#like actually I’m questioning my own sanity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oscinhaslandito · 7 days ago

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MINI MCLAREN MAYHEM

pairings: lando norris x reader word count: 1.87k

Friday mornings on race weekends were always a little less chaotic than usual. Free Practice meant Lando wasn’t in full send mode just yet —just warm-up vibes, some light teasing from his engineers, and time to breathe.

And this Friday morning? He was floating. Because today… he had Pearl, his two year old menace of a daughter.

Y/N had dressed her while Lando was in the shower. When he stepped out, toweling his curls, he found his daughter toddling around the hotel room, swaddled in a hoodie that made her look like a tiny marshmallow.

The tiny girl stood in front of the mirror, wobbling slightly in her socks, swaddled in a hoodie so oversized it practically doubled as a sleeping bag. The hoodie was sky blue, bright and cheerful and unmistakably part of Lando’s Quadrant collection for kids. His own name in bold white letters across the back. And his logo, loud and proud, right beneath it.

“Pearl,” he said, squinting. “What’re you—wait. WAIT A MINUTE.”

“NOOOO. NO STOP. I’M ACTUALLY GONNA CRY,” he said, dropping the towel like a dramatic soap opera lead. “WHAT. IS THIS. FIT.”

Pearl blinked up at him and said, “I Dadda,” very seriously.

Lando dropped to his knees like he’d just seen a religious vision. “No. No. NO WAY. Who did this? WHO LET THIS HAPPEN?” he shouted dramatically.

Y/N walked in with a coffee in hand, looking far too calm for the chaos unfolding. “I dressed her,” she said, sipping. “We’re going out in a bit, and she wanted to wear it. Said it’s her ‘special Dadda shirt.’”

Lando made a noise that was somewhere between a squeal and a sob. He picked up Pearl instantly, holding her under the arms with the reverence of someone handling ancient treasure. “You’re a genius,” he whispered to Y/N. “And this hoodie is the best thing I’ve ever made. Pearl, baby, you look ICONIC.”

Pearl giggled and clapped her hands, hoodie sleeves flopping like noodles.

You could physically hear Lando’s heart combust. “You’re not just my daughter,” he whispered, scooping her up. “You’re my brand ambassador.”

“Babe, you’ve got like—” she checked her phone “—forty-five minutes before you have to be at the garage.”

“I’m taking her,” Lando said instantly. “I don’t care,it's just Free Practice. I’m walking in with her like she owns the grid.”

“You’re not bringing her out like a championship trophy, Lando—”

“Oh but I am.”

Cue McLaren garage. Late morning. Coffee cups in mechanics’ hands, soft background chatter, engineers going over setups—business as usual.

Until Lando walked in.

Wearing his race suit (unzipped and tied around his waist), carrying Pearl in his arms like a prize-winning squash.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, standing in the middle of the garage, “may I present: THE FUTURE OF THIS TEAM.”

And that’s when it happened.

Without a second thought—without warning—before anyone could question his sanity, Lando lifted her high above his head, straight-up Simba style.

“LOOK AT HER,” he declared. “MY CHILD. WEARING. MY. MERCH!”

The entire garage froze. Then someone snorted. And then another mechanic just straight up lost it. A few people clapped. One guy might’ve saluted.

Zak Brown popped his head out from behind a screen like “what the hell is going on—OH.”

Y/N, trailing behind, was instantly 400 levels of stress. “Lando!” she yelped, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Can you please not Simba our child?! What if you drop her?”

Lando lowered Pearl just enough to flash his wife a grin. “Don’t worry. She’s got that Norris grip strength.”

Pearl, still suspended mid-air, flailed her little legs. “Upsies! Again!”

“She’s repping the brand, babe!” he said proudly. “Look at the hoodie. LOOK AT IT. It’s iconic.”

“She’s two.”

“She’s a model.”

Pearl giggled and patted his cheeks with her sleeve-covered hands. “Again, Dadda. Up again.”

“Oh no,” Y/N groaned. “You’ve created a monster.”

“Correction,” Lando said, kissing his daughter’s forehead. “I’ve created a mascot.”

Later that afternoon, after Lando had done his laps, changed out of his race suit, and inhaled a concerning number of snacks from the hospitality tent, he was back in the garage—with Pearl right where she belonged.

On his hip. Like the clingiest, cutest sloth you’ve ever seen.

Y/N sat off to the side, watching with mild horror as her husband gave their 2-year-old a full tour of a literal Formula 1 garage like it was Disneyland. “And this,” he said, crouching beside his car, “is where Dadda sits when he goes super fast.”

Pearl gasped like she’d just seen a unicorn. “So shinyyy!” she said, touching the halo with her mitten-sized hand.

“Yeah,” Lando grinned. “Shiny and speedy. Like you when you steal Mum’s phone.”

Just then, Oscar Piastri walked in, paused mid-step, and blinked at the sight before him. “Uh. Why is there a child next to the car. Is that legal?”

“She’s MY child,” Lando huffed. “And she's clearly part of the engineering department. She’s giving feedback.”

Pearl pointed to the wheel. “Car go vroom!” she declared.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

“See? Genius,” Lando smirked. “We’re hiring her full-time. She starts next Tuesday. Gotta lock her down before Red Bull gets to her.”

Y/N called from the side, “Please don’t give Helmut Marko any ideas!”

Lando lifted Pearl into the air again—less Simba, more airplane mode this time—and zoomed her over to the cockpit like weeeeeeeeee.

“Baby,” Y/N warned, standing up, “don’t even think about—”

Too late.

Pearl was now in the car.

Sitting in the cockpit. Hoodie bunched up, legs too short to reach anything, arms spread wide like she was about to take flight.

Lando crouched in front of her, wide-eyed with pride. “...She looks so natural in there. I’m gonna cry.”

Oscar leaned against a wall, shaking his head. “She’s already got a better seat fit than half the grid.”

Pearl grabbed the steering wheel, made a vroom sound, pressing all the buttons, then loudly went: “BEEEEEP!”

The mechanics—who were supposed to be working—absolutely lost it.

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “She’s gonna think she actually drove that car, isn’t she?”

“She’s gonna think she won a Grand Prix,” Lando said proudly. “As she should.”

Eventually, Pearl got tuckered out from all the imaginary racing and was scooped up into Y/N’s arms, hoodie sleeves now stained with garage dust and snacks.

Lando kissed her cheek and whispered, “You did great today, little driver.”

Pearl blinked sleepily. “Car go vroom.”

He smiled. “Yeah, baby. Car definitely go vroom.”

The garage was still buzzing from the morning practice session, but the real work was starting now. Lando was seated in the McLaren briefing room, headset on, discussing track strategy with his engineers. His race engineer was in full-on “game plan” mode, listing off tire choices and adjustments to the car's balance.

Lando was nodding, but his eyes kept drifting to the door—more specifically, to the tiny figure standing in the doorway, peeking around it with wide eyes.

“Okay, Lando, we’ve got a lot to focus on here. Tire management, turn 12 braking points, strategy for—”

“Wait.” Lando held up a finger, eyes still locked on the door. “One sec, guys.”

The engineers exchanged confused glances. “Uh… Lando?”

And then, as if she were on a mission, Pearl made her move.

Tiny feet padded into the room, a little determined waddle in her sky blue hoodie, the LN logo bouncing with each step.

“PEARL,” Lando groaned, already starting to chuckle. “Not now, baby girl.”

Pearl, on a mission, continued her march forward with the seriousness of someone heading to war. The team looked back at Lando, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s… going to the briefing room?” one engineer whispered.

“I don’t know what’s happening right now,” Lando said, still half-laughing, half-panicking, but in a good way.

Pearl’s eyes found her target: Lando’s legs. And with the speed of a Formula 1 car, she launched herself toward him.

“Dadda! UP!” she announced, arms outstretched, determined to climb onto his lap.

Lando, who was supposed to be in focus mode, immediately dropped the headset and scooped her up. “Oh, you’re really doing this, huh?”

“Car go vroom,” Pearl said, smacking her hands on the table in front of him like she was trying to take over the strategy meeting.

Y/N appeared in the doorway just then, her hand over her mouth to hide a smile. “Lando, she’s—”

“Shh!” Lando whispered, holding Pearl against him. “This is important business.”

“Important business?” one engineer asked, blinking at the tiny human in his lap. “That’s the boss right there.”

Pearl, having zero concept of actual strategy, proceeded to press every single button on Lando’s tablet in front of him. The tire strategy? Gone. The fuel calculations? Gone.

“Uh, Lando…” one of the engineers started nervously. “We need that back.”

But it was no use. Pearl had claimed her space. She was making important decisions by tapping away at the screen like a mini tech mogul.

“No one’s getting through this meeting unless we address this first,” Lando grinned, motioning to Pearl’s impromptu takeover of his lap. “I’m telling you, she’s gonna be running the team by next season.”

“Lando, please,” Y/N groaned, walking over to them. “She’s two.”

“She’s a future team principal,” he argued back, completely lost in his daughter’s antics. “Can’t you see the vision, babe?”

As the strategy meeting continued, Lando spent the next several minutes trying to listen while also comforting Pearl, who had climbed halfway onto the table and was now trying to rip the screen protector off his tablet. Meanwhile, Y/N gave him the look—a mix of “I love you but what are you doing” and “I am going to deal with this later.”

But then, without warning, Pearl turned to the engineers and said with all the seriousness in the world:

“Go fast!”

And the whole room erupted in laughter.

“Alright,” Lando said, chuckling as he glanced at the engineers. “Pearl says we go fast. That’s the strategy.”

The engineers all nodded, visibly trying to suppress their grins. “Got it, boss,” one of them said, completely deadpan. “Go fast. We’ll make that happen.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, looking down at Pearl, who was now happily playing with a race radio. “See? They get it.”

Y/N just shook her head, but she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the two of them—father and daughter, utterly unbothered by the seriousness of the situation.

And as the antics of the day sporaled down, Lando stayed in the garage a little longer than usual—Pearl still in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, the soft blue of her hoodie a tiny pop of calm in the buzz of race prep.

She didn’t know what DRS was. She couldn’t tell a slick from an intermediate. But she knew one thing for sure: she was safe, warm, and with her daddy—who just so happened to be the biggest goofball on the grid.

And as they packed up and headed back to the hotel, Pearl snoozing in Y/N’s arms, Lando looked over at them and thought, Yep. This is the podium that actually matters.

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rinnstars · 7 months ago

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impressing you!

itoshi rin attempts to tell you he likes you in questionable ways

itoshi rin x reader : fluff, crack, use of brain rot terms, dti mentioned, super bad ending i’m so sorry idk anymore school got me, not proofread + likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

growing up with itoshi rin with all his personality quirks, you were pretty sure you could expect anything and everything from him - whether that be him showing up at your house at midnight without any warnings, or him wearing your hello kitty pajamas after school for ‘fun’, or even eating frozen cheese straight out of the fridge for breakfast. but nothing could prepare you for what the hell he just asked you.

“what.” one chance for him to take back, or more so one chance for you to regain back your sanity from whatever you just swore to god he asked.

“.. i asked if you’d like to play dress to impress together.. you know because youre always playing it during class.” what the hell.

maybe the world was ending, and you look outside only to now be even more dismayed that the sun is in fact shining, the sky is perfectly blue, and there was no cloud in sight. then maybe this was all a dream after spending the previous night playing games, you pinch yourself and to your horror, you do in fact feel the pain as you nip at your own hand, almost yelping to the oblivious rin sitting beside you. or maybe your eyesight is failing you and you’re seriously deluding yourself that its rin simply after being apart from him for months, you think, removing your glasses and wiping it and nope - that was in fact rin, still wearing a blank face that youre far too used to.

“do you even have a roblox account..” you were 100% sure that whatever horror games you’ve seen him play does not involve roblox and he’s probably more likely to be a discord mod than a roblox player - credited to you friending him on steam and seeing the horror of games he has bought on that app

“.. ill make one now.” and you think maybe blue lock has actually rotted rin’s mind or maybe his friends there has corrupted the rin you once knew.

and instead of spending your math class, you know paying attention and doing the work assigned, there you were at the back row playing dress to impress with itoshi rin attempting his best but clearly not dressing to impress anyone to say the least.

and maybe this is a miracle and an awakening because you were so sure since a little kid that itoshi rin, your best friend in this entire world, do not have any weakness - whether that be in sports (for obvious reasons), in arts (getting an A even though he ‘winged it’), in games (carried you in shooting games and horror games) that maybe you’ve finally discovered his achilles heels that is apparently fashion.. and handling getting humbled by kids on roblox.

“why the hell is this kid calling my outfit skibidi toilet” if anything, in your honest reaction, you’d call me something worst than that looking at the total mess of a outfit he was wearing because why the hell is he wearing two hairs at once that do not merge at all. in fact, you’d be polite to even call whatever he’s just made an outfit in the first place because it looks like he genuinely spun a wheel and picked pieces at random.

even funnier is that you can practically see rin’s ear letting out steam - clearly upset that he’s apparently not winning the top place. if anything, you think its funnier because he doesnt even rage like this playing his competitive shooting game, or when he doesnt get a good grade for his exams, or even when he drops his ice cream when you were little, only when he plays soccer and apparently dress to impress. now maybe with his ego, or whatever he said learnt at blue lock, would be able to let him score a goal (win top place with a good outfit)

however, to his dismay, and to your expectation, he in fact does not win top places, not even top 3, by the end of the hour long math lesson.

and to him, he practically just lost the first tip that bachira told him and as he quotes “if you like someone you’ve got to like have shared interest right?” and clearly and unfortunately he just cannot get into dress to impress in the same way that you just aren’t really interested in football which he completely gets. but now he’s in doubt about his own situation and by that he means the love test percentage thing he was convinced to take by again bachihara - failing at a whooping 15% that he was meant to be your soulmate. but if there’s something he’s good at, its perseverance and he will not give up just because multiple kids in the game called him skibidi toilet

and right now he thinks hes absolutely down bad and he is only proving the allegations that he really has a crush on you when hes spending time after football practice to play dress to impress. even worse, hes looking up online guides on “cheatsheets” to get outfits, entering millions of codes to unlock hidden items, spending the entire night playing this game.

and of course, its at 4:30am when you log in only to find one person playing dress to impress and youre pretty sure this is the equivalant to a sleep paralysis demon as you blink all the sleep away in your eyes to confirm the words in front of you: itoshi rin is playing dress to impress in the middle of the night. more specifically, itoshi rin who preaches about taking care of ones body by sleeping early, eating all three meals, doing yoga every single day is ruining his sleep scheuldue for a roblox game. and as all sleep deprived people do, you send him a message to confirm that its in fact him and not a hacker.

chat

you: r u playing dti or have u not logged out of dti since class 😭😭

rin: playing

you: R U ACTLLY INTO DRESS TO IMPRESS… who r u impressing 🙏🏻🙏🏻

rin: you

and you feel your heart stop - and not because of caffeine, or another realisation that yoive forgotten to do your work right in class or winning a lucky draw from the ice cream you share with rin. but then the realisation hits and youre now instead let down because of course sleep deprived him would say such words that unfortunately made your heart pump because of all the years you’ve known him, you know that whenever he doesnt sleep well, he always becomes a different person, spouting nonsense about everything and anything as all the logic that he’s so used to melts away from his brain. and so you without thinking close your phone and leave itoshi rin on read.

and maybe its even worse that when you wake up, you realise rin sends you the number of stars he’s collected over his overnight grind that’s somehow more than the amount you’ve gathered throughout the weeks of playing dress to impress and even funnier because he’s clearly texting the wrong person.

chat

rin: (1 attachement)

rin: is this a good rank bachiara

rin: should i check if mine n y/n’s soulmate on that love website increased

you: shld be 100%

rin: from 15%?

you: i’m more accurate than it btw r u still on dti

rin: ?

rin: oh ignore

you: no lets play tgt actlly vote me 5* i need to have more stars than u

and you can’t wait to go to math class to play dress to impress with rin at the back of the class (spoiler alert: he won all the rounds somehow) now dating (he gives you five stars)

#bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader #rin.<3 #itoshi rin fluff #bllk fluff #i want to play dress to impress so bad but exams r preventing me from doing so #need someone to boost me by falsely voting me five stars every round hiiii

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bunji-enthusiast · 1 month ago

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‘And what are you… exactly?’

