#like what do you mean he's in the hospital without a coat

[ihopeicanchangethislater05]

does anyone, ANYONE know any other episode where wilson is in the hospital without a coat but with a black blazer

i can tell only one off the top of my mind and its season 1 ep 7

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTAR MANㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Platonic Alexander Sartorius x Child Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What If He Become Obsessed With a Lonely Little Girl?

☆⁠ NOTES : I already wrote that but yet again, it's a pure platonic fic. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It started with a cough. Yours.

You were just a little thing — no older than eight or nine. Scrawny, wide-eyed, draped in a secondhand coat too big for your shoulders, wandering around Gotham’s decaying hospital district with a ratty backpack and a box of chalk. Drawing hearts and cats on the sidewalks. Coughing a little too hard. Breathing in too much Gotham air.

That’s when he saw you.

Not clearly. He was hiding — always hiding — behind shadowed alleyways, behind vents, behind his own damn curse of a body. Dr. Phosphorus: a man more ghost than flesh, a body lit from the inside out with a radioactive hellfire that never dies.

You should’ve screamed. But you didn’t.

You stared at him. Big, unblinking eyes. Tilted your head. Like a child seeing a bonfire flicker in the cold. You didn’t run. Didn’t cry. You just said:

"You look like the stars."

And that was it.

He told himself it was just curiosity.

A child's innocence. A one-off encounter. He wouldn’t linger. Couldn’t. He was a monster, a pariah — rejected by science, abandoned by Gotham, burned from the inside out because of corporate betrayal. His body melted and fused into something no longer human. He hated children. Hated their purity, their softness, their loudness.

But you came back.

Every day. Drawing chalk suns and moons. Sometimes you brought flowers and left them by the rusted fence where you’d seen him. Sometimes you talked to the shadows — asked if he liked kittens. If he liked candy. If he was lonely.

He never answered. But he listened.

Then he began to follow you.

Silently. Carefully. Never too close. You had no one. No mother. No father. Gotham chewed people like you up and spat them out. But you were different — a tiny sunbeam in this diseased city. You shared your food with pigeons. Hugged stray cats. Drew wings on the sides of old buildings. You had such hope.

And somehow, he started to believe that if he watched over you… if he kept you safe… maybe his life wasn’t entirely without meaning.

It got worse when you got sick.

A fever. Nothing serious, but your little body was weak. Maybe from the Gotham air. Maybe from the cold. He hovered outside your squat shelter all night, watching you shake under the threadbare blanket. He couldn’t touch you. He’d burn you. His very presence was toxic.

So he left food. Medicine. Blankets. Stolen, yes — but necessary. The next morning, you smiled weakly and whispered to the shadows:

"Thank you, star man."

He didn’t sleep for days.

He started killing again.

Only people who hurt children. Only abusers. Dealers. Monsters. People who looked at you too long when you walked down the street. People who would’ve hurt you if he hadn’t stepped in.

Their corpses burned to ash, leaving no trace. No witnesses.

He told himself it was justice. A cleansing fire. But truthfully?

It was because you were the only thing in this world that hadn’t flinched at the sight of him.

He became obsessed with your laughter.

You didn’t do it often. But when you did — when a dog licked your face, or a balloon flew into your hands — it was music. Something pure. Something human. Something that made the burning inside him rage with something that almost felt like life.

He’d do anything to protect that sound.

He began following you everywhere. School (when you went). Stores. Shelters. You never saw him, but sometimes you left chalk drawings where you’d seen him last. Stick figures of a girl and a man made of flame. You named him "Mr. Star."

Then one night, someone hurt you.

A mugger. Just a kid himself, desperate, shaking, holding a knife. You were trying to give him your sandwich.

Alexander burned him down to the bone.

You saw him. Glowing, radioactive, his skull lit like a lantern, fire rising from his ribs — a creature from hell. You screamed, this time. Fell backwards. Cried.

He froze.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at your tearful, terrified face.

And then you reached out with a shaking hand and whispered:

“Please don’t go.”

That night, he began speaking to you.

Just once. Then again. And again. Always at night. Always hidden. But you got used to it. You told him about your day. He told you stories from when he was still human — about science, about the stars, about how he used to dream of curing cancer. He spoke like a ghost trying to remember what it was to be a man.

He warned you never to touch him. He was fire, poison. A living reactor.

But you called him your guardian angel.

Now he lives for you.

You are his redemption. The last flicker of light in a world that turned him into a monster. He doesn’t care about revenge anymore. Not really. Not when you’re smiling. Not when you’re safe.

He watches you sleep from rooftops. Follows you like a shadow. Whispers your name in the dark when he thinks you can’t hear.

You call him “Star Man.”

And though he knows he’ll never be human again…

He thinks, just maybe, he can be your star.

The nights in Gotham are always cold. Even in summer.

The shadows are long, the air tastes like smoke, and you’ve learned to recognize the scent of ash that trails behind him.

Even when you don’t see him, you talk like he’s listening.

And he is.

He always is.

You sit on the edge of an abandoned apartment building roof, legs swinging off the side like you don’t know gravity exists. There’s a blanket around your shoulders — he left it there yesterday. It doesn’t smell like fire, like the others. This one smells like him.

Ash. Sulfur. Ozone. Burnt electricity. You tell yourself it smells like the inside of a thundercloud.

You like it.

"You know," you say to the night, mouth full of a peanut butter sandwich (also him), "they say the stars are already dead when we see 'em. But you're still here. So… maybe you're not really a star. Maybe you're a ghost."

Silence.

A pause.

Then — behind the smoke pipe, in a corner of the rooftop where his burning body won’t light up the world — his voice rumbles low, tired, sad.

“Would it matter?”

You smile. You always smile when he talks. You swear his voice makes your ribs feel warm — but not from heat. From something softer.

You hug the blanket tighter.

“It matters to me.”

He doesn’t know why that makes his chest ache.

There’s no blood left in his heart. No muscle. Just fire. So why does it hurt?

Why does he want to cry when you look at him and don’t flinch?

You keep coming back.

Every night. Same rooftop. Same little rituals. Chalk drawings. Rooftop tea parties with stolen mugs and boiled rainwater. He never drinks. He can’t. You know that. So you pour his into a metal bowl and tell him to pretend.

He always does.

You tell him about school — the weird girl who eats erasers, the mean boy who pushed you, the teacher who called you “special” because you always stare out the window during math.

“I stare because I’m waiting for you.”

You say it so easily.

And his hands tremble — glowing bones, flickering like dying coals.

One night, you fall asleep on the roof.

Just curl up, hoodie tucked under your head, arms around your stuffed rabbit (you named it Phos — after him).

He can’t leave.

He sits there, a few feet away, hands clenched so tightly the flames flicker out for a moment. He watches your chest rise and fall. Your nose scrunch. The way you call for him in your sleep.

“Star Man…”

No one’s ever said his name like it matters before.

He almost touches you.

Almost reaches out a hand.

But he stops.

He can’t. He’ll burn you. Poison you. Ruin you.

So he stays the night, like a gargoyle — monstrous, glowing, immobile — guarding you from a world that never gave you what you deserved.

The next day, you don’t come.

Or the next.

Or the next.

He panics.

Wanders Gotham like a ghost on fire. Flickers through alleyways. Leaves scorch marks on pavement. Murders a man who tried to snatch a girl who looked a little like you in the dark.

He doesn’t care.

He just keeps searching.

Until finally—

He finds you in a hospital.

A free clinic. You’re in bed, cheeks flushed, IV in your arm, a mask over your nose. Pneumonia. Weak lungs. Doctor says you need a home. A real one.

You’re half-conscious. Mumbling in your fever dream.

“Did Star Man leave me…?”

He stands outside the glass, unseen, untouchable.

And for the first time in years, Alexander wants to pray.

But no gods answer men made of fire.

That night, the clinic’s corrupt landlord is found charred into a skeleton.

The next morning, all your medical bills are mysteriously paid.

A nurse finds a stuffed rabbit on your pillow and a note that smells like ash.

“Don’t forget me when you’re big.”

You smile in your sleep.

You get better.

You come back to the rooftop.

He’s waiting.

You scream his name and hug the air because you still can’t touch him.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

But his light glows brighter than usual.

You tell him about your dream — that one day, you’ll become a scientist. You’ll fix broken things. You’ll build a suit that lets him touch the world again.

He doesn’t laugh.

He never laughs.

But he says, softly:

“Then I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

You leave flowers for him on bad days. You don’t know if he can smell them. You draw little chalk comics of you two flying through space. You wear gloves even in summer and ask if maybe, just maybe, you can touch his hand one day.

He never says yes.

But he never says no.

He’s not your father.

Not your friend.

Not even human anymore.

But in this quiet little corner of Gotham, where a man made of fire lives in shadows and a tiny girl brings him laughter and chalk stars…

He is yours.

And you are his.

Forever.

Even if you grow up.

Even if you leave.

Even if you forget.

He never will.

You don’t flinch when you see him. You never have. But now you run to him — skipping across the rooftop like you’ve got wings, like you’re trying to fly straight into his arms.

He panics every time.

Because you’re getting closer.

Your little shoes almost step into the scorched circle he makes on the concrete.

He always backs away.

Even now.

Even though he doesn’t want to.

Even though every time you look up at him with that round, shining face, he aches.

Aches for a version of the world where he can reach out and just… hold you.

Just once.

You sit down beside his usual spot, breathless and excited.

You’re wearing gloves today. Big, fluffy winter gloves. Blue with little white stars. You wriggle your fingers at him.

“I know I can’t hug you. But maybe I can still try, right? If I wear these?”

His silence stretches out like night.

You tilt your head. "They're super thick. Triple layers. I checked with a blow dryer."

Still, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t answer.

But the flames in his chest flicker — like something caught in his throat.

