chats and laughs with you and max. that stream later goes completely viral, and finally, after years together, the world has finally pieced it together how insanely in love you guys are.

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[fluentmoviequoter]

I'm Closer

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!reader

Summary: During a string of break-ins in your neighborhood, you have to stay home alone while Tim works a night shift. When the intruder gets close to you, you remember Tim is always closer.

Warnings: depictions of breaking and entering, anxiety/fear, vague threat, fluff and comfort

Word Count: 1.8k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

When Tim returns home, you’re sitting in the corner of the couch with your knees pulled up towards your chest as you type on your phone. He sighs and locks the door behind him.

“Where?” he asks, moving to stand behind you before he lays his hands on your shoulders.

“Two streets over,” you answer. “The Clarksons.”

You click the power button and toss your phone aside before you stand on the couch. Tim’s hands fall to your hips as he tilts his head back to look at you.

“How many is that?” you ask softly.

“Fifteen,” he replies. “There was one yesterday afternoon, we were investigating it all morning. Seven detectives and not a single lead between them.”

Leaning forward, you place your hands on Tim’s shoulders. He lifts your hips and pulls you carefully over the back of the couch. Before your feet touch the ground, you move your arms around Tim’s shoulders and hug him tightly.

“What if we’re next?” you ask against his neck.

Tim doesn’t answer right away, opting to tighten his grip on you as he moves one hand to smooth over the back of your head. He understands your concern. You have both been on edge since the second reported robbery. Fifteen break-ins in your neighborhood in less than three weeks is more than enough cause for concern. Each report makes Tim more eager to get the thief in cuffs but simultaneously discourages him from leaving you home alone. You’ve been triple-checking locks even when he is home, so he can’t imagine the weight you’re carrying when he’s gone.

“I’ve been driving by every few hours,” Tim tells you. “And Wade has patrol officers all over this area. We’re going to catch him.”

You nod against Tim. You desperately want to believe him but refuse to let your guard down. Tim mumbles something against your hair, and you pull back just enough to tilt your chin up.

He sighs, then says, “I have to work the night shift tomorrow. If you want to go stay somewhere else, I get it.”

You shake your head and take Tim’s hand, leading him toward your bedroom. “There really haven’t been any leads? Not even what kind of house they’re targeting or anything?”

“Nothing,” Tim laments. “Whoever this is, they don’t seem to be picky.”

“Comforting.”

Tim chuckles at your tone, then wraps his arms around you again. You never feel safer than when you’re in Tim’s arms. Neither of you are the kind of person to run from a fight, so you will stay in your home tomorrow, alone, and trust Tim and his fellow officers to find the bad guy before anything else happens.

“I could ask Smitty to park his car in the driveway for his hourly naps, try to scare anyone off with the sight of a police car coming and going,” Tim suggests.

“That would work great until they see the donut-hungover cop in it,” you joke.

“Call me tomorrow night, okay? For anything.”

“I will,” you promise. “I love you, Tim.”

The following night, after you kiss Tim goodbye and promise again to call him if you need something and to check in often, you walk into the kitchen and begin cooking yourself dinner. You aren’t hungry, you're too concerned with checking each car that drives by the window and ensuring no one can see inside the house. You walk through the house and check the locks as your food cooks. Everything is fine, you remind yourself as you carry your food to the couch. You turn on the television, hoping it will serve as a welcome distraction until you’re ready for bed.

Tim looks away from the computer monitor before him to check his watch. You’re probably getting ready for bed, and your last update was only a few minutes ago when you said everything was fine and the closest neighbors were home from work.

“Grey,” he calls.

“Two patrol cars are circling now,” Wade answers without looking up from his folder. “Everything’s quiet.”

Tim nods to himself, then clicks his keyboard to resume the security camera footage. Lucy yawns beside him, and Tim resists asking Wade which officers are in your neighborhood. If something were to happen, you’d be more likely to call Tim than dispatch, and he’d like to know who is close.

“She’ll be fine,” Lucy assures him softly.

“She better be,” he responds before watching a man in a bright red tracksuit enter a gas station with a gun in his hand.

You enter the guest room across the hall from your master suite with your phone in your hand to ensure the windows are locked. The windows on this side of your house aren’t very easily accessible, but you check them regardless. In your pajamas and ready for bed, you tug on the window latch and nod when it doesn’t move. Raising your phone, you open your text thread with Tim and begin typing a message. You pause when something makes a scraping noise outside. It goes silent, and several seconds later, you resume typing.

Just before you hit send, a loud pop echoes through the hallway before the undeniable noise of a window sliding open reaches your ears. Two soft footsteps follow soon after, and you begin to panic. You look around for something to defend yourself with, then suddenly remember that Tim told you to take cover first and then defend yourself only if necessary in a situation like this.

The closet door is open, so you grab the nearest object before sliding onto the floor beneath the extra clothes. Carefully, quietly, you pull the door closer to the jamb, then sit back in the dark corner and call Tim.

Tim pauses the surveillance video, zooms in, and gets a clear image of the suspect’s driver’s license as he removes his wallet to pay for a Red Bull. He rolls his eyes at the criminal’s stupidity but mentally thanks him for saving Tim some time finding him. Tim’s phone rings, and Lucy jerks as if she had been asleep.

“Hello?” Tim asks, pushing away from the desk as he waits to hear your voice.

“Tim,” you whisper, clearly panicked.

He stands immediately and lowers his voice to ask, “What’s wrong?”

You take a shaky, shallow breath that tightens Tim’s chest before you say, “Someone’s in the house. I was checking the windows, and then there was a pop in out bedroom I think… Tim, I can hear their footsteps, please come home.”

Tim jumps over the desk he’d been seated at, ignores the calls of his coworkers, and runs through the station to get to his truck. He knows he should alert Grey, dispatch, or anybody, but his thoughts are on getting home and ensuring you’re safe.

“Talk to me,” Tim requests as he slams the door of his truck closed and starts the engine.

“Tim,” you whimper, clutching your phone as your hands shake. “I think they’re going down the hall.”

“I’m on my way,” he promises. The radio in his truck lights up, and he hopes someone saw something and the officers in your neighborhood are on their way.

You murmur something that Tim can’t decipher but remain silent when he asks you to repeat yourself. The truck’s transmission revs as he presses the accelerator to the floor, fighting to keep his mind away from the worst-case scenario. As he turns onto your street, setting a new record for how fast the commute has ever been driven, Tim slams the gearshift into park several houses down. He leaves the truck running with the door open as he runs down the street and unlocks a side entrance to enter.

“I’m here,” he whispers to you before entering the house. He puts his phone in his pocket and raises his gun as he moves carefully through the house. You’re hiding somewhere but thought the unwelcomed visitor was coming toward the main part of the house. A door clicks somewhere down the hall, and Tim abandons his goal of clearing the kitchen to find you.

In the guestroom closet, you hold your phone to your ear with one hand while pressing the other to your mouth to muffle your breathing. The door into the bedroom clicks as it is pushed open farther, and you push yourself against the wall behind you. Tim is in the house somewhere, but your mind is racing with panic and fear. You peek through the gap in the door and see a masked intruder moving carefully through the room. Suddenly, he turns toward the closet, and you close your eyes.

Tim looks into your bedroom, where the window latch has been blown off by a small explosive device, but sees no evidence of anyone currently inside. The door across the hall, however, stands wide open. With his gun ready, Tim crosses the hall and presses his back to the wall before stepping inside.

“LAPD, stop where you are,” he demands.

The masked man stops, halfway between Tim and the closet. Tim sees the closet door isn’t completely closed and wonders if that’s where you are. Sirens sound outside, and Tim takes another step into the room.

“Hands up,” he instructs. “Interlace your fingers and place them behind your head.”

“You’re too late,” the man taunts.

Tim ignores him, and how his stomach rolls at the idea that anything could have happened to you while his phone was in his pocket. “Kneel.” Once the man is on the ground, an officer announces his presence downstairs, and Tim shoves the man unceremoniously toward the hallway and yells his location and that there is one in custody.

Then, Tim abandons his duty to keep the suspect secure as he turns toward you. He opens the closet door carefully, then drops to his knees. When you see him, you lower your phone and reach for Tim. He takes your hands and pulls you closer, whispering promises that you’re safe and he will never put you in this position again.

“When I said to always have something to protect yourself, I meant something a bit more substantial than a bowl,” Tim says, reaching for the jewelry tray you grabbed before hiding.

“It’s heavy,” you defend weakly.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“You’re here now.”

Tim pulls you closer, blocking out the noise of the officers apprehending the intruder, and your adrenaline wears off as you realize you can feel safe at home again.

“How did you get here so fast?” you ask as Tim helps you stand.

“Don’t tell Wade but I broke a few laws.”

You laugh and then furrow your brows. “How did he get in?”

“Right,” Tim remembers. “We need a new window.”

“He was really close,” you murmur.

Tim gently holds your chin as he kisses your forehead. “I’m closer,” he vows before cupping your cheeks and kissing you.

[oopsiedaisydeer]

how to lose a guy in 10 days

slow burn, mutual pining, dual pov, fake dating, angst, comedy, miscommunication, fluff, enemies to lovers (kinda)

day zero one two three four

disclaimer: @whor3ing has an au also inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days which you can check out here!

word count - 800ish

day four

The morning light is gentler than it has any right to be.

She wakes up in a bed she definitely doesn’t remember falling asleep in—especially not his bed. The sheets are red, for one thing. There’s a pillow tucked behind her head and the blanket’s been draped haphazardly over her legs. It smells like laundry detergent and something vaguely woodsy. Like his shampoo, maybe.

Matt’s not there.

She shifts upright and blinks again, taking in the stillness of what must be his bedroom. There’s a TV on the wall. Her handbag is on the floor, next to a bedside table. A note is scrawled across a torn bit of paper, propped against a popcorn jellycat.

didn’t want to wake you.

breakfast in 30.

-m

She squints. Underneath the dash is a tiny, barely visible smiley face. She pretends she doesn’t notice it.

In the kitchen, Matt is burning pancakes.

Not because he’s bad at cooking—he’s actually halfway decent—but because he keeps glancing down the hall, wondering if she’s still asleep, and then back at his phone, texting his brothers, hoping they’ll cave. 

matt: can u guys leave the house for like. an hour chris: why nick: sus matt: i’m making breakfast for her matt: for the bet matt: BE NORMAL nick: you’re making breakfast?? nick: you like her matt: pls. just go. or stay in ur rooms. no noise. i’m begging nick: u owe me big chris: use protection 🫡🔥🔥🔥

Matt groans and opens the fridge. No eggs. Of course.

Matt mutters under his breath and tosses a half-ruined pancake into the bin. Then, he wipes his hands on a tea towel, grabs his keys from the counter, and pokes his head into the bedroom.

She’s upright now, still swaddled in the blanket, hair messy, eyes half-lidded. The sight knocks the wind out of him a little, but he pretends it doesn’t.

“Hey,” he says. “No eggs. I’m running to the store real quick.”

She nods blearily.

He hesitates at the door. Then—like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t been thinking about it the whole time—he steps forward and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Be good,” he says, grin crooked, ignoring the heat in his face. “Twenty minutes max.”

She watches him leave. Then waits exactly thirty seconds.

His room is… honestly, kind of nice.

Neutral tones. Linen sheets. A bookshelf that’s mostly stuffed animals and some novels. A photo strip tucked into the mirror frame. Nothing too loud. Nothing too him, either—not that she’d admit to knowing what him looks like yet.

She eyes the earth-tone palette—browns, greys and deep greens and reds, like a log cabin met a Pinterest board and had a quiet, brooding child.

She cracks her knuckles.

“Let’s make you break up with me,” she says to the room.

Then she gets to work.

Almost an hour later, Matt is speed-walking back from the grocery store, balancing a carton of eggs, a bag of frozen berries, and a very unnecessary bouquet of tulips he picked up because… well. They looked like her. 

He spent too long at the store, and as he opens the front door, he can’t help but worry that maybe she’s left, gone home. He has no idea what he’s walking into.

His room smells like vanilla perfume and betrayal.

There are pink throw pillows on the bed. His comforter is flipped inside out. There’s a polka dot scrunchie hanging off his lamp and glitter gel pens scattered across his desk. A Taylor Swift CD is playing from his speaker—Speak Now, specifically. Loud.

And in the middle of it all is her, perched cross-legged on a fluffy rug, painting her toenails.

She doesn’t even look up.

“You’re late,” she says, pouting.

Matt just stares.

“What. What is this.”

“I redecorated,” she says brightly. “Minimalist lumberjack wasn’t doing it for me.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You—”

She finally looks up, one brow raised. “You kissed me. That means something, Matt.”

“On the cheek!”

“A bold and intentional choice,” she says, standing and inspecting the tulips in his hand. “Are those for me?”

He stares at them. “No.”

“Right.”

He wants to say this was just supposed to be a bet. That he’s trying to win. That the tulips in his hand aren’t romantic, they’re strategic. But she’s close now. So close he can smell the vanilla on her skin and see the faint shimmer of glitter on her cheekbone.

She smiles, all teeth. Then she kisses him on the lips. Just a peck, quiet and simple.

The touch of her lips smacking against his and then he opens his eyes and they’re gone again.

She steps away. Her hair smells like something floral. Vanilla, again. He swears she’s doing it on purpose, trying to get in his head when he’s trying to get into hers. “Breakfast still happening?”

He glances at the eggs, at the room, at her. “Yeah. You wanna help?”

“Oh,” she says, “I don’t do domestic. I just look cute.”

He laughs. Actually laughs. And when she turns, all proud and smug and victorious, he follows, tulips still in hand, stomach still in knots. And thinks, God, I am so screwed.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: dont ask how she did a room makeover in an hour it's fanfiction. sdbbsdhjbfshd anyways shorter chapter but hope u like it still !!!!!!!!!!!

thanks so much for reading!!!! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated :)

[ageingfangirl2]

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 13: A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE FOURTEEN FIFTEEN

You were hesitant at first — your friend practically has to drag you out of your apartment with promises of "no pressure, just good music and dumb drinks." It’s the first time in a long while you’ve worn something bold, something that makes you feel pretty rather than just put-together. Your friend hypes you up while they take a couple selfies in front of a mirror, your lips are painted and your eyes lined just enough to hide the tiredness beneath from long hours at work and ex boyfriend issues.

In the first photo, they’re smiling wide. In the second, they’re pulling dramatic model faces, and in the third, you’re laughing for real — caught mid-snort, completely unguarded. Your friend posts them with the caption:

“Finally got them out of the cave. Girls’ night. They deserves it.”

You meet up with a few other girls, mutual friends or people you vaguely remember from uni. The group energy is loud and fast, the kind that sweeps you up whether you’re ready or not. They take a while deciding where to go — rooftop bar, dance club, low-key lounge — but they settle on a downtown spot that promises neon lights and just enough space to dance without being swallowed by the crowd.

At the bar, you sip your drink slowly, fingers curled around the glass while your friend pulls you into conversation and inside jokes. For the first hour or two, you don’t even think about work or your ex. The music pulses. You let your hair down, laugh at stories, and dance a little. Nothing too wild — but enough to feel like you’re taking your life back, one night at a time.

Back at Bonten HQ, things are unusually quiet. Mikey’s half-dozing in his chair, Sanzu’s pacing like he’s looking for something to ruin, and Kakucho is focused on reports. Your absence is noticeable — not in a loud way, but in the subtle way that things just don’t click right without you.

Koko’s the first to see the post.

He doesn’t follow you on social media, but your friend tagged you in the selfies. His phone buzzes with the notification. Curiosity gets the better of him, and the moment he sees the photo — you laughing, dressed up, with that same guarded joy he thought was gone — he pauses.

‘...They went out.’

He doesn’t say it aloud. Just stares at the screen for a second longer than he should. Then he shares it with Ran, who immediately whistles and grins.

‘Damn,’ Ran mutters, tilting the phone toward Rindou, ‘She cleans up real nice. Maybe we should've dragged her out ourselves.’

‘We would’ve scared off every guy within a ten-mile radius,’ Rindou replies dryly, but he smirks too.

Takeomi walks past just in time to catch the edge of the conversation and frowns, ‘What are you all drooling over now?’

‘Relax,’ Ran says, ‘they are out with friends. Just... normal people stuff.’

Takeomi glances at the screen and raises a brow, ‘Good. They need it. They deserve a break from all this.’ But the way his eyes linger betrays a flicker of worry — he’s seen what happens when women like you run into the wrong kind of people in bars.

Sanzu, on the other hand, hears about it from someone else — one of their low-level guys catches sight of you out at the bar while passing through and mentions it in passing.

He perks up fast, ‘Wait. They’re out?’

‘With a group of girls. Looks like they’re just having fun,’ the low level grunt replies.

‘...Good,’ Sanzu says, smiling crookedly. But there’s a flicker of something sharp in his gaze. He doesn’t like not knowing who’s around you. Who’s watching you. Who might be waiting.

He texts Kakucho one sentence: SHE’S OUT. KEEP AN EYE ON THE FEED.

Mochi doesn’t say anything when he sees the photo that Ran showed him, but he glances at it longer than anyone else. His arms are crossed, eyes cool, unreadable.

‘They’re smiling again,’ he says eventually, ‘That’s what matters.’

He walks off after that, but Koko swears he hears him mutter something like ‘If anyone ruins it for them…’ under his breath.

Later that night, Kakucho quietly pulls up your post on his phone in the break room. He zooms in on the photo — not because he’s creepy, but because he’s looking for signs. A weird glance, someone in the background, anything out of place. There’s nothing.

You really are just... having fun. He exhales, relieved. Sends you a message, something lowkey:

Kakucho: Hope you’re having a good time. Let me know if you need a ride home.

No response yet. But you read it. That’s enough.

And Mikey? He doesn’t have socials. But eventually, Sanzu tells him.

‘They’re out. Dressed up, laughing. With normal people,’ Sanzu rattles off.

Mikey’s quiet for a long time, his expression unreadable, ‘They’ve earned it,’ he says finally, before closing his eyes again, ‘Let them have tonight.’

But deep down, every single one of them — even the most relaxed — is on edge. Not because they don’t trust you. Because they know exactly how dark the world gets when people see someone healing and think they can ruin it. And if anyone tries to ruin your night...Well. It won’t end well.

The first part of the night is good — better than you expected. The bar is loud, the drinks are sweet, and for the first time in a long while, you’re not constantly glancing over your shoulder or waiting for the next emotional landmine to go off. Your friends are loud and affectionate, pulling you onto the dance floor, hyping you up in the bathroom, laughing over bad shots and inside jokes. You even forget, for a few moments, that you’re life was on the line not to long ago.

By midnight, they’ve decided to go club hopping — your friend's idea, naturally. They pile into a couple rideshares and head toward a busier stretchier of the city.

You’re a little buzzed but lucid, your cheeks warm, your heart light. Somewhere along the shuffle into the next club — a darker, louder place with thumping bass and packed bodies — you get separated.

It’s subtle. A stop to use the bathroom. One friend distracted by a guy at the bar. Another disappearing into the crowd. Your phone's still in your clutch, but service inside the building is spotty at best, and the longer you stay in one spot, the more you realise... you’re alone.

It’s not dangerous, not immediately. No one’s bothering you. But the music feels too loud now. The lights too sharp. The press of bodies unfamiliar and the air suffocating. And it creeps in — that gnawing anxiety. That awareness. That voice that whispers: Someone could be watching. You turn toward the entrance, phone in hand, trying to call one of your friends. No answer. You send a quick message to the group chat:

you guys okay? I got separated. by the front.

No response. No little typing dots.

You hug your arms close around your chest, slipping into the corner near the exit, trying to act like you’re just checking messages — not panicking. Not reverting to that old version of yourself. Not the one who had to look over your shoulder for a man who once swore he loved you.

You’re fine. It’s nothing. It’s just a packed club. You’re okay. Still...your thumb hovers over your contacts again. Not the police. Not your friend. Bonten. Just in case.

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone." — 4

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Fem!Reader Summary: The reader is having a very, very bad day and cannot catch a break. Being a girl's girl has consequences, apparently. Valentina's gone rogue, and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse... it did. Warnings/Tags: use of y/n, very canon divergent, emotional manipulation/coercion (not sexual), enemies to allies, chaotic 'team' dynamics, hurt/comfort, the slow burn is finally burning, mild swearing, mild physical violence/injury, reader really needs a hug. (pls let me know if I missed anything) A/N: I truly put you through hell in this one, my bad. Also, Im so sorry for the wait!! it took me a little while to put everything together and have my ideas connect lmao i did not know how to get from point a to point b. this is barely proofread and i wrote some of this at like three in the morning, so i do apologize in advance for any silly mistakes Word Count: 9.1K sorry i spiraled

Hours Later Brooklyn, New York

The outreach went on in full swing, but you were gently nudged aside by a chorus of concerned interns insisting, “You look exhausted, we’ve got this.” You protested and refused, out of habit mostly, but their faces were earnest and their confidence left little room for argument. Truthfully, the exhaustion you’d been fighting off was finally catching up to you. For once, you took a step back and let them take the reins. You watched as they took over with ease, coordinating logistics, managing guest interactions, and handling the press like seasoned pros. They were young, most were barely out of university, but there was nothing inexperienced about how they carried themselves today. You’d handpicked each one, carefully vetting them like Bucky once did to you. A full circle kind of gesture, a way to pay it forward and say thank you to the universe for the life you’ve built for yourself. 