A/N… mostly just cackling about think how the blorbos would interact with rocket!reader. Invincible as a whole will not leave my mind so I’m making you suffer with me. Formatted as headcanons for my sanity cause insomnia is a BITCH.

Canon-divergent themes, included mention of rocket’s backstory, mentions of past stress, found-family, platonic relationships, generally just you unwillingly forming bonds with trauma-sacked idiots/nsrs/p

Debbie Grayson

A strong, kind-hearted woman at her core — no doubt. Especially since she’s had to deal with wrangling Mark [in his childhood youth] in particular, and her husband as well, who was quite the character. So one can imagine that she’s seen things. But this was unexpected.

A literal raccoon.

“This is new to me.”

“Right, and you didn’t live with an alien for a husband everyday.”

Debbie chokes on air, taken aback by your comment. But then she divulges, “You’ve known him?”

“Oh you bet I do!” You grin, arching a brow. “I got all sorts of juicy stuff on the guy.”

That alone definitely wants her knowing more, and since you were a lover of chaos. You happily obliged to her request, no money wired.

It was due to circumstances that you ended up having to be around the lady for awhile, but surprisingly enough; you two got along. You could respect her willingness to stand up to others, despite her state as a human. Debbie on the other hand was admittedly shocked when she first saw you, a walking-talking raccoon with the intelligence of a genius. Being able to jury-rig things up in a second, enough to get you out of a sticky situation or just generally being able to empathize for others despite your hot-headed temperament [in defiance of your tendency as a trigger-happy shooter].

There were times that you weren’t proud of how you behaved, but seriously, Earth had some genuine pricks. You had no idea how Debbie lived this long, or how she put up with all these people for that matter. There were few humans you genuinely liked, and even fewer super-powered beings.

You had off-handledly mentioned to her once or twice about your past history, what made you become who you are now. Not the entire story however, just a few intricate details. Understanding one another was something you often weren’t in the mood for, but with someone like Debbie, you could feel the sense of resolve and peace within her. So you just sort’ve started forming a bond with the woman. Much to the surprise of anyone else who oversees your interactions. Whenever anyone tries to question how or why this came to be, you always just shrugged it off with a half-assed comment.

Debbie just… has the most genuine warmth, closest person to a parental figure that you almost had. You didn’t let that thought last long though, you already were almost as old as her — or older than her. But it made sense to you, she’s been through it, and gets it. Even more than other humans you’ve met.

Though despite your loud and larger than life personality, you still were a small thing – so you always made up for that in other areas. Which gets people to really pay attention to your danger as an enemy. This exceptionally comes to light when you jump to Debbie’s defense [even if you knew she could handle herself, she was a damn good woman and a good friend], hacking off cleverly worded insults against the perpetrator and structured uses of words that no one dared to use. It’s really quite the sight to see when you're riled up on her behalf.

You were used to being the guy who had to cheer people up, or offer comfort in your own awkward way. Nonetheless, Debbie, ends up being one of the first to actually offer comfort. Despite the fact you were stiff as a fucking board, and she — not being used to actually comforting a literal talking animal who can think and act — made the effort to do so anyway. You hated it at first, but it was nice. Something you never admitted aloud.

Even in the face of your past history, you put your knowledge to good use: one way was to teach Debbie a few things about technology. Things she could put to use, just to protect herself, or to find things out. You had tried to get her to accept more lethal options, but she gave you a firm ‘no’, so you resolved on non-lethal options.

Unfortunately you tended to be paranoid at times, so you begged to add in some more safety measures within her house. Moreover, since you weren’t technically under Cecil’s charge, she eventually accepted it. Since you had also given a wide walkthrough of how everything works.

As a genetically-modified genius, particularly a half-worlder; your conversations with her are few, but very fortunate ones to have. Debbie is far more understanding then you expected in the beginning, but getting to know her was something else entirely. You really like the lady, and wish nothing but good for her and her sons.

Rex Sloan

A walking human grenade and a genius raccoon with a penchant for shootouts. It tracks, initially you two don’t get along well. But eventually? It’s a diabolical pair-up. You both are snide fuckers, who don’t take shit from authority figures. Everyone else absolutely hates it, however—as much as they hate it, your team-ups elevate the battles to levels that let your entire team gain the upperhand.

You never thought you’d relate to someone like Rex, but the more you two talk, the more you realize how similar you are. Bettering relationships, mellowed out in terms of hot-headnesses, the augmentations to the body. As much as you hated to admit it, you actually liked the kid. Rex, as far as you knew, was in a bad place — but he had the guts [more than anyone you’ve met in space] to pull himself out. You could respect it, despite his less than favorable actions in the past. But hey, you aren’t a saint either.

The conversations you engage in with Rex are usually very, very interesting. The subjects are usually diversified, if it wasn’t Rex talking about one thing, it’d be you talking about another. It’s absolutely swell talking to him, you’ve even found yourself laughing at his verbal antics; especially even chuckling before if he talks about someone you both have a strong dislike for.

You bark out a laugh at his insults, “Damn! You don’t hold back, kid.”

“Asshole deserved it anyways.” Rex grins, a taper of confusion in his expression. “—kinda curious though, how old are you?”

Immediately you blank at his question, blinking offhandedly as you thought about it. ‘How old am I?’ You thought, and you realized — You never counted how old you were. Always too busy being on the run, and collecting bounties. Especially saving the god-flarkin galaxy.

“Oh my fucking god–” He wheezes, crouching down as he attempts to hold back his laughing fit. “You don’t know? Seriously?”

“Shut up!”

As a hero, he was far more gutsy than a lot of people you’ve seen on Earth. Rex was charming, difficult to get along with sure. But he was a reliable dude in situations of distress, he always had a way of being able to alleviate the stressing aspects into something more manageable. Though his ability to manifest explosions was something that fascinated you greatly, you asked a question or two about it. Rex to say the least was not used to people taking an interest in something like that, he was used to hearing things about his body being used as a weapon [by the same familiar assholes since childhood]. But the way you say it was as if you were just more considerate of his physical health and how he manages it. Definitely something he was confused about for a good long while.

You taught him a thing or two on how to manage his cybernetic hand, considering that you yourself walk around with a cybernetic skeletal structure. You knew all too well about the discomfort of the possibility of having to rely on someone [or something] you hated, the same agency that essentially diverted the course of one’s life. So you essentially bestowed him with the knowhow on fixing, or otherwise maintaining the ol’ cybernetics. Even if Rex was reluctant about it at first, your help afforded him good faith in you.

Despite how much you’d attempt to refute it, you developed protective instincts over Rex. He’s someone you want to see living a good life, not having to spend every second on the brink of death. You know he could live a better life for himself, with the people he loves. Though you knew this is what he built his life around, even if it was forced on him. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t help at least mitigate the devastation he goes through 24/7.

Rex has seen things as a hero obviously, but give him some credit; the last thing he expected was actually talking to and befriending a literal raccoon. Even if you had told him about your prior history with the High Evolutionary, and the experiments, he was still a little weirded out. But he eventually accepted it as normal. Seriously though, you considered paying for his therapy at one point.

Shapesmith

You’ve had your fair share of interactions with beings of the Martian race [considering you were a traveler of the cosmos], but Shapesmith in particular was a very interesting one. He’s lived as a hero on Earth for a while, and though you haven’t known the shapeshifting being as long as anyone else on the guardians had, he didn’t radiate bad feelings. Not someone you’d find yourself being around often, but he was quite the useful person in battle. You could tell right away if the martian was being disingenuous or honest, dude does not have a bad bone in his body.

It's not often that you converse with Shapesmith, but he was easy to talk to. Unlike most of the pricks you’ve met so far throughout your travels. Cover his back, and he covers yours. A mutual exchange you could get behind.

Some of his comments about your being as a raccoon really pissed you off though, however, after some sternly worded corrections from your end — Shapesmith very quickly reworded said comments. Though when you necessitated an apology, mainly from yourself, as you were quick to temper. He was very understanding, which you inherently didn’t expect; as most would be rightfully a little pissed off. Shapesmith was certainly someone to behold, both in experience and living as a human hero.

You like the fella, his reasons about certain subjects were simple and straight to the point.

Allen The Alien

Allen had always been a bit of an anomaly, with his knack for showing up at the most unexpected moments, and today was no exception. You’ve met the unopan more then once, which was much to your displeasure when the two of you crossed paths once again. Allen against all odds was still alive, which frankly — you found baffling. However, once he explained the circumstances behind his situation. Everything fell into place for you.

One: it pisses you off, you don't know why. But it really does, the dude dies once — and he just gets…. Stronger.

Huh? Why couldn’t you have something like that?

Two: You could actually find a use for him in fights.

That was a thing, you could always find uses in everything. Even out of the smallest scraps of heap.

With Allen however, you could always find your fur bristling. It was a fifty/fifty. But nonetheless, you had mellowed out over time. Which meant you also had stopped getting angry at the drop of a hat. Something that surprised Allen.

Over time, your banter and playful rivalry turns into a mutual understanding of each other's strengths. Your tactical mind and Allen’s adaptability make for an interesting—if not dangerous—partnership. After an impromptu competition, Allen offers his hand, now more curious about you than ever.

"You’re not too bad, for a walking trash can. You ever think about joining the Coalition? We could use someone with your skills." He asks, his tone light as ever. Of course Allen brings it up, he was always looking for someone to invite.

You, with your sharp, cynical grin, consider the offer.

"Nah—I’ll pass. But if you ever need someone to cover your back in a fight, you know where to find me. Maybe next time, I’ll be the one winning."

"We’ll see about that. But hey... keep it between us, alright?” He adds, gesturing vaguely. Allen almost laughs, “I really don’t want to explain to my superiors why I lost a bet to a raccoon."

Despite your differing missions, Allen couldn't deny that you had grown to be more than just an unpredictable anomaly in his life. You were a valuable ally to have, even if your methods were a little... unconventional. Your tactical mind, combined with your readiness for a shootout at any moment, made you an effective problem solver.

Regardless of your apparent lightheartedness, there was always a depth to your intelligence that made you far more insightful than anyone gave you credit for. Allen had noticed it from your first encounter, and it had only grown sharper over time. He respects that about you a lot, even if you didn’t notice it yourself.

As always, whenever you two were in the same place, things couldn’t stay calm for long. A few jokes, some banter, and then—the sparring begins. You, with your quick reflexes and keen combat skills, took every opportunity to take a shot at Allen, who responded with his own impressive agility and strength. Even if you refute that you hate the guy, your actions say otherwise.

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formulafics · 2 years ago

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★ DO I WANNA KNOW? | JB22

Scenario: in which a series of unexpected events, starting with being stuck in the same hotel room with a single bed, takes teammates yn ln and jenson button from major rivals to lovers.

Pairing: jenson button x fem!reader

A/N: no one asked for this but LAWD I LOVE JENSON BUTTON. i had to do something about it 😔 shoutout to @renarots for supplying memes and 4 am brain rot that contributed to the making of this fic and most of my other ones too

NOTE: yn and jenson drive for mercedes (i had to do this for my own sanity)

racing_news

liked by buttonnation, sebrrari, and 12,432 others

racing_news jenson button responds to questions about his relationship with teammate yn ln following this weekends rumors.

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formulawrld idec about the rumors jenson looks so fine bro

formulavettel i bet seb knows all the tea about them. sebastian please spill

webbersebberf1 🤨 surely they could have just gotten another room? they have the money for it. idk, me thinks they’re dating and trying to keep it secret

⤷ ferrarilvr LITERALLY. you genuinely cannot convince me that they aren’t dating after this

⤷ shumione you genuinely thing they’re together even with how much they clearly don’t like each other?

⤷ ferrarilvr 🤷🏻‍♀️ things change and honestly i feel like they’ve had feelings for each other and just didn’t want to admit it

It had been three months since the “hotel incident”. Finally, you texted him. You weren’t sure what to expect from him, but you were ultimately relieved by his response, and didn’t wast a single moment on making your way to him.

With each step you take, a small splash sounds beneath your feet. Rain patters on the ground, and you pull your jacket closed in an attempt to shield yourself from the cold gust of wind that blows through the night. Each stride is powerful and determined - the truth is, you like Jenson. What once was a deep disdain for the man has somehow formed into a blossoming adoration for him. Miscommunications and mistakes lead you down the wrong path with him, but ever since the night of the “hotel incident” — as you, Jenson, and your team call it — you haven’t been able to see him in a bad light.

“Look, i’m sorry,” Jenson says, his expression softer than it had ever been towards you. You were almost offended, thinking he was about to try and make you feel bad, but that wasn’t the case. “You’re more than welcome to go - actually, i’ll pay for your hotel room if you want to leave, but if you’re choosing to stay, i’ll give you your space.” It was unlike him, at least, the him that you knew. He seemed remorseful and genuine, like you and him were anything but rivals. It made your heart beat just a little faster in your chest, and you couldn’t deny how strangely right it felt to be in the same bed with him. Even sharing the room was almost natural.

You turned away from each other to change, but both of you were guilty of peeking over your shoulder. Your eyes lingered for longer than you’d ever admit, but the same went for him. Neither of you could muster the courage to say anything, to address the tension between you both, and despite what should have been an awkward atmosphere, you both found yourselves comfortable in each others presence, even with the weight of your forbidden thoughts.

Not much happened after that, truthfully. Things did change though. Suddenly, his presence didn’t irk you, and you could never get on his nerves. You worked together more willingly, almost volunteered, and through those minor changes, you both came to realize how wrong you’d been about the other. Sure, Jenson had his moments, but he was sweet, a genuine and polite guy. You weren’t entitled the way Jenson thought - in fact, you were humble, kind…and how could he ever not see just how beautiful you are?

He doesn’t know the answer to that, but now, knowing that you’re moments away, he finds himself anxious. In a good way. He’s excited to see you, and he laughs to himself about how ironic that is given how he used to dread seeing you. A knock on his door draws him back to reality, and he knows it’s you. Outside of the hotel room, you wait impatiently, and breathe a sigh of relief when he finally opens the door. Instanly, like an instinct, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, nuzzling into his warmth. His reaction is just as instinctive, and he wraps his arms around you, guiding you into the privacy of his room.