You take a deep breath, scoot forward, and hold your gloved arms open.

Your voice is soft. Barely a whisper.

“I just want to hug you…”

And in that moment, he thinks:

So do I.

God, so do I.

He wants to drop to his knees. Wrap his arms around you and curl his entire being around the little light you’ve become in his hell.

He wants to believe he won’t burn you.

Wants to believe you’re strong enough to touch a monster and not come away scarred.

But you’re not.

You’re just a girl.

A good, bright, precious thing.

And he…

He is dying ash and radioactive dust.

So instead of stepping forward, he lowers himself — slow, heavy, quiet — to the ground across from you.

A few feet apart.

Same as always.

“I’m sorry.”

He says it like a confession.

Like a sin.

You smile. But your eyes are wet.

You’re not stupid. You’ve always known.

Still, your arms stay open, trembling just a little.

“…You think maybe someday, when I’m older, I can fix you? Maybe I can build something. A suit. Or a shell. Like a robot hug-machine or something.”

You laugh through your tears.

“Then I can hug you and you won’t be alone.”

He wants to tell you the truth. That even if you did… even if you built a suit, or a miracle, or a whole new body — he’d still be burning inside.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you don’t need truth.

You need hope.

So he says, “Maybe.”

And you beam.

That night, you fall asleep on the rooftop again. Curled under your coat, arms wrapped around your rabbit, cheeks pink from crying and cold.

He doesn’t leave.

He stands there, silent, flickering.

He doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t breathe.

He just watches you sleep like you’re the last star in his sky.

He lowers himself beside you, careful not to get close. Careful not to let the wind blow his heat your way.

And for the first time, he whispers:

“I wish I could hold you.”

The flames dance like candlelight.

He doesn’t think you hear.

But then, half-asleep, your voice murmurs through the dark:

“…I know.”

He almost breaks.

The next morning, you're gone when he wakes.

Left a note.

A crayon drawing.

Two stick figures: one glowing like a star, the other with big gloves and pigtails.

They’re hugging.

You wrote: “One day. I promise.”

And under that, smaller:

“I love you, Star Man.”

He keeps it.

He keeps everything.

The cough started again.

Tiny and dry at first.

But it lingered.

Your voice cracked when you laughed. You had to sit down after climbing the stairs to your rooftop. You stopped running to him like before. Now, you walked slow, your hand over your chest, as if it hurt to breathe.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

Alexander saw everything.

But he didn’t say it.

Because when he asked you how you were, and you smiled and said, “I’m okay, Star Man,”—

He wanted to believe you.

It got worse in November.

The Gotham chill crept deep into your bones. You were wrapped in three sweaters and two blankets, a scarf, gloves, and thick socks — all from him. The things he couldn’t touch. The only pieces of himself he could give.

And still—

Still, you shivered.

You try to smile, even when you’re hunched over, your hoodie soaked through with rain, your fingers stiff and blue.

“Star Man… I brought marshmallows. They’re kinda wet, but—”

Your sentence breaks into a coughing fit that doubles you over.

He’s at your side in a second — not touching, never touching — but his fire flares violently. Glowing so bright you can barely look at him.

You wheeze between coughs, grinning with bloody teeth.

“Don’t be mad.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move.

Just watches as you crumple, small body trembling from cold.

The next day, he goes to the clinic.

He doesn’t knock.

He just stands outside the glass, burning, waiting, looming.

The same doctor from before steps out, calm and frowning.

“You’re the one paying her bills, aren’t you?”

A nod. The faint crackle of fire. No words.

“Her lungs are… destroyed. The infection spread. She needs warmth. Real food. Someone to take care of her. A home.”

So he did something.

He found a place.

An old greenhouse. Abandoned for years. On the edge of Gotham’s industrial zone, far from the city’s heart. Glass roof shattered in places. Ivy curling through cracks. Rusted benches, shattered flower pots.

But it was warm.

With him inside, it was always warm.

His touch melted the frost from the windows. Burned away the mold. Cleared the air. Every step he took lit the greenhouse like a lantern.

He made it a home. For you.

A tiny bed in the corner. Soft pillows. A heater (even though he was the heater). Drawings hung on the walls — yours and his, clumsy and glowing with chalk. Shelves filled with books, blankets, tea cups. A nightlight shaped like a sun.

He stayed in the center. Always a few feet away.

Always watching.

Always glowing.

Your Star Man.

And you got better.

For a while.

Your cheeks flushed again. You danced with your stuffed rabbit. You made little games — “Don’t step on the cold tile or you’ll freeze!” You’d giggle when he’d tell you stories in that dry, crackling voice of his.

“Tell me again how you caught on fire.”

“No.”

“Pleaaaase?”

“...I glowed brighter than a star. That’s all you need to know.”

You lived inside warmth. His warmth.

You slept like a kitten, curled up in layers, with the soft light of his bones painting golden shadows across your skin.

And some nights — some rare and quiet nights — he would stand by your bed, motionless, watching you breathe.

And whisper—

“Don’t leave me.”

He never said it loud enough for you to hear.

But the greenhouse always flickered, like a candle in the wind, whenever he did.

You start keeping a notebook full of inventions. You wore your little goggles around the house like you were already a scientist.

“I’m gonna make you a skin one day,” you told him.

“A real one. With nerves and pores and freckles. And then I’ll give you a jacket. And gloves. And I’ll brush your hair. You’d have hair, right? If you weren’t… y’know…”

He didn’t answer.

His hands twitched like maybe he wanted to hold you.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

You spent every day together.

Mornings were for sunlight. For tea you didn’t let him drink. For sitting on the porch and pointing out clouds. For playing board games you cheated at just to hear him grumble.

Afternoons were science time. You made model atoms out of candy and toothpicks. He taught you how to build a safe Geiger counter. You wore a lab coat two sizes too big and called him “Professor Star Man.”

He built you a little suit to go outside — warm, air-filtered, stitched with gold thread so you’d look like a star too.

“Now we match,” you beamed.

And he almost smiled.

Almost.

But nights…

Nights were for stories.

You’d crawl into bed and make him sit on the floor, the glow of his body washing over the room like a ghostly candle.

You talked until you fell asleep.

“When I grow up, I’m gonna cure radiation.”

“When I grow up, I’m gonna build you a heart.”

“When I grow up, I’ll fix everything. And then you won’t be lonely anymore.”

Every night, the same phrase.

“When I grow up…”

And every time, something inside him cracked.

One day, you bring him a drawing.

It’s of you, all grown up. In a lab coat. Goggles. Holding a beaker. He’s beside you — but his fire is gone. His body looks whole. He’s smiling.

You look proud.

You whisper:

“This is the future.”

He takes the picture in shaking, flaming fingers, careful not to burn it.

And for the first time in decades…

He cries.

Not tears — he can’t. But the fire in his chest sputters, trembles, collapses inward like a dying star.

Because he knows.

The winter came fast.

So did the coughing.

And the blood.

And the nights you couldn’t get out of bed.

He tried everything. Built filters. Bought machines. Even stood outside hospitals and threatened surgeons into doing house calls.

You still smiled.

You still told him about the future.

Even when you were too weak to hold a pencil, you kept talking about the lab you’d build. The star maps you’d draw. The future you’d give him.

“You’ll have a room with a window. You’ll watch the world without hiding.”

“I’ll name the first element I discover after you. Sartorium. It’ll be warm, but not deadly. Like you.”

He wanted to scream.

But he couldn’t.

He never left your side.

Not for a second.

He melted snow to pour you water. Boiled cloth to lay across your forehead. Sat in the dark while your body broke down piece by piece.

He begged — silently, to the stars that no longer knew his name.

“Please don’t take her.”

“Please.”

“Take me. Not her.”

But they never answered.

And neither did you.

The next morning, the air in the greenhouse was too still.

You weren’t breathing.

Your fingers were curled around your stuffed rabbit.

There was no pain on your face.

Just a tiny smile.

Like you were dreaming of something warm.

Like maybe, you’d built that cold suit after all.

And hugged him.

He didn’t move.

Not for hours.

Then, gently, slowly, he stepped forward.

His flames didn’t flicker.

His body didn’t glow.

He bent at the waist and laid something on your chest.

His glove.

The one thing that had touched you.

And then he whispered, voice hollow and cracked:

“I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

The greenhouse still glows at night.

People say it’s haunted.

But the kids on the street leave drawings by the door. Stuffed animals. Crayons. Little chalk stars.

They say there’s a girl who once lived there.

A girl made of warmth and laughter.

And a monster made of fire who loved her more than life.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[mingtinys]

in a thousand lifetimes

pairing : choi seungcheol x gn!reader

hurt / comfort , angst , mafia leader!scoups au

warnings : language , descriptions of blood , mafia themes

word count : 3.5 k

requested ? no

a/n : there's just something about the domestic side of mafia au's that i just love so dearly . secretly soft and fragile mafia leader crying in the arms of their loved one >>>>>>> ruthless and cold mafia leaders .

The day you stood by Seungcheol at the altar, you promised a myriad of unconditional vows, as did he. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health— until death do you part. To love him without doubt and cherish the heart he had so willingly placed in your care. You swore to cradle it with gentle hands; to keep it safe from shattering until the very last beat.

You were prepared for that. Excited, even.

But as Seungcheol limps through the entrance of the home you've built together, you feel your confidence in that pact falter for the first time. Perhaps you'd missed something in your vows. The part that told you what to do when the love of your life comes home stained in red. From his white button-up to his polished shoes— even his sweet, sweet face— tarnished.

You don't want him to hear the way your voice trembles. But God, that stench. That pungent scent of iron coats your throat and you can't help the way it constricts to keep the subsequent wave of nausea at bay.

"Cheol?"

His head snaps up at you like he's just now realized where he is. Glazed-over eyes connect with the wood floors you'd spent an hour mopping, then to his shaking hands painted in crimson, before that stale gaze finally lifts and meets your own.

"Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head.

"Seungcheol..." You take cautious steps his way, like how one would approach a wild deer. "Who's blood is this?"

Tears are in his eyes, but his face remains rigid. Like his brain is stuck in survival mode, but his emotions are leaking out.

"Chan's."

The boy's name hits your ears like venom. Sweet, gentle, kind, Lee Chan. The youngest intern under Seungcheol's leadership, you'd met him once at a company dinner. You don't think you've ever met someone with such a heart of gold. And it's a little hard to imagine you could be staring at all that's left of him. "Oh my God, is he okay? What happened?"

Seungcheol's face twists at your questions, some memory pulling at his brows and forcing his eyes shut. They open with fresh tears and the first ounce of clarity cracks through his otherwise dazed state.

"He's in the hospital—" You see the words catch in his throat. His fist repeatedly pounds against his thigh and his mouth hangs open until the words finally come. "It's my fault. He's just a kid, this is all my fault— he shouldn't have been there. They shouldn't have been able to get to him. It was too dangerous, he wasn't ready."

Nothing of his fragmented words makes any sort of sense. You've never seen him like this, so frazzled, so pitiful, so... broken. The sight of it twists your heart, contorting in your chest to such an unnatural degree there's a physical ache.

So, despite the nausea burning your esophagus and the screams of protest deep within your bones, your arms open and gravity pulls Seungcheol into them with labored steps. His knees buckle instantly at the contact and it takes every ounce of strength in your arms to catch him. Letting yourself sink with him to soften the fall; even if that means your knees land with a painful thud, already able to feel purple bruises blossoming from the impact.

Because you love him.

Because you vowed not only for better but for worse as well. And vows are only as good as the turmoils they prove to withstand.

Calloused hands grip the sides of your shirt. You try to ignore the stains they leave, pushing your focus onto the man before you on the brink of hysterics. His forehead falls to your chest, and that's when the most wretched sobs you've ever had the displeasure of hearing begin. Loud and sharp, like the blade of a sword, as they slice through the eerily still night.

A chill creeps in from where your knees connect with the hardwood and crawls up the length of your spine. It nests in your mind and metastasizes, igniting alarms in that little part of your brain that warns: you should be scared. Though it doesn't grant you the knowledge of what.

"Baby, what happened?" You ask and recite a silent prayer the answer to that is not him.

He sobs out an unpromising, "I can't."

"Seungcheol, there is too much blood for that shit. You need to tell me what the hell is going on." Your eyes are starting to burn with the flood breaching your lashes, unsure how much longer you can force an ease into your tone.

You need him to just spit it out. Before your heart explodes.

You steady his head between your palms and swipe at the blood spatter decorating his jawline. It just smears, mixing with his tears and tinting more of his cheek in a dull brownish-red. Seungcheol looks at you with eyes that scream please don't hate me and you don't know but... you know. Enough that when the confession finally pours from his lips, the shock doesn't totally shatter your ribs on impact. Instead, the words slowly seep into your skin and enter your bloodstream like a bitter poison.

Suddenly, minuscule details make much more sense, revealing the full picture like a jigsaw puzzle falling into place. The nights he doesn't return until the sun breaches the horizon. The general air of mystery around his job and the "family business" he took over years ago. How insistent he had been with you learning some type of self-defense. All the way down to the dried blood that lingered under his fingernails.

You should be levels more upset than you are at his confession. Any normal person would be. He lied to you, for years. Hid a secret so large it could easily blow a crater in the earth should the measly stilts it balanced on collapse. Yet, the anger you feel doesn't boil over into a blind rage. It stirs with concern and simmers until it has been diluted into nothing but the type of anger that can only be fueled by love. It comes with the terrifying revelation that the person you love most in this world, could've been stolen from you at any moment and you would've been none the wiser as to how. It makes you want to hold him a little extra in the mornings, a little harder, closer.

Then, somewhere, in that tangled web of emotions fighting to reach the surface, there's an unexpected relief. Because one thing has been glaringly obvious since the day you met Choi Seungcheol. The reason he appears as such a pillar of strength relies solely on the fact that he shoulders the weight of the world alone. Rarely does he let his struggles reach his cheery expression. You can't help but think, now that you know, there's one less burden he has to carry by himself.

"Please don't leave me," Seungcheol rasps out. You'd nearly forgotten where you were for a moment. Forgot his face was still between your hands, that blood still smeared his cheek, and tears were still slipping from his lashes. But at this moment, as those weary earth-brown eyes search your face for an answer, you realize just how malleable your morals are when it comes to him.

"I love you." You confess, like it's the first time the phrase has ever left your lips. "Cheol, I love you more than anything in this world." So much it frightens you what you're willing to forgive.

But then again it doesn't. Because he's never been Choi Seungcheol, the city's most feared mob boss. To you, he's always just been Cheol. The man that nearly burned your kitchen down two anniversaries ago trying to make you breakfast in bed. Who pouts and whines when you haven't given him enough attention after work. Who's touch has only ever been as gentle as a Summer's breeze. And maybe you're naive, but you'd like to believe the Seungcheol that peppers your face with kisses every morning and begs for five extra minutes in bed is a truer reflection of his heart than his job.

With one final deep breath to steel your nerves and silence the brigade of questions swirling in your head, you press a long kiss to his temple— one of the only areas not tainted with red. The tension in his muscles visibly melts away at the contact and beyond anything he just looks... tired. You want nothing more than to let him rest in the safety of your arms, but he's still covered in Chan's blood.

"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" You coax him from the floor, never once letting your voice slip above a gentle whisper. He tries to protest, insisting he needs to be at the hospital with the others to check on Chan, but puts up absolutely no fight when you tell him that can wait until tomorrow as you guide him towards the bathroom.

You gather towels and fresh clothes and lay them out on the vanity. "Take your time, okay? I won't go far, promise." With one last reassurance, you leave Seungcheol in privacy to shower and clean the blood from his skin.

Alone now, the adrenaline in your veins dissolves, and the full gravity of everything finally crashes around you. The metallic scent lingering in the air, the drying blood on the hardwood, the feeling of impending doom that comes with a truth so heavy. It's too much, at least to bear in such a tiny apartment. You all but sprint out the front door, accidentally letting it shut with a hefty slam.

The warm Summer night air hits your skin and wraps around you like a security blanket. You inhale deeply, once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth breath, it feels like the oxygen finally reaches the base of your lungs.

You sit, for a length of time you remain ignorant to, at the bottom of the stairwell. Lost deep in thought until the buzzing of your phone reverberates from your back pocket. You look at it but— no caller I.D.

Answering it anyway, a sense of comfort fills you at the familiar voice.

"Jeonghan." You greet.

"I'm sorry to call so late," He says, voice languid. "I just wanted to know if Seungcheol got home safe yet."

"He did."

There's a long pause of silence. Just the steady beeps of a heart monitor on the other side of the line. Then, "Is Chan okay?"

"Yeah, he's sleeping right now. Doctors gave him some of the good shit to knock him out for the night." There's a hesitance to the way he speaks and you think perhaps he's weighing in his mind what excuse Seungcheol might have told you as to why Chan is even in the hospital to begin with.

"Jeonghan, can I ask you something?"

"I can't promise I'll have an answer, but sure." He's always been so calculated in the way he speaks, which makes sense to you now.

You chew at the inside of your cheek. "Seungcheol, he... He keeps himself safe, right?"

"You know." He sighs, matter of fact.

"I do."

"He's careful, smart, keeps his hands clean-ish. We all look after each other, he's about as safe as he can be." The man on the other end of the line yawns, and you wonder how long he's been up wondering if Seungcheol made it home before he finally called. That in and of itself should comfort you and prove Seungcheol has people who care about him when you're not around, but it doesn't. You don't think anything ever could at this point. Perhaps it was better not knowing the truth.

"That doesn't exactly make me feel better."

Jeonghan snorts. "I didn't think it would."

Another stretch of silence spans over the line for an uncomfortably long time. So long, you begin to think maybe the call disconnected. But that steady beeping is still there, quiet, but there.

Then Jeonghan speaks, his sudden words sending ice pricking through your veins. "You're an accomplice now, you know?" His voice carries no emotion. It's as if he's reading the words straight from an instruction manual. "Unless, of course, you turn him in."

Oh.

You hadn't thought of that.

"Would you?"

His question lingers in the air like smoke, suffocating your airways so much it feels like you might choke before you can even answer.

Never has the idea of betraying Seungcheol's trust ever been a thought in your head, much less an option. But he's right. Your newfound knowledge makes you just as much a criminal in the eyes of the law as if you had committed the act yourself. It's either fess up while you still can or guard his secret with, quite literally, your life.

Perhaps you were a bit hasty. It was easy to hold Seungcheol in your arms and whisper comforting words between his sobs. However, when it comes to your own fate, you're forced to reckon with the dread that washes over you like a bucket of ice, alone.

Still, you're embarrassed that not even a shred of doubt weighs your decision. Just an immeasurable amount of guilt.

"No."

"You don't sound so sure."

"It's a lot to process." You defend, trying not to let your voice waver too much under Jeonghan's scrutiny.

"I know it is," He relents, and suddenly, his voice shifts back to the soothing, angelic tone you've always been used to. "I'm sorry, I haven't even asked how you're feeling."

The conversation lulls in what you assume is Jeonghan leaving space for you to share if so you wish. You don't— knowing that if you were to loosen even a single thread tethering your mind in the realm of sanity, it would all unravel. You've only just begun to construct the brittle wall that separates your Seungcheol from the one covered in blood. If it were to take a blow so early and come crumbling down, you fear you may not have the strength needed to start over.

Your current position is precarious and emotions are already tricky— pouring them out to Seungcheol's best friend even more so.