“I’ll be in the breakroom if you guys need anything,” you said to one of the senior interns, giving them a grateful pat on the back, “Just a few minutes.” “Take as much time as you need,” she replied with a reassuring smile, already turning back to her clipboard and radio.

In the breakroom, you poured yourself yet another cup of coffee, you’ve lost count at this point, and settled into one of the chairs. The bitter heat kept the exhaustion at bay once again as you settled into one of the worn chairs. You pulled out your personal phone almost on instinct, thumb hovering over the screen as you checked for any sign of Bucky. 

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. Radio silence. 

You knew he was fine, you hoped he was fine, though you couldn’t help but feel a pit of concern in your stomach. It didn’t help knowing that he was out there apprehending potentially dangerous people. 

To distract yourself, you switched on the small TV mounted in front of you. It was background noise, you were more focused on enjoying the stillness you’ve allowed yourself for the day than actually listening, but that was until the anchor’s voice sliced through the calm like a blade. 

“Congressman Douglas Gary has called for an emergency impeachment trial, citing new and compelling evidence that directly implicates Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine in multiple federal crimes…” 

You let out a low, humorless laugh and shook your head. 

“Finally, he listens,” You muttered into the cup in your hand before changing the channel. You didn’t need to hear the rest, you already knew everything Gary was only now bringing to light. It was typical to take the evidence you and Bucky practically gift-wrapped during the gala, parade it like its his own discovery, and not even spare a damn thank you. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a little, not for yourself, but for Bucky most of all. 

Even so, with Bucky out there tying up loose ends and Gary finally moving to reopen Valetina’s trial, you finally felt like you could have some closure. Maybe, just maybe, the chaos was winding down, and you could perhaps—

BREAKING: Mysterious Explosion Reported in Utah Desert Near Secured Vault. Sources Say Blast May Be Linked to Illegal…

The TV screen flashed red with CNN’s breaking banner, the anchor’s voice sharp and urgent. You didn’t wait for the rest as you shut the TV off and leaned back on your seat, the beginnings of a headache were starting to curl behind your eyes. You wanted peace, just five minutes of it. You wanted background noise, something mindless, something…

Buzz. Buzz. 

Your work phone vibrated softly in your blazer pocket. You sighed and picked it up unceremoniously, cradling it between your shoulder and ear as you reached for your coffee again. 

“Office of Congressman Barnes, this is Y/N speaking,” you answered, your voice laced with practiced professionalism and a hint of exhaustion. 

“Hi…Y/N?” a voice replied, uncertain and breathless. “I spoke to Congressman Barnes yesterday about some… matters. He mentioned his partner, and I was wondering… would that be you? I’m sorry if this is the wrong number, public records aren’t that accurate.”

Your brow furrowed, the voice was familiar, but shaken. Then it clicked. 

“Mel?” you asked, startled. “Is that you? Are you okay? You don’t sound—”

“Yes, it's me. I’m sorry,” she interrupted, her words coming out rapidly. “I’m using a pay phone. I can’t talk long. Can you meet me? The shawarma place near the Watchtower. Please. I think Valentina knows. I can’t risk calling Bucky. It’s urgent.” 

You were already standing. 

“Watchtower?” You echoed, grabbing your keys from the pocket of your blazer. 

“The old Avengers tower in Manhattan,” she clarified, her voice trembling, “Valentina owns it now.”

“Got it. I’m on my way. Stay put, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” 

“Thank you,” Mel whispered, and the line went dead. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Manhattan, New York

You drove like a woman possessed, weaving through traffic with the urgency of an F1 driver in the final lap. Red lights blurred past you, more than a few if you were being honest, and you were certain that at least three traffic cameras had captured your plates, but none of it mattered. Not the tickets, not the chaos, and not the consequences

All you could think about was Mel, her shaky voice, and the fear within each word she uttered. If Valentina was truly on to her, then every second counted. You could hear it in her hushed tone, in the way she could barely even utter Bucky’s name out loud on the phone. You knew she was in more danger than she was letting on. 

This wasn’t just about helping Bucky anymore, this was about Mel, a young woman’s safety. A young woman who was putting everything on the line just to feed scraps of truth behind enemy lines. The least you could do was be there, show up, and prove she wasn’t alone.

You tore through the streets, barely registering the blaring honks and the startled pedestrians who leapt out of your path. By the time you parked—if you could call abandoning your car half a block away ‘parking’—you were already sprinting and dodging commuters while muttering breathless “excuse me”s. 

You stopped at a corner, chest rising and falling as your gaze swept across the street. The Avengers Tower loomed in the distance, surrounded by cranes and partially wrapped in scaffolding. They called it the Watchtower now. You thought it was ridiculous. The distinguished Manhattan staple was now lifeless, sterile, and stripped of the charm and grandeur that Tony Stark once breathed into it. It stood like a husk on the skyline, iconic but wrong. A monument to how much everything had changed

And then your eyes found it: Shawarma Palace. It was an older space, clearly having been there for the many changes Manhattan went through. It was tucked between a laundromat and a smoke shop, its red sign standing out more than the others. You made a beeline for the door.

Your eyes scanned across the bustling establishment, heart pounding loudly in your chest. The scent of grilled meat and spices filled the air, but your senses were set on one task: finding Mel. Your eyes swept each table anxiously, trying to match faces to the blurry memory of her from the gala. You barely knew her, you’ve only heard her talk on the phone, but you remembered the way she looked that night with her dark blazer, and the way her eyes never quite settled.

Your breaths came unevenly, caught between exertion and panic as you pushed past a woman carrying a tray of shawarma wraps and sodas. Murmured conversations and the crinkle of paper faded into static, and just as anxiety threatened to rise in your throat, your gaze landed on her. Mel was tucked away in the back corner of the restaurant, half shadowed by a hanging plant and the flickering neon sign in the window.

She looked smaller than you remembered, more exhausted, too. Her shoulders were hunched, her fingers anxiously tapping the table as her eyes darted across the room, scanning the entrance every few seconds. Then they landed on you.

For a second, her whole body stilled, relief softening the tension in her brow, and you mirrored it with a quiet, shaky breath of your own. Without wasting another moment, you made your way to her, weaving past tables with urgent strides. As you slid into the seat across from her, your muscles finally began to loosen.

“I’m here,” you said softly, not realizing until that moment how badly you needed to say it. “You’re okay. I got here in time.”

Mel gave a faint nod, but the tightness in her jaw and the white-knuckled grip she had on her iced tea told you clearly that something was very, very wrong. 

“You know about The Sentry Project, right?” Mel asked abruptly, getting straight to the point, her voice low and urgent as her leg bounced anxiously under the table. 

“Somewhat,” you replied, quickly combing through your memory for the key details from the hearing. “O.X.E.’s initiative to engineer god-like beings… sort of like biological weapons wrapped in patriotism, right?”

“Exactly.” She nodded fast, relief flickering across her face for just a moment. “The project was deemed a failure. It was shut down and buried. Everyone assumed the final test subject, Bob Reynolds, died during the last trial. But he didn’t.”

You blinked, processing her words, your brows knitting in concern. Mel could see your confusion and pressed on.

“Bob turned out to be alive, and he escaped along with Val’s liabilities that I was supposed to get rid of inside that vault. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines. That explosion in Utah? That was him.”

Your stomach dropped as your mind snapped back to the breaking news headline from earlier. The secured vault. The blast. The missing piece slid into place with a sickening click.

“And now,” she continued, her voice tightening, “Val’s got hold of him. She’s planning to parade him around as a one-man replacement for the Avengers.” Mel rubbed her temples, visibly disturbed, 

Your heart began to race. “But he’s unstable, is that right? He was never expected to survive given that—“

“He is very unstable.” Mel cut in, shaking her head. “They never should’ve experimented on him in the first place. He has… issues, serious psychological issues. Then they pumped him full of some twisted version of the super-soldier serum. No structure, no anchor. Just raw, unchecked power sitting on top of a fractured mind. He’s a ticking time bomb, and god knows what’s going to happen.”

“Fuck,” you muttered, already digging into your blazer for your phone. Without hesitation, you dialed Bucky. The phone barely rang once before he picked up.

“Y/N—hey, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice soft with guilt. “I know I said I’d call and—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in, heart squeezing at the sound of him. “But I need your help. Like, we need your help. Now.”

“What’s going on?” His tone shifted instantly, gentle but alert. “What do you mean we? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay. I’m with Mel. But you need to get to New York. Immediately. Val is off her fucking rocker, the Sentry Project is way worse than anyone thought, and there’s a guy named Bob—”

“BOB! YES! THAT’S WHAT WE JUST SAID—” A chorus of voices erupted from the background on his end, followed by the sound of Bucky irritably shushing whoever was with him.

You blinked. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, ignore them,” he said quickly. “Keep going.”

“Right. So Bob is basically a human WMD with major issues, and Val is planning to show him off to the press. All I’m saying is that he should not be field-tested. Please, Bucky. We need you here, now.”

“I’m coming, I promise. Just stay where you are—”

Bucky’s voice faded into the background as your attention snapped to Mel. One look at her face sent a chill down your spine. She looked worse than when you’d first walked in. She was completely pale now, and her eyes locked on something behind you, wide and unblinking. 

You turned around instinctively, already knowing something was wrong.

There she was. 

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine stood in the doorway of Shawarma Palace like a gathering storm. She didn’t look angry, she didn’t need to be when her gaze was enough to send a chill straight through you. The stillness in her expression was unsettling; the quiet calculation in her eyes said enough. She was irritated but not furious, and somehow that made her even more terrifying. 

You understood, in that moment, exactly why Mel looked and sounded the way she did. 

“Y/N? Hello? Can you at least give me an ‘okay’? Hello—”

“Val found us,” you mumbled into the phone, “Come find me.” 

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your blazer, just as Valentina began to make her way toward the booth. Her steps were deliberate, and her lips curled into a smile that felt anything but kind. 

You held your breath as Valentina slid smoothly into the booth beside you, her tailored coat folding perfectly with the motion. She let out a slow exhale as her eyes drifted between you and Mel.

“I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long,” she said, her voice laced with quiet disappointment. Her gaze settled on Mel with a subtle shake of her head, “I asked for my usual shawarma combo, not the whistleblower special.”

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Mel started, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“I already know everything, so just—” Valentina raised a hand, silencing her without saying another word. The gesture wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it landed like a slap. 

Then her attention turned to you. 

“And you,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on your shoulder in a gesture that felt more like a warning than comfort, “you’re diving headfirst into things you don’t even begin to understand. And for what?” She tilted her head, her voice soft but sharp enough to draw blood. “For the congressman? You’re smarter than that. You can do better than being someone else’s mouthpiece.” 

“Yes, yes, save the ‘I can do better’ speech,” You said dryly, brushing her hand off your shoulder like it was a piece of lint. “I’m not the one that’s about to host a show and tell for a weaponized science experiment, but sure, let’s pretend this is about me making poor choices.” 

Valentina let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I would’ve liked you,” she said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “But unfortunately… you’ve become a problem.” 

She stood from the booth, smoothing down her coat.

“Come on, girls, and don’t try anything clever.” She said, her voice low and her threat mostly aimed towards you, “I’ve got this place on lockdown, so let’s not make this messy. I’d hate for someone to get hurt over a misunderstanding.” 

Valentina guided you and Mel out of the door, her hands resting lightly on your arms in a gesture that read more like camaraderie than coercion, or at least to any bystanders watching. You stole a glance at Mel, whose face had gone ghostly pale, and all you could think about was how to get her out of this unscathed. As expected, Shawarma Palace was surrounded from the outside. Undercover agents lingered nearby, casually falling into step behind you like shadows. Valentina didn’t need to issue a single command, they moved with precision as she ushered you both toward a sleek black SUV parked at the curb. 

You climbed into the SUV first, followed closely by Mel and then Valentina. The door clicked shut behind you, and the driver didn’t waste a second before pulling away from the curb, merging smoothly into traffic and driving towards the looming Watchtower.

“It’s such a shame we had to meet under these circumstances,” Valentina said with a theatrical sigh, turning toward you with a casual shrug. Then she looked at Mel. “I'd really hate to replace you, Mel. You’re the only one who knows how to spell 'classified' without help. So here’s your chance,” Valentina exhaled slowly, her eyes boring into Mel, “Sort out where your loyalties lie.”

You turned to Mel, who was seated beside you, and gave a small, subtle shake of your head that said ‘don’t fold, not now’. But it was already too late.

“Yes, Val. It won’t happen again,” Mel said, her voice flat, her shoulders heavy with defeat. She couldn’t even look you in the eye.

“Let’s hope not,” Val said, flashing Mel a sharp smile. Then, she turned her attention back to you. “As for you... Well, I’m not feeling quite as generous. How about a little meet-and-greet with my science experiment? I think you’d make a better target practice for him. He needs more of a challenge than tin cans and glassware.”

“Well, you’re in for a letdown,” You shrugged, though a flicker of fear settled deep in your bones. “I bruise like a peach and running? Yeah, not really my thing.” 

“Oh, do shut up,” Valentina snapped, her patience evaporating. 

Before you could even register what was happening, Valentina fished something out from inside her blazer. You barely caught a glimpse of it before a sharp, searing pain shot through your thigh. 

Your breath hitched, and then you were out like a light.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ The Watchtower Manhattan, New York

Your eyes fluttered open, temporarily blinded by a flood of sterile white light that made your vision swim. You blinked hard, trying to focus, but the brightness seared your retinas and left behind a dull ache behind your eyes. The air around you was cold and filled with the smell of antiseptic and metal. Each breath you took tasted sterile, like you’d been breathing recycled air for too long. 

Your body felt impossibly heavy, like someone had poured molten lead into your veins. Panic bloomed in your chest as you tried to shift, only to realize your limbs wouldn’t budge. Metal restraints dug into your wrists and ankles, cutting into your skin with every slight movement. You were strapped down, seated upright in a cold metal chair. 

When your vision cleared slightly, your gaze swept across your surroundings. The room was stark and lifeless, every surface a blinding shade of white that made it feel less like a lab and more like a morgue. Then, your gaze settled on a man standing a few feet away. He had shaggy brown hair, plain clothes, and he was holding one hand out toward you like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be doing this. You blinked, trying to reconcile the image in front of you with the warning Mel had given. 

This was him? The test subject? The biological weapon? 

You’d expected someone monstrous, intimidating even. Not someone who looked hesitant and heartbreakingly human. His brow was furrowed, his eyes uncertain, and despite the circumstances, he looked more lost than lethal. 

“What is it? Performance anxiety?” Valentina’s voice cut through the silence behind him, smooth but fraying at the edges with impatience. She didn’t seem to notice that your fingers had started to twitch, and that your eyes were fluttering weakly open.

“Come on, this isn’t any different from the glassware you’ve shattered.” She added, heels clicking as he stepped closer to him. “This one just happens to be a bit more… fleshy.” 

“I… I can’t. I can’t do it,” Bob stammered, his voice strained and cracking under pressure. His hand dropped to his side, trembling. His eyes met yours briefly, but instead of alerting Valentina, he looked away. He was protecting you.

“She’s a person,” he said firmly. “I can’t do that to her or anyone.”

“Robert.” Val’s tone sharpened, “You have the power of a million exploding suns. This? This is nothing. This is a warm-up, just target practice.” 

“I-I’m serious, Val, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Val pushed relentlessly, “The only thing in your way is you. You want to prove yourself? You want them to stop seeing you as ‘just Bob’? Then do it. Make them see what you’re capable of.” 

“I said no!” Bob raised his voice, now visibly angry that Valentina wouldn’t stop insisting. The room shuddered beneath the weight of his anger. The overhead light flickered violently, casting warped shadows across the white walls. “I’m not doing it, give me something else. Not a person, not her.” He asserted, gesturing with his outstretched hand towards you. 

The metal restraints around your wrists and ankles began to tremble, a low, metallic hum rising in your ears as Bob kept his hand outstretched in your direction. You barely registered the heated argument brewing between him and Valentina, your focus pinned to the vibration crawling along the cuffs. Your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, bracing for pain, for impact, for the worst. 

Then, you heard a soft and almost imperceptible click. 

You didn’t move, you couldn’t. You sat frozen in the chair, every muscle locked with tension. The silence that followed felt louder than the chaos. Your limbs were leaden, your body too numb or too scared to risk standing. 

“Alright, alright, let’s bring it down a notch, Bob,” Valentina said smoothly. She barely acknowledged the tremor in the floor, her attention fixed on Bob entirely. You got the sense that she was purposefully prodding at his temper just to see where the cracks would form.

Bob’s shoulders rose and fell with every heavy breath, the fury draining from him slowly. “I’ll do anything else,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the ground. “But I don’t think I can hurt people…”

“You will,” Valentina said gently, like a mother reassuring a child, but the undertone was ice. “You have to, if you’re going to be Earth’s next great hope. Heroes aren’t just made in labs, Bob. They’re made in moments like this.”

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should be doing this,” he said, backing toward the corner of the room.

You tracked his retreat while Valentina followed close behind him like a shadow. Your heart pounded as your eyes scanned the space looking for an exit. Then you saw it: a door across the room, slightly ajar. Your breath caught.

It was now or never.

“Robert,” Valentina cooed, her voice laced with something more dangerous than threat—belief. “You don’t have to think right now. That’s what I’m here for. I see your potential, even when you don’t. I chose you for a reason. The world’s going to know your name… if you let them.”

You rose slowly from the chair, knees trembling but steady enough. You willed yourself to move one foot after the other with your eyes on the door. You held your breath and moved.

“This is your moment to show the world who you really are,” Valentina said, her voice velvet over steel. “The press is on their way, and those idiots will be here any minute now.”

“They’re coming here?” Bob asked, his eyes darting toward Valentina. “Them?” 

“Yes, Bob. Them.” She stepped closer, her words slow and deliberate. “They’re coming to shut this down, to erase everything we’ve built. But they can’t. They don’t understand the kind of power you hold. It’s time to show them.”

You moved along the wall, one cautious step at a time, trying to stay within Valentina’s blind spot. Every movement felt like it echoed too loudly in the silence. 

“They underestimated you,” Valentina continued, weaving poison into every word. “Left you behind. Let you take the fall.” 

Bob’s expression wavered, uncertainty flashing across his features like a storm cloud. He was teetering on the edge of a cliff, pulled between guilt and the intoxicating promise of purpose. You crept around a nearby table, eyes locked on him, watching the flicker of conflict in his gaze. Something in him was unraveling, you just didn’t know which way he’d fall. 

“They’re a threat,” Valentina said softly, each word curling around Bob like a leash. “A threat to you, and you need to eliminate threats before they eliminate you.” 

Her voice was almost hypnotic, like she was casting a spell with every syllable. You felt a subtle shift in the air, as if the pressure had changed. Something was happening to Bob, something within him, you didn’t know, but you could feel him slipping. 

“Let’s start with this one,” Valentina said suddenly, turning around as her gaze snapped to you like a trigger being pulled. Her lips curved into something cold and cruel. 

You froze on the spot, and time seemed to fracture. 

Bob turned to face you, but it wasn’t the same man. His soft, uncertain expression was gone and replaced by something hollow… something frightening. His eyes flickered, his brown irises shifting into something that held power that didn’t belong in a human. 

You barely had time to process the change before the force hit. 

It was as if you were struck by a tidal wave of pressure, an invisible blast threw you off your feet and into the air. Pain exploded through your body as you slammed into the wall behind you, then crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Your vision fractured at the edges, and sounds dulled around you like you were being swallowed by cotton. The last thing you saw was Bob walking towards you, then everything went dark. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Something bright flickered behind your eyelids. 

You groaned quietly, willing your eyes to open. The light hit your eyes harshly, its brightness sharp, white, and disorienting. You squinted against it, your vision swimming. 

Great. I’m dead. That was your first thought, dry and detached. This is it, the light at the end of the damn tunnel. 

But then you noticed how your body wasn’t weightless. It was light, but not gone. You were moving or being moved. Carried maybe.