For the first time, you talked. Not yelled, not argued, just spoke to one another. It was a completely different experience for the two of you, one that you never thought would come of your relationship, but it came to you naturally. The warm touch of his hand holding yours, the somehow assuring and slightly intimidating way he looked at you as you spoke, the way he didn’t just listen to you, he heard you. And, you did the same for him. Though he didn’t have much to say, you listened and heard, and soon, you felt as though you’d only just met him, yet known him for years. Not the rival Jenson, but a Jenson you could get used to, one that you didn’t back away from when he leaned in.

It was a small, sealing kiss that he placed on your lips. One to really ensure that all of this was happening, that things were changing between the both of you, and you both accepted it, with a weight lifting off of your shoulders.

mercedesamgf1

liked by the.ynln, jensonbutton, and 265,672 others

mercedesamgf1 last time in Abu Dhabi…

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hereforbutton okay but are jenson and yn dating? PLEASE TELL US

formulaobsessed ARE YOUR DRIVERS DATING? YES OR NO?

⤷ mercedesamgf1 🤭

⤷ hereforbutton okay so what the fuck does that mean

formulayn we do NOT care about jenson rn where is my wife

mercamgfan maybe this time don’t prioritize the inferior driver 🙏🏻 yn deserves her wdc

hereforyn i’m so scared that this race is gonna send yn and jenson back into their rival arc

⤷ jensonbuttonlvr NO WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT. i cant handle them going back to rivals now

⤷ ynsgirlie i know. now that we have them being nice, i can’t imagine going back to what they used to be

mercedesamgf1

liked by the.ynln, jensonbutton, nicorosberg, and 346,789 others

mercedesamgf1 OUR WORLD CHAMPION ❤️ an exceptional performance from yn today, and a well deserved win. thank you for another amazing year, @/the.ynln

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the.ynln i’m gonna cry 💔 thank you guys so much.

formulayn THATS MY FUCKING WIFE IM SO PROUD OF HER

buttonynamg MY BABIES P1-P2 IN WDC IM SO PROUD RIGHT NOW

formulaobssesed who’s here after the post race interview? 🤭

⤷ markwebba I KNEW THEY WERE GONNA FALL IN LOVE

⤷ jensonsbutton bro jenson was heart eyes for her in the whole interview and the way he kissed her cheek when she started talking about their relationship 💔 he was so gentle

⤷ hereforbutton what got me was her getting emotional about the win and him hugging her like :( i was always hoping they’d start getting along but i did not expect them to become like this

🏷️: general taglist | @renarots @jsjcue @illicitverstappen @lovstappen @minkyungseokie @treehouse-mouse

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writesvani · 1 month ago

Text

— f i c r e c s [ 🧸 ];

helloooo besties, it’s your resident caffeine-fueled, nicotine-infused, emotionally unstable writer back at it again. now, prepare yourselves for the absolute shock of the century—I have another hobby. and no, it’s not setting my life on fire for the plot (though, arguably, that too). it’s… reading. gasp. i know. groundbreaking.

because i am nothing if not a selfless, benevolent being, i have taken it upon myself to bless your eyeballs (and quite frankly, your entire soul) with my all-time favorite bts fics—aka the stories that have ruined me in the best way possible. some of these have been my emotional support system for years, holding my hand through the highs and lows, while others have only recently entered my life and immediately made themselves at home in the depths of my soul. either way, they all own a piece of my heart (and what’s left of my sanity). so grab your emotional support beverage, take a deep breath, and let’s dive into the chaos.

starting off strong, i decided to go with matilda by @babystrcandy—the fic that single-handedly made me fall in love with writing and reading all over again. matilda is emotional, raw, angsty, and painful in the most devastatingly beautiful way. it’s the kind of story that doesn’t just hurt—it carves itself into your soul, stays there rent-free, and makes you thank it for the privilege.

i could talk about the storytelling and narration of matilda all day, but honestly? i don’t think i’d ever do it justice. yeah, it’s painful—like someone’s slicing you open from the inside out—but it’s also comforting in a way i can’t explain. it’s everything.

read if you like: YOONGI X READER, brother’s best friend, angst, pining, yearning, childhood friends to lovers, smut, fluff, YEARNING (yes, it deserves a second mention), and found family, detailed storytelling, nostalgic feelings

moving on to the next masterpiece (but of no lesser value, obviously), my pick is throttle by @alphabetboyluvr. honestly, at this point, i’d recommend anything by this author—everything they write is straight-up art.

i remember reading chapter one a while ago, falling in love, and then... losing the fic. tumblr, we need to have a chat. but the universe (and my detective skills) led me back to this blog, and when i finally found throttle again, i was literally reading with my mouth OPEN. shooketh doesn’t even begin to describe it. dare i say… this author is THE best fanfic writer i’ve ever come across? yeah, i said it.

this story is beautiful—but not in a soft, fluffy way. no, it’s the kind of beauty that lulls you into comfort while something dark watches from the shadows. waiting. waiting. and then BAM, you’re wrecked. watching oc and jungkook fall in love, the build-up, THE GOD-TIER VOCABULARY—i swear, i wasn’t just reading, i was inside this fic. i felt every single word. and don’t even get me started on the angst. the pain. i could write a whole damn essay on why this work is perfection, but i’m seriously trying not to spoil everything, so just bear with me.

read if you like: JUNGKOOK X READER, insanely good descriptions, YEARNING, smitten jk, angst, pain (because we’re all masochists here, let’s be real), amazing plot, questionable characters making questionable decisions, love that consumes you, and SMUT (so good it deserves all caps).

side note: this author needs to write a book. like, an actual book. if they haven’t already, someone needs to force them because their potential is astronomical.

okay okay okay, it’s time for the next one, which, in my very humble yet undeniably correct opinion, is on par with the previous ones—kkangpae by @jungkoode.

i seriously debated whether to recommend this, off labels, or fmu (because everything @jungkoode writes is god-tier), but kkangpae ultimately stole my heart and refused to give it back. what really gets me about this fic (besides the top-tier writing style and chef’s kiss dialogue) is how insanely immersive and well thought-out the concept is. like, first of all, the descriptions? immaculate. even I—someone who struggles to visualize scenes in books—could picture every single detail in this fic as if i was right there.

but it doesn’t stop there. the concept is so elaborate that you can genuinely see how the entire kkangpae system functions. it feels real. like, if someone told me this was an inside scoop on an actual gang’s operations, i’d believe them. and don’t even get me started on the psychological depth of these characters—unparalleled. this author has mastered the art of explaining emotions through body language in a way that just hits.

read if you like: JUNGKOOK X READER, strangers to lovers, psychological depth in fiction, good dialogue, angst, smut, gang AUs, SLOW BURN, sexual tension so thick you need a knife to cut through it, immersive writing, and fresh, new concepts in literature

moving on to the next absolute masterpiece—older by @lovieku .

first of all, let me just say: this is the most delicious smut/pWITHp/destroy me but in a fuckable way fic i have ever read in my life. period. the build-up towards the actual… well, action (you know what i mean) is insane. this author nailed the ache of wanting something forbidden—the slow, torturous unraveling of knowing it’s wrong but being so consumed by it that you physically cannot resist. it’s giving longing, it’s giving temptation, it’s giving i am one second away from losing my goddamn mind over this person.

the pacing? immaculate. the narration? flawless. but my favorite part? THE INNER MONOLOGUE. jk’s pov in this fic??? chef’s kiss. we rarely get male character's pov in bts fics, so seeing his thoughts—his restraint, his YEARNING—oh my god. HE WANTED HER SO BAD BUT HELD BACK UNTIL THE VERY END. LITERALLY. UGH. UGH. YUMMY.

read if you like: JUNGKOOK X READER, age gap, forbidden romance, best friend’s dad au (yes, you read that right), smut, angst, smut again because it’s that good and i’m a horny rat, jk's pov in fics, and perfectly executed inner dialogue.

side note: yes, i am absolutely one of those people praying in front of a shrine for part two, even though i know it’s never gonna happen. but hey, gotta smile through the pain, right?

now, let’s all give a round of applause for one of my all-time favorite authors here—@kithtaehyung—and their god-tier fic hush, yeah.

now, i seriously debated which of their masterpieces to include. 3tan? minted? listen, i LOVE THEM. okay? i consume and reread them on a daily basis like they’re my emotional support system. but. BUT. i need to put you all onto something else. and that something is hush, yeah.

guys. listen to me. i was literally sweating while reading some of these scenes—yeah, it’s THAT hot. the build-up in this fic? everything. every glance. every look. every word. the tension is so thick you could choke on it (and honestly, i wouldn’t complain). the descriptions? top-tier. literally cinematic. i have no notes.

but real talk—why is this fic abandoned, again?? hello?? i need the next chapter like i need air. so i’m putting it here, sending all my prayers, all my manifestation energy, every ounce of spiritual strength i have in me for an update because if we never get it… i might actually die.

read if you like: TAEHYUNG X READER, smut, DELIRIOUSLY GOOD SMUT OKAY, tiny tiny bits of angst (lowkey, but it’s there), smut so hot you might combust, and absolutely insane, detailed, expressive writing.

okay guys, that’s enough for tonight. seriously, i am so tired i might just plop onto the bed and never wake up again. if this is my final message, just know i went out doing what i loved—screaming about fics.

but don’t worry, i’ll be back with more recs soon because i am ready to serve, okay? in the meantime, if you have any specific ideas for what you’d like to read, please ask. i’ve read a lot—mafia, ceo, werewolves, vampires, childhood friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, mermaid AUs, you name it. so feel free to send an ask if you’re looking for something specific, and i will do my best to deliver a fic that perfectly matches your taste.

okay now. peace out. i am officially asleep.

#—♡.vani's recs #jungkook x reader #taehyung x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts fic recs #jungkook fic recs #yoongi fic recs #taehyung fic #fic recommendation #fic recs

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mapofsouthdakota · 1 month ago

Text

Plated

The LADS kitchen AU

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7700ish words. An AU (check the link for my initial ramble) where you suddenly find yourself working as a chef alongside the LIs from LADS. Non MC! Reader. Heavy inspiration from The Bear (the series). Anything can happen in this kitchen, so I’m marking this as an 18+ series—just to be safe. This chapter includes: banter, fluff, drama, stress, and flirting coming at you from all directions. Potential harem drama? The heat is on, peepz, and we’re just getting started!

Tags: @gavin3469

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

Entrée | Pilot

“Behind! Corner! Hot pan!—Chef, the risotto—”

The kitchen is alive. Screaming, sizzling, blistering alive. Steam curls up from every pan, mixing with the staccato beat of knives and the shout of orders as the Friday dinner service slams into full throttle. The ticket printer hasn’t stopped squealing since 5:57 PM. Now it’s past 6:30, and the air is thick with garlic, heat, and suppressed rage.

You’re locked in on sauté—flames licking your wrists, sweat sliding down your spine. Your risotto’s clinging too hard to the pan, the duck breast needs one more minute, and someone moved your goddamn ladle again.

“Two risottos—truffle on one, mushroom pulled from the other, one duck rare, fire it now,” Caleb calls from expo, voice like tempered steel. The kind of voice people move for without question.

Meanwhile, from pastry, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Puh-lease, someone get this plate out of my sight before I commit artistic homicide,” Rafayel croons, holding up a dessert that looks more like sculpture than food. He’s already halfway draped across his workstation like a model mid-photoshoot.

“You’re not plating anything until it’s on a ticket,” Zayne says, not even looking up.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were in charge of my inspiration,” Rafayel purrs, eyes gleaming as he turns to you. “What do you think, Flame? Should I plate with edible flowers or the blood of my enemies?”

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “Try plating on time.”

Rafayel gasps, full offense. “You wound me.”

“You wound my sanity.”

A beat. Then you actually laugh—shaky, stressed, but real.

Rafayel winks at you. Zayne sighs and returns to his tickets like nothing happened.

Across the kitchen, Xavier appears beside you like a silent blessing. He slides a bowl of diced shallots next to your elbow, then disappears again, back into the whirl of motion—organizing the fridge, grabbing fresh herbs, restacking the clean pans. He doesn’t speak unless necessary. Doesn’t cook, thank god. But the second you need something, he’s already holding it.

You murmur, “Thanks,” but he’s already moving again.

And then—Caleb’s there.

His presence brushes your back like static—always too close, always too calm. “You’re burning your sauce,” he says, voice pitched low just for you.

You clench your jaw. “I’m not.”

He steps closer, hand brushing yours as he takes the handle. His fingers move with infuriating grace—just a subtle shift of the heat, a flick of the wrist, and the sauce settles.

His arm brushes yours. His breath ghosts against your cheek. You can feel him smirking without even looking.

“Careful, chef,” he says. “Pride doesn’t plate well.”

You shoulder him—not hard, but enough.

“Neither does micromanaging.”

His voice drops, warm and smug. “If you want me to stop watching…” He leans just close enough for you to feel it. “Stop being so interesting to watch.”

Then he’s gone. Just like that. Back to the pass, calling out new orders like nothing happened.

You want to hurl the sauté pan at his head. Or drag him into the walk-in and slam the door behind you.

You haven’t decided yet.

“Chef,” Xavier says gently, pointing at the pan.

You snap back into motion.

“Five-top incoming,” Caleb calls.

A full table—five guests, five entrées, five chances to mess it up. You hear the bell ring. Another ticket prints. And then—

The back door swings open.

The entire kitchen tenses.

Sylus.

Pressed shirt, open collar, no apron. Clean shoes. Cool air follows him in, like he’s above the heat. He surveys the room, eyes drifting past the boiling pots, the flames, the staff running on fumes. When he lands on you, he lingers.

“Smells… intense,” he says with a small, amused smile. “Like ambition. And panic.”

“Out of the kitchen,” Caleb says without turning.

Sylus walks in anyway. Straight past the flames, toward the shelf of wine bottles. He picks one up. Sniffs. Frowns. He opens a drawer—your drawer, the one with the backup wine list—and pulls out a slim black leather notebook.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask, wiping sweat from your forehead.

He doesn’t look up. “Fixing the mistake someone made by serving the Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris with duck confit.”

“Who even pairs the wine here?” Rafayel asks, licking sugar from his knuckles.

No answer.

Sylus smiles faintly and slips the notebook back. You catch a glimpse of neat handwriting. You’ve seen it before—on the wine map pinned to the walk-in, the one everyone quietly agrees is weirdly perfect.

No one ever said who wrote it.

Sylus pours himself a half-glass of something expensive—definitely not meant for staff—and takes a small sip, eyes closing in faint approval.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says to no one in particular. Then, with a final glance toward you: “Let me know if anyone wants to learn how to taste properly.”

And then he’s gone. Smooth. Untouchable.

Leaving behind a sudden silence that feels like a storm just passed through.

Caleb exhales through his nose.

Zayne mutters something about poisoning the wine.

Rafayel fans himself dramatically.

And you?

You pick up your pan. Xavier slides in beside you without a word, sets down a pat of butter and a fresh sprig of rosemary at your station—already prepped, already perfect. He’s gone again before the heat even rises. Everything you need is in place.

Now it’s just you, the fire, and the five who know how to burn beside you.

——————————————————————————

It’s past midnight.

You’re perched on an overturned milk crate near the deep sink, your back pressed against cold steel. One boot taps softly against the tile, the rhythm inconsistent—residual adrenaline bleeding out through movement. In your hand, a plastic deli container filled halfway with cheap red wine. It’s warm. You don’t care.