"I'm fine. I should probably get back to Cheol." You say instead.

Jeonghan hums. "He's had a rough night." Steady beeps still pulse like a metronome in the background, mixing with a subtle chatter. "Let him know everyone is okay and if you two need anything, just call."

"I'll tell him."

"That means you too."

A voice calls Jeonghan's name and the line goes dead before you can say anything more. Not that you had much else left to say— or anything that would be news to Jeonghan at least. It felt like he knew more about your spinning mind in one phone call than you'd pieced together since Seungcheol stumbled through the door.

Seungcheol.

Seungcheol, who's been alone in your tiny apartment for who knows how long at this point. With nothing but his thoughts and a water heater that runs out far too quickly to comfort him. Your heart aches at the idea of him crumpled up in the basin of the porcelain tub alone.

Seungcheol, whom you find sitting at the kitchen island with his head in his hands— hunched over a steaming mug of tea— upon your return. His hair hangs down in damp strings, dripping onto his pair of comfort sweatpants, the ones he tends to gravitate towards when he's had a long day.

The door clicks shut behind you and his head snaps up with lightning quick reflexes. A wild look flashes in his eyes, but it melts away almost as quick as it came. His shoulders slump with relief and for what seems like an eternity, he just let's his gaze linger.

"I didn't think you were coming back." He rasps. His fingers curl around the mug, siphoning off some of its warmth to combat the slight chill in the air.

His hands are clean now— free of any trace of dark red— then again, they never really were. Probably never will be.

"To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I was." You're still some distance away from where he sits, a fact you're made painfully aware of by the way his eyes flit between you and the door. As if he expects you to flee at any moment.

"I would understand, you know?" His voice is as soft and genuine as it was the day he said I do. "I wouldn't be mad. My job, this life, it was never supposed to be your burden. You can walk out and I wouldn't—" His voice catches and he takes a swig of his tea, cringing at the temperature as it goes down. "—I wouldn't stop you."

You know he wouldn't. Because Choi Seungcheol is a good man. There would not be a ring on your finger if he wasn't. It's why you're so comfortable closing the distance that separates you two.

It's why you're so comfortable excusing all of his wrongs.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You should." He croaks. Tears gather at his waterline and on instinct, you wipe the first to fall away. But more continue to silently slip down his cheeks. Unable to catch them fast enough, you step between his legs and guide his forehead to your shoulder with a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

Seungcheol lets out a shaky breath as your fingers trail down the nape of his neck to just between his shoulders, then back up again. You hold him. Just as you've held his heart for years. Delicate. Like handling glass.

"I love you," He whispers. "I'm sorry I lied, I— all I ever wanted was to keep you safe."

"I know."

He tilts his head back, staring up at you with damp cheeks and bloodshot eyes. "I don't deserve you."

You tuck a piece of hair that's fallen into his eye behind his ear. "I could find you in a thousand lifetimes and there wouldn't be a single one where that'd be true."

"I'd still spend every one of those thousand lifetimes making it up to you." His hands grip your hips, holding you steady, as if he's still scared you'll run away.

"You." You hold the underside of his chin so he can't divert his gaze for your next words. Your tone is a firm, bordering on authoritative. "Make it up to me by coming home."

Seungcheol nods, but it's not a good enough answer for you.

"Don't ever make me plan your funeral, Choi Seungcheol. Do you understand? You cannot do that to me."

"I won't."

"Promise me. Because I swear if I ever have to hear from Jeonghan that you're not coming home I swear I'll—"

Seungcheol takes your hand from his chin and pulls it flat against his chest. The quick but rhythmic beats of his heart calms your barrage of threats instantaneously.

"I promise."

The words leave his lips slowly. Each syllable is enunciated loud and clear, so the sincerity with which he says them can reach your ears without doubt. His words linger in the air and all you can focus on is his pulse. How terrified you are that one day it'll stop before your own. That there could come a night where your head rests against empty sheets instead of his chest. No longer lulled to sleep by its steady beating.

That thought rattles you more than any crime Seungcheol could commit.

It takes Seungcheol's thumb grazing over your cheekbone to realize you're crying. But then it becomes unstoppable. More worries spilling out in the form of tears. It's the not knowing that may be the end of you.

"I want you in this lifetime, Cheol. I don't want to wait until the next to live a full life with you. So I need you to keep that promise."

Seungcheol rises from his seat and brings you into his chest. Allowing you to hide away from the horrors of it all in his strong embrace. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to make it home to you." He reassures. And the sheer determination in his voice makes you believe him.

"And no more secrets, okay?" You mumble against the soft fabric of his shirt. "I want you to tell me everything."

"It's better if I don't." He whispers with a deep exhale. And you want to be more upset with his answer than you are. But he keeps rocking you side to side and pressing long kisses to your temple.

"All you need to know is that none of it comes before you." The sincerity in his voice is as prominent as it was reciting his vows. "Everything I've built. All the money and power in the world— I'd burn it all to the ground for you."

[yuansie]

(2) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. slight ooc caleb (i have not read homecoming or wtv that chapter is called BC my laptop died on me. but maybe ill get to it today since i got it on my bros pc HELP), NOT canon compliant oops (no higher being placing a curse on zayne, no experimentation done on mc and caleb bc josephine is a good person this time BYEEEE), mentions/descriptions of crying, a kiss YUCK, caleb himself is a warning tbh. if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. sfw but make it lowk very angsty but fluffy ish at the same time.

wc. 4 k

a/n. not proof read, we die like redacted i mean what who said that. posts this rn bc i dont want to wait till midnight to post haha #lolsies also, i feel like the mood just progressively gets worse for yn 😭 like i give yn brief happiness and then BAM im like her opp, someone needs to take me out bc why am i doing this to her 💔 sorry yn i swear i love you 💔 happy early update bc im going to be busy w hw this weekend ❤️‍🔥

winter blues seep into your skin when you’re thirteen and alone during your winter break.

mc, caleb, and granny josephine went on a vacation outside linkon city, your mom has been working night shifts at the hospital as of late, your dad is in skyhaven, and zayne won’t be coming back this break.

in fact, he hasn’t once visited during his breaks from school since he started college.

you sit at the living room’s window, watching outside the glass as white specks fall from the sky.

snow.

despite being inside the comfort of your home, shielded from the biting cold of winter, you feel like your whole body is frozen over.

it’s so cold.

and caleb isn’t there to keep you warm.

a soft chime comes from your phone that sits on the empty space of the large couch you’re on. the phone was a gift from your dad after you told him that you’d like to talk to him and zayne more often. the screen turns on, and you stare at the notification.

zayne li: Hello.

the screen dims for a second before brightening again.

zayne li: I would like to say something.

there’s a knock on the door.

you reach out, your fingers wrapping around the device. you’re getting ready to type a response when another knock is heard, then another one.

and another one.

and another one.

with a sigh, you place it back down and head towards the front door. you don't even bother to check through the peephole beforehand and just open it.

“you’re here.” you gape at the older boy standing on your porch. zayne is taller now, his hair the slightest bit longer, his features a little sharper, but his hazel gaze is still warm and gentle. he stands in front of you, a suitcase to his left, and he wears a scarf around his neck along with a black trench coat.

the corners of his lips are curved upwards into a small smile. “i’m here.”

you want to hug him, but instead you open the door wider. he walks in and his body acts like clockwork whenever he’s over: he takes off his shoes and places them neatly next to yours, he hangs his coat if he has one with him at the moment, he takes a step forwards and turns around, always looking back at you to follow.

you fling yourself at him, and he catches you with ease. the tension you held melts away with his touch. your feet are in the air as he holds you tightly, and it makes you laugh. he was always taller than you, but not this tall. zayne’s cheek is next to yours, and you’re suddenly aware that despite standing outside in the biting cold, he’s actually quite…

“you’re—”

“warm.” you mumble, nuzzling closer to his neck.

zayne hums. “so are you.” you feel his smile.

like always—before he left—you take him to your room where you both end up talking and talking until the sky is dark, both of you on your bed.

“zayne, you still haven't made any friends?”

zayne looks away from you. “have you made any friends?”

you stay silent, and he continues with a quick glance at you. “he’s still distant?”

“yes…”

caleb’s been distant ever since the start of eighth grade.

you no longer study for tests with him because she needs help, and it's not like you need to study anyways because you’re so smart. while there is truth in his words, you always study with him because you like being with him.

you’re alone at lunch because he wants to keep her company—not that she needs it since she already has a group of friends.

honestly, you saw this coming from a mile away. the perfect excuse came in the shape and form of mc. you knew he regretted it, knew that he would act like nothing happened while slowly distancing himself from you.

it was the only solution he had after what happened that night.

in the beginning of june, you come to realize that there’s been a weird tension since you gifted each other the necklace. you don't know how you didn’t notice it sooner: the way he hovers closer to you, how his hands ghost your skin when he brushes against you, how his eyes linger on you for a beat longer than usual.

he titters over the fine line that is your friendship, crossing it for a second before retreating back.

you tried, you really did try, but he makes it so easy; it’s so easy to love him.

“what’s the occasion?”

you glance to the side and find caleb peering over your shoulder with ease, the silver chain of his necklace glimmering as it dangles against your shoulder, his eyes staring at the steam wafting into the air from the apple pie, his gaze flickering over to you. his lips curl upwards, his boyish smile making you tense slightly before relaxing. you focus on the pie. “just wanted to bake one.”