Your limbs dangled with barely any strength in them, and warmth radiated beneath you. Someone’s arms held you carefully, feeling solid and real. 

Bucky? You thought to yourself as you processed the feeling of their hold. No, it can’t be. Both arms feel warm. 

You tilted your head, just enough to glimpse a blur of motion and shape. A figure. Someone was carrying you. You couldn’t make out their face, smudged by the fog of your fading consciousness. 

Okay… so I’m not dead. Not yet. I think…? The thought drifted sluggishly across your mind as your eyes threatened to close again, dragging you back under. 

Then you heard voices, muffled at first, but rising in urgency from the next room. Your eyes fluttered open again, just in time to realize you were still being carried. 

The figure moved steadily toward the source of the noise, footsteps echoing in the short hallway. You forced your heavy head to lift, blinking against the blur. 

At first, you weren’t sure who it was. The man looked just like Bob, but something about him looked wrong. His once shaggy brown hair was now neatly combed and dyed golden blonde, and he wore a fitted yellow-gold suit. He looked pristine, manicured, and too theatrical. It was Bob’s frame and face, but too polished, too out of character. 

“Stay still,” he said quietly, his voice gentle. 

“'Where is she?!” a voice demanded that was strikingly Bucky’s. You could hear the panic and fury burning beneath his words. “What the hell did you do to her?!” 

A loud crash rang out, something metal falling, or being thrown. Then silence. 

Your eyes flickered toward Bob’s hand, fingers splayed ever so slightly. The sound had stopped as suddenly as it began. Whatever it was, he had frozen it. 

“I wouldn’t do that, I didn’t come alone.” Valentina’s voice replied, cold and smug. 

Bob moved again as he carried you down a stairwell that curved into a brightly lit room. Your vision blurred in and out as the world pulsed with waves of light, muffled voices, and disjointed sounds. Your consciousness slipped from your grasp like water through fingers. 

As you were brought into the space, you could feel the air thickening slightly into something charged with tension. You heard gasps echoing through the room, everyone seemed to stop breathing when Bob emerged with you in his arms. 

“Robert, I said bring her after,” Valentina muttered, her tone clipped as if she was holding back the urge to snap. 

“Sorry, I thought you said to bring her as soon as they get here,” Bob said quickly, his tone unsure. “She’s not looking too good, and she was, um, she kept mumbling someone’s name. ‘Bucky,’ I think—”

Well, that’s embarrassing, you thought hazily, the fog in your mind unable to recall saying his name out loud.

“It’s fine. Whatever.” Valentina snapped, cutting him off sharply. She exhaled a slow, performative sigh, “Doesn’t matter. Thank you, Robert.” 

Then you heard the unmistakable thud of boots pounding against concrete. 

“Let her go!” Bucky commanded, his voice echoing sharply in the room. It was the voice he used when he was done asking nicely. 

Bob splayed his fingers again, clearly following orders from Valentina. Bucky’s footsteps seemed to freeze mid-stride, like he was locked in place by an unseen force. 

“No. Not yet,” Valentina said, letting out another sigh as her irritation slowly bubbled up. “Ugh,” she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was just about to tell you what my plans were. I had this whole thing organized with a speech and everything.” 

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?” A woman’s voice drawled from somewhere in the room, her tone dry and unmistakably Russian.

Valentina ignored the jab, waving her hand like she was swatting a fly. “Oh, this is a mess,” she muttered, exasperated by the lack of ceremony, “Sentry, your first mission? Get rid of them.” Valentina commanded as she stepped aside.

You looked up just as Bob glanced down at you, his face flickered with guilt. Without a word, he walked to the side and gently lowered you to the ground. “I’m sorry about earlier… I hope your head’s okay,” he whispered, barely audible, then stepped away without waiting for a response. 

“Huh…?” You mumbled to yourself, unable to recall what happened prior to you waking up. All you could remember was being in a lab before waking up in Bob’s arms.

Your arms trembled as you pushed yourself upright, bracing against the smooth surface of the glass behind you. Your vision was still swimming, and you blinked rapidly to clear it, your heart pounding like a war drum. Not far from you, you saw Bucky still rooted in place, his muscles straining as he fought against the invisible force that kept him frozen.

Your eyes focused, scanning the rest of the room. Besides Valentina and Bob, there were four others, figures you didn’t recognize that were armed and alert. One stood in a black tactical suit, face completely hidden behind a white mask. Another looked absurdly out of place, like a Soviet version of Santa Claus—thick with fat and muscle, bearded, and draped in red. A woman with platinum blonde hair stood poised beside him as she observed the scene with unnerving calmness. Then, there was the man with the shield, and for one breathless second, you thought it was Steve Rogers. 

No, can’t be him, you told yourself, blinking rapidly and trying to clear the haze from your vision. That’s not Steve because if that’s Steve, then I really am dead. 

“I don’t want to hurt you guys,” Bob’s voice broke through your thoughts. He stood just a few feet away, his tone almost pleading like he was bargaining with a friend before a bar fight. “How about you just… turn yourselves in?”

“You don’t want to do this, Bobby,” the man with the shield warned, stepping into position, his grip tightening on the circular steel. His tone was steady, yet there was an undercurrent of mocking in the way he referred to Bob with another name.

Bob’s eyes flickered for a split second, his brown eyes bleeding into gold before flickering back, “You can call me ‘The Sentry’,” he said as he stood straighter, his voice now stripped of its uncertainty. 

“Don’t do this,” the blonde Russian woman said gently, stepping toward him like she was approaching a wounded animal. “You don’t have to listen to her.”

Valentina’s voice cut in sharply, “Robert, they never believed in you. They don’t think you’re good enough—”

“That’s not true,” the woman interjected quickly, her tone pleading. “You can trust me. I know you.” 

Your brows furrowed as you felt a cold feeling crawling up your spine. You recognized the shift in his behavior, and the memory flickered in your mind. It was the same one you’d seen back in the lab. When the kindness in Bob drained away and something else took its place. 

Bob shook his head slowly, “I don’t think that you do.” 

Without warning, a guttural roar exploded from Soviet Santa.

“Don’t mess with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!” he bellowed, barreling toward Bob like a freight train. His outburst set off a domino effect with the others, except for the blonde woman.

“No, no! Don’t!” she called after them, frustration rising in her voice. “Suka,” she muttered under her breath before rushing in behind them. 

Chaos ensued. 

The masked figure shot forward like a bullet, their weapon drawn and aimed with precision. The platinum-haired girl swept behind Bob and attempted to strike from his blind spot. The shield-bearer launched forward with his attack, the steel disc slicing through the air and aimed towards Bob. 

Yet, Bob didn’t flinch. There was something deeply reluctant in his posture, like a child being asked to swat a bug, but unable to bring himself to do it. Still, Bob raised his hand, and a small shockwave rippled through, catching the four of them mid-strike and throwing them back like ragdolls. You could tell he was holding back, almost apologetic as he fended them off with strength he clearly didn’t want to use. 

Amidst the fight, Bucky finally broke free from the invisible force that surrounded him. He moved in a blur, not caring about the chaos as he threw himself towards you. 

“Y/N!” He shouted, your name leaving his lips like an answered prayer. He skidded across the floor to your side, dropping to his knees fast. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispered breathlessly, his arms locking around you tightly as if he needed to prove to himself that you were real and alive. “I thought I was too late, I never should’ve gotten you involved—God, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt evident in his embrace.

You melted into him, your trembling limbs sinking deeper into the shelter of his arms. You felt the tension leave his body, his grip shifting from desperation to comfort. One hand, warm and human, cradled the back of your head, while the cold weight of his vibranium arm wrapped protectively around your torso like armor. 

“You’re here,” you rasped, your voice hoarse but full of stunned relief. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar smell, like the scent of something that felt like home. The chaos remained in the background, the shouts, the grunts, but in Bucky’s embrace, all of it faded into static. 

“Of course,” he murmured, leaning back just enough to see your face. His brow furrowed deeply as he scanned you, his eyes wide with concern and heartbreak. “You call, I come. Always.” 

You reached up tentatively at first, then steadier as your fingers brushed his cheek. His skin was warm under the pads of your fingers, the stubble rough against your touch. His blue eyes were rimmed with unfallen tears, hovering and waiting to fall. When he smiled, one of those tears slipped down his cheek. 

“You’re crying,” you murmured, your voice merely a croak, though a wisp of amusement threaded through your words as your thumb gently wiped the tear away. 

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, catching your wrist in his hand like he wasn’t ready to pull away, “No, I’m not,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as two more droplets fell. “You have a concussion. You’re just seeing things.” 

You smiled just a little, too exhausted to hide the warmth rising in your chest. There was comfort in the way he touched your hand, like it meant something. 

Like you meant something. 

“You’re a shit liar,” you whispered. 

“Yeah?” he said, brushing a strand of your hair off your forehead as he scanned the extent of your injuries, his fingers lingering longer than necessary, “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“I do,” you replied, more quietly than before, your words like a silent confession. “I see right through you.” 

Something shifted in Bucky’s expression, a small flicker of change that made your heart stutter. Your breath was caught somewhere in your throat as you looked at him. 

You’d buried your feelings deep, convinced they didn’t matter because you knew better. You’d convinced yourself for too long that they couldn’t matter, but now, with the weight of him next to you, with the way his touch steadied you, it felt impossible to push it away. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but his thumb brushed your knuckles gently, like a silent confirmation. As if he had noticed the change in you—the change in your heart—and he had been waiting for it. 

Your gaze dropped, your heartbeat thrumming too loudly in your ears for your own comfort. Gently, Bucky reached for your chin, his fingers brushing against your skin to tilt your face back up to face him. You met his eyes again, and this time, you didn’t look away. 

His touch moved with careful intensity, trailing from your chin to cup your cheek. There was something reverent in the way he touched and looked at you, as if he was afraid you would vanish if he blinked too long. Slowly, he began to lean in, and something unspoken began to unravel at last. 

“Hey, Romeo,” a voice called out, their accent distinctively British and feminine, “a little help would be nice?” 

The moment shattered as quickly as it began. 

You both flinched at the sound, you looked behind Bucky to see the masked figure phasing around Bob, her attacks ineffective against Bob’s defense. Eventually, she pulled back and retracted her mask to reveal a brunette with striking green eyes. Her gaze flitted between the two of you, one brow raised in amused disbelief. 

“Time and place,” she added, gesturing around the chaos. “Kind of bad timing for a bloody reunion kiss, don’t you think, Barnes?” 

Bucky let out a sigh that was half a groan, his forehead briefly resting against yours before he pulled away with a reluctant smile. “Rain check?” he murmured under his breath.

Your lips curved into a tired smile. “You owe me,” You croaked before letting him go to join the others. 

He placed a chaste kiss on your knuckles before turning to face the rest of the fight, the warmth of his kiss lingering on your skin. 

You watched the five of them engage Bob, their movements swift and coordinated, but it didn’t take long before dread began to creep in. Despite their skill, their numbers, and their sheer determination, something inside you knew that they were no match for him.

Valentina hadn’t been bluffing. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she said Bob was powerful. She had created something terrifying, an indestructible force wrapped in a kind and uncertain man. Now, that very same creation stood in front of them like a god among mere mortals.

You flinched as Bucky fired round after round, only to see the bullets crumple midair and never even touch Bob. The man with the shield hurled it with force that could’ve taken down a wall, and Bob caught it like it was nothing, casually bending the reinforced steel with one hand in the way someone might snap a stick.

It wasn’t just his strength, it was how calm and detached he was. Bob wasn’t even fighting, he was just moving.

And the others? They were giving it everything they had.

Sweat dripped from their brows, breath ragged, muscles straining. Bob didn’t even look winded, and that made your stomach twist with something close to fear.

Eventually, the Russian woman, with her chest heaving, lifted her hand and shouted, “Let’s go!”  

The others listened. There was no pride left to protect, just survival.

She broke into a sprint toward the elevator, punching the call button repeatedly with desperation. Bucky and Soviet Santa ran to your aid and flanked you, urgency etched into their faces.

“Come on, we’ve got you,” Bucky said, sliding his arm around your waist and hoisting you upright with practiced ease.

You stumbled to your feet, legs weak and heavy, but the group closed in around you with their defenses up, weapons drawn, and shoulders squared, forming a makeshift wall of protection. 

The elevator doors dinged open. Bucky and Soviet Santa half-dragged and half-carried you inside, while the rest of the group piled in quickly as the doors began to close. Just before they sealed shut, you looked up one last time.

Bob stood just beyond them, his brown eyes rimmed with gold. He stood rooted in his spot while Valentina stood beside him, Bob looked at all of you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Was it anger? Sadness? Guilt? 

Then the doors shut, and he was gone. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Silence settled heavily over the group as you all staggered out of the Watchtower. No one said anything at first as all were too winded, too bruised, and too weighed down by what had just occurred. The fight had ended, but the feeling of unease lingered like smoke. Bob had changed; you’d all felt his shift from someone so gentle and uncertain to someone colder, detached, and far more dangerous. 

“We need to regroup and think,” Soviet Santa said at last, breaking the silence with urgency in his voice. “There has to be a way to stop him.” 

“We’re not regrouping, Alexei. We’re not even a team,” the shield-bearing man said flatly, holding out his dented shield with a scowl. Then he pulled off his helmet, revealing none other than John Walker, the very briefly crowned Captain America.

“Of course we are! We are the Thunderbolts!” Alexei boomed, puffing out his chest as if that alone would summon unity within the group.

You and Bucky exchanged an equally baffled look. “I don’t even know what that means,” Bucky muttered, his words voicing both your thoughts. 

“It’s her little peewee soccer team,” the British woman said with a scoff, nodding toward Yelena, who stood stiffly off to the side. Her silence was telling more than anything she could’ve said. Yelena wasn’t just quiet, she was stunned as if her thoughts were still catching up to what had just happened. Out of everyone in the group, she had been the closest to him, maybe not openly, but it was evident in the way she spoke and pleaded with him. Bob’s drastic change clearly unsettled her more than she let on. 

“We need to go somewhere to discuss this and come up with a plan,” Alexei said, now actively arguing with John, who refused to back down. 

“Discuss what?!” John barked. “He turned my shield into a taco!” He waved the bent metal in the air for emphasis.

“It really does look like a taco,” you mumbled quietly, but apparently not quietly enough because John shot you a look. 

“Oh my god, will you all shut up?!” Yelena snapped, her fists were clenched at her sides, and she looked like she might explode. “There is no us, there is no we. Bob changed into that thing, and there’s nothing any of you can do about it!”

“What did you do exactly?” The British woman retorted defensively, “Because if I remember correctly, you got your arse handed to you harder than anyone else.”

“Yeah! I suck! I’m terrible! We’re all terrible!” Yelena shouted, throwing her arms in the air. “And you, Ava? You’re not a hero. You’re not even a good person!” 

“Bitch.” Ava muttered under her breath. 

You blinked, stunned at how quickly they jumped into an explosive verbal warfare. You glanced up at Bucky, concern and confusion evident on your face. He simply held you closer, guiding your head to rest against his chest. 

“This is just how they talk,” he murmured in your ear, sounding apologetic. 

“They seem like good people.” You deadpanned.

Alexei moved toward Yelena, trying to placate her with his paternal bravado. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said softly, placing his hand on her arm gently, “It’s okay, malyshka. I know you’re upset—”

“I’m not your malyshka!” Yelena snapped, shoving him off. “You don’t get to call me that when you don’t even bother to call me!”

“Alright, take it easy,” John cut in to de-escalate. 

“Oh, so you’re nice now?” Yelena spun toward him, her fury redirecting like a missile lock. 

“What? It’s my turn?” John asked, already exasperated. 

“No,” Yelena said flatly, “You know you’re a piece of trash, Walker, so does your whole family.” 

“Jesus…” John mumbled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender and staring dumbfoundedly at Yelena.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head, careful not to put too much weight there. He stood still and silent on purpose, his posture making it clear that he wasn’t eager to be caught in Yelena’s line of fire. Unfortunately for the two of you, Yelena didn’t share the same courtesy. 

Yelena turned toward both of you, her eyes narrowing, though the sharp gaze that she gave everyone else had softened slightly. 

“I would say something to you, Barnes,” she said dryly, “but you’re in this weird situationship with your coworker and that’s tragic enough as it is.” 

“You don’t hold back, do you?” you muttered, letting out a sigh. Your voice wasn’t bitter, just entirely exhausted to argue your way out. You thought you would get a pass since you were mildly concussed, but you learned quickly that no one was safe from Yelena. 

“Situationship?” Bucky repeated with a frown. “What does that even mean?” 

Ava sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose like she couldn’t believe this was an actual topic they were discussing. “It’s when you’re not technically dating, but you do all these couple things—”

“What? That’s not—” Bucky interrupted, his voice rising defensively as if preparing to argue. Then, without warning, he suddenly blurted, “It’s not a situationship if I’m in love with her!” 

Silence fell within the group as Bucky went rigid beside you. It was as if his brain had just now realized what his mouth had done, and by the time he fully processed his words, it was too late to take them back. Everyone’s eyes were on Bucky, and even Yelena was caught off-guard mid-tirade. 

John let out a low whistle. He was about to open his mouth to make a comment, but Bucky shot him a glare that immediately shut him up. 

“Oops,” said Yelena, fully devoid of remorse, “Didn’t mean to trigger a love confession.” 

You blinked, your heartbeat thudding too loudly for your ears. “You’re in love with me?” You asked, your voice quieter than intended. Your eyes found his, and the corners of your mouth twitched up, caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. 

Bucky’s eyes flicked away, his mouth opening and closing once before he found the words. “I… no—I mean, yeah. Yes.” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat, gaze dropping to the pavement. 

You didn’t say anything, but instead you reached for his hand, fingers intertwining with his without hesitation. The gesture was simple, but the way it made Bucky’s head snap back up told you how much weight it held for him. You gave his hand a squeeze and he looked at you, his panic melting into something softer. 

Yelena rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “We’re fucked. We are so unbelievably fucked,” she muttered with a dramatic sigh before turning on her heel and crossing the street. 

“Lena, come back,” Alexei called after her, jogging to catch up like a parent reeling in their child. 

One by one, the rest peeled away. John grumbled something under his breath and stalked off in the opposite direction. Ava retracted her mask with a quiet hiss and phased effortlessly out of sight. Then, it was just you and Bucky, standing alone in the aftermath. 

“At least they didn’t kill each other,” Bucky muttered as he guided you away from the Watchtower. His warm hand dropped yours, shifting to your waist for support. You let out a quiet chuckle, your ribs still aching and your mind spinning, but for an entirely different reason. 

“Let’s not breeze past the part where you said you’re in love with me,” you teased, nudging his side lightly, your voice casual or at least trying very hard to sound casual. 

Bucky raised a brow at you, casting a sideways glance that was more vulnerable than smirking. “Again… you’re concussed and possibly even hallucinating. I’m taking you to get your head checked.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “James, don’t try to gaslight your way out of this one. I’m serious.” You chided, half sincere and half teasing.

He stopped walking, slowly turning to face you with a quiet exhale. His hand at your waist tightened ever so slightly. You turned to him fully, still clutching your side where it hurt. “Did you mean it?” you asked, quieter now, your words fragile like glass. “What you said, did you really mean it?” 

He hesitated just for a second, but it was enough. You felt a shift in him, subtle and unmistakable. When his eyes met yours, you recognized the look right away. It was the same one he’d worn from the very beginning: the day you stood up in that crowded town hall, all fire and conviction. The same look he gave you when you cradled Alpine like she was yours. The very same one that lingered every time you stepped in without being asked, simply because you knew he needed you. It was always there, you just didn’t want to name it.

“Every word,” he said simply. “I just didn’t plan on saying it like that, but I’m not taking it back. I don’t want to.” 

You exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly as the tension began to slip from your body. For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

“I knew I was screwed when I first saw you during that town hall meeting,” Bucky said finally, his voice low and rough as he dropped his gaze to the pavement. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles like he was grounding himself, “I’ve felt it for a while, I didn’t exactly hide it well either.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you gazed at him, holding onto his hand tighter, “I noticed,” you admitted quietly. “I just… wasn’t sure what to do with it. I’ve been trying so hard not to notice because this—us—it was never supposed to be more than a job, and I didn’t think we could be anything else.” 

You looked away, your laugh bitter. “We’d be breaking so many rules. At least, like, more than a handful.” 

Bucky let out a small, breathy laugh. “No, no. I looked it up. Thoroughly, actually.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious right now?” 

“I dug up the actual HR handbook and I read through all the clauses that had to do with personal relationships.” He confessed with a shrug, “So yes, I’m pretty serious.” 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“So, turns out, it’s not illegal,” Bucky said matter-of-factly, “It’s just ethically frowned upon, but it's not like I’ve ever let ethics stop me before.” 