Across from you, the remnants of staff dinner: a tray of sad, over-salted fries, scattered with a few slumped sprigs of rosemary someone got fancy with. Grease pooled at the edges. Nobody’s throwing it out. It’s communal now.

Leaning against the prep table, arms folded, is Zayne. Shirt sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing old burn scars, healed nicks, the quiet story of a man who works with his hands and doesn’t complain. He hasn’t touched the wine. Hasn’t sat down. He watches the room like it might get up and move again.

“You missed a fold on the duck,” he says without looking directly at you. His eyes stay focused on the tray of fries, like he’s just stating fact.

You let out a soft scoff. “You’re seriously giving me notes after midnight?”

He shrugs. One shoulder, subtle. “If you’re awake, you’re learning.”

The stainless lowboy fridges clack slightly as Rafayel drapes himself over them like they’re his fainting couch. He’s half-melted against the surface, one leg kicked up, the toe of his shoe idly circling in the air. There’s a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He doesn’t care.

“Puh-lease, could we not do the critique hour? I’m emotionally brittle and overworked. I need to be coddled.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “No one coddles you.”

Rafayel flicks a cold fry into his mouth, chewing slowly, then points the next one at Zayne like it’s a wand. “You coddle me. In your cold, clinical way. Admit it.”

“I’ve never coddled anything in my life.”

“Tragic,” Raf says, mournful. “Explains so much...”

You let the grin spread before you stop it. It’s crooked, half-buried behind the rim of your ad hoc drinking glass. The tension in your shoulders starts to melt, fraction by fraction.

Against the wall, a quiet shift of movement—Xavier, sitting on a stack of flour sacks like it’s a throne made of clouds. His back’s slouched against the wall, knees up, arms resting on them. He looks half-asleep, but you know better. His eyes track every flicker of motion in the room.

He reaches into the pocket of his apron, pulling out a hard candy wrapped in glossy plastic. He peels it slowly, the crinkle unusually loud in the quiet.

“You want one?” he asks, voice gentle as always.

You glance at him. His hand is open, the candy resting in the center of his palm like an offering.

You take it. It’s stupid sweet. Artificial cherry. A kid’s candy in an adult’s world. Still, it makes the wine taste better.

Across the room, Caleb finally moves.

He’s been standing—always the last to drop his guard. His black jacket is still on, sleeves pushed up, the collar stained with the sweat and heat of ten hours behind the pass. He lowers himself slowly onto an empty stool, spine straight, arms braced on his knees.

His expression doesn’t change. But the way he exhales, long and slow, says enough.

“Good service,” he says, voice low and even. “No one dropped. No one quit.”

“Low bar,” you mutter, taking another sip.

Caleb’s mouth twitches. The almost-smile lives in his eyes for a second before it disappears again. “Barely still counts.”

A creak.

The back door swings open on squeaky hinges.

Every head turns.

Sylus.

He steps inside like the air belongs to him, sleeves rolled just once at the forearms. No sweat. No mess. No apron. Just that quiet calm, the smell of leather and wine and some expensive cologne none of you can place but all of you recognize. He carries a bottle of something dark under one arm.

He surveys the room slowly, his gaze moving from Zayne to Rafayel to you—pausing, slightly, when it lands on you—then finally Caleb.

“You’re all still alive,” he says, tone dry but almost… pleased. “Charming.”

“No thanks to you,” Caleb mutters, not lifting his head.

Sylus uncorks the bottle with practiced ease, plucks a wine glass from the drying rack without asking, and pours a half-glass. Deep red. Rich. Nothing from the line. This is his stock.

He lifts the glass. Sips. Eyes closed briefly. A subtle appreciation.

Then, eyes open—straight at you.

“You’re still standing,” he says. “Which is impressive. Tonight was chaos.”

You roll the candy against your tongue. “Chaos is part of the job.”

“No,” Sylus says smoothly. “Chaos is part of your job. Mine is keeping it bankable.”

Rafayel raises his hand in a languid gesture. “You’re welcome for all the emotional gravitas. And the soufflé.”

“I didn’t see your soufflé on the pass,” Caleb says flatly.

Rafayel leans back like he’s been struck. “It was evocative, Caleb. Too powerful for the plate.”

Zayne doesn’t look up. “You forgot the timer again.”

“I’m a visionary, not a timekeeper.”

“You’re a liability,” Zayne says, his voice as precise as his blade.

“And yet here I am. Unfired. Uncaged.” Raf gestures vaguely at the kitchen. “Mystery.”

Xavier shifts his weight slightly, shoulder brushing the wall. “You forgot to turn off the oven.”

Raf doesn’t miss a beat. He lifts his chin, all faux-grace. “…I meant to.”

Sylus, still watching, drains the rest of his glass, then walks to the back wall—toward the small wine rack no one’s supposed to touch. He runs a finger down the labels. Adjusts one slightly. Opens a drawer.

You tense.

It’s your drawer. Again. Where the backup wine list is kept. Where the slim, black leather notebook lives.

Sylus opens it. A flick of Sylus’s pen. A line drawn. A note added.

“You’re the wine guy,” you murmur.

Sylus doesn’t look up. “I am a guy with wine.”

Caleb straightens just slightly, voice sharp. “You never told me.”

Sylus looks at him then, one brow raised. “You never asked.”

A silence stretches over the room.

Thick.

Sylus corks the bottle, tucks it under one arm with a smooth movement, and turns to leave.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says. “Trying to find a glass that deserves this vintage.”

Then, as he reaches the door, he pauses and looks at you.

“If you’re not doing anything, chef, feel free to join me. Always more honest conversation once the pans are cold.”

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him and room exhales.

Caleb tips back his wine, downs the rest in one long pull.

Zayne moves to the counter, starts wiping it clean. His cloth is precise. Efficient. Methodical.

Xavier offers you another candy, not saying anything. He doesn’t need to.

Rafayel lies flat on his back and sighs like a Shakespearean tragedy.

You sit there. Candy melting on your tongue. Wine staining your throat.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen hums with the dull ache of a shift survived. No more shouting, no more sizzling pans. Just the whisper of the overhead vents and the occasional clink of glass on steel.

Zayne wipes down his station like another ticket’s about to drop. Every motion is sharp, practiced—chef-first, human-second. He folds the towel with crisp corners and sets it just so. You can tell by the slight tilt of his head, the slower breath, that he’s beginning to wind down—but he still can’t let go entirely.

“That’s me,” he says, finally. His voice is calm, quiet, but final.

You glance over your shoulder. “Clocking out already?”

He nods once. “Clean line. No reason to linger.”

He grabs his coat off the hook—creased, folded exactly how he left it at the start of the shift.

From across the room, a dramatic groan echoes off the tiles.

“Already?” Rafayel lifts his head from where he’s sprawled across two prep stools like a wilted orchid. “You’re leaving me in my hour of need?”

Zayne gives him a blank look. “It’s been forty-five minutes since service ended.”

“That’s forty-three minutes too long for me to be denied attention.” Raf flops to his feet with exaggerated grace, twirling one glove lazily in his hand. “Come, Icebox, at least walk me to the door. I might collapse from artistic exhaustion.”

“You’re standing,” Zayne says dryly.

“Barely,” Raf sighs, wobbling on purpose as he collects his coat. He tosses a wink your way. “Say goodbye to your favorite dessert.”

“You mean yourself?” you mutter.

“Obviously.” Rafayel leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, feather-light but undeniable. Pulls back with a grin like he didn’t just set your pulse spinning.

Then he twirls dramatically toward the door. “I’ll return reborn, little flame.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything, but you swear the corner of his mouth twitches before he heads toward the door, Raf trailing beside him like a spark orbiting a sharp edge.

Just before they disappear, Raf glances back over his shoulder. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone, Flame. And if you do—make it meaningful.”

The door closes with a soft click, and you’re left in the quiet again. The kitchen feels bigger without Raf’s voice bouncing around the walls.

You finish what’s left of your wine, set the empty container beside the sink, and stretch your back until it pops.

Then you move through the double doors into the front of house—

And step into an entirely different world.

——————————————————————————

The restaurant is immaculate.

Warm light glows low from the sconces, casting shadows across the marble floors and polished wood. Tables are set, untouched, crystal glasses lined up like sentries. Everything gleams. It smells faintly of lemon and linen and something floral, soft in the vents. The kind of scent no one notices until it’s gone.

Sylus is the only soul in the room.

He sits near the windows, one arm draped along the back of his chair, the other holding a half-full wine glass with casual elegance. The bottle is resting in a carved metal cradle on the table. The label is vintage. Expensive.

He looks up as you approach, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly.

“You made it.”

“Thought about going home,” you say.

“But didn’t.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You do. The velvet cushion is cool against your legs. Too soft. Unfairly comfortable. Of course he’d pick this table.

He picks up the bottle and tips it toward your glass. “You’re already drinking something terrible. Let’s fix that.”

You slide your glass toward him. “You always this generous after service?”

“I’m always generous to people who survive fire.” He pours carefully, not spilling a drop.

The wine is deep, smooth, the color of garnets and smoke. You sip. It tastes like money and secrets and something slow on the finish—something almost like regret.

You set the glass down. “This place looks untouched. Like service didn’t even happen.”

He smiles faintly, watching the candlelight flicker against your glass. “That’s the point. You build a kitchen to burn. You build a dining room to hide the burn.”

You glance around. “You care about this place.”

His eyes shift back to you. “Of course I do. My design. My money. My bones, in some ways.”

You study him a moment. He doesn’t look away.

“You built it to impress?” you ask.

“I built it to last.”

You nod slowly. “It’s beautiful.”

Sylus leans forward slightly, one elbow on the table, glass poised. “It’s survival. Beautiful survival, yes—but still survival. You know what I mean.”

You do. You don’t say it.

He looks at you differently now—quieter, more curious. His voice drops a notch. “You’re not like the others.”

You raise a brow. “Because I drink expensive wine when offered?”

“No.” He smiles. “Because you understand why it matters. You care about the fire. And about what survives it.”

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Once.

You pull it out.

Caleb: Need you back here. Xavier’s down again.

You look up. Sylus already knows.

“Another time?” he asks. His tone is soft, but there’s something behind it—like he already sees the future version of this moment repeating.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He watches you stand, glass half-finished on the table.

“If you ever want something that doesn’t burn,” he says, eyes sharp but warm, “you know where to find me, chef.”

You don’t answer.

Back in the kitchen, the lights are lower, quieter. The heartbeat of the space has slowed. Caleb is crouched near the dry storage, elbow braced on one knee. Xavier is curled up on the flour sacks again, arms folded under his head like a cat settling into the quiet.

“He’s out,” Caleb says, voice low, glancing over his shoulder—not irritated, not worried, just watching him with that quiet kind of care he never names.

You kneel beside them, brushing Xavier’s shoulder gently. “Hey. Wake up.”

His eyes crack open just a little.

“You good?” you whisper.

He nods, slow and soft. “…I’m fine, Second set.”

Your chest squeezes just a little.

Caleb is already lifting him with practiced ease, one hand under his arm. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way his fingers grip Xavier’s jacket that he’s done this before. But when you reach to help, he shifts to make space. Without looking at you, he makes room. Always does.

Together, the three of you leave.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the cool air of the city wraps around your skin. The sidewalks shine with old rain. Streetlights glaze the pavement with soft gold. Your shoes scuff against cracked cement as you fall into step—Caleb on one side, Xavier tucked into the quiet middle, blinking slowly.

The three of you walk in rhythm, quiet, boots echoing soft against the street. Caleb says nothing at first. But then—

He leans slightly toward you, voice low, warm in the stillness.

“Hey… good job today.”

Not performative. Not for show. Just soft. Real. Like it matters to him more than he lets anyone else see.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

Then he looks down at Xavier, who’s barely keeping his eyes open, head dipping forward as he walks.

Caleb reaches out with one hand and gently ruffles Xavier’s pale bangs—an affectionate sweep—before tugging up the hood of his jacket like he’s tucking him in.

“And you too, Ghost,” he says, quiet.

Xavier hums, a little nod. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t need to.

Caleb’s shoulder brushes yours—once when you slip on uneven pavement, and again when Xavier starts to lean too hard to one side. He shifts his weight easily, like it’s natural to hold both of you steady.

Behind you, the restaurant glows. Through the front windows, you can still see Sylus, alone at the table, wine swirling in his glass, elbow resting just so on the white linen. He doesn’t look tired. He looks… exactly where he belongs.

And then—

He looks up.

He sees you.

Not glances—sees. Like you’re a chapter he’s already reading ahead in.

And just before you turn the corner, before the street swallows you, he lifts his glass. A toast. To you? To the night? To what comes next?

You don’t know.

But something shifts in your chest—just slightly.

Not fear. Not heat.

Something else.

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks like a familiar rhythm as you push the door open and step into the kitchen.

It’s technically a closed day—no service, no tickets. But the kitchen never really rests. Not here. There’s always something to prep, to refine, to fix.

Cool air hits your skin first—the prep station lights still off, only the early sun pouring through the back windows. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge compressors and the soft thunk-thunk-thunk of a knife on wood.

Zayne.

Already in place, sleeves rolled up, black strands brushing his forehead. He doesn’t glance up as you enter—just adjusts his grip on the cleaver and continues trimming down a mountain of bright spring onions. The scent of them—clean, sharp—hangs in the air like a warning.

You walk in slower, letting the door swing shut behind you, and start walking toward your station when—

“Morning.”

His voice is low, unbothered. No shift in pace, no dramatics.

“Morning,” you say, setting your bag down.

There’s a pause, just a breath too long to be casual. Then—

“Good call on the tangerine oil yesterday,” Zayne murmurs, slicing through a stalk with surgical precision. “I didn’t say it then.”

You glance over, a little surprised. “You mean you noticed?”

“I notice everything.” He looks up, just briefly. And for the shortest beat, he smiles.

Small. Barely there. But real.

And only for you.

Then it’s gone. His knife resumes its rhythm. The rest of the kitchen hasn’t even started breathing yet.

And just as you turn toward your station—

“You’re late,” a voice drawls from behind a stack of flour bags.

You freeze mid-step.

You know that voice.

“…Raf?”

Rafayel pops up from behind the counter like a devil in a drama. He’s wearing his apron inside out, sleeves rolled and pinned with two glittering clips. His eyes catch the light like a prism.

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hands before you can speak. “Don’t ask why I’m here before noon. I’m as shocked as you are.”

You blink. “Why are you here before noon?”

He leans in, eyes wide like he’s about to tell you something salacious.

“Food critic,” he whispers, as if invoking a spirit.

Your stomach tightens.

“Wait—” Raf straightens suddenly. “Didn’t Caleb text all of us to show up early?” He looks between you and Zayne. “Right? He texted you two too?”

“No,” you and Zayne answer in unison.

Raf stares.

Zayne slices clean through a fennel bulb and slides it aside with absolute precision.

“He doesn’t need to.” A pause. “We’re always early.”

Raf gasps, clutching his chest like it’s a personal attack.“God, you’re such A-types. How exhausting.”

You raise a brow. “And you’re what, exactly?”

“Obviously B-type,” Raf says, flicking flour off his sleeve with flair. “The artistic kind. The ones who dream. The ones who show up when the muses say ‘now.’”