“*just ‘*cause you wanted to?” his tone has a teasing lilt, but you know that underneath it lies curiosity and skepticism. he doesn’t believe you. there must be a reason because why else would you bake a pie so late? why would you invite him over in the evening and ask him to stay?

so you tell him half the truth. “i haven’t baked one in a while,” you mummer, “and…”

“and?”

you love him. you love his stupid smile and the stupid freckles on his skin.

you take a quick look at him. the yellow light above the stove casts shadows over his face from his hair as he looks down at you. he’s grown too tall and now you stand right at his shoulders, his shoulders have gotten wider. his features from his childhood are starting to grow sharper. he’s no longer the eight-year-old boy with big, round eyes; he’s a soon to be fourteen-year-old with a sharp gaze.

dang it.

you love caleb. you love caleb’s stupid laugh and his stupid personality.

you slowly breathe in. “i’m leaving tomorrow noon, so… i wanted to be the first.”

he hums. “the first to what?”

“to wish you a happy birthday.”

at this, he snorts. “my birthday is tomorrow.”

“actually,” you point at the digital clock of the stove, the green numbers reading midnight. “it’s right now.”

he remains silent as you open a drawer, fishing out a lone candle and a lighter. carefully placing the candle onto the pie, you light it and turn around, forcing caleb to take a few steps back. he blinks once and then twice, staring a the burning candle. his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, barely noticeable to the naked eye had you not been so close to him. and his eyes, a light shade of amethyst, have golden specks in them that flicker.

“happy birthday to you.” you quietly sing, a smile present on your lips. you watch as his gaze snaps to you, how he stares intently at you. “happy birthday, dear cal, happy birthday to you…” you pause before quietly adding, “make a wish.”

caleb doesn’t say anything. he looks at you for a beat longer before lowering his head and closing his eyes, pursing his lips and then blowing out the candle. he stays like that, with his eyes closed, for a few seconds. then, his eyes slowly flutter open, staring at you immediately. heat blossoms on your neck and crawls up to your cheeks. you abruptly turn and place the pie down on the counter, fumbling around in search of a knife.

“what did you wish for?” you laugh nervously, your heart skipping a beat because you can still feel his gaze on you.

he doesn’t say anything.

“cal?” you turn around, your breath hitching in your throat, eyes widening at the sudden proximity. your heart hammers inside your chest. no, it isn’t from the close proximity, it’s from his eyes. they stare at you with an intensity you have never seen directed at you.

only at her.

his pupils are dilated, his amethyst gaze flickering down before going back to your eyes. “i wished for something only you,” he pauses, licking his lips, “can grant.”

“and what would that be?” your voice is barely above that of a whisper. you tremble as he gets closer, and your back meets the rough edges of the counter. your hands grab onto it to steady yourself, and his hands rest on your hips, strong and calm.

caleb crosses the line.

he leans in closer and closer until your noses are touching, your lips almost connecting. his eyes don’t stray again and remain on yours. “do you trust me?”

“of course, i do.” you breathe out. “more than anyone.”

“then… please grant me my wish.”

and he closes his eyes, the sliver of space separating each other no longer doing so. his lips are on yours, and your eyes are shut tight. it’s brief, the kiss, and caleb pulls back. his breathing comes out heavy and unsteady before he’s diving back in, the next kiss now intense and burning.

he hums. “you’re shivering… am i making you nervous?”

of course he is.

you love him.

the words are right at the tip of your tongue.

“…screw you.” you huff, feeling embarrassed.

you love him.

caleb pulls away just the slightest bit, the corner of his lip lifting into a lazy grin. “maybe in the future, yeah.”

maybe…

“caleb xia!” you hiss, releasing a hand from its tight grip on the counter to smack his arm. “what is wrong with you?”

“a lot of things,” he sighs, resting his forehead on your own. “but you know how to deal with that.”

maybe he loves you, too. maybe he loved you all along.

“shut up.”

his grin is now soft against your lips. “whatever you say, pipsqueak.”

you freeze.

pipsqueak.

and just like that his touch is gone and he’s already a good distance away from you, almost as if you burnt him. tears prickle at your eyes, and they want to fall down your cheek. you will yourself to not cry, to not let him ever have the right to see you cry. he only stares at you with horror swimming in his purple irises.

caleb fucking xia was thinking about her while kissing you.

pipsqueak.

pipsqueak.

her.

her.

HER.

it's always her.

never you.

the warmth he showed you was never truly for you. was he projecting his desires on you all this time? in his mind, was he seeing her in you?

dang it.

how could you do this to yourself? how could you forget?

he will never be yours.

“i—”

“this never happened,” you say, harshly wiping away the stray tear that managed to fall. your voice is wobbly, but you try to remain calm as you twist around and stare down at the stupid apple pie.

“y/n—”

you hate him.

you hate him.

you hate yourself.

“it’s late,” you mumble. “i have to wake up early for my trip to verona… you should go now.”

you know that caleb has been distant since then, feigning that everything is alright in front of mc when you returned a week before the start of the new school year.

now look at where you are.

the necklace that hangs around your neck is heavy and cold to the touch.

“what’s that?”

“hm?” you look down at what he’s eyeing. “oh. cal gave this to me.” you lift it with a finger.

“…caleb gave that to you?” he asks.

“uh-huh.”

he pinches his brows together. “you wear that despite how he’s acting towards you?”

you shrug, though you don't look at him. “he still—”

cares? he still what? what are you trying to say? who are you even trying to fool: zayne or yourself?

zayne says your name, his voice low. “you put far more effort into this friendship than he does. it should be the same.”

you tense up. zayne is right; you put too much effort into a friendship that won't last much longer, the fire that once burned so brightly in the beginning now dying. it’s only a matter of time before embers are all that is left.

but caleb is the sun to you, and you’re like the moon. so close yet so far, forced to only see and feel it for a brief amount of time. has your time run out with the sun? are you going back to the shadow of the earth?

and to caleb, she is like the sun. he is mercury, the closest planet to it. a planet that yearns to get closer to her even when he is right there, willing to be consumed by the sun’s fire.

“have you thought about what the principal said?”

before the winter break started, the principal of your school asked you if you’d like to skip grades. much like zayne, you were far smarter than the kids in school. according to the principal, you could graduate early like your best friend.

the front door bell rings, echoing in the silent house. you get off the bed, mumbling, “i’ll be right back.”

you head down the stairs and open the door, blinking in surprise at the girl.

“we’re back!” she grins, and holds a bag in her hands up to her eyes. “i come bearing gifts!"

“you must be freezing,” you step to the side and let her in as she laughs.

“i am! it’s pretty cold outside.” the girl slips a glove off one of her hands, pressing it against your cheek. she giggles when you flinch at her cold skin.

weird. zayne was so warm even after standing outside for who knows how long before you let him in.

she takes a step inside and slightly bounces on her feet. “i won’t take long! gran is almost done with dinner.” she quickly takes off her other glove.

“did you just come back?” you ask, closing the door.

“an hour ago!” the girl says. “i wanted to play in the park first since it's snowing, you know! caleb got too tired afterwards so he went back inside to take a nap.”

“oh.”

she doesn't seem to notice the disappointment in your voice, instead opening the bag. she takes out a box, a snow globe inside. the crystal ball holds a close replica to the night sky, and when you shake it, white specks fly. “i had it custom made! i remember that you said you liked winter and the sky when it’s nighttime because the deepspace tunnel isn't noticeable.”

“you remember?”

“of course, i do! you know, i asked caleb for advice on what to get you. he said something small would be fine, but i wanted to make it really special for you. for you two being best friends and all, he has terrible memory when it comes to what you like!” she huffs through her nose, shaking her head. “he was so surprised when i decided on a snow globe and told the old man how i’d like it to look.”

he forgot about what you like while you remember every single little detail about him. of course, he doesn't remember.

you aren't her.

“there’s a little switch at the bottom that lights the bottom up. i asked the old man if he could make the base like one of those nightlights that cast different shapes on the walls, and…” with a pause, she grabs your hands and continues, “i really hope you like it.”

you put the snow globe gently down on the nearest surface, and take hold of the girl’s hands, squeezing them. “i love it. thank you so much, mc.”

she lets out a sigh of relief, squeezing your hands back. “i’m so glad! really, i’m so happy you like it. i wanted to show you my gratitude for not treating me differently since the incident.”

“anyone could tell that you didn't like being treated like you were a frail flower.”

“caleb didn’t.”

you’re about to say something when a glint catches your eye. you look down and see a silver chain around her neck. “what’s that?” you ask.

the girl beams and takes out a necklace that was neatly tucked inside her shirt.

your heart sinks to the floor and shatters.

“isn’t it cute?” she holds the chain out, a small, silver sun hanging from it. the purple gem in the middle glimmers in the lighting of the living room. “i found this hidden in caleb’s things and he gave it to me, said he was planning on giving it to me because he said i’m like the sun.”

you’re a blind fool.

you were so blind to that fact that you’re a moth and caleb’s a flame. you got too close to the fire and now you’re left in pain.

the worse part is that you knew—you knew, and yet you still decided to get close, to delude yourself into believing that there was more to what meets the eye.

you actually accept the truth you didn’t want to: caleb can never and will never be yours.

it’s time for the sun to set in your sky.

you never imagined to experience your first and last winter break of high school when you’re fourteen. you always imagined that you’d be eighteen alongside caleb, that you’d graduate together after four years of rivalry for the valedictorian spot of your graduating class. you thought that you’d get to see him tryout for the basketball team and watch him make it, that you’d cheer him on during his games and even go to the ones at different schools. maybe you’d find a sport that you liked and try out for the team, and caleb would be there every step of the way because you know he’d say something stupid along the lines of him claiming to be your hype man. on exam weeks, you imagined that he’d somehow find a way for you to help him study and then you’d barely review a single thing because caleb would drag you to the park to hangout instead. you thought that you’d see each other apply to the academy and watch each other getting in.

your first and last year of high school couldn’t have been more different.

your goals are to reach the sky, to move to skyhaven and attend the aerospace academy, to get into the DAA afterwards and work alongside your dad in his fleet. you and caleb used to walk on the same path, yet now you walk it alone. you study alone, you work alone, you persevere alone.

caleb doesn't.

he studies with friends because she tells you about it whenever she texts you, or sometimes you happen to pass by the library and see him inside with a group of people. he works with friends, and you see it firsthand when you hurry past the gym and happen to catch a glimpse of him and group of people together. he perseveres with friends because she tells you about how caleb is always doing a group project with his classmates.

he isn’t alone.

even now during winter, you see him head out almost everyday. she tells you that sometimes it's because he’s hanging out with friends, other times he tells her it's a secret. if it's a secret, then he's probably planning a surprise for her.

and you’re proven right when you decide to scroll down the moments page, your finger hovering over a picture she had uploaded. it’s slightly blurry, but you can tell that she holds a necklace to the camera with a bright grin, caleb’s lips matching hers from behind. the caption read: caleb got me a necklace for my birthday! and it’s a pretty thing—the chain is a vibrant gold, a beautiful charm in the form of a sun hanging from it with a pink gem at the venter. it is pretty, unlike the necklace he had gifted you. the silver chain has lost its color, now sporting random splotches of bronze, and the beads have scratches on them, the color chipping off little by little.

it is a replacement; or rather, it is meant to finally get rid of the one you gifted him that he gave to her. maybe he thought it was a bothersome stain that he desperately wanted to get rid of, to finally be free of his last attachment to you.

you click on caleb’s profile and block him.

you need to uproot the already grown plant in your heart, you need to yank it and toss it out.