That drew a real laugh from you, soft and surprised. Your throat was still tight, but the way he said it, so casual and full of affection, made it easier to breathe. “So you had time to research Federal workplace dating policies,” you said, half-teasing, “but you can’t sit through the two dockets I gave you last week?” 

“Are you really going to bring that up right now?” 

“Force of habit,” you replied, smirking. 

He shook his head with a laugh that softened into something more tender. “You don’t have to say anything,” Bucky murmured, his voice softer now. “Not right now. I just wanted you to know how I feel and just have everything out in the open.”

You looked at him, taking in the subtle way he braced himself for rejection even after everything. The way his eyes held deep vulnerability and sincere truth. 

Suddenly, the weight of everything you’d held back started to loosen. You reached up, brushing your finger against his cheek, watching the way his breath hitched at the contact. 

“What?” He asked, cautious but pulling away 

“I’m screwed too.” You whispered, the weight on your shoulders dissipating as soon as your words left your mouth. 

Just as your hand reached up to cup Bucky’s cheek, his eyes flicked skyward, narrowing at the low, mechanical whir overhead. It was the sound of helicopter blades spinning too loudly and too close. You followed his gaze just in time to see a helicopter spinning out of control, and veering dangerously toward one of the massive cranes still attached to the upper levels of the unfinished Watchtower.

Then, a sickening crunch followed, the noise echoing through the air as metal collided with metal. The crane groaned under the force, twisting like a snapped limb before beginning its collapse. The helicopter continued spiraling, its tail aflame, drawing a fiery arc as it plummeted toward the street below.

Bucky moved instantly. His vibranium arm came up, shielding your head as he pushed you back, his body curling protectively around yours as he guided you away from the tower.

“Move! Let’s go!” he barked, his voice barely audible above the rising chaos.

Around you, people screamed. The sidewalk turned into a wave of bodies fleeing in every direction. You stumbled backward as a deafening crash shook the ground. The crane, now detached, slammed into a row of buildings with explosive force, sending debris and glass ricocheting across the block.

Car alarms wailed and sirens screamed. Then, through the smoke and spiraling ash, your eyes caught a shape in the sky just hovering above the wreckage.

It was a silhouette that was vaguely human, pitch black, and impossibly dark. So dark that it seemed to drain the color from everything around it. 

You squinted, your heart crawling into your throat as realization settled like lead in your stomach.

“No… it can’t…” You whispered, your voice hollow.

Bucky turned as he followed your gaze, jaw tightening at the figure hovering high above the city.

It was Bob, but not the Bob you knew. 

Not anymore.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ taglist: @seraphine-ann @cyberjawz @serumandsteel @hiraethmae @yesiamthatwierd @shortandb1tchy @yiiiikesmish @theendofthematerialgworl @cherrypieyourface @trashbin-nie @daydreamgoddess14 @dollface619 @tessastarfire @stell404 @nameless-ken @tshuuls @aiyaiy @ilistentotayswifttocope @caffeinatedavenger i probably missed some people, I need to start a spreadsheet for these things. anyway pls let me know if you want to be added! End Notes: me, writing: omg they keep getting interrupted also me: i keep interrupting them, i did that.

hes so down bad in this one its kind of ridiculous like please stand up!!!! (also dont)

the next one is probably going to take just as long as this one but i do have another fic that im writing and will post soon!!! <3

[wintrcaptn]

Apples and Butterflies part 6

Joel Miller x Reader

Summary : You caught your bf in bed with another girl two months before winter break. Now with no where to go for the next few weeks, your roommate invites you to her hometown so you don't spend the holidays alone. But you never expected her dad to be the guy who pretended to be your date so you didn't look pathetic in front of your ex. The same guy you can't stop thinking about...Joel miller.

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five

A/N : so I wrote 31 chapters for this so far. Im going to add more to each chapter, change names, and eventually turn it into a book but writing it as a fanfiction really helped me haha

Your POV

Sarah and I had officially declared a holiday hibernation. We spent hours buried under blankets on the couch watching everything from The Holiday to The Grinch, sipping cocoa and making up commentary for the movies that made us snort-laugh until our sides ached. Joel would sit in that leather chair of his, tucked in the corner. He never joined in the chaos, but he never left the room either. That was his thing; being present without actually being in it.

Still, I caught him smiling at the screen once or twice. Just barely. But it happened.

Sarah and I had also taken trips into town, mostly for her gift runs. I wandered behind her like a lost puppy, struggling to figure out what to get her and Joel. Not sure if I even should get him anything.

We'd bump into Mason here and there, and Sarah would go from cool and casual to full-on flustered in three seconds flat. It was hilarious, watching her turn into a complete marshmallow around him.

"He's not into me like that," she told me in the car yesterday.

"Uh, he is constantly bringing up old memories with you. That's literally 'small-town man is low-key obsessed with you' behavior," I'd shot back.

She'd rolled her eyes, but the way she bit her lip and stared out the window said it all. Girl was smitten. Bad.

Joel had been working a lot. Long hours, often gone before the sun was fully up and back when the sky was already dark. But there was always food in the fridge. The thermostat was always adjusted so the house was warm before we woke up. Towels were folded. Wood was stocked by the fireplace.

It didn't go unnoticed.

Neither did the moments right before bed, when he'd walk through the living room, hair damp from the shower, shirt tugged low over his chest, pajama pants slung low on his hips, a glass of water in hand. I'd be curled up on the couch, pretending to be engrossed in whatever book I was holding, even though I had read the same page three times.

It was hard not to look at him. To want him the way I did. And everyday, he made it harder for me to fight these feelings.

———

I woke up before the sun even touched the frosted windows, the world outside still wrapped in a blanket of soft gray. I lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the chill in the air making me pull the comforter up a little higher. But I couldn't go back to sleep—not when my mind was already moving.

I wanted to do something for them.

For Sarah—for opening her life to me so easily. For letting me into her home, her family, her memories. And for Joel—for taking me in without hesitation, even if he wasn't always good at showing it. They didn't have to welcome me like this. They didn't have to make me feel like I belonged here.

But they did.

And I wanted to say thank you the only way I really knew how—through food, through baking, through warmth.

I tiptoed out of bed, careful not to wake Sarah as I passed her room. The floor creaked beneath my socks, the sound oddly comforting in the early stillness. I made my way to the kitchen, switching on just the small light above the stove—enough to see by, not enough to disturb the quiet that wrapped around the house like a lullaby.

It felt like a sacred kind of quiet.

I worked by memory, by instinct—pulling eggs, bacon, flour, cinnamon, sugar, and apples from the fridge and pantry. These were the ingredients of my childhood. I tied my hair into a messy bun, loose strands falling into my face as I rolled up my sleeves. I didn't bother with anything fancy. Just comfort. Just care.

I hadn't baked like this in a while. Not since a year after my mother passed. But something about this kitchen—the old cupboards, the subtle creak of the drawers, the hum of the heater kicking on—it felt safe. Familiar. Like maybe she was here, watching over my shoulder, smiling in that quiet way she used to when I got flour on my nose.

I liked being up before everyone else. It reminded me of holidays at home, when I'd wake to the smell of apple and cinnamon and find her already at the stove, humming a song I never knew the name of.

Now I was the one humming.

The eggs sizzled quietly. Bacon crisped on the stovetop. A fresh batch of apple-cinnamon muffins rose golden in the oven, filling the room with their warm, spiced scent. I moved around the kitchen with a kind of rhythm, phone resting nearby with music playing low—something soft, something calm.

I wasn't trying to impress anyone. I just wanted them to know I saw them. That I appreciated them.

I lost myself in the rhythm, flipping bacon, scooping muffin batter into little crinkled liners, wiping flour off my nose with my wrist. My shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. It made me feel like I was somewhere between dreaming and remembering.

And I did remember. Her smile, her laugh, her hands.

My mom's hands in the kitchen; tough in places but soft when they held mine. Her humming as she swayed back and forth while stirring batter. Her hair always tied back under her favorite knitted blue and white bandanna she'd worn every morning. I could still hear her voice, faint like the wind.

"Don't overmix the batter, honey. Let it breathe. Baking's about love, not perfection."

I smiled before I even realized it. That ache in my chest softened just a little.

It felt like she was here. Just for a second.

I was dusted in flour, barefoot, and humming to myself when I reached for the tray of muffins; perfectly golden, just like she used to make. That's when I heard the creak.

I turned around quickly.

And there he was.

Joel.

Barefoot in gray sweats and a dark T-shirt, hair messy, his body still sleepy and solid. He looked like he hadn't expected to see anyone either. But there was something in his face, his eyes tracing me in the soft kitchen light that made the air shift.

———————

Joel's POV

I was halfway through brushing my teeth when I smelled it—apples. Bacon. That warm, buttery kind of scent that made your chest ache a little. Like memories. Or comfort.

I wiped my mouth, tossed the towel on the counter, and padded out of the room. The house was still quiet. Too early for Sarah. But someone was definitely awake.

I rounded the hallway and slowed just before the kitchen.

There she was.

Y/N.

She moved like she was alone. Like this space was hers. Cracking eggs. Hummin' soft. Her hair was tied up, messy and loose, with pieces falling into her face. She was barefoot, and grinning to herself about God knows what. She looked happy.

And for some reason... that just about knocked the wind outta me.

I didn't mean to stare, but hell, I did.

She didn't know I was there yet, and I wasn't sure I wanted to interrupt her—just stood there like a fool, watching.

Until the old floorboard beneath my foot gave a soft creak.

She whipped around fast, her eyes wide and alert. Caught in the act like a kid stealing cookies.

"Oh, hey," she said, blinking, a smear of flour on her cheek.

"Mornin'," I said, voice lower than it should've been. "Smells like a whole bakery in here."

She smiled, sheepish. "I couldn't sleep, so... figured I'd cook a little something. Hope that's okay?"

I nodded, stepping into the room finally. "Yeah. 'Course. You are welcome to anythin' in this house." I said, "but you didn't have to cook for us."

"I wanted to," she said, brushing her hands on a towel. "It's kind of my love language."

I sat on the stool at the counter and looked at the spread she was still arranging. It felt like too much. Like it should've been for something bigger.

But she didn't look like she needed a reason. Just... wanted to give.

"You do this often?" I asked.

She glanced at me, brow raised. "Cook for people?"

"Yeah."

She shrugged, placing the muffins carefully in a basket. "I used to. For my mom. It made her feel better on her bad days. Made me feel better too."

There was a pause. Not a heavy one. Just enough to understand without needing to ask more.

"Well," I said, clearing my throat and nodding at the muffins, "damn good way to wake up. I'll give you that."

She laughed. And it hit me in the chest again. Like it always did.

"I hope you're hungry," she added.

"Starvin'," I said, tryin' to keep my voice steady. "Didn't eat much yesterday."

She glanced at me, concern flickerin' behind her eyes, and I looked away. I didn't want her readin' too much into me.

I leaned back on the stool, arms crossed, just watchin' her. Couldn't stop if I tried. That's when she turned and made her way over to me.

"Here," she said, holding something small in her hand.

She stood just a few feet away, her eyes bright, hopeful, her flour-dusted fingers cupped around one of those damn muffins she'd just pulled from the oven. The top was golden, still warm, steam curlin' from the soft break she'd made in the center to check if it was done.

"Try it," she said, lifting it toward me like it was some sacred offering.

I raised a brow.

"I promise I didn't poison this one," she said with a smirk. "I can't promise the others are safe."

I huffed a laugh. Couldn't help it. The way she looked up at me, eyes playful, chin tilted just a little higher than normal—she was teasin', but there was somethin' else there. Somethin' soft.

I glanced down at the muffin. Still warm. Her hand holdin' it steady, she didn't move. Just waited.

I leaned in slow, eyes locked with hers. She didn't look away either, not once. My breath caught for a second, then I sank my teeth into the bite she offered. Her fingers were close enough to graze my lip, and my hand twitched like it wanted to wrap around hers.

Then the flavor hit me.

Apple—sweet and sharp. Cinnamon—warm and spicy. The muffin was soft, like a memory you didn't know you still had. Vanilla lingered on the back of my tongue, and a bit of brown sugar crisped across the top, stickin' to my bottom lip just slightly.

I chewed slow.

"I think I'm fallin' in love." I said, but my eyes slightly widened at the realization of what I had just said.

Her breath hitched.

And then—God help me—she smiled.

Not the polite kinda smile she gave strangers. No. This one lit her up from the inside out. Made her eyes crinkle just a little. Made her nose scrunch, and her whole face softened like she'd just been told a secret she'd always wanted to hear.

And I swear right then and there, I never wanted to see anything but that smile again for the rest of my life.

I don't know what it was, maybe it was the flour on her cheek, the way she smelled like cinnamon and coffee and apples, or maybe it was just the quiet look she gave me like she saw through me...but I wanted to kiss her.

Badly.

More than I should.

I wanted to taste that smile. Feel her laugh against my mouth.

But she blinked and stepped back, clearing her throat like she'd just remembered we were still standing in my kitchen. "So... what's the plan for today? Since you're not working?"

I took a step back too, trying not to make it obvious I needed the space. My hands flexed at my sides. "Tommy's comin' by. Him and Maria—his wife. They're gonna bring their kid, Benji. Watch the game."

"Maria," she repeated, like she was tryin' to confirm somethin'.

"You watch football?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation, give myself somethin' else to focus on besides the feel of her so close.

She wrinkled her nose, biting her bottom lip. "No. I mean, I've tried. But I don't understand it. At all. Too many lines and yelling."

I chuckled. "That's 'cause you've been watchin' with the wrong folks. I could teach you....if you want."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Would you be patient with me?"

I smirked. "I'd try not to yell at you like the guys on TV, if that's what you're askin'."

She stared at me then, eyes dark and curious, lips parted just slightly like she was weighing something else behind the words. And in that stretch of silence, the tension between us grew heavy again like  humidity before a storm.

"I might take you up on that," she said finally, voice low, soft.

Something in my gut twisted.

I nodded once. "Anytime."

She smiled again, but smaller this time.

And then she turned away, and I was left standing there in the kitchen, wondering how the hell a girl with apple muffins and sad eyes had gotten into my blood stream so damn fast.

I stayed rooted where I was, hands in my pockets, pretending to breathe like normal.

But everything about her wasn't normal.

She moved like she belonged here. Like this kitchen had always been hers. That soft sway of her body as she moved between counter and oven, the sunlight catching in her hair just enough to make it glow. She didn't know it, but I was memorizing the curve of her smile. The way she tapped her fingers along the countertop to the rhythm of the music.

I had no business watchin' her the way I was.

But I did.

I couldn't help it.

Then—footsteps padded down the hallway, slow and lazy.

Sarah appeared, hair a mess and hoodie too big for her shoulders. She looked half asleep and completely content.

"Mmm," she moaned, dragging a hand across her face. "It smells so damn good in here. I'm starving."

Y/N turned and beamed at her. "Sit. Coffee's hot, muffins are warm, bacon's almost done."

Sarah collapsed into the chair, mumbling something like angel from heaven under her breath while clutching her phone to her chest.

The second that screen lit up, she perked up. I could tell by the twitch of her mouth that it was him—Mason.

She looked up at Y/N, hopeful. "Mason just texted. Asked if I had any plans today."

I felt Y/N's gaze slide toward Sarah, interest peaking in her face. "Tell him to come over," she said casually, flippin' a strip of bacon in the pan. "Game's on. Easy excuse."

Sarah bit her lip, clearly nervous, but typed anyway.

I sipped my coffee, tryin' not to listen. Tryin' being the key word.

A moment passed, then her phone buzzed again. She let out a breathless, excited laugh.

"He said he'd love to," she said, looking up at Y/N, her eyes wide with disbelief. "But... he's got a friend with him. He doesn't wanna leave him hangin'."

Y/N stopped what she was doing for a moment, "tell him to bring him. I mean I can keep him company or something."

Sarah's eyes lit up. "You sure?" She asked.

Y/N chuckled but nodded. "Yeah I don't mind."

"Oh my god what if you two hit it off? What if he's cute?!"

I froze.

Just for a second.

Sarah kept going. "We could double date and everything!"

A low hum started in my ears.

Double dates.

Y/N. With him.

That same smile she gave me this morning, the laugh she gave me on the Ferris wheel, the way she looked when I bit into that muffin like I was the only man in the world—she'd give that to someone else?

I didn't like that.

No, I hated that.

My stomach knotted. Something dark and unfamiliar twisted in my chest. I didn't even know the guy and I wanted to knock his teeth out already.

Jesus Christ.

Was I... jealous?

That couldn't be right. I was too old for this kinda childish shit.

But the feelin' was there anyway, diggin' in like splinters under my skin. I could feel it rising—tight in my chest, heat crawl across the back of my neck.

I set my coffee down a little too hard on the counter.

Both Y/N and Sarah looked at me.

"You okay?" Y/N asked gently, her eyes searching my face.

I forced a nod, clenched my jaw. "Yeah. Just remembered I gotta check the garage before Tommy gets here."

And I walked out before I said somethin' I'd regret. Before I could look at Y/N again and see her considerin' someone else. Before I had to sit there and listen to more plans that didn't involve me.

I didn't know what to do, but I needed to be somewhere I could breathe.

I needed space.

Because if that boy walked through my front door and laid eyes on her the way I had—God help me—I wasn't sure what I'd do.

[celestialwonders]

tradition. (s.jy + p.sh)

synopsis: you, jake, and sunghoon are besties and go to 7/11. thats it. hooray!!

genre: jake x reader x sunghoon = best friends! fluffy fun friendship! (lil jungwon mention hehe)

wc: 1.4k

a/n: this drabble was entirely inspired by jakehoon’s recent posts, hence the photos. dont mind any errors i wrote this at work this morning and am posting it on my lunch break LOL

~as always, ask box is always open!~

“Yo, do you guys wanna go to 7/11?” Jake perks his head up from the floor of the living room, pausing the action movie he picked out about a half hour ago. It’d been a long week of school work and dance practice, your joints aching with every subtle move as you straighten your posture at his proposition. You kick your feet out from under the plush blanket you had stolen from Sunghoon’s room when you got into their apartment, having fallen into your usual rhythm of getting comfortable for a night in.

“I don’t really feel like getting drunk tonight, Jake. We had such a long practice today, my body can’t really take much more.” Sunghoon groans, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated fashion as you giggle to yourself. Jake playfully slaps his calve at his actions, making Sunghoon wince from the sore spot. “Dude, I don’t want to get drunk, but I do want some snacks. I totally got the munchies.” Jake fully sits himself up from the floor now, turning his upper body towards you and Sunghoon on the couch. His post-shower hair is fluffy and falling over his forehead as he grins towards his two best friends like a little kid awaiting an answer from his parents.

Sunghoon slowly turns to you, giving you a ‘should we?’ kind of look. You throw the warm blanket off yourself with a huff as Jake takes that as a yes. “Let’s go!” He almost chants as he jumps up from the floor, his jacket slouching off his shoulder from the sudden movement before he straightens it out and puts on a cap. You and Sunghoon aren’t as quick to rise from the couch, your muscles aching from the repetitive and intense practice you had today. Your dance team had a big competition coming up, and your dance captain, Jungwon, spared no breaks until he was sure he had drilled you all to the bone. “Come on.” Jake drags out the last syllable as he tugs at Sunghoon’s arm, eager to get out the door. “The corner store isn’t going anywhere dude, don’t rush me.” Sunghoon grumbled as he reluctantly let Jake pull him from his usual spot on the couch.

The three of you have made a perfect trio for the past three years of college. Jake, being the ever-so-social type, was the first to introduce himself to you on audition day during your freshman year, and he was sure to introduce you to his shy friend, Sunghoon, as well. Both you and Sunghoon shared awkward hellos as Jake beamed about how exciting it was to audition for the school’s dance team, quickly warming himself up to you. You weren’t usually the type to get comfortable with strangers, but Jake and Sunghoon had quickly become your go-to guys throughout the audition process and even after the results came out. “I say we should celebrate!” Jake had hooked his arms around both you and Sunghoon’s necks after you all checked the result sheet. And that's how your tiny tradition started, movie night that was always interrupted by a 7/11 run. At first, you all usually picked up soju and mixers, creating your own delicious (or, in Jake’s case, “adventurous”) cocktails to waste the night away together in fits of laughter. As the years have gone on, the items of interest have changed, but your friendship with the two boys stayed consistent.