Zayne doesn’t look up.

“Your muse needs a schedule.”

“My muse needs espresso and validation,” Raf says primly. “Neither of which I’m getting fast enough.”

You can’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth as Raf grabs a mixing bowl with the drama of someone accepting an award.

Rafayel waggles his fingers. “Aaanyways…Not that I care about some starch-shirted, no-palate having, bland-gutted fork collector. But Caleb? Oh, he cares.”

He hops off the counter, landing with a bounce. “And Sylus?” Raf makes a low whistle, spinning one finger through the air. “He hears the word ‘Michelin’ and suddenly it’s ‘revamp the wine list’ and ‘triple the foie gras.’” He mimics Sylus’s voice perfectly. “It’s all very dramatic.”

“You’re the dramatic one,” Zayne mutters from the cutting board.

Raf ignores him. “I suggested we go to the beach instead. Cleanse the palate. Feel something. Maybe get arrested. You know, real inspiration.”

You smile.

The kitchen is still cool, still half-asleep, but slowly beginning to hum.

And then—

The back door opens with a thud.

Caleb.

He’s dressed in a dark shirt with cuffed sleeves, casual but still precise. In each arm, grocery bags—paper, heavy, full of weight. You spot the edge of imported cheese, the glint of glass bottles, long sprigs of fresh herbs still dripping with condensation. He steps in like he’s walked five blocks uphill.

Rafayel eyes the bags, unimpressed. “Let me guess—three kinds of truffle and one single blood orange?”

Caleb drops the bags on the prep table with a thunk. “Brigade,” he says, eyeing the room. “Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He turns to you, nodding once. “We’re doing something special today. Want your hands on it.”

You blink. “For the critic?”

“For the team,” he says simply. Then: “Critic’s just an excuse.”

Rafayel dramatically presses his palm to his chest. “Are you suggesting I create something for someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

Caleb tosses him a bundle of herbs. “I’m suggesting you create. Period.”

Zayne steps forward, inspecting the bags. “This is… high-end.”

“Expensive,” Caleb confirms. “Sylus gave me the green light.”

That tracks. Sylus isn’t in yet—a night creature, as he once called himself. “We work the day,” he’d said once, swirling wine. “I own the night.” Xavier’s late too, of course. But that’s just Xavier. Like Raf, he moves on his own time.

You pull out your phone and tap a quick message:

YOU: You coming in soon? The crew misses your ghost routine.

You set it down again.

Caleb glances over, catching the motion.

“Let him sleepwalk his way in,” he says, a dry twist in his tone. Then, a beat—softer now: “We’ll try to keep order until our fifth remembers time exists.”

Caleb’s already unpacking. Hands sure. Focus locked.

“Let’s build something new. You. Me. The four of us. Five, when Ghost floats in.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no pressure there, no edge. Just invitation.

“Bring me ideas. Or at least good bread,” he adds.

Rafayel claps his hands. “I knew this day would come, Maestro. A collaboration! Shall we open with edible orchids or existential dread?”

Raf’s already reaching for the nearest fruit like it’s a paintbrush. “I want bitterness. I want longing. I want something that tastes like a last confession whispered into a velvet napkin—”

Caleb glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching—just barely. Amused. But not swayed.

“Start with flour,” he says, dry. “Then spiral from there.”

Raf gasps softly. “Ouh—Daddy Discipline has spoken.” Then, with a wink: “Should I kneel? Or just sift dramatically?”

Your phone buzzes softly.

You check the screen.

XAVIER: On my way. Dreaming of fennel. Don’t burn without me 🐰🎀

And just like that, it begins.

The morning stretches with warm light on your shoulders. Dough starts rising. Butter softens. You smell lavender. Blood orange. Scorched sugar.

Rafayel hums as he works. Zayne corrects your knife grip once, but with quiet patience. Caleb doesn’t hover—but he passes close, every so often, to taste. To glance. To quietly trust.

And for once, the kitchen doesn’t feel like a battlefield.

It feels like something else.

Something good.

Steam from reduced vinegar curls into the air alongside delicate floral notes from the elderflower syrup Raf’s been coaxing out of thin patience and sugar. The room is warm now, alive—but without the chaos. For once, the burners are lit, but the tension isn’t.

The prep table is a soft mess of bowls and plates, slashed parchment paper, flour scattered like stardust. A plate of cooling tart shells rests near the edge, and someone—probably Zayne—has already lined up mise in exact rows: black garlic paste, candied fennel, crushed pink peppercorns.

A jazz track loops quietly from someone’s phone—the compromise after Rafayel insisted on opera. You all vetoed it. Jazz didn’t demand attention. It just filled the space, soft and steady, giving the kitchen rhythm without stealing the scene.

Caleb paces slowly along the line—not correcting, just hovering. Tracking movements like he’s syncing them to something internal. He passes behind you, the warmth of him brushing your shoulder, deliberate but unhurried.

He leans in, barely a breath from your ear.

“You’re two steps ahead of everyone this morning, Hotshot.” He murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. Then, with the smallest curve of a smile—

“It’s irritating.” Caleb moves on before you can respond.

Zayne is all precision beside you, his knife a metronome. He’s slicing roasted fennel into paper-thin arcs and assembling them into soft folds like petals. Every motion is practiced. Economic. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, impressed at how little he ever wastes—motion, energy, time.

He must notice.

Because without breaking pace, he flicks a glance toward your station—eyes scanning your hands, then your face. Just once. A small nod. A subtle tug at the corner of his mouth—barely there. But it’s yours.

And then he’s back to his work like nothing happened

Across the table, Rafayel leans over a set of tart bases, bare-handed, his fingertips pressing custard into each shell like he’s painting emotion into a canvas. He hums something under his breath—minor key, off tempo. Sweet but a little strange.

He licks a smear of citrus glaze off his wrist and suddenly sighs, loud enough to catch your attention.

“Has anyone ever told you that custard is a lie?” he says dramatically, not looking up. “It pretends to be simple. Wholesome. Comforting. But it’s fickle. Clingy. It breaks the second you look at it wrong.”

You glance over. “Having a moment?”

“I’m having an awakening, Flame.”

Zayne doesn’t even pause in his slicing. “You’re having a meltdown.”

“Don’t mock my process,” Rafayel huffs. “You weren’t there when the egg curdled. You didn’t see what it became. It looked at me like it knew I was doubting myself.”

You hold back a smile.

“Also,” Raf continues, spooning another slick of custard into a shell with excessive flourish, “if anyone asks, I invented emotional citrus. It’s soft. It’s devastating. It haunts your childhood.”

“I’m going to haunt you,” Zayne mutters.

“And that’s what I call team spirit.” Caleb, still watching, glances your way. Just once. Noticing. Measuring.

This is what the kitchen feels like when it isn’t drowning.

And then—

The door creaks open.

Xavier steps through like dusk itself: quiet, soft-shouldered, pale blond bangs falling over his forehead as he shrugs out of a light coat. He’s holding a paper bag of herbs tucked under one arm, and a clean stack of towels clutched to his chest like a warm offering.

His shoes barely make a sound on the tile.

His eyes move through the room—Zayne, Rafayel, Caleb—then finally you.

He blinks once. “Need hands?” His voice is calm, but there’s something gentle behind it. Like he already knows the answer.

You smile, automatically. “Always.”

He moves with almost no sound, setting the bag down at your station before you’ve even shifted. You glance sideways and catch him silently organizing your tools—towel folded, knife turned blade-in, a fresh set of herb sprigs unwrapped and waiting.

“Nice to see you in the light,” you murmur.

Xavier smiles, barely. “Too bright. Feels like cheating.”

You’re about to ask what that means when—

The back door swings open hard enough to stir the air.

Sylus steps in like a gust of something colder, crisper. Pressed shirt, sleeves rolled once. No jacket today, just cufflinks catching the morning sun in a glint. In one hand, a thin black folder. In the other? A single, perfect baguette wrapped in wax paper and twine.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t have to.

The room slows.

Rafayel, of course, is the first to fill the silence. “Ah. The Night King arrives.”

Sylus pauses, just enough to give him a glance. “And here I thought I was early.”

“You are, for you,” Zayne mutters, not looking up from his slicing.

Caleb steps out from behind the counter, arms folded across his chest. Not tense—just reading the air.

“You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re creating.”

Sylus raises a brow. “Creating?”

He walks forward slowly, glancing at the plates—at the ingredients still strewn across the prep line. His eyes pass over the orange custards, the chilled tart shells, the unfinished sketch next to your station.

He lingers for a second. Then: “Is this… for them?”

“The critic?” Caleb says. “It’s for us.”

You nod, echoing. “But they’ll eat it.”

Sylus hums—a sound of faint amusement—and steps closer. He sets the baguette down neatly near the center of the table. Then flips open the black folder with one hand.

Inside, a printed wine list. Notes. Names scribbled in Sylus’s handwriting.

He studies it for a beat, then reaches for the paper again, scanning the rows.

“I’ll pull the Tempranillo,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Zayne, without looking up: “Critic prefers white.”

Sylus doesn’t lift his head. “Then the critic lacks imagination.”

Rafayel lets out a small snicker. “See? This is the kind of reckless elegance I live for.”

You almost laugh. You don’t.

Sylus disappears to the back, sliding into the cellar like it’s his second home.

Xavier slides a plate your way without a word—a tasting spoon laid neatly beside it. You didn’t ask. You needed it. He knew.

Rafayel leans closer to you, whispering, “We should form a splinter kitchen, Flame. You, me, The Whisperer, and the king of wine aka Daddy Deep Pockets. No rules. No menus. Just vibes.”

“I think we already have that,” you murmur back.

He grins, then pops a sugared fennel into his mouth. “Ugh. Still too grounded. I want transcendence.”

Caleb has started prepping again, head bowed, brow furrowed—but he’s smiling.

You glance at the team—present, steady, maybe even happy—and you feel something click into place.

The critic’s coming. The pressure will return.

But right now?

The kitchen is whole.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—so are you.

——————————————————————————

Only the light above the prep table is on, casting long shadows against steel and tile. The others have gone for the night—Raf babbled about “moonlight gelato dreams,” Sylus vanished in a trail of cologne and cryptic wine notes, and Xavier? Somewhere between the pantry and a nap in the dry storage.

You’re still here.

And so is Caleb.

He’s standing at the counter, arms braced on the steel, sleeves pushed up, steam still curling faintly from the forgotten pot beside him. There’s tension in his jaw. A tightness to his stillness.

You finish wiping down your side station and wander over to the prep board, eyes scanning the half-finished layout for tomorrow’s service. You don’t hear him move, but you feel it when he’s suddenly close.

Too close.

He leans in behind you, not touching—but you feel the heat of him along your back, the slow press of his voice by your ear.

“Don’t tell me you’re still second-guessing the placement of the tartlets,” he murmurs.

You don’t look at him. “They’re not centered.”

“They’re fine.” He exhales a soft chuckle. “If you stare at it any longer, it’s going to combust. Though I’d enjoy watching that.”

You try to ignore the way his voice dips on that last part. “Your definition of helpful needs work.”

Caleb leans in a little more, eyes scanning over your shoulder, breath warm on your temple.

“I am being helpful,” Caleb murmurs, voice low and easy, close enough that his breath stirs the air by your ear. “I’m giving you a second opinion. Up close.”

You glance sideways.

He’s right there.

Calm. Still.

A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His arms relaxed at his sides, and his ash-brown bangs fall low across his eyes—teasing the edge of his gaze like they’re trying to soften what’s already too sharp.

And he’s watching you. Not the plate.

You.

“This reminds me of school,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Late nights. Just us. You, me, four dozen plates, no time, no sleep.”

His voice sinks deeper, warmer. “You always worked like you were chasing something. Like every plate had to prove something.” A beat. “Maybe it did.”

You don’t answer—not right away.

The kitchen hums around you, distant now. You’re aware of the shape of him beside you, the weight of memory folding in like steam.

He tilts his head, hair shifting as his eyes flick down—first to your hands, then to the line, then back again.

“I used to stay later than I needed to,” he murmurs. “Just to watch you finish.”

The words land soft but heavy. Measured, like he’s waited years to say them without it sounding like too much.

Your breath catches.

“Back off or I’ll start moving your mise around,” you mutter.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Cruel.”

But he’s still smiling as he steps back, just enough to let the air cool again. Then:

“Do you trust him?”

You glance up. “Who?”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “Sylus.”

The weight in his voice isn’t jealousy. It’s strategy. Tension.

You tilt your head. “I trust him to protect his own interests.”

Caleb nods once. Not agreement. Just recognition. He shifts slightly, drawing in a slow breath through his nose.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” he says, voice low. “How he acts like you’re already part of his portfolio.” His fingers flex on the table’s edge.

You blink, heart ticking faster. You don’t answer. You can feel the air shifting around him. Not heated—but heavy. Pressurized.

“And I know it’s none of my business,” he continues, stepping just close enough to lower his voice further. “But I also know I’m not the only one who notices.”

There’s a silence.

Then he adds, quieter: “I care about you. More than I should. And I’m not proud of how long I tried to ignore it.”

You stare at him, throat tight. There’s no performative heat in his words. No desperation. Just truth—terrifying in its clarity.

And then—

A voice, cool as glass:

“You done?”

You both turn.

Zayne. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, prep notes in one hand. His expression is unreadable.

“I came back for my folder,” he says, tone neutral. “Didn’t expect to walk in on… this.”

Caleb doesn’t move.

Zayne straightens slightly. “You want to have feelings, do it off the clock. Because if this is going to interfere with service, then someone else needs to be running the pass.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but the line is drawn.

You open your mouth, but Caleb holds up a hand—not to you. To Zayne.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud. It’s final.

“I built this kitchen.” His voice is steel. “I run it. I trained every person on this line to breathe in rhythm because I commanded it. So if you think you’re going to walk in here and take my place because I had the audacity to feel something human for five seconds—think again, Sous.”

Zayne’s face doesn’t change. “I’m talking about focus.”

“I’m always focused,” Caleb replies. Calm. Deadly. “That’s the difference between you and me. You cut to fix. I cut to lead.”

You feel your chest tighten. You’ve heard Caleb take control before—calm, commanding, in total charge. But this isn’t that. This is quieter. Sharper. Like he’s sealing something off with every word.

Zayne looks at you briefly. Then, with no more to say, he turns, collects his notes, and walks out the door.

No dramatics. No parting shot.

But the room is different now.

You don’t realize your shoulders have tensed until you release them. Caleb doesn’t speak—just stares down at the table, knuckles pale against the steel.

Then, slowly, his head lifts.

His eyes meet yours.

And the sharp edge he showed a moment ago is gone—replaced by something quieter. Something that slips out in the way his gaze lingers on you, like he’s still trying to hold onto whatever thread just snapped.

Not anger. Not regret. Just… want. Steady and unsaid. Heavy in his chest. The kind that’s been there for too long.

He exhales once through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s trying to steady something breaking apart beneath the surface. His mouth parts—he’s just about to say something.

And you cut in, too soft:

“I’m gonna—step out.”

That breath never finishes. Whatever he was going to say dissolves on it. He just watches you go.

You slip out of the kitchen, shoes quiet against the floor, and walk the familiar path to dry storage—where Xavier tends to hide.