“earth to little star~”

little star, a nickname your dad gave you shortly after you were born. you asked him why he calls you that one time, and he told you that it’s because you likes to think you’re one of the stars he sees in the sky when he’s far from home.

you look up to find your dad standing over you, smiling.

“you were so focused you didn’t even hear me knock on your door,” he says, sitting down next to you on your bed. “what's troubling you?” his lips curl upwards into a mischievous smile. “are you sulking because zayne hasn't texted you yet?”

and just like that, caleb no longer haunts your mind—the sadness, however, clings to you. that won't leave.

you purse your lips and huff. “i do not sulk while i wait for him to respond to my texts.”

you want to tell your dad that you sulk because you prefer talking to zayne in person. you miss seeing him in front of you. but you won't tell him; you know that he’ll tease you and then tell your mom and then she’ll tell zayne’s mom and then zayne will know.

your dad cocks an eyebrow at you. “are you sure about that?”

“yes.”

“uh-huh,” he slowly says, “whatever you say then.”

you fall backwards onto your bed and squint your eyes at the older man. your dad doesn’t have his uniform on; instead, he wears his pjs. it makes you realize that you almost never see him this… free. he doesn’t wear what ties him down to the fleet. and yet… something is plaguing his mind, weighing down on his shoulders so that it slumps.

“something on your mind?” you ask.

he slowly smiles, his middle and index finger pinching your nose softly. “what would you say if i decided to retire from the fleet?”

you shoot up, eyes wide. “what?”

your dad sighs, his smile still there. “well, i’ve been thinking a lot. my little star is fourteen and she’s set to graduate this may. you’re growing up so fast, and i haven’t been there. shouldn’t it be time that i stay home to watch you keep growing?”

“…is that what you want?” you finally say. you tilt your head to the side and eye your dad, gauging his expression.

he looks content.

“yeah,” he breathes out, slow and steady. “that’s what i want.”

your dad’s shoulders are relaxed, and you think that like him, you’d like to watch him grow older with your mom.

it’s a shame that doesn't happen.

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[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[jeonstellate]

the ghost of legacy

a legacy joins the paddock for the season — and oscar is the only one not keen on befriending her.

ᯓ★ oscar piastri x fem!räikkönen!reader

ᯓ★ brief mentions of weight, sainz-leclerc divorce, & wound; depictions of insecurity, grid chaos, & confusion/denial

ᯓ★ paragraph format — 4.1K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

ᯓ★ direct sequel to the ghost of monza!

ᯓ★ all italian & spanish words in this are from google! yn is kimi räikkönen’s daughter, but there are no physical descriptions mentioned.

ᯓ★ remember how i mentioned that tgom might be my first & only f1 fic? well . . . i’ve been persuaded otherwise :D i have some regrets about this, so i’d appreciate it a lot if y’all can share some feedback <3

The dawn of a season carries fresh, untainted hope. It brings a clean slate in most things — and in everything that matters. It resets the clock back at zero, and draws a mint coat for the starting line. It opens a new book with blank pages, awaiting fresh ink to flow and fill it with something worth remembering.

As poetic as those sound, Oscar can’t care any less. A new season’s a new season, meaning — for the most part — another chance at winning either championships.

For the remaining part? It means coming back to Monza, A-K-A where he met [first name] for three years in a row.

The Italian Grand Prix is still a lifetime away, but there are already moments where he finds himself wondering if she’ll still drop by and ask about Fernando’s whereabouts this season as well. With three consecutive years under their belts, it kind of feels like a tradition by this point. It’ll be too much of a shame if they break it so close to the fifth anniversary.

Honestly, he’s a little tempted to ask the older driver about his niece, but he’s also a little scared of what the other might do if he shows interest. Fernando looks like he’ll slash his tires as a form of intimidation. He doesn’t seem to be above purposely making contact during a race to prove a point, either.

It’s not like he can cut the middle man altogether. He only got her first name. There are a lot of [first name]s in existence. An Instagram search won’t cut it, especially if her profile picture isn’t of herself. A browser search will be just as impossible, if not even more so.

Oscar lets out a sigh without realizing. Is it better, after all, to let the universe decide if they should continue their little tradition?

"It’s not that bad," he hears Lando say next to him. They’re currently in the general hospitality, with a tray of free food they were promised for attending the pre-season ‘grid bonding’ and meetings. As the hospitality doesn’t open until the season officially starts, it’s just everyone in the paddock — the drivers and the crews — occupying the floors.

He looks at his teammate for that, silently hoping he’ll get a clue on what he’s talking about, because he has absolutely no idea what conversation topic they’re currently on. He didn’t mean to zone out but, alas, it’s just so easy to.

He decides to take a shot in the dark, after a moment of not perceiving any clues. He assumes — based on nothing — that he’s talking about the food. "The presentation might be intentionally deceiving."

Lando isn’t impressed. "You just need to gaslight yourself and think it’s good, if that’s really the case."

"No need! It’s actually good!" Pierre interrupts from one of the full six-seater tables. "Try the soup!"

Oscar isn’t really sure if he trusts Pierre’s tastebuds but he thanks him, anyway.

He guides Lando to sit at the eight-seater table next to Pierre’s group, albeit intentionally at the further side so he doesn’t feel pressured to socialize in the beginning of his lunch. He sits on the second seat from the edge, diagonally from the laptop he’s assuming someone forgot to take with them. Lando sits directly across him.

They eat in silence. Normally, one of them initiates a conversation over food. Today, though, Oscar lets his teammate clear his tray without a word. The other had — wisely and questionably — foregone eating breakfast to make the promised buffet worth his while.

He munches on his lunch thoughtfully, uninterested in taking advantage of the free buffet to the fullest. He — as the rest of the grid — has to watch his weight this close to the first race of the season, anyway, to avoid the risk of jeopardizing the car’s speed. He’s not really a fan of intensifying his gym workouts to burn extra calories if he eats way past his normal fill, either.

He zones out while looking directly at the stickers on the laptop cover. He’s not completely foreign to such practice, since his own sisters have decorated their personal laptops with a collection of stickers. As such, he knows how the stickers and their placements essentially show a portion of the laptop owner’s personality and interests.

Deciphering the laptop owner’s interests proves to be a good ‘during lunch’ activity. It doesn’t require a lot of thinking since most of them are pretty straightforward. Some are definitely out of context. The rest are completely obscure to him, which he doesn’t think too deeply about.

Then there’s a selected few that Oscar feels he should know, like the W resembling a fire and the RKN, but is currently blanking on.

The third general hospitality floor, by some coincidence or another, houses all drivers — reserved or otherwise — for lunch. They aren’t the only people on it, as there as also crew members scattered around, but it’s a bit impressive that the entire grid chose to settle on the same floor. Perhaps it’s an (un)intentional consequence of the grid bonding they’re forced to participate in.

Oscar gains more tablemates halfway through his first plate when Ollie and Kimi sit on the edge closest to Pierre’s group. He gains a seatmate when Alex sits next to him and George appears next to Lando.

There’s some sort of harmony in the chaos of overlapping conversations. Even more so when the tables talk to each other without bothering to get up.

Oscar thinks the chaos already peaked when the British and French drivers started defending their respective cuisines from the other’s attacks. Unfortunately, he’s eventually proven wrong when someone makes a deal out of someone else’s entrance to the floor.

"—laptop on a table," he hears a voice say. He can’t see whoever it is, though, since they’re blocked from his view by another.

"Go grab it first then I’ll introduce you to our drivers." The person blocking his view — someone from Williams, judging from the team uniform — moves slightly, allowing him to finally catch a glimpse of the other.

He sees the same Williams polo shirt first. Then— the matrix must’ve glitched.

He doesn’t remember blinking nor zoning out, but the next second he comprehends has [first name] diagonal from him across the table.

It feels wrong — and he isn’t quite sure what ‘it’ is. It is the fact that they’re currently worlds away from Monza? Or the fact that she’s wearing nothing that can get her mistaken as a tifoso?

[First name] gives him a wordless nod of recognition before excusing herself to the rest of the table, her laptop tucked between her arm and side.

"Osc, do you know her?" Someone in front whispers to him. He can’t be bothered to identify which gridmate, though, much less give them a reply. After all, his attention has stuck to [first name] like a moth to a flame.

Oscar has no shame about blatantly listening in on a conversation he obviously isn’t a part of.