You’d gotten used to the teasing from other classmates or dance team members, always quick to silence their questions about whether you’re dating one or the other, or both. But it had never been like that for you all, despite being attached at the hip and knowing each other more than you know yourself. They were just your boys. Nothing more, but certainly nothing less. Them being your best friends meant they saw every side of you and saw you through every season of your life, and you for them. There had been a period of time when you had stopped attending your unofficial ‘meetings’, struggling between a controlling situationship and still keeping your best friends close. In the end, you fell right back into rhythm with Jake and Sunghoon, giving them all the dirt they’d missed as you browsed the aisles for the strongest alcohol you could find. Now, a year later, you return once again to the place you all call your second home.

The door chimes as you all greet the store clerk, the aged old man giving you all a familiar smile. You all instantly break off from each other, going to your designated aisles for your treat of the night. Jake makes his way to the ramen aisle as Sunghoon heads to the back of the store for the drink selection. You find yourself ambling through the chips and candy section, grabbing your favorite sour candy before grabbing each of Jake and Sunghoon’s favorite chips. “Yoooo.” You hear Jake call as you make your way towards his voice in the center of the store. You meet Jake where he’s at as he balances three ramen bowls in his arms, Sunghoon already by his side holding two sodas and a juice. You turn your attention to where the boys’ gaze had already fallen and almost drop your snacks from excitement. “No way! They have it back in stock!” You grinned as Sunghoon slid open the freezer, revealing an array of ice creams. Ice creams that include your absolute favorite: a strawberry bar covered in crunchy rice pebbles.

Jake is quick to grab one for you, having placed the ramen bowls on an empty spot on the shelving behind you. He reaches over in front of Sunghoon to grab himself an ice cream bar, cutely squishing his face between the two packagings. “Stop that, you’re gonna make them melt.” Sunghoon lightheartedly swats Jake's shoulder, making the shorter laugh as he lowers the ice cream. “Oh, so are you saying I'm hot?” He jeers as Sunghoon rolls his eyes, as he usually does with Jake. You can’t help but laugh at Jake’s joke. Despite how stupid you knew it was, it makes Jake beam with pride, knowing he can always count on you to laugh with him.

Sunghoon joins you on your side, peering over the freezer at his possible choices, mulling them over. Now it’s Jake’s turn to roll his eyes as he lets out an exasperated sigh as Sunghoon still ponders his choices. “Now you’re the one that’s gonna make our ice cream melt, hurry it up!” You playfully jest before Jake can, making him hold his stomach in a fit of giggles. “Alright alright.” Sunghoon shushes the two of you, grabbing a small cup of Häagen-Dazs ice cream. “This’ll do.” He proudly shows off his choice as Jake runs off to grab a basket for all your selections.

“You know, at the rate we’re going,” Sunghoon starts as the two of you start to gather your things back up. “We’re gonna have to keep this tradition going for the rest of college.” He laughs to himself. Jake is back at your side, basket in hand. “Shoot, at this rate, we’re gonna have to keep this going till we have our own families!” You pitch in, making the two boys laugh. “Nah, at this rate, we’re gonna have to just include our families and keep this going for the rest of our lives!” Jake triumphantly shouts as the three of you make your way to the self-checkout counter.

As the boys begin scanning and bagging the items, bickering among themselves over the ‘right way’ to bag the items, you can’t help but stand back and smile to yourself. Just the idea of continuing this tradition, one day inviting your future spouse and children, makes your heart swell with unexplainable happiness. You aren’t really sure where the three of you were headed in life, still so many things to figure out and discover about yourselves. But one thing was certain: you’ll always find your way back to your boys, and in return, you’ll always find yourselves back at 7/11.

[nowprettybbyimrunning]

Winter

This is chapter 2 from the series "Carter's Favorite Season is Autumn", series masterlist HERE, chapter 1 HERE, add yourself to my taglist HERE.

W.C: 8k

WARNINGS: mention of blood, inaccurate medical procedures, i think some cursing

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i think this kinda gets progressively more shitty as you reach the end.

Three days. Three whole working days had passed since Carter’s and Autumn’s little fight and she still wasn’t talking to him and John did not know for how long he could take it. It was more than just the fact that he had an enormous crush on her and she was not even looking at him, killing him. It was the fact that they were friends, they had a kind of routine together that for Carter had become, in a way, sacred. 

Every time he got home, instead of relaxing and being happy about having a few hours of silence and peace, Carter couldn’t wait for the next day to start just so he could see Autumn. There was brightness and warmness in the way she bounced into the ER, messy curls tucked into her big brown coat and characteristic green scarf that somehow made the orangey red of her hair stand out even more; usually two coffees in her hands, and one was for him. By the time she had walked up to the entry dest where he was impatiently waiting, John had already caught himself staring at her in awe. Jerry always laughed at him. Everyone did. To the point that now he was being called “loverboy” behind his back. Carter could only hope that his new nickname hadn’t reached Autumn’s ears.

But he had ruined it. He had been an asshole and clearly deserved what he was getting (which was nothing, and that was the problem); yet, he thought the way she had been acting was at least a tiny bit childish. What were they, five years old? Carter knew he needed just three seconds to express how utterly sorry he was for the way he had acted and they’d be back to normal. ‘Cause if there was one thing he had gotten to know pretty well in almost two months of residency, was Autumn, and there was no way this wasn’t also pissing her off.

Anyways, the point is that he missed her. Just three days and it felt like a lifetime without her. John did not feel like he was being dramatic. Yes, he had seen her, of course he had it was impossible not to. Still, she hadn’t talked to him. Not. A. Single. Word. 

So, he decided that day would be the last one he’d let the redhead keep on ignoring him.

Autumn had just gotten to the hospital and went straight to the break room to enjoy at least five minutes of peace while she drank her coffee before someone called her for help. She found that Carter was already inside the dimly lit room, sitting on the couch and drinking his own mug of coffee. She knew he was looking at her, she could feel it. But she was not going to look at him or talk to him, not until he said sorry. That’s all it took, Dr. Hawthorn just wanted to hear her friend apologize.

They hadn’t said a word to each other since she walked out of the exam room after Carter stitched her up. Everyone was talking about their little argument, Autumn had heard the nurses whispering and every time she walked into a room Carol and Susan were already in, they stopped talking. She didn’t know exactly what they were saying, but they were talking. And if that wasn’t enough, the gossip was not only about her and John, but also about her and Doug.

Dr. Ross had gone to check up on her after the incident with the psych patient. It was late at night and he hadn’t had dinner yet, so she served him a plate of the pasta she had cooked for herself. That’s it. But of course once he went back to the ER and told Lydia what he had been doing, it suddenly had been a date. It was not.

Sure! Doug was a hot guy, every single person working or not at County General knew that, but Autumn was not interested at all. Plus, she did not want to get into trouble, and whatever little game Dr. Ross was trying to get her into had already reached Dr. Greene, who did not doubt asking her about it.

“Dr. Hawthorn, do you have a minute?” Was the first thing Autumn heard when she came back to work the next day and Mark was waiting at the entry desk.

“Yeah, sure” she followed him into an empty (thank god) exam room, “is there a problem?” the redhead expected him to ask her about the psych patient or, worst case scenario, about Carter.

“No, not really,” Dr. Greene started, “it’s just that, you know how fast word travels in here” sure thing Sherlock, “and I heard that Dr. Ross took time off yesterday to pay you a visit,” that was not the topic of conversation she was hoping for.

“Yeah, he just wanted to check on me and give me some painkillers,” Autumn excused him.

“And have dinner,” oh oh.

“Dr. Greene I swear it’s not like that, at all” was she sweating? yeah she was.

“I know, I know” Mark held up both hands to stop her from talking, “but Doug is… well, he is Doug. And I want you to be careful,” she did not appreciate the babying, but she understood it.

Since then Autumn tried to keep things between her and Doug strictly professional, and it was working, she hoped. But the silence in the break room did not last long, it was exactly Dr. Ross who cut through it by stepping inside.

“There you are,” he said leaning against the lockers, “I need you in room 2”.

“Who?” Carter asked.

“Both of you, now,” Autumn and John immediately left their half drank coffees and followed Doug down the corridor, “ten year old boy, has been coughing for a few days and has a little fever, figured you Autumn specially would like to go solo”.

“Me?” There was clear surprise in her voice.

“Yes, do you not want to?” Dr. Ross asked jokingly.

“No- I mean, yeah of course who’s with him?”

“Mom’s in there, the kid’s name is Liam I-” Doug was interrupted by Carter.

“Do I have to be there?” 

“Yes” Doug looked at him, “like I was going to say, I’ll be there in the room watching over just in case, and you too Dr. Carter,” he handed a clear chart for Autumn to take.

She grabbed the paper, a bit nervous, and entered the room with Doug and John behind her, going directly toward the exam table, while the other two men stayed back closer to the door.

Liam was already sitting on the exam table, his legs slightly swinging back and forth, on his hands what seemed to be a keychain. Autumn gave a bright smile to the kid’s mom who sat in a chair next to the boy before she started to talk.

“Hi there,” she snapped on a pair of gloves, “My name is Autumn and they are Dr. Ross and Dr. Carter” she signaled with her right hand the direction where they were standing, John almost jumped at hearing her acknowledge him “I’m a medical student, is it okay if I examine you today?” Autumn waited for the mom’s approval and Liam’s confirmation. When she got a nod from the woman and a shy ‘yes’ from the kid she took her stethoscope off around her neck and prepared to use it.

“It’s nothing too serious, he has just been coughing for a few days and it won’t stop” the mom told her.

“Okay, then let’s take a listen to see what’s going on, Liam can you please sit straight for me?” the little boy did just as he was asked, “excellent, now take a deep breath in”. Autumn listened carefully first to his chest, “and out,” there was a bit of a wheeze but she wanted to be sure so she moved on to listen through his back, “good,now do it again one more time,” and yes, there definitely was. She took off the stethoscope and took down some notes on the chart, “has he had any history of asthma? he or anyone in the family”.

“No, not really” Liam’s mom shook her head, “he rarely gets sick, he’s usually a very healthy kid”.

“Any pets or smokers at home?” Dr. Hawthorn kept on asking the regular questions.

“Not, it’s just us, no other animals or people”

“I see,” Autumn took a moment to think, “if there’s no pets, smokers or prior asthma then I’m going to order a chest X-ray to confirm if it is early bronchitis or just a virus that’s too stubborn to go away yet,” she looked at Dr. Ross to see if he had any objections.

“Sounds about right,” Autumn smiled, “go and put down the order, good job Dr. Hawthorn,” the redhead wanted to scream at Doug’s words but she contained herself and instead just rushed out of the exam room with the biggest smile on her face.

Carter had wanted to stop her to tell her she had been amazing, but decided against it when he noticed she was still not looking at him.

Autumn watched as the technician clipped the X-rays into place, “is this the first one you’re doing alone?” he asked.

“Yes, it is” she got closer to see better.

“Well, the lungs are clear, what were you looking for exactly?” the old man tried to help.

“Just wanted to make sure the patient doesn’t have bronchitis.”

“Doesn’t seem like it”

“Yeah, it probably is just a virus,” Dr. Hawthorn scribbled what she was seeing onto the chart, “can I take those with me? so Dr. Ross can take a look at them”

“Yeah of course, let me get an envelope,” she waited patiently for the man to hand her back a brown envelope with Liam’s X-Rays inside and went on a mission to find Doug. It took her a few minutes but she finally caught him talking to Dr. Greene.

“Dr. Ross, do you have a minute? I have Liam’s X-Rays with me,” she held them up and then handed them over.

“Yeah, let me see” Doug opened the envelope and examined them, “what do you think Dr. Hawthorn?,” he looked at her.

“There’s nothing in the lungs, they are clear, it’s probably just a virus and should be gone soon, so I’d just give him some analgesics as the mom said he had already been coughing for a few days, try to make it go faster. Maybe add a follow-up in case it doesn’t let up?” Autumn prayed to not have forgotten anything and to have made a decent enough presentation.

“That’s exactly what I’d suggest,” the redhead couldn’t help but smile, “you wanna tell the mom?”.

Dr. Hawthorn blinked at him, “me?”

“Yeah of course,” Doug handed her back the X-Rays, “you checked Liam, you made the diagnosis, seems fair don’t you think?”

“Okay, I’d love to”.

“Carter!” Dr. Ross called for him, “go with her,” Autumn did not know if he should thank him or kill him, she’ll decide after releasing Liam.

They walked in silence together to room 2, and when they got there Carter opened the door and moved to the side to let Autumn walk in, going in after her.

Liam was lying on the exam table now, he looked tired and his mom was running her hands through his hair. The woman looked up to the sound of the door closing behind John.

“Hello again,” Autumn greeted, “I’m here to update you on Liam’s X-Rays results, I’m sorry if I took too long, I can see that he is tired,” she walked over to him and placed her left palm on the kid’s forehead, checking that he hadn’t gotten a fever during the time she was gone, but his body temperature was fine. Carter waited on a corner.

“Oh please don’t apologize,” the woman stood up, “is he fine?”

“Yes he is fine,” the mom exhaled, “there was nothing of concern in his lungs, what he’s got is probably just a virus”.

“What can I give him?”

“I’m gonna give him some analgesics, I’ll send in a nurse in a moment to give him his first dose here and then you’ll have to get a prescription and continue to give it to him at home every eight hours,” Autumn took the liberty to write down everything she was saying for Liam and his mom to take home in case they forget, “I also recommend giving him lots of water and a few lemon teas a day or honey sweets to help him with the throat ache from all the coughing, you can also come back in a few days for a follow-up, or sooner if you don’t see any improvement in one or two days,” Dr. Hawthorne gave the woman a sheet of paper full of bullet points with information about what to do.

“Thank you so much doctor, we’ll be back if it is necessary,” Liam got up and stood beside his mother.

“Well let’s hope that’s not necessary,” she took a lollipop out of her pocket and handed it to the boy, “this is for you Liam, it has honey in it, it’ll be good for your throat”.

“Thank you Dr. Autumn,” the redhead smiled and pinched his cheek.

“I’ll go call a nurse to give him the medicine and then you are free to go,” she smiled at the small family for the last time and turned around. Carter opened the door for her again.

“Autumn wait,” John called after her before she could get away.

“What do you need?” she asked lowly, keeping her distance.

“I just wanted to say that you were amazing, really” there was an unmistakable look of pride on John’s face.

“Thanks,” Autumn simply replied and was starting to turn away when he spoke again.

“And I also wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Dr. Carter took a step toward her and she crossed her arms over her chest, “I was an asshole, I know you have nothing going on with Doug”.

“It was something a friend would not think about their friend,” she tried to keep her cool but the relief in her voice could be heard by anyone.

“You’ve been avoiding me” he stated, “it was childish”.

Dr. Hawthorn laughed and Carter smiled at the sound, “I know, I just wanted to hear you say that you were sorry”.

“So we are good now, aren’t we?”

“Yes we are,” Autumn got closer to him to fix his crooked tie, “but next time ask me instead of assuming shit you know it’s not real”.

John gulped at the graze of Autumn’s fingers on his neck, his heart beating faster, “I will, I promise”.

“I have to go tell Carol to give Liam something for his cough,” she started walking backwards, “I’ll see you at 3 for our coffee?”

“Wouldn’t miss it even if I tried,” Dr. Carter waited for Autumn to turn around and then hit the air with his fist.

“Easy loverboy,” Lydia pushed an empty gurney down the corridor, “Dr. Benton is looking for you in trauma 1” and with not one more word Carter practically skipped away, overjoyed by the fact that his and Autumn’s friendship was back to normal.

“What are you doing tonight? It’s Friday” Autumn asked Carter while taking the first sip of her coffee.

“My parents are taking me to an event they got going on” both of them were eating someone else’s donuts.

“You don’t sound too excited” the redhead playfully lifted up the sides of John’s lips with her fingers to make him smile, and it worked.

“That’s because I’m not.” Still, the smile his friend had brought to him did not fade away.

“And why’s that?” Dr. Hawthorn didn’t want to pressure him into dumping more personal information on her if he did not want to, but she was curious. After all, Carter didn’t mention his parents. Like never.

“It’s just boring I guess,” he started, “I just would rather be doing something else, like sleeping” Autumn laughed, “what are you doing?”.

“Probably just listen to some music, try and cook something nice for once,” both took a big gulp from their mugs, almost finishing their coffees. But neither of them wanted their little break to end too soon.

“Like what?” John sat back on his chair and started manspreading.

Autumn almost got caught up in her own words and cleared her throat before speaking again, “music or food wise?”.

“I guess both,” the tiny smirk that appeared on Dr. Carter’s face could’ve killed Dr. Hawthorn right then and there.

“Well, I’m kinda craving some chicken” John pulled a face at that, “what’s wrong with chicken?” she tried to sound hurt, but in reality found it very funny.

“It’s just a bit plain… and boring” he explained.

“Oh and hanging out with your parents on a Friday night it’s not?” she joked.

“What can I say? I’m a family man,” Carter opened up his arms above his head, “whatever, and what music?” he sat straight again, elbows on the table.

Autumn thought for a few seconds, “I kinda have been listening to Linger by The Cranberries nonstop” she confessed.

“What d’you mean? the album it’s on?” she must mean the album. 

“Nope, just the song”.

“Don’t you get tired of it?”

“I don’t get tired of things i like, Carter” Autumn kinda hoped that he would get the hint that she was, in fact, talking about him.

“Not even people?” and maybe he had.

“Not even people,” the redhead confirmed.

The next week, while Autumn and Carter were working a night shift, a snowstorm hit Chicago. So now they were physically stuck at the hospital since snow didn’t seem to stop falling and every means of public transport shut down as it was too dangerous for people to wander around, which meant they were having a quiet and slow night at County General; and even though the thought of being completely confined inside the hospital wasn’t too appealing, they were thankful that it was under those conditions. With not many patients to look after.

Actually, it was a very boring night. Used to the chaos that was the ER, both Autumn and Carter found it hard to stay still without doing anything, and the silence that invaded every corridor and room was upsetting and eerie. And that was the reason they were where they were at that moment.

Carter had managed to somehow steal the keys to the cafeteria kitchen from Linda who was fast asleep, sitting at a chair, without waking her up. Autumn had been on the lookout in case any of the older residents or doctors suddenly appeared and told them off for their little shenanigan.

Once they were inside the cold and big room they got into a fit of laughter, feeling like two bad kids who knew they could get in trouble if found. John was leaning forwards with his hands in his knees, he was having trouble trying to stop laughing but he couldn’t; to the point that his eyes were filling up with tears. Autumn wasn’t too different, she had had to grab the countertop or else she might fall. But unlike Dr. Carter, she had already stopped laughing but had been coughing for the past ten seconds from it.

When John realised the problem the redhead was under, he immediately got close to her and started giving some harsh pats on her back, “are you okay?” He face palmed himself mentally, of course she was not, her face and neck were getting red from all the effort.

“I’m okay” more coughing, “just- water please” Autumn begged.

“Yeah, sure, on it” Carter, as fast as he could, grabbed the first cup he found, filled it up with tap water and gave it to her.

“Thank you”

“Would you like to drink some tea while I cook something for us?” Dr. Carter offered. He was rummaging through the kitchen’s cupboards trying to find a mug, and tea for that matter. 

“That’d be nice, yes” Autumn propelled herself on top of an aisle and watched him put water in the pot and turn the stove on. The heat that radiated from it warmed them up a bit. “What’s on the menu chef.”

John took some stuff from the fridge and placed it beside her, “I was thinking maybe I could cut some vegetables and cook them with some chicken?”

“I thought chicken was boring” the redhead poked the man on the ribs, tickling him and getting a smile out of it.

“Not my chicken ma’am, no” he started by washing up some carrots.

“Okay then, amaze me” Dr. Hawthorn handed Carter a big knife.

“Oh, you will, believe me.”

Autumn took a liking to watching John cook for her. She didn’t know if he was doing it to impress her or because he actually was a good cook, and she’ll find out sooner or later which is the case. “Do you like snow?”

“I like playing with it I guess” he moved on to some onions.

“Like snowball fights you mean?” The redhead stole a piece of carrot from the pile he had just finished cutting.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Carter pointed at her with the knife but she just laughed, “yes of course I mean snowball fights, what else can you do in the snow?” 

“Oh come on! you don’t like doing snow angels?” she bit down on the orange stick.

“No, I don’t like getting all my clothes wet from laying on the freezing ground,” it was the turn of the bell peppers to get cut into surprisingly thin slices.

“That’s lame John, you sound like an old grandpa” Autumn took the piece of chicken’s breast out of the tray it was in and handed it to him.

“I’m not a grandpa,” he complained.

“No, you’re right” he was worse, “my grandpa at least loved doing snow angels with me, on the freezing ground may I add.”

Carter rolled his eyes, “of course he did you’re his granddaughter.”

A few minutes passed and Carter had finished chopping all the ingredients and put them on a cooking pot when Autumn spoke again “I think I’d beat you in a snowball fight” it was a lie, she was awful at them; but, she also loved to tease him.