Sure enough, he’s there. Sitting on a sack of rice like it’s a lounge chair, head tilted against the shelf, fingers absently stirring through a bowl of dried lavender.

He glances up as you step in. The light overhead flickers once, then steadies.

“You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Then you sink down beside him, legs folding slow, spine rounding. You let the quiet sit for a moment.

“I think something just cracked,” you murmur. “Between Caleb and Zayne. I didn’t mean to cause it, but… I was there. And it happened.”

Xavier doesn’t say anything right away. He lets your words hang there, like he’s waiting to see what shape they’ll settle into.

Then he blinks, slowly, and slides the bowl toward you. “Want to stir it?”

You frown a little, but reach for the dried lavender, fingers trailing through the soft buds and stems. The scent rises—herbal, calming, sweet.

You hear his voice again, quieter this time.

“I’ve seen cracks before,” he says. “In people. Places. Pressure doesn’t cause them. It just shows where they already were.”

You stare at the lavender. “So this was inevitable?”

He shrugs, shoulder grazing yours. “Maybe. Or maybe Zayne needed to hear something he didn’t want to.”

You exhale through your nose. It’s not relief, but it’s something close.

“I just didn’t expect Caleb to talk like that,” you say. “He didn’t yell. He just… cut.”

Xavier nods. Then, without warning, he lifts a hand and places it gently on top of your head.

Not ruffling. Not patronizing. Just… there.

His palm is warm. His fingers soft. His expression is still mostly neutral—but his eyes, when you glance up at him, are smiling.

Awake. Present.

“You’re not a crack,” he says softly. “You’re an anchor. That scares people sometimes.”

Your throat tightens.

He drops his hand back to his lap and unwraps a piece of hard candy from his pocket. He doesn’t even ask—just places it in your palm, like always.

You stare at it for a moment, then pocket it instead of eating it.

“I need fresh air,” you whisper.

He nods once, head tipping forward. “Take your time. I’ll stay here.”

You rise slowly and leave him in the stillness.

The hallway echoes under your feet.

And the moment the back door opens, night air rushes in like a wave, cool enough to sting a little when you breathe too deep.

You sit on the back curb of the restaurant, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, hands clasped together like you’re holding something breakable between them. The light from inside spills out in a narrow triangle behind you. The rest of the alley is dark, still, wide with silence.

Your breath comes slow, but your thoughts move fast—Caleb’s voice, low and clipped. Zayne’s stillness before the exit. Xavier’s palm resting gently on your head like a safety switch flipped just in time.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to find something still inside yourself.

Then—

The sound of boots. Slow. Steady. Confident.

You open your eyes.

Emerging like he was made of shadow and tailored cashmere. His coat flares slightly as he walks, hands deep in his pockets, no rush to the way he moves. Just inevitability.

Sylus stops a few feet away from you, eyes catching in the spill of light.

“You look like someone just canceled your favorite dessert.”

You don’t even look at him. “Not in the mood, Sylus.”

“I know,” he says. There’s no teasing in it. Just fact. “That’s why I came.”

He steps closer, crouches down beside you—not too close. Just near enough to let you feel that Sylus weight, that presence like gravity in a dark suit.

“I’m not asking what happened,” he says after a moment. “I’m just saying—you don’t have to sit in it alone.”

You don’t answer. You look away instead, at the empty street. The way the lamplight pools on the asphalt like melted gold.

Sylus lets the silence breathe between you before he straightens again.

“I was going to take the bike home,” he says, casual now, light. “Wind’s good for shaking off unnecessary emotions. Or at least rearranging them.”

You glance sideways. “Your bike?”

He smirks. “Black Ducati. Impractical. Loud. Disrespectful. You’d hate it.”

You pause. “Maybe...”

He tilts his head. “Want a ride?”

There’s a long, suspended moment.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Exactly why I asked.” He holds out a hand. Not pushy. Just there.

You hesitate only a second longer—then you take it.

Ten minutes later, you’re flying through the city.

You’re pressed to Sylus’s back, arms snug around his waist, helmet a little too tight, and the wind feels real. Not just cold—but electric. Like it’s moving through your ribs, threading out all the things you can’t say.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t show off. He just moves.

Smooth through corners. Confident at every red light. Leaning into the road like it’s his stage and you’re the only audience. The buildings blur. Headlights trail like comets. Your hands stay still at his middle, but your heart is starting to beat in rhythm with the engine.

The night smells like spice and exhaust and the faint trace of whatever cologne Sylus wears that defies logic.

For a little while, you’re nobody’s anchor. Nobody’s pressure point.

Just a passenger.

Sylus slows in front of your building with a soft rumble and kills the engine. The world gets quiet again. Too quiet.

You swing your leg off, pull the helmet off with fingers a little numb, and shake your hair loose into the night air. You’re flushed. Alive.

Sylus dismounts after you, smooth and effortless. Helmet tucked under one arm.

He glances over. “Better?”

You nod. “Yeah. That was…”

“A terrible idea,” he says, with a small grin.

You huff a breath of a laugh. “Exactly.”

He steps a little closer, gaze steady now. No smirk. Then he cups your face—just barely. Fingers warm against your jaw, thumb resting gently near your cheekbone.

“You’re not just talent,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant for your bones, not your ears. “You’re the reason this place works. The critic won’t change that.” A pause—long enough to carry weight.

“Neither will what happened tonight.”

Red eyes soften. His jaw eases—just enough to blur the sharp edge of his profile. He’s close. Closer than you meant to let him be. And then—just for a breath—he bites his lower lip. Like he’s tasting the moment before it breaks.

You blink—throat suddenly dry, like your body realized something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You don’t know what to say to that.

So he hands you the helmet instead. “Keep it. You might need it again, chef.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by night, like the moment was never real to begin with.

You make it up to your apartment, lights low, boots kicked off, helmet set gently on the counter. You exhale—but it’s not release. Sylus’s still there. Not in the room, but in the shape of your breath, in the echo of his fingers on your face.

His presence clings—low in your spine, high in your throat. It curls behind your thoughts, quiet and hungry. You lean into the counter, eyes closed, trying to shake the heat from your skin. But it’s not leaving. He’s not leaving.

Then your phone buzzes.

RAFAYEL: Did you die??? I had a dream you were kidnapped and made to eat under-seasoned risotto. I woke up crying. Text me back or I’m calling the police.

Then another buzz.

RAFAYEL: Also. You looked hot today. That’s not related. Just wanted you to know.

You snort, flopping down on the couch, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

God bless the chaos.

And god help the critic.

——————————————————————————

Chapter one

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: First off, a massive thank you to everyone who left such lovely comments, reblogged, and liked the draft—it truly means the world! I was considering color-coding their dialogue, but honestly, it just pulls me out of the flow when I read it myself. That said, if it’s something you’d prefer, let me know—I’m always open to your thoughts and where you think this story could go. The next chapter is ofc already cooking in my brain, and I can’t wait to dive deeper into the flames of this kitchen AU!

(And finally—finally—I have a real use for all my wine-and-dine knowledge beyond just obsessing over a perfectly cooked scallop, pickled Hokkaido pumpkin, paired with a beautiful Furmint (and binge watching Masterchef AU). I’m not a snob, I swear—just passionately invested in the finer things… like good wine, a perfect cup of coffee, soft lighting, and Caleb being the most heart-stealing man to ever exist. HEH.) And you better believe New Noise as been on repeat. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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teecupangel · 5 months ago

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Нi!

god, I read your blog literally every day, it's amazing! helps me cope with stress

anyway, i had a little idea i thought you might like. we often give Desmond godlike powers because of the isu crap. our boy is an angel, that's clear, but what about the devilish appearance? horns, seductiveness, gold accents and maybe a tail?

a creature that would make religious people scream in horror, that's what

and let him get attached to Leonardo da Vinci. my boy must be confused. like, he already thought he was going to burn in hell for his wishes, so a literal devil in his studio admiring his work? well, it couldn't get any worse!

it gets worse when Ezio finds out about Desmond and thinks that literally the devil is going to take his friend. Ezio is very against

I’m so happy to hear that. I’m glad this blog is able to help you cope with stress <3

Soooooo… shall we make Desmond’s life much more miserentertaining?

Desmond actually returned to the past while Leonardo was studying the Apple under Borgia’s lock and key.

Leonardo is smart enough to know that he wasn’t the one who summoned an actual demon.

But he has been using the Apple against his will far too long and too much that he has started to question his own sanity.

So when Desmond appeared in all his demonic glory and the guards started to scream and pray, Leonardo’s brain just short circuited and thought “the Apple can summon a demon, yeah, sounds about right.”

Desmond didn’t really have any plans other than stop these guards from trying to kill him or burn him or behead him or… uuuuhhh… chant prayers at him?

Okay.

Maybe going “God can’t save you” was a bad call if he was trying to not be known as the devil or whatever but Desmond is just going to shake that off.

So… he already killed too many people and now he’s worried that Leonardo will come to harm.

Especially since Cesare was a coward who ran away as soon as shit hit the fan, even forgetting the Apple.

So Desmond just took the Apple and Leonardo (who quickly took all of his papers and journals) and called it a day.

…

A non-lethal version of events happened after he reached the Brotherhood’s headquarters and, really, Ezio should teach his recruits to not scream in terror even if someone who looked like a demon (allegedly) walked inside their supposed secret secured base.

And Desmond has his work cut out for him because Ezio?

Oh, Ezio thinks he’s the real devil, summoned by the Apple, to seduce Leonardo to sin (Leonardo and Desmond just glances at each other without saying anything at this)

Desmond’s attempt to tell Ezio that he’s Ezio’s Desmond only served to make Ezio believe he is the devil.

Why else would he know of Desmond?

How shameless of him to try and pretend to be Desmond when he looks like a devil.

Desmond just wants to bash his head when he remembered this Ezio has not seen him in a hologram near Altaïr’s bones yet.

Hell, even if he did, who knows?

Ezio might just think that a devil was trying to copy Desmond’s appearance.

Okay then…

Time to try and make Ezio see that he means no harm and that he is Desmond.

… with Leonardo’s help, of course.

(Leonardo does not have a say on this but he doesn’t mind, Desmond was nice and he didn’t necessarily believe that he’s the devil. If he is, he hopes assisting him would, at the very least, make Desmond think of taking Leonardo’s soul instead. It won’t be bad to suffer in eternal damnation under a devil like Desmond)

#assassin's creed #ask and answer #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed #desmond miles #ezio auditore #leonardo da vinci

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hyunjins-orange-slice-too · 9 months ago

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if you want to, could you make a fake texts with jisung?? like friends-to-lovers & jisung has been distant (because of work/stress) so reader gets upset and thinks he's not interested in her anymore and he has to comfort+reassure her?

jisung when he’s distant because of work

genre: fake texts, angst (happy ending)

warnings: none i don’t think.

an: the urge to make this not a happy ending.. was so strong. but i resisted for you, anon. i hope this is what you wanted. 💕 thank you for requesting.

masterlist

🚨reminder: this blog is 18+ only. i’ve been getting a lot of new followers (which i greatly appreciate) but if there’s no age identifier on your blog, i’m blocking you no questions asked. (for my own sanity and peace of mind.) ik some people don’t actually go to my page to read the warnings, so im going to start attaching a warning at the bottom of all my posts. thanks for understanding. 💕

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids fake texts #stray kids smau #skz fake texts #skz smau #skz han #han fake texts #han stray kids #han jisung stray kids #stray kids han #stray kids han jisung #han jisung x reader #han jisung #emmy answers

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nikki27lee · 2 months ago

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I will be a little bit shy when it comes to my lifelong tickling fetish. Even the word “tickle” can be hard for me to hear, let alone say. So when I found myself once again opening a hotel door to a man with a duffel bag full of hellish equipment and a sadistic desire to tickle ticklish women, I began to question my own sanity. For someone that is as ticklish as I am it’s a wonder how I am actually turned on by it, and yet here I am; in stocks with my hands behind my back watching the oil being poured out onto my bare feet. I had secretly hoped that if he saw my sweet, pleading eyes looking up at him in ticklish agony that he would show some mercy. I could not have been more wrong. The fingers were not so awful at first. It was the brush that did me in! I involuntarily thrashed around, my body wanting so desperately to escape, but my soul loving every bit of it. And that was just the 20 minute warm up.

Once I was bound with my arms straight up above my head, strap tightly fastened above my elbows I knew it was over for me. @savage-ler something about me that I don’t much like to share with professional ticklers like himself, and that is my very ticklish hip flexors. Having them poked and prodded either turns me into a pleading, thrashing mess or into a fit of shocked, silent laughter. He promised me that this session he would destroy me with gentle touches, and boy was he right. I learned that it doesn’t take a lot of pressure to make me beg and plead.

I actually learned a few new thing during this session and they go as follows:

1. Even the tops of my feet are ticklish.

2. My bellybutton is my worst spot followed by my hips area.

3. The count downs before the ACTUAL tickling begins sometimes tickles too.

AND 4. I’m stronger than I look, because I put his 20 year old restraints into retirement.

@savage-ler you told me before that no other ticklee has ever broke your restraints but I literally bend his restraints while he was going for my hips. My god I'm wishing to see you soon again but I also know that how you make me plead and beg for mercy while laughing and thrashing my body.

P.S. - I couldn't be able to access my old account.

#tickle fight #tickle session #tummy tickles #tickle video #tickle fic #tickle fluff #tickle tickle #tickle art #tickle scenarios #tickletorture #navel tickling #navel torture #navel #sexy navel #curvy hips #sexy hips #hip tickling

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months ago

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The Pain of Living 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, chronic pain, blood/violence, perversion, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You deal with pain every day, but a new source of pain lands on your front step.

Note: I know I shouldn’t.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Ibuprofen, pedialyte, gauze, and a few extras just to pad out your cupboards. It’s not quite a success considering what you’re headed back to. You drive cautiously, wondering if anyone else can see the horror sewn into your face. No one stops you, no sirens whoop, you’re left to face the strange man in your bed.

You get home and carry in the bags, pausing just inside to catch your breath. The brief trip has you ragged. You feel twice as bad as when you left. That isn’t what matters. The blood on your floor reminds you that there is much worse to deal with.

You bend and take out the large bottle of pills and a bottle of grape electrolytes. Your steps are weighed down by more than your pain. Dread hangs off of you like a wet blanket.

You knock. On your own door. The man doesn’t answer. Your heart pumps. You knock louder, keeping the bottles hugged under your arm.

Still no answer. You twist the handle and push inside. Please, let it be an awful nightmare. Don’t let him be dead.

“Ah, oh god,” you exclaim and spin away from the sight the strange man’s naked back. The vision of his ass as he bends his leg around your duvet is stamped into your mind. Ugh. “Sorry, I--”

“Fuck, I finally fell asleep,” he sneers. “Got the painkillers?” You nod at the hallway. The bed creaks and he huffs. “Well... give it.”

You turn warily. He has the blanket pulled over his lap. His torso is entire naked, a patchwork of stitches, dried blood, and hair. You near the bed and set down the tablets and the electrolytes.

“NSAIDs,” he rattles the bottle. “Anti-inflammatories help with blood clotting. It’ll keep me from bleeding out like Normandy beach.” You wince at his crude allusion. He rolls his eyes, “relax. Think I’m through the worst of it. No major arteries. But damn...” he leans back against the pillows, “I feel like a slapped ass.”