"Alex, Carlos, this is our engineering intern for this year," the Williams crew member introduces the three. "She’ll be shadowing your race engineers alternatively."

"I’m Alex Albon, car twenty-three." He watches Alex as the latter holds a hand out for a handshake. "Welcome to team Williams."

[First name] takes his hand, "A pleasure."

Carlos reacts late, so it’s almost as if he’s hesitant to introduce himself. "Carlos Sainz, car fifty-five." Unlike his teammate, he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake. He just nods his head once — which she then returns with the same energy. "I see I got custody of you in the divorce."

[First name] lets out a laugh that doesn’t even reach Oscar’s ears. "[First name] Räikkönen — a child of the Sainz-Leclerc divorce, apparently."

Räikkönen?

Kimi Räikkönen?

Oscar must admit, despite understanding that her father is a former Formula One driver since last year, this revelation is still surprising. It isn’t unexpected, as Kimi Räikkönen was one of his top suspects then, but shock is definitely still there.

Probably because he now has an irrefutable evidence that the ghost of Monza is actually an F1 champion’s daughter.

And because there’s also a small part of him that feels embarrassed for not realizing right away. After all, [first name] wears her father’s number proudly — and her favored RKN logo is close enough to his RKKNN. Quite literally, the answer has been right in front of him this entire time.

"Räikkönen? Like Kimi Räikkönen?" Alex echoes his thoughts unknowingly. "That’s so cool."

"Exactly like Kimi Räikkönen," she replies good naturally. "He’s the one who passed it onto me."

The younger Williams driver is handling the revelation better than he is, as far as he can tell. But maybe that’s because Alex didn’t spend a good year thinking she’s a ghost. "No way."

"Yeah, [first name]," Charles pipes up from his seat at Pierre’s table. "No way you broke the Ferrari alliance!"

[First name] looks over to the side to meet Charles’ eyes. "There is no such thing."

"There is so!"

She doesn’t give the Monégasque the satisfaction of responding. Instead, she just returns her attention to the Williams drivers. "I look forward to working with you, Mr. Albon, Carlos."

She gives them a smile so genuine, the media would’ve scrambled to capture it — partly in disbelief that a Räikkönen could smile like so.

And, for a brief moment, Oscar could’ve sworn [first name]’s smile widens a little when their eyes meet.

(Un)fortunately, she’s gone before he can think too much about it.

The paddock stayed the same with [first name] Räikkönen around, more or less. ‘More’ because the fight for the title is still as cutthroat as the last with new rivalries, without necessarily interfering with the civility between them drivers. ‘Less’ because her presence has caused some drivers to gravitate towards her — unintentionally orbiting her every chance they get.

Fernando is a given. As are Charles and Carlos, based on their already-founded closeness in the hospitality. Alex follows soon after. Then Max.

That’s not an exhaustive list. If it had been, most of the grid would’ve been name-dropped, for sure. Maybe even have all— except one. Oscar.

Oscar doesn’t feel deserving of being [first name]’s friend, for a reason he can’t really put into words. [First name] is . . . [first name]. And he’s . . . just Oscar.

He doesn’t ignore her, of course, nor does he pretend she isn’t there when they cross paths. He just doesn’t go out of his way to be closer than acquaintances and gain her favor. He exchanges brief ‘hello’s with her whenever they meet going opposite ways. He returns her nods and waves of acknowledgment from across rooms, and has initiated them on occasion whenever he spots her first.

He doesn’t take detours to drop her off to her destination. He doesn’t sit with her whenever she’s alone, either. Because then, it’ll be a quiet kind of friendship — and he can’t be her friend.

He’s just her acquaintance, at best, and he’s content with that.

After all, [first name] has more than enough new friends. She doesn’t need him — his friendship, that is.

For her part, she seems to respect the invisible line he has drawn between them. Almost as if she can see it as well as he does.

But, perhaps, it isn’t actually as defined for her. For she has no qualms about crashing his pity party on a sidewalk.

"Are you lactose intolerant?" [First name] appears in front of him seemingly out of nowhere.

Oscar takes a second to process what just happened. Even then, he’s still not sure if he’s understanding correctly. ". . . No?"

She nods, almost approvingly, before handing him a paper bag. "Here."

"What’s—" He starts before she can commence her regular habit of disappearing.

[First name], who is already steps away from him, turns back to face him once more. "My dad says it makes everything feel better."

He lets her go after that, albeit her response just made him even more confused.

When he finally opens the paper bag, Oscar finds a spoon, a bottle of water, and a sealed half-pint of gelato in his favorite flavor.

Something in his chest stirs.

The general hospitality is set to house the entirety of the grid drivers for the nth time this season. Another drivers’ meeting is scheduled to start in thirty minutes, and — in true fashion — less than half have made their way up to the room.

By the time Oscar shows up with a pack of others he met on the way, majority of the rookies are already there. Punctuality has obviously not been drained — or, at the very least, influenced — out of their systems.

"George!" Kimi calls for his teammate’s attention as soon as he spots him amongst the crowd that’s barely entering. "Can we adopt [first name]?"

George’s confusion is evident in his stance. Behind him, Oscar needs to stifle an amused laugh. "What?"

"She sang the Italian national anthem for me!" In all honesty, he isn’t following the Italian rookie’s logic. Thankfully, he isn’t the one who needs to respond. "She can also speak Italian!"

He enjoys the view of the older Mercedes driver buffering for an answer from the seat he secured next to Carlos. Even more so when the younger one of the duo pulls out a pleading look with his "please."

He doesn’t know how he found the strength to, but George eventually replies with a non-answer. "You should probably ask Toto about that, Kimi."

"No! [First name]’s ours!" Alex disproves, protectively. "Get your own [first name]!"

"She was ours first!" Charles joins in. The Monégasque likes reminding people she’s a tifoso first, before anything else, during moments like these. He hasn’t quite moved on from the fact that she chose to intern at Williams rather than Ferrari. "Why do you think she knows the Italian national anthem by heart!"

Lewis lets him do all the talking, as Carlos does with Alex. Both seem to have — wisely — figured out [first name] will put a stop to it soon enough, with or without their varied inputs.

And, sure enough indeed, a high pitched sound comes from the speakers built around the room — which instinctively makes everyone cover their ears.

"Princesa!" Oscar can somewhat hear Fernando scold somewhere behind him. "Stop—"

Thankfully, the sound stops within three seconds — and before they actually have to plead for their hearing.

Ever the nonchalant, [first name] merely scans the crowd of betrayed and confused looks before nodding to herself, "Good." It is then that he realizes she used the feedback to silence the room, with the least energy wasted possible.

He knows there’s a chance that might’ve just sent the room into more chaos. After all, they might all be grown up, but they can also a bunch of children sometimes. It was a fair gamble and yet, somehow, she looks like she was completely certain.

He salutes her for that; for having confidence and conviction on par with that of a Formula One driver.

"You’re our race engineer intern, no?" Carlos inquires before expressing his thanks for the printed meeting agenda she handed him and Alex. "Why are you the one doing all of this?"

She shrugs, "Still an intern."

"Do we get one, too?" Esteban asks for the majority somewhere to his left. It’s a fair question, drivers’ meetings don’t usually have the agenda printed out. It’s usually kept hidden from them, to avoid getting them antsy or, worse, letting them organize their protests.

[First name] points to the Williams logo on her uniform. "I’m only required to make Carlos’ and Alex’s lives a little easier."

They find a stack of meeting agenda copies by the front of the room a minute after she disappears. A sticky note on top reads, don’t pass out if they start fighting.

(She becomes their instant favorite to set up meeting rooms. Unfortunately, the FIA has forbidden Williams to let her facilitate their next turn for the same reason.)

The drivers’ rooms are the most private areas in the paddock. It’s where drivers leave their belongings while they’re out and about. It’s where their visitors usually stay to keep out of the crew’s way until the race. It’s where they sneak in a snooze when they don’t get enough sleep from the night before.

However, despite that, the drivers’ rooms can’t be locked from the outside. The McLaren ones, at least, for the time being while their PIN code lock is being updated.

No one knows about the update except for him and Lando, but he still made sure to stash his belongings inside the lockers instead of leaving them lying around just in case. He has faith and trust in the crew, of course, as he has worked with the majority of them for years, but the garage is also an open space. Someone with malicious intent can easily slip in, unnoticed.

In hindsight, it makes the most sense for someone to slip in when either he or Lando wins a race since the garage will be mostly empty then. Thus, a small part of him isn’t surprised to discover that his driver’s room isn’t exactly the way he left it before leaving for the race he ultimately won.

Nothing is taken, thankfully, and the only thing out of place is the sealed half-pint of gelato on the table — which has a spoon tied on it by a familiar handcrafted OP81 bracelet.

[First name]’s.

There’s no meaning behind her very apparent attachment to it. At least, not in a way that is connected to him personally. For all he knows, she only refuses to stop wearing the bracelet — even at the behest of drivers close to her — because of the young fan that handed it to her.

"You don’t have to keep wearing it."

"I want to."

However, nevertheless, seeing the bracelet with his initials and number around her wrist always spark the same unvoiced feeling in his stomach — the one that grew from what stirred in his chest then.

And, somehow, knowing that she intentionally left her prized OP81 fan-made merch behind almost feels like a concession. Like she’s leaving him behind.

That’s an irrational jump in reasoning. After all, they’re not even friends. He knows that — but, apparently, the rest of his body doesn’t. He can easily blame his heightened emotions and illogicality on the adrenaline that hasn’t completely left his body, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

For a reason he is yet to understand, he’s wholeheartedly convinced [first name] isn’t just letting the bracelet go. She’s letting him go, too. And that thought, however illogically sound, doesn’t sit well in his stomach.

He can’t accept the bracelet with the plausible implication it carries. He can’t accept her concession. He doesn’t want to— He doesn’t want her to give up on him.