“No way, no one beats my throw” he was now looking at her, having finished his job for the time being.

“I think I could,” the redhead pressed.

“Fine” John caved in, “once the snow lets down we’ll go outside and I’ll show you how good I am.”

“Okay, loser has to get the morning coffees for both of us the entire next week” Dr. Hawthorn extended her hand for him to shake.

“Deal,” he took it and gave it a firm shake “you’re going to regret it.”

“I don’t think I will,” Autumn tried as best as she could to not show how she felt the moment John’s way bigger hand got into contact with hers. The man’s felt warmer and stronger against her own. Internally she wished they never had to let go. Carter was the one to let go so he could grab a bottle of kitchen oil and uncap it.

“Carter I don’t think you shou-” she tried to warn him but it was too late, he had already let big splash of oil hit the burning hot pot, sending flames into the air, “OH MY GOD”

“Oh shit-” John jumped back.

“PUT THE LID ON PUT THE LID ON” Autumn pointed to the lid that was resting behind him. 

Once the flow of oxygen had been stopped from getting inside the pot, putting off the fire, Carter turned off the stove. “I’m sorry, I hope you like your vegetables and chicken a bit crisp.”

Dr. Hawthorn jumped off the countertop and patted him on the shoulder, “I always liked my food a bit smoked,” she tried to joke while getting some plates and utensils for them.

“Just don’t consider this as my cooking, okay?” Dr. Carter served some of his slightly burned dish on each plate, “I swear I'm a good cook.”

“I’ll have to taste it to believe it.”

“Someday I’ll cook for you again and you’ll have to swallow your words,” they took the first bite and it wasn’t that bad.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything!” Autumn found it cute how distressed he was getting over it when the food really wasn’t bad.

“No, but you thought about it”

“No, I did not” they kept on eating. “This was actually quite good.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” John took their empty plates to the sink.

Autumn followed him so she could wash them as a thank you, “again, no I’m not.” Carter looked at her with his hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. “I’m being serious, this was better than whatever I could’ve prepared for myself at home, thank you.”

“You’re welcome” he took to helping the redhead dry the dishes with a towel he found laying around and started putting them back where he had found them. “So, what now?”

Dr. Hawthorn rinsed her hands, “let’s check with Lydia, maybe there’s something we can help on.”

“That sounds boring” John complained and Autumn laughed a laugh that was more than music for his ears.

“That sounds like work,” they made sure to tidy everything up before getting out the kitchen and locking it up again, “if there’s nothing then I’ll take you up on that snowball fight.”

“What have you done?” Lydia asked them when Carter left the keys on top of the desk in front of her.

“How are you Lydia? Enjoyed your nap?” Autumn knew the woman liked her a tiny bit more than she liked John.

“Like a kid enjoys their sweets,” the nurse joked, “what are you two up to?”

“We just stole some chi-” John was interrupted by Dr Hawthorn’s index finger on his lips, attempting to shut him up.

“Is there something for us to do? Any patient?” Both residents sure hoped there wouldn’t be.

“No, at least no one has been admitted since I’ve been awake,” nurse Wright explained, “and last time I checked Dr. Greene was sleeping in the break room so I guess no.”

“Could you page us in case something comes up?” Carter begged while handing Dr. Hawthorn her scarf and beanie that he had picked up from said room on their way from the cafeteria’s kitchen.

“Where are you going?” The woman looked at them like they were crazy.

“Just outside the ambulance bay, we want to see the snow,” Autumn said as she followed Dr. Carter to the door and he held it open for her.

“But it’s freezing out there” Lydia yelled at them.

“That’s the entire point,” John yelled back before stepping out and closing the door.

The moment their feet landed on the outside pavement a chill ran through their spines. Lydia was absolutely right, it was freezing. Carter took a moment to look at Autumn through the corner of his eye. Her big green scarf covered her up almost to the lips, her matching beanie covered her ears, though he could see a bit of it getting red from the cold; her hair was tucked under it and under her big brown leg length coat that didn’t graze the floor just by a few inches. He watched her let out a puff of air that turned white when it came into contact with the air outside and wished he was close enough to her face to inhale it himself. She looked perfect, as if they hadn’t spent hours and hours running around an ER filled with patients before the storm hit. Self-consciousness invaded him, he probably looked like he had been run over by a truck.

Yet Autumn thought he had never looked better. Yes, he looked tired; but so did she. And she wondered if that was how he looked like every time he got home and got into bed, drained from all the time spent at County General. She cursed at herself for wearing a coat with no pockets and forgetting her woolen gloves at home, because Carter’s hair seemed like the best place for her cold hands to rest and get warm and she was fighting every cell in her body to not do so.

“Are you ready to get your ass beat?” He finally broke the silence around them.

“Don’t get so cocky Dr. Carter,” the redhead teased, walking toward the snow.

“Dr. Carter? You must mean business…” he followed her like a puppy follows its owner.

“That I do,” her sneakers started getting wet and she instantly knew that meant she’d get a cold by the next morning, but at that moment the possibility of having to be a mouth breather for a few days did not worry her. 

“So, loser is on coffee duty?” that was what they had agreed.

“I’d like to change it up a bit if you let me,” Autumn bent her knees to grab a handful of snow.

“I’m listening,” he’d agree to anything she asked of him.

“If you win, I’ll be on coffee duty,” Dr. Hawthorn said with a grin on her face that told Carter she was up to no good when he looked at her, also getting down to pick up some snow, “if I win, you have to do a snow angel with me” she finished while both of them tried to mold into balls the snow on their hands.

John pretended to be thinking about it, but in reality he had nothing to think about. “You’re on,” he agreed and threw the first ball in her direction, hitting her on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Autumn tried to sound offended, “I wasn’t ready!” she threw hers back and hit him on his chest.

Carter was surprised by the strength of her throw, “where did you learn to throw like that?”

“I might’ve forgotten to mention that I took baseball classes as a kid” Dr. Hawthorn stood as if she was a player and snapped her arm forward, sending a big ball of snow into the air at high speed, crashing directly on Carter’s stomach.

“That’s totally cheating,” he started to complain “and you know it,” he tried to do the same movements as her, but she dodged it.

“No it’s not, I just didn’t tell you the entire truth,” Autumn repeated her last throw, but this time her snowball landed on John's face, most precisely his nose.

Dr. Carter took his hands to his face and bent his knees forward a bit. A muffled grunt escaping his lips.

“OH MY GOD” Autumn rushed to his side the moment she noticed what had happened, “I’m so so sorry John, let me see” she grabbed his hands to remove them from his face so she could see the damage she had caused.

“It’s fine, I’m fine” John tried to assure her, but his face said otherwise.

“No you’re not, your nose is bleeding” Autumn bent his head backwards to stop the blood from flowing and staining his clothes, “let’s go inside and I’ll help you clean up”

“Okay, yeah that I can take,” John was kinda glad for the hit he took if it meant he’ll have the redhead tending to him, close to his face.

They ran inside the hospital and into an exam room as fast as they could in order to avoid being seen by Lydia or they’d probably get scolded. Carter sat down on the exam table while Dr. Hawthorn prepared some gauze to clean his nose and upper lip as some blood had already dried there. She tilted his head back by grabbing him by the chin. John was looking at her with sad puppy eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that” she started to gently rub on his nose with the gauze, “you’ll make me feel bad”

“You broke my nose” he played with her.

“No I did not! don’t be a baby” she punched him on the arm before putting some cotton in one of his nostrils as it was still bleeding a bit, “I guess we could say I won…”

“Yeah, through cheating,” Carter could not resist the urge to fix Autumn’s hair that was falling on his face as she hovered over him. He took a strand that was grazing his cheek and moved it to rest behind her shoulder.

The redhead smiled at the gesture and finished cleaning him up, “now you owe me some snow angels”

“We’ll see about that” John tapped on his nose to see if it was hurting, it was not.

“You know you will do it” Autumn put away everything she had used.

“How can you be so sure?” He knew he would do it, but still he wanted to know why she was so sure.

“‘Cause you don’t seem like the type of guy to break a promise” she started explaining, “and I think you like me too much not to” Dr. Hawthorn had no idea from where she had gotten the guts to say that. She didn’t mean it romantically. Well, yeah she did. But Carter didn’t know that. Couldn't know that, or it’ll be the end of her.

Carter did not know what to say, he couldn’t say yes but he also could not not say anything at all. So he just awkwardly laughed, and now the moment felt as uncomfortable as ever. He noticed the way Autumn’s face changed at his response and it made him feel the most terrible and stupid he had felt in his entire life.

“I’m going to the break room,” the redhead let him know, grabbing the room’s handle to get away from him. Great, he had definitely ruined it, they were having an awesome night together but he had to be the one to end it.

“I’ll go with you,” he quickly got up and followed her.

“Suit yourself,” was all Dr. Hawthorn replied to him.

As they walked down the corridor Carter tried to find something to say, but what? Yeah you’re right I like you, like a lot, and risk being rejected by her?  No chance. Autumn didn’t like him, at least not in the way he liked her, he was sure of that; so, he wasn’t going to put their friendship on the line because of his silly crush. It’ll go away eventually, he hoped.

Once they were in the break room, neither of them said a word. The redhead sat down on the couch and turned on the TV, faking being interested in some news about the stock market. John sat down next to her, he knew she hated anything that had to do with stock, every time a man who looked like he owned assets came into the ER for help she’d leave him to someone else. 

They were the only ones there at the moment, Dr. Greene must have woken up at some point and gone somewhere else. A sudden wave of exhaustion hit Carter, it made sense as it should have been almost four in the morning, which meant he had been awake for almost an entire day with no naps in between. Autumn must have been as tired as him because he could feel how her breathing slowed down second by second, and after a few minutes he was also dozing off too when an external weight landed on his left shoulder.

It was her head.

Autumn was resting her head on his shoulder.

Carter smiled to himself and moved his head a bit to be able to watch her. She looked at peace, and there was nothing he loved more than to see that: her relaxed, next to him. It was the fact that he felt Autumn was comfortable enough with him to the point of falling asleep, none other than on his shoulder, when they were the only two living souls in the room that made his heart jump. The smell of coconut from her shampoo and the vanilla in her perfume reached his nose, he could swear on god that never in his life had he smelled something as delicious.

And just like that, he fell asleep too. With his head on top of hers.

And in that moment he did not care at all that someone would probably walk in and see them like that, that depending on who would it be the entire hospital would hear about it, that they’d be the targets of jokes for an entire week; ‘cause it meant that, at least on someone else’s mind, Autumn and him fit together.

Christmas time arrived at County General Hospital as quick as days were cold, and everyone was too excited for secret santa to come. It was the 23rd of December and they were supposed to give out the gifts that day since not all were coming back until after Christmas.

The picking process had been easy, Autumn had been in charge of writing down in tiny pieces of paper the names of all the workers that were participating, and then each one pulled out from a mug, the name you picked was the person you were buying for.

Dr. Hawthorn’s paper had said Susan, and she got her a long dark blue trench coat she had heard her say she wanted for a long time.

But Carter was overjoyed and excited from the moment he opened his and read, on her neat cursive “Autumn”. Since that moment ten days ago, he had paid even more attention than he usually did to everything she said just in case it gave him an idea about what to give her. And once he finally made up his mind and prepared his gift for her, he had been counting down the days until he was able to give it to her.

He arrived at the ER with the package he himself had wrapped in red paper under his arm and went straight to the break room to save it in his locker so Autumn would not see it. He was planning on giving it to her when they’d be doing their walk to the bus stop, where Carter always waited with her until her’s came.

“That’s a big box” Susan commented the moment she saw him enter the room, “who’s your lucky secret santa?”

“I’m not telling you” he opened his locker and had to play tetris with the stuff he had in it so Autumn’s gift would fix.

“Come on! why not?” Dr. Lewis almost screamed and got closer to him.

“‘Cause you’ll tell her” it took him a few tries but he was able to close the metal door.

“You know I would never tell Autumn you’re her lucky santa,” after hearing the blonde say that, John turned around abruptly, almost crashing into her and making a mess of the coffee mug she was holding.

“How did yo-” he really wanted it to be a surprise.

“You wouldn’t put effort into personally wrapping whatever’s inside there if it wasn’t her,” she kinda had a point, but he was not going to give himself away so easily. Susan and Carol had been trying to get him to confess his feelings for Dr. Hawthorn for a few weeks now and, surprisingly, he hadn’t fallen into it, yet.

“That’s not true,” it actually was, “I would’ve done it for anyone”

“So what you’re saying is that it actually is her,” Susan crossed her arms on top of her chest.

“I said I’m not telling you” John was almost to the door when he heard Dr. Lewis speak again.

“Whatever you say, loverboy” there was the nickname, again. He raised his middle finger at her without turning around.

Autumn had just gotten there where he reached the front desk, looking for her, and his coffee. The redhead handed it to him before she set hers down while taking off her big green scarf with one only with one hand.

“You know you still owe me that snowangel” Dr. Hawthorn pointed her index finger at him, “It’s been weeks”

“And here I thought you had forgotten about it,” he took a sip from the styrofoam cup, “thanks for the coffee by the way” he was trying to divert the topic of conversation to something else.

“I already told you to stop thanking me every day for it” she really had, but every time he tries to pay her back she says no, “and no, I didn’t forget about it, I’ll never forget about it”

Carter threw his head back and grunted, “fine, next time it snows I’ll do a snow angel with you” he finally gave in.

“You know they say it’ll snow on new year’s eve,” Autumn told him and signaled for him to follow her.

“Then it’s a good thing we’ll be stuck here” they were working a night shift on new year’s eve, which meant they’d be starting it together.

Carter would be lying if he said he hadn’t dreamt about a midnight kiss. ‘Cause he had. Twice in a row. Both times he had woken up in a sweat, having to take a cold shower despite the coldness of winter outside.

He noticed that the redhead didn’t bring in anything that resembled a present with her, “did you forget your secret santa gift at home?”

“huh?” Autumn was confused for a moment, “oh right! No, I kinda cheated and gave it early.”

John was bumped over the fact that this confirmed his was not the name written on her paper, “and who was it?”

“Dr. Lewis” that’s why she had asked him about it in the break room, “bought her a blue trench coat.”

Everyone knew Susan loved her coats, “she probably loved it.”

“She did, I saw her wearing it yesterday,” they arrived at the break room, again, where Autumn finished taking off her extra layers of clothing and putting them away inside her locker, “who’s yours?”

Carter smiled at her back, grateful that she was not able to see his little slip, “you can’t know that.”

“But it’s almost over,” he was not going to fall into this one, “I just want to know if you’re good at giving presents, I promise I won’t tell” the redhead turned around and rested her hands at her hips.

“Well, you said it yourself it’s almost over,” John said while laughing and she rolled her eyes, “you’ll know eventually” she was going to love it, he was sure.

“But you already know min-” Autumn’s protest was interrupted by Dr. Benton.

“Dr. Hawthorn, there’s a kid with early signs of pneumonia in room 4 and Dr. Ross needs your help,” he instructed her, “Carter paramedics are bringing in a GSW to the chest in two minutes, go to trauma 1 right now.”

“Yes sir” both residents responded at the same time.

The rest of the shift went on as usual, always a little hectic, especially with the holidays around the corner. Some firework’s injuries and kids sick with the flu.

Carter and Autumn were ready to get the hell out of there. They grabbed their stuff from the break room as fast as they could, just in case a new patient came in and delayed their exit, and practically ran out of County General.

They were already walking on the sidewalk when John noticed she was shivering and not wearing her coat, “where’s your coat?”

“I forgot to grab in the hurry of getting out” she engulfed herself in her own arms, thankful to at least have a big sweater and her green scarf on.

“Here,” Carter started to take off his own coat, “have mine.”

“Oh no no” the redhead tried to stop him by tapping his forearms, “you’ll get sick John, we’re almost to my bus stop.”

“Just let me-” he stopped in his tracks and set the wrapped box he was carrying on the floor, “and as soon as you get on your bus I’ll hail a cab while you have the entire ride home and another few blocks to walk,” he extended the black jacket to her, “just put it on please.”

“Fine” she accepted and started to put it on while Carter picked up the gift and resumed walking, “just because I’ve already been exposed to too much flu today…” that made him chuckle, “did you not get to see your secret santa?” Autumn looked at his arms.

“I actually did, she’s wearing my jacket right now,” he tried to be smooth.

“No way! Seriously?” Dr. Hawthorn stopped walking.

“Yes, this” he handed her the box, “is for you” John watched her expectantly as she sat down on a bench they had stopped in front of and started tearing off the paper.

Once all the red was out of the picture, Autumn’s mouth dropped in awe and his eyes opened like saucers. She immediately set it down beside her and jumped to hug Carter.

“A moka pot?!” she screamed in his ear as her arms interlocked in the back of his neck and she felt him do the same around her waist.

“Do you like it?” his voice was filled with excitement over her excitement, he knew he had nailed it.

“I fucking love it, seriously” they broke apart, “thank you so much it’s the best thing you could’ve given to me.”

“I’m glad you like it, take it as a ‘thank you’ for all the coffees you bring me and don’t let me pay for” the smiles on their faces could not get bigger even if they tried.

They continued their little journey to Autumn’s stop while she read aloud, from the back of the box, all the special features her new coffee maker had. And when it was time for her to get on it, both wished she would have invited him over to try it for the first time; but Autumn was too shy to suggest it and Carter was too scared to ask.

That night, John dreamt of a midnight kiss from his friend, again. Only this time it also included breakfast in bed and two mugs of freshly brewed espresso.

When New Year’s Eve came around and it found Dr. Hawthorn and Dr. Carter like they said it would, snowed in and stuck in another night shift, they didn’t mind it at all. If you had asked them if they preferred to spend that night at home or right where they were at that point, they wouldn’t second guess going for the latter option.

They weren’t able to spend much time together as John had been invited by Dr. Benton to help out in an open heart surgery, an opportunity he couldn’t miss and that had lasted nearly seven hours. Which had left Autumn to her own devices most of the day, even though Dr. Ross had kept her occupied with lots of sutures and taught her to do a spinal tap.

But when the clock marked 11:55 p. m. , all the ER staff got together at the entry desk. Dr. Hawthorn helped Lydia and Dr. Greene’s wife, Jen, pass around some non-alcoholic fruit punch to toast with at midnight, giving everyone a tiny cup.

By the time they finished serving it was a few seconds 'till 12 p. m. and Autumn found her place next to Carter.

“Hey, long time no see” he greeted.

“I’m very happy that you got to help Dr. Benton on that surgery but it was such a bore without you here,” the redhead confessed, “I missed you.”

John felt his heart jump in his chest, “I mi-”

“TEN, NINE-” he wanted to tell her that he had missed her too, a lot; but the countdown set him back.

“EIGHT, SEVEN-” Autumn joined in, still looking at him.

“SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE-” Carter copied her, yelling the numbers in each other’s faces.

“TWO, ONE-” God she wished he would kiss her.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” And he would have done so if they had been alone.

For now the clink of their glasses and a hug, so tight they felt their insides stood on new places, had to suffice.

TAGLIST: @thinemineours @Katydunn047-blog @delicatetrashtree

[inkk-tv]

[ ꜰᴏᴏᴛʙᴀʟʟ ᴘᴜʙ ɢᴏʟꜰ : ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ ]

Chris plants his forehead on the table, taking a deep breath as he watches the astro turf. He’s well gone, but Lucy and Arthur, who is now just drawing shapes on the inside of her forearm, aren’t much better off. “You two are going to bankrupt me.”

“We’ll put the fund towards a muzzle.” Lucy says off handedly, swiping the marker, and Arthur’s hand to draw a three-by-three grid on his skin. 

in which: Chris attempts to not have another life crisis during a pub golf video and is failing miserably.

3.7k words [ part one ] [ masterlist ] [ part three ]

[oc x arthurtv x chrismd]

[warnings: Excessive drinking, sexual innuendos and light sexual content]

Chris is torn. 

Logically, he knows football pub golf is a content gold mine. It could easily be one of the best videos of the year, especially with the team line ups. On the other hand, the last time Chris filmed a pub golf for Chip's channel some eight months ago, it ended with him so fucked he'd uprooted his entire life twenty four hours later.

Mid to late twenties was not a good time to have a sexuality crisis - and Chris speaks from experience. Why it took 11 drinks and joking that he'd shag his best mate for space hopper-ing over a bollard to realise he genuinely wanted to snog him silly, Chris isn't sure.

In retrospect, he'd probably fancied Arthur way back in sixth form, sitting with him in every class, dragging the poor bloke to join his football team. The biting should have been a hint. 'Cuteness aggression', as a session of hungover googling informed him, is horribly common. Chris was so torn up about it all that he talks it over with Shannon the night after, when he's not sure if the urge to vomit is from nerves, guilt or the hangover.