You furrow your brow. The way he talks, his arrogance, it makes it hard to feel bad for him despite his injuries. He tosses back two pills and reaches for the other bottle. He gulps eagerly and pops his wet lips.

“Mm, fuck, exactly what I need. Hey, you got a TV you can move in here? Something to watch?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“You should probably sleep--”

“Thanks, Nurse Ratchet, I’d love to fucking sleep, but I’m restless now you woke me up,” he sneers.

“Um... I have my laptop.”

“Any fucking screen that can keep me from going mad staring at the ceiling.” He insists.

You nod and back out of the room. This is odd. Absurd to the point you question your own sanity. Have you summoned a hallucination out of sheer boredom? Did you snap? Or do you really have the worst luck?

You sniff and go to find your laptop. You don’t use it for more than filing your insurance claims and to get your mailing labels for your work. He can borrow it for a bit. You don’t have any pending orders.

You return to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you as you enter. You hold out the computer.

“Here, um, it’s all yours.”

“You talk to anyone?” He asks.

“Anyone...?”

“When you went out, did you talk to anyone?”

“Not really. I used the self-checkout--”

“Did you tell anyone about me?” He interrupts.

“Erm, no, I...”

“Fuck, you are dull. That’s all I need,” he takes the laptop. “You can piss off.”

You flinch. Wow. That’s not very nice.

You reach for the laptop as he puts it on his lap, “look, if you’re going to be mean, I have better things to do with that--”

He grabs your wrist and easily twists it back. Despite his condition, he’s just as strong as his bulging muscles would suggest. You whimper as your eyes glimmer.

“Ow, let go, please,” you whimper.

He keeps you locked in for another moment before he obliges. You retract and swallow down the agony. What hurt before is now unbearable. You cradle your arm and retreat.

“Close the door, raggedy ann.”

You shut the door. As much to block him out as to appease him. How can someone you helped be so rotten?

You go to the kitchen and sit in a wooden chair at the small table. You rub your wrist and sniffle. It’s easier to be alone and in pain. You don’t like others to see you struggle. The way that man behaves, you don’t want to show any weakness.

You blow out between your lips and look at the door. You’ll need to clean up soon. The rug is garbage but getting rid of a blood-stained carpet won’t be easy. And the bleach might not do much for the floor.

You put your head down on your folded arms. You’ll deal with it eventually. Like everything else. It’s too much. Everything waits on the pain. Your whole life is centered on your aching bones and burning muscles.

You wallow in your self-pity until you have the energy to get up. When you do, you ignore the inevitable and make coffee. As it brews, there’s a holler.

“Hey, sugar stack,” the man calls, “is that coffee I smell?”

You tense, a surge of pain rippling through you. You exhale and collect your strength. You yell back, “yeah.”

“I take mine black. Thanks, baby.”

You close your eyes and grit your teeth. You’re not a mean person. You’re not cruel. You don’t hate people. In fact, you do your best to keep them happy. You don’t want to be a burden. You don’t to be a problem.

Yet this man makes your brain fiery. You’re actually annoyed. Angry even. It isn’t that he’s just rude, he presumptuous. He just assumes that everything belongs to him, and that seems to include your home.

You can guess how he ended up the way he did. He doesn’t exactly inspire kindness.

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #series #drabble #the pain of living #the gray man

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tadc-harlequin-au · 7 months ago

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I’ve been having this question for a while now and I suppose it’s not the most important but I can’t get it out of my head- is the world like earth? Were there areas/continents more impoverished say than the main area that everything is taking place in- areas that don’t have as much technology I mean, maybe not even puppets. Knowing humanity I wouldn’t put it past that there were villages and uncontacted tribes out there- before the fall I mean and all humanity got wiped out. Ig what I’m trying to get at is if the world just became a giant monoculture or if there was still different collections of people doing things they’re own way. (Sorr if this is a really weird thing to ask)

No no, you're fine. Funny enough, a while back, I was thinking about some rough drafts of literal worldbuilding for the harlequin au, and while this absolutely isn't final (it's TOO small), it does help me establish some rules for what I want this world to be.

It is a giant monoculture-esque/ethnocentric setting, yeah.

The world is NOT Earth. There are similarities yes, but it is significantly smaller than regular earth.

Some areas, lands, or archipelagos are even uninhabitable due to mostly environmental and a strangely paranormal(?) reasoning. Any attempts to expand beyond results in monumental losses whether resourcefully, financially, or just straight up casualties/no one returning ever. They don't have the necessary technology to be able to actually overcome this hurdle, so they cut their losses for now (that was the plan before everyone died that is lol).

That doesn't mean they don't try to harvest whatever resource they can that's in reach. Because they totally would.

The world would be fashioned like a giant cog; leaders say the cog symbolizes unity amongst the cities, and also marks the steady progress of everyone towards "The Future", as a cog helps keep a machine running. Very ironic, considering what state this world is in today.

Yes, I made City of Gears canon from Scarlet's story, I will not hear any objections /lh

The cities are HUMONGOUS. There are a total of 7 Megacities, all connected via giant bridges.

There are large docks for expeditions ALL over the edges of the cog. Planes are very, VERY less popular to use as mode of transport.

But you know what is popular? SKYBRIDGESSSSSSSSSSS BABYYYY

What's a skybridge? Think of "the floating train" + Skylines from Bioshock: Infinite's concepts, but it also spans THE ENTIRE WORLD.

Now, obviously you can smell that a well-hidden dystopian world like this has a lot of systemic corruption in place such as absolutist thinking, stereotyping, outdated societal "norms" and intense class oppression to name a few. I will not be delving incredibly deep into how shitty the old world was for three reasons:

For the sake of my sanity;

Out of respect because I'm severely uninformed and do not actually have the biggest brain nor all the time in the world to research; and

This old world is already gone anyways. There is no need to pick it apart piece by piece in incredible detail, because that's not the main focus of the story anyways. The main focus is how would everyone conform into their new lives, essentially a new beginning for everything?

As such, anything story-related will only be implied through the main cast. Besides, I'm clearly not the only one who's got a lot of ideas for this au, so as long as it's within the realm of possibility, I encourage people to worldbuild if they have ocs for this au, as well as if they so desire. Whether simply implied or directly referenced, go ahead. :)

P.S. some things may be added in the future.

#thanks for the ask!#tadc #tadc au #tadc harlequin au #harlequin au #the amazing digital circus #fantasy worldbuilding #worldbuilding

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runningincircl3s · 7 days ago

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Sinematic

Vinny Mauro x Reader

Chapter 11

chapter warnings: oh... there's smut... (nsfw mdni!!) (also reminder i can't proof read my own smut because it feels weird idk why lmao)

i'm still having new ideas for this story and changing things up all over the place, so i'm hoping this is okay cos there wasn't actually supposed to be smut until a later chapter but i kinda thought it would work at the end of this hehe :)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You barely slept.

All you could think about all night was how his hands felt, how warm his mouth was, how he touched you. But what played on your mind the most, was the words he whispered, the quiet confessions it felt like you weren’t supposed to hear.

You played it over and over in your mind, trying to make it make sense, but it didn’t. He touched you and kissed you like he wanted you, like he felt the same as you, but then he pulled back as if he realised what he was doing was wrong, like he didn’t really want it.

But you didn’t know Vin was also lying awake, also staring at the ceiling all night.

His mind wouldn’t switch off. He felt like he did something wrong, you never gave him permission to touch you the way he did, but you didn’t push him away either. He knew if you weren’t comfortable, you would’ve said something, but that wasn’t the point. He fucked up, and he needed to apologise. As much as he wished it could be more, he didn’t want to ruin the friendship you had barely managed to salvage.

But then he thought about the way you kissed him back, how right it felt, how you slid your hands behind his neck, fingers running through his hair.

Eventually, you both fell asleep, with the thought of each other on your minds.

The next morning, you woke up pretty early. You didn’t bother to make your bed or open the blinds, but made your way downstairs in hopes to make breakfast and get out of the way before Vin wakes up. Your hair was a mess from tossing and turning all night, it had been hot so you slept in a tiny pair of sleep shorts and a tank top with no bra, so you prayed you’d avoid him. You just wanted to make some toast and a coffee and be on your way.

But just as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you can hear him already.

You walk in to see him getting a glass of water. Shirtless. Damp curls. Clearly fresh out the shower. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard your footsteps.

“Morning.” He says all too casually, as if he didn’t have his hands and mouth all over you last night.

“Morning.” You put on a smile, reaching for the bread.

“You making breakfast?”

“Just some toast.” You answer with a shrug.

“Can you make me some too?” He asks like he always does. Like it meant nothing last night. Like he wasn’t messing with your sanity.

You force a small nod, biting your cheek to keep yourself from blurting out what the hell were you playing at last night? Instead, you take out four slices of bread and pop them into the toaster.

You stand in silence for a moment, he was occupied with something on his phone, and your mind was still in overdrive, wondering why the fuck you chose to move in with him.

Eventually, you pass him his breakfast, but you don’t sit with him. You pick up your plate and turn.

“I’m gonna eat in my room.”

He pauses mid bite.

“Why?”

“I just… Have a lot to do.”

“Okay,” he doesn’t question it, “Don’t forget AJ and Emil are coming over later, there’s a new game out that we want to play so I’m downloading it right now.”

“Cool.” You say, “I’ll uh… Make sure I’m out of the way.”

His head jerks up.

“Why?” He asks, almost sounding hurt, “I wanted you to hang out with us, why would you hide away?”

You press your lips together, your heart thudding loud in your ears. Before you can find a reason that sounds believable, he sets down his toast.

“Is this about last night?”

His voice is lower now, more careful. Like he’s scared of your answer.

“I’m sorry,” he continues. “I thought… I thought if you didn’t want it, you’d say something. I didn’t mean to cross a line. I didn’t even ask before I touched you, and- fuck.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I fucked up.”

You felt your heart sink.

That’s not what happened. Not even close. But before you can say anything, he speaks again.

“I know you just want to be friends. So do I. I swear. It’s just… sometimes I…”

“You what?”

He hesitates for a moment, but falters, shakes his head and sighs.

“Forget it,” he mutters. “Your toast’s gonna get cold.”

…

You spent the majority of the day in your bedroom, more confused than ever. Did he regret what he did last night? You should’ve told him you wanted it, you wanted more, but the words wouldn’t come out.

You lied back on your bed, the small TV in the corner of the room playing a show you put on for background noise as you scrolled on your phone.

Then Angela’s name popped up on your phone.

Angel💗: HE DID WHAT?????

You forgot you texted her in a panic last night after everything happened. You had guessed she had now only just woken up, and only moments later she started to call.

“Hi.” You smiled as you answered the phone.

“What the fuck is he playing at? Girl, I told you not to move in with him-“

“Look, it was just…” You didn’t know how to finish that.

“Talk me through it. Tell me exactly what happened. Don’t spare the details!”

You sighed, hesitating for a moment before nodding- though she couldn’t see it.

“I went out last night with Ciaran. When I came home he was waiting up for me, we talked for a bit, then I went to bed. I couldn’t reach the zipper on my top so the only option was to ask him for help, when I knocked on his door I heard these sounds… Like he was…”

“Jacking off?”

“Ang!”

You both laughed, but then when it died down, you sighed.

“Anyways, I knocked again and he stopped, he opened the door and then… he helped me. And I don’t know why but I told him I kissed Ciaran, I told him I didn’t feel anything, and then he kissed me. It got pretty heated, his hands and mouth moved lower and-”

“He played with your tits?”

“Angela!” You groaned, feeling your cheeks heat up, remembering exactly how it felt.

“So… If you didn’t feel anything with Ciaran, how did it feel with Vin?”

“I don’t know. I wish I could say I didn’t feel anything, but that’s a lie. It just felt so right, I didn’t want to stop.”

“So… You still want him?”

“I don’t think I ever stopped. It’s taken me a while to realise what I want, and it is him, Ang.”

Knock knock

“Uh, y/n? The guys are here.” Vin’s voice called from the other side of your bedroom door.

“Two seconds!” You called back, apologising to Ang, saying that you have to go.

“Just tell him the truth, let him know how you feel before it’s too late.”

You end the call and get up from your bed, opening the door and seeing Vin stood at the other side, an unsure look on his face.

You follow him down the stairs and greet the guys.

…

“So, is y/n joining us?�� AJ asked, sighing as he collapsed onto the couch.

Vinny nodded, looking over at the stairs as if you’d just appear.

“I’ll uh, go and tell her you’re here.”

“Is everything okay, man?” Emil asked, “You’ve been a little off since we got here.”

“Yeah,” Vin said, too quickly for it to sound believable, “I’m just under a lot of stress right now, with the tour coming up soon...”

“Fuck, yeah that’s next month.” Emil groaned, “Is y/n coming with us?”

“Why would she?” Vin asked.

“C’mon, man. The two of you, it’s obvious.”

“She’s seeing someone, actually. This guy called Ciaran.”

“What?!” Emil gasped, and Vin nodded, not saying another word before turning to the stairs, making his way up to your room.

He could hear the muffled sound of talking, he assumed it was coming from your TV at first, but as he got closer he recognised your voice.

“It’s taken me a while to realise what I want, and it is him, Ang.”

Vin felt his whole body freeze, his heart stopping momentarily in his chest.

You were talking about Ciaran. You had to be talking about Ciaran.

Still, he knocked on your door.

Knock knock knock.

“Uh, y/n? The guys are here.”

…

You’d be lying if you said the game wasn’t fun. For hours, the four of you switched between the two controls, each having a go. It almost felt normal. Easy. Like you and Vin were really just friends. Like last night never happened.

But every time your knees bumped, or he leaned across you for the controls, that tension came creeping back. You knew he felt it too, in the way his laugh always faltered a second too late when your skin touched, and how his face went red.

It was around eight when the storm started. A distant rumble at first, soft enough to ignore. But by the time the rain began pelting the windows and the thunder came, even AJ flinched.

“Well, I guess that’s our cue.” He said, pushing himself off the couch.

“Yeah,” Emil added, eyeing the windows. “Before we get stuck here or something. That wind is crazy.”

You got up to walk them out, thanking them for coming, doing your best not to watch Vin out of the corner of your eye, the way he lingered behind you, the way he scratched the back of his neck like he had more to say but didn’t know how to say it.

The door slammed shut behind them with a gust of wind, rattling the whole house.

Then the lights flickered.

Then everything went black.

“Oh, shit.” Vin muttered from beside you.

You reached out instinctively, grabbing his arm in the dark as another clap of thunder echoed in the sky.

“Power’s out.” He confirmed, already moving to check the switches. You could barely see a thing, only catching outlines and shadows whenever lightning flashed outside the window.

“Is it just us?” You asked, voice a little shaky as you followed him.

“No idea. Could be the whole block.” He paused. “You okay?”

“Yeah…” You said, sounding very convincing.

“C’mon, I’ve got a flashlight in the kitchen somewhere.”

“Which way is the kitchen?” You asked, since you were in pitch black darkness. Not a single light anywhere to be seen, and you had both left your phones by the couch.

“Uh… This way?”

“Which way?”

He reaches out, his hand brushing your arm as he tries to reach for your hand to guide you along with him. You finally found his hand, and he squeezed it lightly.