He tries to tell her that it doesn't have to change things, that he still loves her. But she still calls it off.

He can't really be mad at her for that, so it's amicable. The two of them weren't built to last much longer anyway; if marriage was in the cards, Shannon wouldn't get snippy anytime her mother brought it up and Chris wouldn't feel nauseous every time he saw an advert for rings. If they were destined for 'forever', talk of marriage wouldn't sound like an expiration date.

Chris spends a couple of months sorting out all his shit and takes a long hard look at his own feelings.

Everyone is sort of weird about the break-up. For a while they all sort of act like it's temporary. Once he puts out a statement though, his friends take that as confirmation that it's actually over. Arthur -Hill not TV- and George take him out drinking a few times as self declared experts in heartbreak and the single life. Their ventures have the three of them planning to move in together when their leases expire in October. Harry corrals him onto a few dating apps and Chris humours him because how is he supposed to tell the guy that women are the last thing on his mind and that he's head over heels (and possibly in love with) one of their mates, who is noticeably a bloke.

At least this time the pub golf is for his channel, so if there's another earth-shattering life crisis, he can edit it out at the least. Save himself the embarrassment of seeing the clip every few weeks on TikTok. Luckily, Chris is not the kind of man who loses all impulse control when faced with a couple of pints.

He is admittedly two shots up already and they've only just settled at hole four. If anything's going to set their team back, it's this. Chris knows the moment he sees Jamie, his production assistant, walk out with a tray of wine-glasses all of which were bordering on over-filled with rosé. 

"Oh god," Lucy groans, her head pitching forwards to thud onto the table. Jamie just smiles as he places the three glasses around the halo of blonde hair. Her next complaint comes out muffled. "Why wine? I can't do wine."

"Come on, Luce." Chris grabs her shoulders to drag her back up straight, shaking them a few times for good measure. "Where's all that team spirit gone?"

"Come on En-ga-land, Score some fucking goals." She quotes, putting on the thick northern accent for it.

Seeing as Chris is a little too far gone to keep explaining the rules at each pub without hurling insults at his friends, Jamie's the one who does it this round, citing that each drink must be fed by a teammate.

"I got a great trick for this one," There's a bit of a slur to Arthur's words, but that could just be him and not the alcohol. Then again, he did do a shot when they got to the pub ‘for fun’ which will most definitely bite them in the arse. "We hold hands and squeeze depending on ho-"

Arthur hiccups halfway through his sentence and it's enough to get a snort out of Chris and devolve Lucy into giggles as he continues. " -how, how much you want."

Chris goes first, and Arthur’s hand is warm in his own as he pours the wine into his mouth. 

Although, when it’s Arthur’s turn and Lucy grabs the wine glass off the table, she frowns. “You’re too tall for this.”

There's not that much of a gap between them with her heels factored in but it's enough that to get her arm up and angle the glass right, it would certainly be uncomfortable for Lucy.

“Come on, tip toes surely.” Arthur says, but she’s already got a hand on his shoulder.

“On your knees, Television.” She says it so calmly, pressing lightly on his shoulder- not enough to push Arthur down, Chris knows he’s stronger than he looks, but he goes anyway.

Something that’s horribly aroused stirs in Chris’s stomach, watching Arthur drop to his knees in front of Lucy, mouth open as she leans down just slightly to press the glass against his lips. He grips her wrist instead of her hand and swallows every mouthful of pretty pink rosé so eagerly that there’s evidence of it left on her skin, little crescent indented where his nails had dug in.

It’s awfully sobering to realise that Chris might actually have to fight a semi while filming.

There’s been jokes about it, in the past few years as his content has matured along with his audience and those sorts of comments were left in the final cut. But Christ, watching Arthur lick his lips clean of wine, not even moving to stand until Lucy pulls him to his feet by the hand, that’s enough to make anyone sexually attracted to men a little off kilter. 

He’s never really had the ‘awkward boners’ at least not since his teenage years. Chris is pretty sure it’s something to do with the messy ball of crossed wires that is his sexuality, the fact he never really gets a hard on for someone he’s not head over heels for but he’s not really put much time into untangling that.

Although, he might need to do that soon. 

Something about the way Arthur looks at her, as if from the moment she put her hand on him, she was everything- the centre of his universe. 

Not that Chris can really blame him. Lucy’s always been captivating like that. He’s not a moron, Lucy’s attractive, objectively. She’s cute, green eyes, light tan to her skin that’s more from sunshine than genetics, and blonde hair that's half pulled back with a white ribbon, a couple strands falling in front of her face. Round cheeks that push up towards her eyes when she smiles, a little tip up to the end of her nose. She’s got the kind of features that would make Chris pause on those stupid dating apps he only swipes though when Harry’s looking over his shoulder. 

Arthur yields so easily for her, blinking at her with those brown eyes and chewing his bottom lip a little, hands still messily entwined together as Harry makes a poor sex joke. 

It’s an orbit that Chris has watched many men tumble into before, the gravitational pull of Lucy Bell. There’s something about the way she carries herself, a confidence that makes eyes drawn to her. On night outs, there’s mixed reactions. George and Arthur Hill love it, girls are more than happy to chat and linger at their table, eased in the risk of approaching a bunch of men in a club by the presence of a woman like Lucy. 

He thinks about all the dickheads he’s seen try and fail to make a pass on her, as Chris picks up the final glass of rosé.

Lucy has, and will continue to, drink Chris under the table, but she is under or just about five foot six. And There's only so many miracles a liver that size can facilitate. Maybe she’s a little further finished than he thought, because when he holds the wine glass up to her, and clasps their palms together, she just isn’t taking it like she was earlier.

“Come on Luce, down in one.” He murmurs, “You got it.”

A little dribble of it runs down her chin and into the curve of her throat, but no one calls her on it and Lucy is left gagging on the taste of rosé that she’d downed. She’s squeezing his hands tight as she recoils and pulls a face. Chris rubs her back and gives it a couple of pats as she leans into his side. “I hate rosé.”

Arthur reappears with three glasses of water, precariously balanced in his hands and he deposits one in front of each of them. It’s the best drink Chris has been given all day and he can’t help the words that slip out. “Oh my god I love you.”

No one blinks at it though, not Arthur, not Chris. He’s said it before, there’s no reason for anyone to think it means anything more than it used to. 

Lucy doesn’t bat an eye, just gives Arthur this awfully soft look before guzzling down half the glass in one go. Until Stephen drops a balled up napkin on the floor and kicks it between her feet, nutmegging her.

Honestly, Chris had sort of forgotten about writing that rule into the video and he sort of feels bad now. Lucy’s probably going to be the only victim of it for the afternoon, because everyone else is far enough gone that they’re a little fuzzy on the rules too.

She and Stephen do shots of baby guinness together (because apparently he just wanted to?) and Chris has to stare into his water glass, tracing patterns on the condensation with his thumb so he doesn’t stare at Arthur and imagine him at the foot of his bed, on his knees for Chris. Complacent and content. 

Chris kind of wants to curl in on himself. 

Beside him, Arthur’s hand slips down from Chris’ shoulder and along his back, stepping around both him and Lucy, hand slipping to her waist and along the curve of it as he ducks back inside the pub. 

There’s jeers from the German team and Cal follows Arthur inside to make sure he’s not chundering in the bathroom. 

“Chris, I’m not gonna lie,” Lucy leans into whisper, “I don’t think I’ll be standing by the end of this video.”

She looks utterly gone. Her eyes are wide, and there’s a little sheen to the column of her neck, maybe from the wine she’d dribbled or the haste to skull the water she was handed. This close, he can see the lines of her makeup, where the eyeliner is a little shaky right at her lash line and the few eyelashes that are clumpy with mascara.

It’s the drunkest he’s seen her in a while, and she’s probably only one drink off of ‘cartwheel Lucy’- the stage of intoxication where she feels the urge to display her impressive coordination that she, annoyingly, never loses no matter how much alcohol she’s ingested.

Chris tips his head forwards and bites her deltoid. Teeth sinking softly into the fabric of her jersey until he can just feel the solidness of her shoulder underneath. Lucy startels, a little, whines then swats at Chris until he retreats half a step.

She looks at the bite mark on her pristine England Jersey, wiping at Chris’ spit as she scoffs and scrunches her nose up a little. "I’m going to catch diseases off you at this rate.”

There’s about half a second where he considers making an STD joke, but there’s a camera sitting on them and it feels a little disrespectful to suggest something like that. 

Lucy frowns down at the black line on the inside of her wrist. “Where’s Arthur, I need a tally mark.”

And the man of the hour is dragged from the Pub’s entrance, clinging to Cal, looking significantly more gone than he had five minutes ago. The wine must have been hitting hard. 

Supposedly, there was no puke, but for the antics Arthur received a red card, putting the English team even further down the hole they’re stuck in. It doesn’t help that the other team all get their drinks down in one.

Not that Chris was really paying attention, he was too busy watching Arthur poke at Cal, enjoying pressing his buttons. 

“How many holes do we have left?” He asks once he’s settled back into his stool.

Chris snorts. “Me after five drinks on a saturday night, am I right?”

Arthur holds his hand up for a high five, but Chris has his arms crossed and his brain is working a little slow to catch it before the palm is descending into a playful smack on his face. He grabs Arthur's hand with both of his and licks a fat stripe up his palm, tongue feeling the roughness of calluses from the gym and the faint taste of beer. 

The reaction is immediate. “Noooo!”

Arthur recoils and wipes his hand of spit on Chris’ jersey. 

Lord, Chris must be so much further gone than he thought, because he just devolves into giggles, even after fully licking his best mate’s hand. It’s only when Jess, his production manager, starts herding them down the footpath to the next pub that Chris finally gets a handle on his giggles. 

Somehow, when they make it to Pub number five, everyone- including his own employees- goads Chris into climbing the tree opposite it. Which earns them two points deducted, so they’ve almost worked off the red card from Arthur’s endeavours with a toilet bowl at the second pub.

The Vodka Oranges are, mercifully, only one standard drink. Although, Lucy’s still looking a little queasy at the prospect of downing it. “I hope this doesn’t have pulp.”

Arthur frowns and holds his drink up in the light to get a better look. “I don’t think so.”

“If there’s pulp I might actually throw up. I can’t do the texture.”

“Can’t say I’m a big fan either.” The downwards tilt of Arthur’s lips is painfully cute and Chris kind of wants to lean over and bite at him, but he’s not supposed to be doing that today. Instead he huddles them closer together, like was in the plan for pub five and they have their half-time strategy meeting. 

“If either of you puke, I swear to god I will never forgive you.” Chris says, focusing very hard on not slurring his words. “We can’t lose to Stephen Tries. He already carries this channel enough.”

“Come on- I’ve done plenty.” Arthur complains. “I got Harry three shots deeper.” 

Admittedly, an impressive feat, but it’s still about thirty less shots than Harry WroeToShaw needs to start feeling the effects of Alcohol and far from enough to recover from all the penalty points he’s been earning. Chris tuts “Only one of us has climbed a tree so I really think that you guys need to step up to the plate at this point.”

The pair just stare at him, and for a moment, Chris sort of loses the plot in Arthur’s eyes. “You’ve got very nice eyes.”

They are. A nice dark brown that sort of looks like pots of honey, mesmerising while Chris blinks into them, with a sort of depth that makes it impossibly easy to sink into them. He’s better at it now, remembering to look away, but the alcohol’s got him a little slower to catch it.

“Christ, they are nice eyes.” Lucy agrees leaning in to get a better look at Arthur, who’s blushing a little from the attention, then towards Chris. “You’ve got good eyes too.”

Arthur nods eagerly. “He does have lovely eyes.”

“Lucy, your eyes are great.” Chris pivots, hoping to save his brain from malfunctioning, onto Lucy, planting a hand on her shoulder to lean in close and study her eyes. 

They’re more green than blue, wide as she processes how close he’s gotten to her. He’s heard people say the grass is greener on the other side, but looking at Lucy’s eyes, it might just be true. It’s almost like staring at the overgrown grass of his childhood football pitch, some streaks a little darker than others, and the underlying feeling that there’s something to be found there, if one cared to look a little deeper than surface level. 

“Oh, they are.” Arthur agrees, squinting a little as he peers at her. 

All three of them have completely lost the whole ‘strategy meeting’ plot that was supposed to be their halftime regroup and by the time Chris untangles himself from their eyes, it’s time to down the vodka oranges that have been sweating condensation down their wrists.

Cal corrals both teams into a cheers and miraculously, everyone manages to get it down in one. 

Thankfully, they’d figured people would be a bit gone by pub five, so a nice lengthy walk proceeds pub six.

Chris just about hangs off Arthur the whole time, who at first is a little distracted by texting George Clarkey in an attempt to convey how ‘sober’ he is, but eventually slings his arm over Chris’ shoulder and lets him stay there. He tries to not stir things, lest he be shoved away, instead basking in the bloody amazing smell of Arthur cologne as it mixes with his deodorant. Chris couldn’t name what either of them smell like, but it’s a scent that’s so uniquely Arthur he wouldn’t be able to associate it with anything else.

“George says he’s gonna come pick me up from the last pub.” He declares, shoving his phone into Chris’ face. It’s a little too close to read, but he squints and tries anyway. Arthur only gives him a few seconds before pulling the screen back and pocketing it. 

At one point in their walk, Chris bites at his wrist where it hangs next to his face but it’s not enough to chase him off. 

“Next pub golf, it’s twenty quid per bite.” Arthur grimaces, whipping the back of his hand of spit down the front of Chris’ jersey. “Lucy had the right idea.”

“I think you owe her a tally mark. Maybe.” Chris frowns, trying to recall if they’d added the last nip. 

“Luce!” He calls. “Did we add the last tally? From Pub four with the rosé?”

She’s about ten meters ahead, tangled up with Stephen as he tries to wrangle her into some kind of hug or headlock, it’s a little unclear which. For a moment the pair of them freeze, and Lucy does that little frown and nose scrunch she does whenever she thinks particularly hard on something. “No!”

Then she kicks Stephen’s sneaker and he bowles over, caught off guard. 

“Yellow card! Yellow card!” Arthur shouts, pointing so obnoxiously that Chris almost wants to tell him it’s rude. “Ref, that’s diving!”

Cal dishes out a Yellow card and Stephen goes back to trying to deck Lucy, via bowling her knees out from under her. But by the time they make it to pub six, he’s managed to weasel a piggy back out of her and the two of them pause by the gate to point out where ‘live music: ChrisMD Diss-Track cover band’ is written in neat print of the blackboard. 

The two of them are gone, and it’s probably lucky that Lucy isn’t the kind of drunk that gets clumsy, otherwise the two of them would never have managed to make it through the beer garden benches without knocking into one. Arthur isn’t as lucky, knocking his shin against one on his way over to the tables his production team has claimed. 

“Ow.” He whines as Chris gets his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, shaking him until they’re at the seats and he’s shoving him off in fake annoyance. “Get off you leach.”

He digs the pen out of his shorts pocket, and bites the cap off, keeping it wedged between his teeth as he calls out to Lucy. Her name comes out muffled around the cap but she deposits Stephen and collapses next to Arthur, who grabs her wrist. There’s an awful lot of concentration on his face for something as simple as drawing a line. 

Chris plants his forehead on the table, taking a deep breath as he watches the astro turf. He’s well gone, but Lucy and Arthur, who is now just drawing shapes on the inside of her forearm, aren’t much better off. “You two are going to bankrupt me.”

“We’ll put the fund towards a muzzle.” Lucy says off handedly, swiping the marker, and Arthur’s hand to draw a three-by-three grid on his skin. 

They fall into their own little bubble as they start up a series of naughts and crosses games. Chris has to kick them under the table to gain their attention when Cal starts explaining the pub-quiz rules. The aim was to guess the cocktail themed pun based on the footballer’s name. 

Chris wasn’t expecting greatness to begin with. He knows his footballers, but Arthur and Lucy don’t really know them by name and face- unless they play for the teams they support. There’s a much higher chance of a Man United player showing up than a Brighton player, so Lucy might be completely out of her depth. 

They manage to break even only because the German team are shouting out the footballer’s names and failing to relate it back to a cocktail, so the three of them can steal the point out from under them By the end of it, they’re left with a martini, a strawberry daiquiri and a rum punch. 

Chris gets the easy way out and is handed the martini, Lucy recoils once she finishes her rum punch, a shiver racking her spine and Arthur struggles to drink his daiquiri that is filled with ice, though a piss-weak paper straw. 

But it’s down in one for all of them, even the other team.

As he hauls himself to his feet, the gin hits him like a truck. Enough that he stumbles half a step back. Chris knows, as he catches the worried look his production team are giving him, that his hope of ending the afternoon without puking, was a lost cause. 

[ part one ] [ masterlist ] [ part three ]

ink note: part two! poor christopher's got it bad. this is our last chris chapter for a while, so pray for the poor lad.

[ if you would like to be added to the fic's tag list, let me know in an ask and you'll be tagged when each chapter goes up :) ]

[avatar-anna]

Can you write something about reader having an ED and Harry doesn’t notice at first but then starts to notice And then eventually helps you through it?

Try To Find a Way Back

trigger warning: mentions and direct references to eating disorders. please be cautious if you find this topic triggering

so, i don't know a ton about eating disorders and what it's like for someone who has one to be actively struggling with it, and writing about something i don't completely understand makes me nervous bc i don't want to get it wrong. however, since you asked, i'm going to do my best to write this!

in case anyone is curious, this is the article i referenced while writing

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"I just don't understand what her issue is. If I was in her shoes, I'd get help. It's that simple."

"I don't know if—"

"I mean, it's not like struggling with eating makes her special. Like, everyone has body image issues and we just deal with it. Harry will probably break up with her because of all the reassurance she needs. Poor guy probably didn't know what he got himself into when he asked her out. God what a headache for him."

You backed up slowly, not wanting to hear the conversation that was so clearly about you anymore. You'd gone to grab drinks for yourself and who you thought were your friends, but now your hands were shaking so hard you worried the contents in the two wine glasses would come spilling out, glass shattering to the floor. Your heart pounded in your chest, bile rising in your throat. Finding the nearest server walking around with an empty tray and, you set the glasses down before booking it out of the club.

Tears were already starting to pool in your eyes as you ordered an Uber to take you home. Phoebe was one of Harry's friends, but she'd been kind to you since the day he introduced you to her and the rest of his close knit group of friends he'd had for years. You'd been incredibly nervous. You were an outsider, not a model or a writer or a musician or an actor. You weren't extraordinarily talented or beautiful, you were just...you.

None of that seemed to matter to Harry, though. He'd been nothing but flirtatious since the moment he met you. Well, once he was able to look past his nerves. He'd been a bit of a stuttering mess at first, and it wasn't until an hour into talking to him where he really got comfortable enough to flirt, and flirt he did.

It took not one, not two, but three tries to get you to go out with him, your insecurities getting in the way the first two times. But that had been a few months ago, and now you were pretty sure you were in love with him, except now you knew his friends hated you.

She doesn't understand, you thought. It isn't so black and white. You would love to just fix yourself, to make yourself see a doctor, seek help. But eating disorders were a behavioral disease, and when you were in the thick of it, it was hard to shake. You'd told Phoebe about your struggles with your weight and eating disorder in confidence, thinking she was someone you could confide in, only to find her mocking your pain behind your back to someone else, and now you didn't know what to do.

Your phone buzzed with a text message, and you tensed when you saw who it was from.

Bubbie: hey where'd you run off to?

You: not feeling well. heading home

Bubbie: why didn't you say anything? let me take you home

Wiping away a tear, you typed out a text. In most cases, being around Harry would've brought you comfort, but right now, you just wanted to be alone. You couldn't let him see you like this, so unsteady.

You: it's ok. enjoy your first night back with your friends. kissies xx

*.*

You'd been avoiding Harry for the last week and a half. Phoebe's words sent you into a bit of a tailspin, and shame kept you from speaking to him, not wanting to involve him in your issues. Because you realized Phoebe was right. To some extent. You should've been able to ask for help, you should've been able to tell Harry how much you were really struggling, but your shame kept you from reaching out to anyone or asking for help, along with the desire to keep up your habits, which created a toxic cycle.

"It seems like this boy is doing you more harm than good, honey," your mom said over the phone. She was the only one you told about what you overheard Phoebe say.

"He's not the problem, Mom. I just—"

"You were doing so well up until you started seeing him. I just don't want you to slip again. I worry about you, and if being with that boy is causing you problems, then you need to look at the bigger picture."

Her heart was in the right place, it really was. Your mom had been there for a lot of your darkest moments and was rightfully protective of you and your health. But Harry really wasn't the problem. He'd never made you feel like you needed to change your body for him, it was quite the opposite in fact. He constantly praised the way you looked, and not because you needed reassurance or asked him to, despite Phoebe's assumptions. He just really thought you were beautiful.