“Okay, kitchen’s this way… I think.”

“I’m placing bets right now that we end up falling into the basement.”

“Hmm, yeah I’ll take that bet.”

He led the way, confidently for about three seconds before he rammed his shin into something solid.

“Shit!” he hissed, hopping in place. “Okay there’s a chair there.”

You tried not to laugh.

“You good?”

“No.”

As you crept behind him, he muttered warnings.

“Watch out, I just stubbed my toe on the box there.”

You carefully followed as he guided you around it.

“Wow. Chivalry’s not dead.”

“I suffer so you don’t have to.” He smirked, though it was too dark for you to see.

After a few more bruises and one dramatic bump into the doorframe, Vin finally declared his victory with a quack.

“What the hell was th-”

“Got it!” He announced, flicking on a tiny flashlight.

It was shaped like a rubber duck.

You stared at its dim, yellow glow.

“No way.”

“What? It works.”

“It’s a duck.”

“And it quacks.” He added proudly, squeezing it.

Quack.

You were pretty sure you’d never laugh harder in your life.

“Why do you even have this?”

“I bought it at a gas station, thought it looked kinda cool.”

“Of course you did.”

Still giggling, you followed him back to the living room, where the flashlight cast a weird, dim yellow light across the walls.

You both collapsed down onto the couch, and sighed.

“So… now what?” You asked.

He looked around, then down at the duck in his hand before placing it on the table.

“Dunno.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, staring at the rubber duck light now proudly perched on the coffee table, glowing pathetically.

“I feel like we’re about to tell ghost stories.” You said, tucking your legs under yourself.

Vin leaned back, arms folded behind his head.

“You ever heard Rick talk about this place is haunted? I’m a pro at ghost stories.”

You snorted.

“Yeah I’ve heard, is Sally still around?”

“Nah, I think I’ve scared her off now.”

The room fell quiet again, besides the occasional thunder rumbling outside. You rubbed your arms, trying to fight off the chill seeping into your skin now that you weren’t moving.

Vin glanced at you, noticed the way your shoulders curled in.

“You cold?”

“No, I’m okay.” You lied, though your teeth nearly betrayed you.

Without another word, he shifted closer and threw an arm around your shoulders. His body was so warm, annoyingly so. He had always been a human furnace.

You leaned into him without thinking. It just felt… nice.

Then you remembered your phone. You reached out blindly, thinking your arm stretched over Vin’s lap, hand skimming over something…

Something that most definitely was not your phone.

It was warm. Firm. And you felt it twitch under your touch.

Vin inhaled sharply through his teeth.

“Oh my god,” you blurted, yanking your hand back like it was on fire, leaning away from Vin as far as possible. “I thought that was- shit… I was just looking for my phone!”

He blinked, then looked down, then back up at you. Slowly, a grin crept across his face.

“If your phone’s that big, I have a lot of questions.”

“Vinny!” You groaned, wanting the couch to swallow you whole.

“Look, I’m not saying I minded-”

“Vin!”

He held up his hands in surrender, still smirking.

“Okay, okay! It was an accident!”

You groaned, dragging your hands over your face.

“Can we just forget this ever happened?”

Vinny snorted.

“You touched my dick.”

“Yeah, and you touched my tits last night, so… I guess now we’re even.”

The words slipped out too easily, and you instantly regretted them. The air shifted. His expression changed.

“That wasn’t an accident,” he said, his voice lower now. “And I apologised.”

You turned toward him slowly, your breath catching when you saw the look on his face. Serious. Not teasing. Not smug.

“...And I never said I didn’t like it, Vin.” You admitted.

That surprised him. His brows lifted just a little, then his eyes searched yours like he was making sure he heard you right.

You hesitated, then added.

“I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want you to stop.”

The silence stretched between yiu, the only sound the storm outside and the occasional stupid soft quack from the duck light every few minutes.

Vinny shifted a little.

“Really?” He asked.

You nodded, heart thudding as you moved a little closer and leaned in, close enough to feel his breath.

"I liked it... It felt good..." You said, your voice hardly above a whisper.

Your hand found his thigh, fingertips just resting there, maybe a little too high to just be casual. You glanced up at him again, testing the waters.

“Friends can… make each other feel good, right?”

Vin blinked, but his lips curled at the edges.

“Yeah. For sure.”

He scratched the back of his neck like he was pretending to think it through… classic stalling.

“Also,” he added, too casually for the words that were about to follow, “Friends can totally have sex to keep warm. Like, scientifically speaking. It’s basic survival.”

“Oh, for sure, I like your thinking.” You grinned. “I mean, body heat is important. You wouldn’t want me to die or anything.”

“Definitely not. That would make me a really bad friend.”

He was leaning in now, his arm slowly sliding behind you again, hand resting at your lower back.

“I’d… just be doing my part.” He said, his voice a little rougher now.

“Yeah?” You whispered.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t move right away. Neither of you did.

It was that limbo, the moment before everything tipped over and became too much to turn back. It gave you both time to pull away if you wanted, before a line got crossed you couldn’t uncross.

Your nose bumped his, your fingers dragging slightly higher up his leg, and suddenly his hand was on your jaw, pulling you into him like he’d finally made up his mind.

The kiss was slow, and hot, like he was savouring the feeling. Your lips moved with purpose this time, nothing hesitant or clumsy. It was soft and rough all at once.

You slid your body into his lap effortlessly, like you belonged there, your cold fingers slid under his shirt as he groaned quietly into your mouth.

“Still cold?” He murmured against your lips.

You nodded, breathless.

“Freezing.”

“Guess we just have to keep going, then.”

His warm arms wrapped around you, thumb rubbing over your spine as he kissed you. You straddled him, thighs on either side of his, your chest against his, your breath catching when you felt how hard he already was beneath you.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about last night,” you admitted quietly, your voice shaky. “The way you touched me.”

His hand slid under your shirt, warm against your bare skin.

“Yeah? You liked that?”

You nodded, a little breathless.

“Uh-huh. A lot.”

Vinny tilted his head, eyes locked on yours.

“Yeah?” His palm smoothed up your ribs, not quite touching your breasts yet, but close enough to make your whole body ache. “What did you like the most?”

You squirmed in his lap.

“Your hands. Your mouth. The way you took your time.”

“I was trying to behave,” he said, voice dark. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to do it again.”

"You can do it whenever you want."

His hands moved higher, sliding under your bra now, thumbing over your nipples until they were hard, stiff and sensitive. You let out a soft moan, your back arching into him.

Vinny leaned in, kissing down your neck, slow and deliberate.

“Still cold?”

You nodded your head.

"Guess I gotta try harder then."

He peeled your shirt off, and then lost his own, eyes never leaving yours as tugged your bra down a little until your breasts spilled free. His hands cupped you, thumbs flicking over your nipples, and then his mouth was there again, hot, wet, slow, licking and sucking until your legs started to tremble.

You ground against him without meaning to, seeking friction, gasping when you felt his cock pressing through his sweats against your core.

“God, Vin…”

“You like that?” He murmured against your skin.

You nodded, your fingers tangling into his hair as he dragged his mouth back up your chest, kissing your throat, your jaw, your lips again. His hands never stopped moving, roaming your back, your waist, slipping down to your hips and beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“Can I?”

“Please.” You nodded frantically.

He slid his hand between your legs, and you sucked in a breath when his fingers brushed your soaked panties.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice nearly wrecked. “You’re so wet already.”

“Touch me, please, Vin.” You begged, your hips shifting instinctively.

He did, slow, teasing strokes over your panties that made your thighs tremble. Then he slipped them to the side, finally sliding two fingers along your folds, groaning at the feeling.

“Jesus… I forgot how good you feel… How warm and soft…” His voice trailed off as his lips found your jaw.

You moaned as he rubbed small, tight circles over your clit, his mouth never far from your skin, kissing your chest, your shoulder, your throat, letting you fall apart slowly.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. Let me take care of you… Let me warm you up.”

You whimpered when he slid a finger inside you, curling it just right, adding another when you bucked against him. You were panting now, dizzy with it, holding onto him like you were afraid he’d disappear.

He kissed you again, slow but needy, and whispered.

“Can I taste you?”

You blinked at him, dazed.

“W-What?”

“Wanna go down on you again.” His voice was hoarse. “Please.”

You nodded, speechless, and he lifted you gently off his lap, laying you back against the couch. He pulled your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, settling between your thighs like it was his favourite place.

Because it once was.

He looked up at you once more, with a smirk, before he leaned in.

“You just tell me when you’re warm enough...”

Then his mouth was on you, hot, wet and perfect. His tongue flicked over your clit, slow at first, then rougher, enjoying the sounds that spilled from your mouth.

You cried out, legs trembling, hand flying to his hair.

“F-Fuck, Vinny-”

He groaned against you, like your moans were turning him on even more. And they were, he was grinding against the couch, so hard it hurt, desperate to be inside you.

When your thighs began to tremble, when your breath started to stutter, he slid back up your body and kissed you deep, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, cock pressed hard against your thigh through his pants. “Still cold?”

You laughed breathlessly.

“No.”

“Good.” He kissed you again, deeper and slower as he slid his sweats down just enough, angling his hips between yours. “But it’d be a shame to stop now.”

“Don’t you dare stop-”

“Shh, I got you. I’m not stopping.”

Vinny lined himself up, his breath shaky, eyes locked on yours like he was waiting for any reason to stop. You didn’t give him one. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nodded once, and whispered,

“Please.”

That was all he needed.

He pushed in slow, his eyes fluttering shut as he sank into you.

“Fuck.” He breathed, forehead resting against yours.

You gasped, nails digging into his back, your body stretching to take him. It hurt in the best way, too long, too much, and not enough all at once.

“God,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “It’s been a while… forgot how big you are.”

He groaned, hips stilling as he sat with his cock nestled deep, buried to the hilt insde you.

“And you’re so fucking tight...”

He kissed you again, and then started to move. Slow at first, dragging his hips back before driving into you with a roll of his body that made your eyes roll back.

You clung to him, every thrust sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your spine.

“Vin... Oh my god-”

“You’re so perfect,” he groaned, kissing down your neck as he fucked you harder. “I missed this. Missed you.”

He sat up slightly, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding under your ass to pull you deeper onto him with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, soft and obscene in the dim duck light.

The couch squeaked beneath you, cushions giving with each hard snap of his hips.

He was relentless now, and fucking you like he meant it, like he had something to prove. But it wasn’t just rough. It was real, like this wasn't just having sex to warm up.

Your bodies moved in sync, hips meeting over and over, your moans tangled with his breathless groans.

“Feel so good,” he panted. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.”

You whimpered, one hand sliding between your bodies to touch yourself.

“I’m so close, Vin. Don’t stop.”

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

You nodded frantically, body tightening.

“Y-yeah...”

He caught your hand, brushing your fingers away and replacing them with his own. His thumb circled your clit perfectly, his rhythm never faltering.

“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel you cum around me again.”

That did it.

Your body arched, muscles clenching as the orgasm washed over you. You cried out his name, voice cracking as you pulsed around him.

“F-fuck- you feel so good when you cum- holy shit...”

You shattered around him, gasping his name like a prayer. Your body arched beneath him, muscles clenching so tight it made his rhythm falter.

But he didn’t stop just yet.

Vinny watched you with something close to awe, still buried deep, still throbbing hard. Your body trembled under his, legs shaking.

“You okay?” He whispered, brushing sweat-slick hair from your face.

You nodded weakly, but your voice cracked.

“Yeah…”

He gently kissed your cheek.

“You’re doing so good.”

And then he moved again.

You whined, the motion making your body jolt.

“Vinny!”

“Shh, I got you,” he murmured, pulling out only to sit back against the cushions and tug you into his lap. “Come here, baby. Just wanna feel you like this.”

He helped you straddle him, his hands steady on your waist as he guided you back down onto his cock.

You whimpered, almost crying at the way he filled you again.

“Oh my god-”

“I know, I know,” he cooed, one hand smoothing down your back. “You’re so sensitive, huh? But you’re taking me so well.”

His lips grazed your collarbone as he rocked up into you, slow and deep at first, knowing how overstimulated you'd feel, then harder.

The couch creaked again, the stupid duck light casting just enough glow for you to see the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes stayed glued to yours.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Fucked out and so pretty. You’re mine like this, you know that? Can't have anyone else seeing you like this... Just me.”

You knew it was just the lust speaking, the heat of the moment- or so you thought.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he thrust up, harder now, relentless. As his thumb stroked your swollen clit again, the overstimulation burned, but felt so good at the same time. Every stroke hit that perfect spot, drawing helpless little gasps from you.

“Can’t,” you choked. “It’s too much...”

“You can,” he said gently, holding your hips in place as he fucked up into you. “You’re doing so good for me. Just one more. You can give me one more, yeah?”

Your head dropped to his shoulder, body trembling as he pounded into you. And all the while, his voice stayed soft and sweet, sinful praise against your ear.

“Love how you feel around me… warm and wet and perfect...”

Your body tensed again, an uncontrollable stroke of heat and pleasure exploding in your core and taking over your body. You sobbed against his neck as the second orgasm made you see stars, your voice breaking on his name.

He groaned, hands squeezing around you tight enough to bruise as he chased his own release, driving up into you a few more times before he finally came with a deep, breathless curse, spilling into you again as he held you tight to his chest.

Then neither of you moved.

You just stayed pressed against him, panting, shaking, both of you coated in sweat and his cock still deep inside you.

And then, from somewhere on the floor, the duck quacked again.

...

You didn’t move for a long time. At least half an hour must've passed, but you were scared that once this moment was over, it would never happen again, or you'd be too awkward around each other.

Just lay there draped across Vinny’s chest, sticky with sweat, your breathing gradually slowing as his fingers traced slow, lazy circles on your back.

“Are you alive?” He murmured into your hair.

You let out a weak noise.

“Barely.”

He chuckled, low and satisfied.

“You were amazing.”

“You did all the work.”

“I guess.” He tilted his head to press a kiss to your temple.

You smiled against his shoulder, feeling the way his arm tightened around you waist, like he wasn't ready to let you go. For a moment, it felt like you could say something real, that you should say something honest and scary, like I missed this, or you know you mean more to me than just a friend.

But neither of you did.

Because you were silly, and you were stupid, and maybe this was just easier.

"I could sleep here." You mumbled, feeling how his fingers drifted up into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp until you melted into him like putty.

“You are sleeping here.”

“Okay. Cool.”

You let your eyes fall shut, a happy, content sigh falling from your lips as you pressed a kiss to Vin's shoulder once more. You could feel yourself on the brink of sleep, and then...

Click.

The lamps around the room flickered to life. The TV rebooted. The fridge whirred back to life in the kitchen.

You both flinched at the sudden brightness.

“…Well, shit.” Vinny muttered.

You blinked at him, then at the barely glowing duck light on the floor.

"I mean, he served us well." You said, feeling Vin chuckle beneath you.

And then it quacked again, as if to say thank you.

You looked back up at Vin, with nothing but pure love in your eyes, and this time, when he leaned in to kiss you, soft and slow and smiling, you let him.

Maybe you’d talk about it tomorrow. Maybe not.

But right now, wrapped in his arms, your skin on his, you didn’t really care.

----------------------------

LATE POST AGAIN I'M SORRY!!! i hope it was worth it though ;)

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