"I can't just live my life alone, Mom," you said eventually, not wanting to admit more. "He makes me happy."

You heard your mom sigh, but she thankfully didn't press the matter further, even though you knew she had lots to say. She always had lots to say where your boyfriend was concerned. The last thing she said on the matter was, "Just...be careful."

Once you hung up the phone, you fell back against your bed for a few minutes before standing up and walking to your kitchen. A trip to the grocery store was in order, just based on the meager items in your pantry and refrigerator—pasta and no sauce, cereal but no milk, veggies but they weren't organic, and did you really need the family size bag of Doritos—

You took a breath, willing those thoughts away. You were fine. You were just upset about what Phoebe had said about you, nothing more. "It's just the grocery store," you murmured. "You go all the time."

*.*

The grocery store had never looked bigger. There were too many labels, too many colors, too many brands making promises of health and wellness. Your hands gripped the shopping cart until your knuckles were white, eyes wide as you carefully browsed the aisles. Everyone else was going about their business just fine. You watched as people grabbed what they needed with ease, scratching items off their lists and moving into the next thing.

How did they know which bread to buy? How did they decide on a cereal? Whole grain or multi grain? They didn't even look at the nutritional facts before putting something in their carts, didn't stop to do the math, counting calories and carbs and grams of sugar against what they already had. How could they just exist without caring about—

Your phone buzzing pulled you from your anxiety-riddled thoughts. With shaking hands, you pulled your phone out of your oversized zip-up, Harry's face popping up with the notification that he was calling you.

"H—Hello?"

"Hey, you! I feel like I haven't heard from you, so I thought I'd call and check in."

You smiled, despite the anxiousness that still had your shoulders tensed. "Sorry, I've been...busy."

"God, me too," Harry said woefully. "But I've let work get in the way far too much this week. I need to see you. Are you free tonight? I can come over and make dinner for the two of us."

The word dinner filled you with dread. That wasn't a good idea right now. The idea of anyone seeing you eat, even Harry, felt terrifying. But what could you do? Saying no would involve having to explain yourself, and you wanted to do that even less.

"I'd love to," you said, all that anxiety coiling in the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah? You're in for a treat, I happen to be a fabulous cook."

"Can't wait."

You couldn't even feel excited to see Harry. The dread of having to sit through dinner took up too much space in your mind. You tried to will it away. You liked Harry too much to let your mind get in the way of messing up the good thing you had going.

*.*

A few weeks later, and you were at Harry's house for dinner again, only this time it wasn't just the two of you.

Your date with Harry went better than expected. You picked at your food and pushed it around, shame eating away at you as you lied through your teeth about not feeling very well when Harry asked why you'd hardly eaten anything. He'd been so sweet, making you a cup of tea, laying down with you on his couch to soothe your fake stomach ache, kissing the top of your head and rubbing a hand over your stomach comfortingly.

You felt horrible for lying to him, and you very well couldn't come clean after the fact, but it was better than talking about it. The less you talked about it, the better.

Tonight, you'd been carefully picking at your food again, making sure to take bites that were big enough to look normal and trying not to look like it was making you physically unwell. Each bite was excruciating, your mind telling you not to eat anymore and that you could never exercise all those calories away. It was all you could do to not focus on all the ways you knew how unhealthy this dinner was. It didn't match at all with your diet journal and you'd have to make up for it by—

"—just so hard, don't you think, Y/n?"

"Huh?"

Phoebe smiled at you, but it didn't feel very friendly. You'd avoided talking to her all night so far, had even taken the farthest seat away from her at the table.

"We were talking about how hard it is to live here in LA," she said, gesturing vaguely to the people around her. "It feels like there's a new diet trend every week, and it's just so hard to lose weight while not looking completely anorexic—"

"Phoebe," Harry said tightly, cutting her off before she could finish.

Your grip was tight on your fork, unable to meet anyone in the eye. Did they know? You'd been careful tonight, and any of the other times you'd seen Harry or his friends recently. You didn't want their pity or their questions or their judgement. Nothing would've been worse than the disappointed look on Harry's face, or the look of disgust if he discovered the truth.

That still wasn't enough to stop, though.

"What? I didn't mean to be offensive. I'm just saying how hard it is to get to that perfect size. Y/n knows what I'm talking about. God, I feel like I can taste every calorie I eat, can't you, Y/n?"

"I—Not really," you said meekly. This was not the conversation you wanted to have right now, especially since it felt like you could feel everything you'd eaten tonight, every single bite, sinking to the bottom of your stomach.

"God, I wish I could just throw it up, you know? Then I could eat whatever I want and not feel guilty about it. No more diets, no more counting calories, I could—"

"That's enough," Harry said, voice sounding harder than you'd ever heard it. He glared at Phoebe, whose mouth was still open from stopping mid-sentence. Her eyes were wide with shock as she tried to justify her conversation topic.

"Excuse me," you murmured to Harry, standing up on shaking legs to step away from the table.

"Y/n—"

"I just need to use the restroom," you said, trying your best to talk around the lump in your throat.

You went upstairs to one of the guest bathrooms where you wouldn't be disturbed, though you locked the door to the toilet for good measure. Panic and guilt and self-loathing swirled through you, tears burning your eyes.

For weeks, you told yourself you had it under control. Your behavior was strict, but not worrisome. And effective, too, but that only made guilt and shame mingle with the feeling of success. Your jeans were loose, but you took to wearing baggy clothes so no one would notice. The scale in your bathroom got lower, but it never seemed low enough. Your stomach was taught, rib cage starting to poke through skin, but that just made you feel even worse about yourself and how quickly things escalated. It was a neverending cycle, but as you continued to lean over the toilet, you told yourself it would be just this once. Just this once and you wouldn't do it again. Just this once—

"Y/n? Can you let me in?"

Tears fell harder when you heard his voice. You couldn't let him see you like this. You couldn't face the humiliation, how disappointed he'd be when he realized—

"Y/n, open the door, or I'll break it down, I swear to God," Harry said with urgency in his voice.

Wiping your eye and then your mouth, you stood up, trembling as you turned the lock. You opened your mouth, unsure if an apology or an explanation would come tumbling out of your lips. But Harry pulled you to his chest before you could say a thing. You couldn't help the sobs that wracked your body as he held you up. His hand held the back of your head fiercely, but not harshly, the other one pushing you as close to him as he could.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've said something sooner. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't realize—I never should've—I'm so sorry."

You didn't find out what Harry thought he shouldn't have done because he rested on top of your head, kissing you repeatedly. He squeezed you so tight, as if he worried you would slip away if he didn't. You couldn't focus on anything else but your own emotions, too ashamed at being caught and guilty for having slipped so far in the first place.

"I was okay," you sobbed. "I thought I was okay. I thought—I thought I could control it."

Harry finally leaned away from you, just enough so he could hold your face in his hands and look you in the eye. "This is not your fault. Do you understand? It's not your fault."

More tears streamed down your face, but Harry's thumbs were there to wipe them away. His eyes roved over your face, searching for something, but you didn't know what. Eventually, he said, "There's so much I want to say, but I think for now...I think you should rest."

You agreed, so you didn't try to object. You were exhausted, just wanted the whole evening to evaporate into thin air. You didn't even care if Harry's friends were still in the house or not, you just wanted all the thoughts in your head—the ones still screaming at you to finish what you started and the ones begging you to let Harry help—to stop.

"I just want it to stop," you mumbled.

Harry rested his forehead against yours, breathing in deep. "I know."

*.*

"You're doing so well, love."

It didn't feel like it. In fact, you felt the exact opposite of well. But Harry was holding your hand as you walked through the aisles of the grocery store, his encouragement pushing you to take each step. "I don't think I can do this today."

"What did your eating disorder say to make you think that?" Harry murmured, causing you to grumble under your breath, but it did the trick. You took another step and grabbed the jar of pesto off the shelf.

He'd been doing that a lot recently. Ever since you came back from the treatment facility, he talked about your eating disorder as if it were a separate person, like it was a little devil with red horns talking over your shoulder and not a disease. It grated on your nerves at first because it made you feel like he was talking down to you, and because he was right. Your eating disorder had been the voice in your head and making you make unhealthy decisions. How he saw it first, you had no idea, you were just thankful he was still here, still with you on your road to recovery.

The trip to the grocery store took longer than it probably should've, especially since you only needed a couple things. But the minute you stepped inside, your body tensed up as you took everything in. It was a struggle not to turn packages over to read the nutritional facts, and even harder to put things in your cart. Today was re-introducing day, which meant eating a meal that had foods you'd actively avoided in the past. It scared the shit out of you, which was why Harry was here.

He'd been incredible, more patient than other people would be. He put up with your mother's harsh words when she blamed him for your relapse, he was there every day he was allowed to visit, and he picked up every phone call when you eventually came home. Whether it was to talk you down or talk about random things that came into his head to distract you from dangerous thoughts, he was there.

You honestly didn't know what you did to deserve him.

"How can I help?" Harry asked when you came to another stop.

"Do we really have to buy the parmesan cheese?" you asked, eyeing the aisle filled with various cheeses with a queasy stomach.

"I think you can do it," Harry said, not entirely answering the question. "I can tell you a story while I put it in the cart for you, if that helps."

"Okay," you said, not really sure if it would.

"Right, let me think for a moment," Harry said, mostly to himself. "Oh. Got it! Okay, so one time I went on this blind date, right? And I normally don't like them because my friends seemed to think I can't function without a partner, which is horribly embarrassing, and I normally have a horrible time, but I went to the bar I agreed to meet this person at, and—"

"What? You hated it?" you asked. Part of you thought it was weird that Harry was talking about a date with someone else, but it was doing its job.

Harry raised his brows at you. "I talk, you push."

You rolled your eyes, but pushed the cart another inch, trying to focus on his voice and not where you were headed.

"As I was saying, I get to the bar, and I'm like, holy shit, because I see the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life, and as I go over to talk to her, someone calls out to me, and I realize the girl I saw wasn't who I wasn't supposed to go on a date with, it was someone else. But I can't just ditch this other girl even though I'm dying to just go over to the girl by the bar, so I stay put and try to engage in conversation and laugh when I think I'm supposed to, but I just—All I could think about was the girl in this cute little mini skirt and vest and what was making her laugh so damn much."

"Mini skirt and vest...at a bar...Wait, you don't mean—You were on a blind date when we met?"

The bar in question wasn't one you frequented. It was an upscale one, and you went because your friend dragged you inside, curious to see if she could get any CEOs to buy her a drink, and you...you were just there to make sure your friend got home okay. But somehow you bumped into Harry, though now you supposed you knew why.

"Not technically," Harry said. "The date was over when I walked up to you, and, well, you know the rest. I charmed the pants off you."

You snorted. "That's not what happened."

You'd known who Harry was when before he introduced himself, it was kind of hard not to. You'd seen music videos and heard his songs on the radio and seen him on your TV more than a handful of times, but it was definitely surprising to see him in person, especially because on screen he seemed so chill and cool and cute, the Harry you met was cute, but he could hardly get a word out.

"Nonsense. I remember it differently," Harry said with a sniff.

"You were so nervous it was so cute," you said, wrapping your arms around one of his while he took a turn with the cart.

Kissing the top of your head, he said, "If that's how you want to remember it, fine. But I do remember talking to you for hours and feeling like no time had passed at all. We closed down the bar, do you remember?"

"Mmhm," you said, nodding against his shoulder. "And then you tried to take me home."

"Can you blame me? I met the girl of my dreams, I couldn't just let you leave."

"You mean that?" you asked, looking up at him.

With everything you'd been through recently, it surprised you to know Harry was still with you. This battle you were fighting was lifelong, and you wouldn't have blamed him for leaving somewhere down the line. You loved him, and it would've hurt like hell, but you would've understood. But he never did, and every time you asked him about it, he just said he wasn't going anywhere.

Eventually, you stopped asking.

"I do," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "You did it, love."

"What?" Raising your head off his shoulder, you looked around. You were at checkout, all the items you and Harry set out to buy today sitting in your basket. "We did it."

"You did it, Y/n. I'm so proud of you."

Relief rushed through you. It was one hurdle, just one, but each one was a victory, and Harry was there to help you celebrate each one. It was too public to kiss him, even though you felt the urge to, so you squeezed his hand and kissed the top of it instead.

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he said, taking you by surprise when he tilted your chin up for a brief kiss. "You ready to check out?"

Anxiety filled your belly once more as the weight of your situation bore down on you once again. Squeezing Harry's hand again, you shook your head.

Harry wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tucked you into his side. The warmth emanating from him was a comfort, and you breathed in deep, letting the scent of his cologne and laundry detergent flood your senses to distract you.

"Don't listen to the disease, Y/n. Listen to me, okay? How about another story?"

You nodded. "Please."

"You're going to be alright, Y/n, I promise," he said.

And maybe you didn't believe him completely now, but you trusted him enough to believe it for you until you did.

[itzy-bitsy-spidey]

Laundry day

Notes: Just a little college au! One Shot based on this drawing that I made! Hope you enjoy!

Characters: Usopp, Luffy, Zoro, Sanji.

From everything you were expecting from college when you moved away from your home town to study you definitely hadn't thought about the rather... peculiar friendships you were about to make.

The "Straw Hats" as your friend Luffy liked to call the group had been an unexpected, but very pleasant, thing to add into the chaos that was your life. None of you were studying the same career yet somehow all your lunch breaks would sync perfectly, and as it happened to be your luck ( and that of every member of the group) you all happened to have most of your free time within the same hours.

So it didn't come as a surprise when you found yourself doing mundane activities with the Straw Hats. Like, for example, doing your laundry.

Robin and Nami had gone out for coffee and you had been left alone in the shared bedroom, so when Sanji, Zoro, Usopp and Luffy showed up at your door with bags full of dirty clothing you knew what you had to do.

Ditch studying to spend quality time with your boys.

And so once all the clothes were getting washed and there was nothing else to do you all started to goof around the place.

Usopp had brought with him a bag of gummies that were currently flying around as you and Luffy tried to catch them in your mouths. You were pushing each other out of the way to see who could get most gummies, the scene kind of reminded you of a wedding but if Usopp was the bride, the candy the bouquet, and Luffy and you the desperate women trying to catch it.

You even accidentally pushed Sanji at some point (who was discreetly smoking in a corner as to not be seen), and he simply smiled at you and then warned the boys to not drop any of the sweet goods, though knowing Luffy he would definitely eat them no matter what, even covered in dirt.

Between the commotion that you three were causing it did take you a little while to notice the fifth person in the group missing.

"Do you think he got lost trying to go back to campus?" Usopp was the first to ask after you notified them that Zoro was nowhere in sight.

Sanji sighed behind him and kicked him in the back of the head, Nami had started to rub off on him.

"And why would he go back to campus if our clothes are still getting washed? Dumbass"

"Guys! I found him!" Came the sound of your "captain" calling for you.

And, lo and behold, there he was. Sleeping, to absolutely nobodies surprise, though you couldn't say that his sleeping spot wasn't rather... unusual. The only really surprising matter was how he could fit inside the washing machine.

Stifling your giggles you quickly instructed the rest of your friends to pose around him, and you even helped Luffy climbed to the machine on top of Zoro's.

Taking a few steps behind you took out your phone and snapped a picture.

You were so failing your finals, but at least you had a good time with your friends!

[rottenpumpkin13]

Given the geography of the ff7 universe, some form of the Olympic Games could exist, but of course, it’s a thing that Shinra would probably fund and control. Say Shinra does host a form of Olympics in Midgar, and it’s to show-off their soldiers’ strength and skill. What kind of events do you think our bois would be competing in? How well does it go, and what kind of events do you think they’d excel/ or flop in?

Things That Happen At The Olympics, A List

• Zack takes part in the athletics event. When the sprinting event rolls around, he runs so fast that he doesn’t stop even after crossing the finish line. Angeal has to chase him down the track.

• Sephiroth and Genesis go head-to-head in table tennis. Both are equally skilled and determined to beat the other, so the match goes on for three hours. It would have gone on longer, but Kunsel in the audience can’t take it anymore, and throws his helmet on top of the table to end the match. The cameraman curiously pans to Kunsel in the audience, but somehow he still has his helmet on.

• Genesis participates in archery. He steps up to the firing line, he's sophisticated, he's confidend, He declares, "The arrow has left the bow of the goddess," releases the arrow, and misses miserably. He struggles to keep from swearing, trying to maintain an air of good sportsmanship, but the look on his face is something Sephiroth will forever hold dear in his heart. He literally made this face -> ( : ౦ ‸ ౦ : )

• Sephiroth keeps winning gold at sports he's never played in his life and it's driving Genesis nuts.

• Sephiroth participates in javelin throwing. He deliberately turns and hurls it toward the crowd, aiming to pierce Professor Hojo. He misses, but receives a round of applause from all of SOLDIER.

• Angeal participates in weightlifting but is visibly flustered, unable to keep his composure as Zack, Genesis, and Sephiroth shout and whistle at him. Something about Angeal’s toned skin glistening in the sun, with sweat dripping down his abs, drives them feral.

• One of the break dancers gets sick, so Zack jumps in and begs the board to let Cloud compete.

Zack: Pleeease, director?? He's really good! We promise!

Lazard: I appreciate your confidence in your friend, Zack, but this is a competitive program, and I can’t risk us being embarrassed.

*After Cloud wins gold*

Lazard: I'm not even going to ask.

• Competitive cooking is part of this Olympics. Angeal is the chosen participant, but when he sees others failing their dishes and throwing them out, he protests by grabbing the discarded food and stacking it on his station to highlight the waste. They try to drag him out, but Angeal fights back by using the leftover food as a weapon, throwing it at security and yelling, "AT LEAST WE FOUND SOME USE FOR THEM!"

• Kunsel’s career as a commentator is short-lived when he’s announcing a basketball game. He says, "And Zack goes for the ball! At least this one won’t ghost him after a bad date," and is promptly dragged off the mic by Director Lazard.

• Sephiroth is selected for dressage but withdraws from the competition at the last minute because he, quote, "developed a deep bond with the horse and cannot bear to have him compete merely as a show animal."

• The guy who was supposed to participate in the shooting portion gets sick, so Zack begs Director Lazard to put Cloud in his place instead. The participants keep disappearing and Lazard is growing suspicious. Anyway, Cloud wins gold.

• Years of childhood fencing training pay off as Genesis takes home the gold medal. He will not stop talking about it for the rest of his life.

• Zack participates in freestyle swimming, zooms through the water but miscalculates and slams his head on the inside of the pool. This goes viral on the internet not because of Zack's injury, but because the cameras capture the moment Sephiroth stops swimming to help, approaching Zack’s floating body and blood in the water slowly, like a shark, with only his eyes visible above water.

• Sephiroth participates in pole vaulting but uses the pole as a javelin, launching it into the crowd, aimed at Professor Hojo.

• Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal face off against Zack, Kunsel, and Cloud in tug of war (the guy who was originally supposed to be in Cloud's place mysteriously disappeared and Lazard is growing anxious).

Everyone assumes AGS is going to win, but somehow, it only takes 0.3 seconds for KZC to pull them over the line. At one point, Cloud pulls so hard that Sephiroth just becomes a silver blur being violently yanked forward.

• Zack is about to win gold at surfing but gets wiped out by an entire school of fish.

• Life-saving is one of the sports. Sephiroth and Angeal are paired up to rescue Genesis from drowning, but they can’t agree on the best method. While they argue, Genesis theatrically "drowns" but by the time they finally compromise, Genesis is drowning for real. Cloud jumps in and saves Genesis, winning gold. Lazard takes out his special pills.

• Drama that happens at the olympic village includes:

- Zack breaking his cardboard bed three times because he has the tendency to literally jump into bed at the end of the night. He gets a reputation for picking up dates and rolls with it "because it gives him street cred"

- Genesis practices his flute when be can't sleep, a hobby that deeply disturbs his neighbors, namely Angeal who has four times barged into the room, grabbed the flute and threatened to shove it in places that intrigue Genesis.

- Everyone notices there's never any apple muffins available. Until they discover that Zack has been hoarding all of them in his room, stockpiling enough to last the entire event.

- Sephiroth testing the fire alarm one night to see if it actually works, pulling it and then having the brilliant idea to turn this into a fire safety lesson or really he just wants to end the Olympics early because he's so over it, so he sets fire to the hallways.

- The combined sight of Sephiroth fleeing the scene with a cat no one knew he had adopted, Zack running out of his room with a wheelbarrow full of muffins, Angeal trying to save his cardboard bed by running through the halls with it over his head, Genesis playing the flute as everything burns around him, makes Lazard quit on the spot.