(He understands nothing. They’re not even friends.)

Thus, like a man with no time to lose and everything in line, Oscar takes off running before he can even comprehend where his feet are taking him.

"[First name]," he calls in relief when he sees her exit the Williams motorhome the same moment he arrives. His voice comes out a little breathless, a little winded from the impromptu run he did around the paddock post-race. He doesn’t care.

"Oscar," she turns with his name on her lips. Her shock is only evident in her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"To return your bracelet," he admits, "and to thank you for the congratulatory gift."

She makes a sound of acknowledgement as the shock filters out of her eyes. "You’re welcome. You can keep the bracelet."

Her words sting, like alcohol is poured over an open wound.

(Ridiculous. They’re not even friends.)

"I don’t want it." He says abruptly, instantly regretting the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. "I mean— the bracelet looks better on you."

"I don’t really like orange."

Oscar swallows down the instinct to correct. Protecting the McLaren papaya pride is the least of his worries at the moment. "It goes well with Williams blue—" there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. He finds it difficult to swallow— "and Ferrari red."

[First name]’s silence stretches. He begins to wonder if she’s back into being a mere hallucination; if he didn’t actually catch her on time and she’s bound to disappear in front of him any second.

He unconsciously holds his breath, anticipatory and unblinking. Praying, almost.

(They’re not friends.)

Then, finally, the silence breaks with her laugh sounding like scoff. She walks towards him with amusement dancing almost unnoticeably in her features. "Okay."

Oscar exhales in relief. He slots the bracelet back around her wrist with a silent promise even he is yet know.

(They’re not friends.)

The season calendar ultimately reaches the Italian Grand Prix, as it does every year.

Oscar, for someone who had been looking forward to it before the new season even started, has forgotten about it as soon as the new season actually began. In his defense, his plate filled at an alarming rate, especially with McLaren’s steel determination to become this year’s World Constructors’ Champion as well. It doesn’t help that he’s already seeing his only reason every weekend, either.

Well, ‘only reason’ might be a little too vague. [First name] is certainly part of that reason, but a big part of it is the tradition they unknowingly made. At least, that’s what he’d like to think, anyway.

Even if it no longer rings true, especially since . . . then.

They’re much closer since, having erased the invisible line between acquaintanceship and friendship. They still do everything they used to do, but now they aren’t limited to just those. They occasionally take detours now. And sit together, when they happen to take a break at the same hour. They hide together, too, when they crave the quietness of being away from everyone else.

Yet, despite the undeniable spike in their time spent together, their tradition at Monza has never been brought up. Not even in reminiscence.

As such, any thoughts about their tradition only lied dormant until the day of. More specifically, when Oscar finally finds himself sitting idle in the McLaren motorhome with a view identical to where he had seen her appear for the last two years.

It’s a bit too late to phone her to drop by just for the unspoken tradition’s sake. So, alas, all he can do now is will the universe to bring her to the McLaren motorhome for any reason it can think of.

Oscar lets himself wallow. He figures it’s better for him to do it now, since his brain refuses to let him think of anything else. He can’t risk jeopardizing his team like that, in case his compartmentalizing ability decides to fail him later.

"What are you doing?" A familiar voice pulls him back to reality. He focuses back to comprehend [first name] standing just outside of his personal bubble, clad in her Räikkönen tifoso gear. He almost forgot how she looks in them, having gotten used to seeing her in Williams colors for the past several months.

He spots the OP81 bracelet resting on her wrist. Its black and papaya theme compliments her red and white tifoso outfit.

A small smile forms at the corners of his mouth. "Waiting for you."

She tilts her head slightly in confusion, but doesn’t question him. "Sure."

He decides not to alleviate her confusion. He just starts walking towards the door, completely trusting she’ll follow him out. He gestures for her to exit first. "Fernando should be in the Aston Martin garage at this hour."

She obliges. "I know." Unlike the previous year where she actively fought to not walk next to him, she doesn’t even bat an eye when he claims one of her sides as they make their way to the Aston Martin area. "I’ve always known after our first meeting, actually."

Oscar can’t quite believe his ears. "Seriously?" [First name] affirms. He suddenly begins to question their exchanges during his first two years in McLaren, skimming through vague memories for clues. "Then why—"

"I needed an excuse," she shrugs nonchalantly. Acting as if she isn’t singlehandedly rewriting the way he views their little tradition. "I had quite the crush on you."

At the bluntness worthy of a Räikkönen, Oscar stops working altogether.

ᯓ★ it’s a little awkward to have an note at the end bc of my tumblr formatting, but it’s important to me that you guys know that yn definitely got banned on purpose. it’s meant to loosely parallel kimi in that grill the grid ep where he lost on purpose so he could leave, heh.

ᯓ★ also! 5/6th way to finishing this, i realized this prolly would’ve been better if i showed yn’s pov— but that was a lil too late, so osc’s pov had to do. yn’s pov would’ve had more angst in it, too, && idk if y’all dig that. lol. in all seriousness, i hope y’all enjoyed somehow <3

[no-144444]

red flag- o.piastri

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summary: you get in an accident on track.

pairing: oscar piastri (no.81) x fem! driver! reader

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“Red flag, red flag, safety car coming on track to retire all cars, too dangerous out in sector 3, drive with extreme caution,” his race engineer called over the radio.

“Is everyone alright?” Oscar questioned, slowing the car, the other drivers behind him doing the same. 

“We’re not sure, Y/l/n crashed in sector 3 and hasn’t gotten out of the car just yet. We’ll keep you posted.”

What? You’d crashed and you weren’t out of the car yet? What the fuck? He knew you, he remembered what happened back in f2, back when you’d had the worst crash of your career and you jumped out of the car with a broken leg. Then, you’d at least gotten out of the car. Now? You were in the fucking car. Still. Minutes after your crash. 

“Race is off, conditions are too dangerous.”

Fuck. 

As he pulled into the pitlane, he jumped out of his car, following the other drivers to the briefing room as they all pulled off their soaking suits and damp helmets. 

They sat, waiting for news as none came through. All they knew was that you had to be pulled out of your burning car and airlifted to the nearest hospital. Which meant that you weren’t conscious when you got out of the car. Which meant fucking terrible things. 

Time passed and nothing really happened, so they were all sent back to their hotel rooms. 

“Hey Osc, you want us to come with you? We don’t want you to be on your own right now,” Logan smiled softly, standing at the exit to the McLaren motorhome. Beside Logan was George, Lando, and Alex.

“Thanks guys,” he mustered up some half-smile and they shared a car, then hung out in his room for a few hours. 

Oscar’s phone rang after about an hour, an unknown number. Usually, calls like these would go ignored, especially at a time like this, but something told him to pick it up. 

“Piastri speaking,” he asked quietly. 

“This is Oscar Piastri? Y/n Y/l/n’s emergency contact?” a female voice asked. 

“Yes, yes it is,” he blurted out, grabbing the attention of Logan, Alex, George, and Lando beside him. They held their breath. 

“Well, Y/n was in an accident on the track and she suffered extreme internal bleeding from a broken rib, one that broke during the early laps of the race. She passed out from a lack of oxygen, and crashed into the barrier at a very high speed, meaning that she has a few more broken bones and issues. We'd ask you to come to visit her, she’s been asking about you non-stop since she woke up.”

“S-she’s awake?” 

“Yes, Mr. Piastri, and she’s refusing to take any medication unless you come down here.” 

“I’m on my way,” he hung up the phone without questioning and grabbed his coat and shoes, as the boys followed. Oscar didn’t even bother putting on his shoes as he ran through the hotel and out into the pouring rain. Logan hailed a cab as the other boys tried to get him to calm down. 

“You need to slow down,” George soothed, getting a grip on Oscar’s shoulder. It was strange for them, seeing this much emotion from Oscar. He’d always been so level-headed, so calm. Well, it wasn’t strange for Logan to see it. He was there in f2 when Oscar started crushing on you, and when you two got together. Every summer break you three (and a few other ex-f2- current f2 drivers) go on a week-long trip, just to stay in contact, Logan got a front-row seat to Oscar’s devotion to you. It was sweet, and it brought Oscar out of his shell. 

“She’s refusing medication, if I don’t get there fucking quicker, George, so no, I don’t plan on calming down-” he cursed, brushing his hand off his shoulder. 

“Hey! That was shitty, apologise Oscar. Everyone’s fuckin’ stressed right now,” Logan called back as the taxi pulled up.

“Sorry George,” Oscar added and George nodded, unaffected by his comment. 

The car ride was tense, all of them wanted to get to you, needed to get to you. The hospital came into view, and the boys ran out, George paying the driver and following the rest of them into the foyer. 

“Oscar Piastri, I’m here for Y/n Y/l/n?” 

“Oh yes! Are you family?” the nurse behind the desk asked. 

“I’m her emergency contact,” he replied. 

“Yes, but are you family?”

“I’m her fiancé?” he answered. 

“What?” Lando gasped. “You two got engaged?”

“During the summer break,” Logan answered. “He was planning on telling you after today.”

“All her family is in another country,” Oscar explained. “I’m the closest thing- we’re the closest thing.”

The nurse nodded and handed them visitor badges, and led them up to your room. 

“You go in first,” George nodded to Oscar. “You’ve got this.”

Oscar tried to look positive, but it was difficult when the love of his life was in a hospital bed behind the door in front of him. He pushed open the door and when he saw you, he wanted to scream. Hooked up to machines, but you were awake and bothering the nurse about him. Who gave a shit about him? You were important, you were the most important thing on the planet. 

“Baby, take the meds please,” he barely whispered, but you heard it and almost cried at the relief. She administered the drugs and left you to be. Your engineer left the room to give you privacy, he’d gone in the helicopter with you and had been the first to notice something wrong with you during the race. 

Oscar listened as the nurse explained your condition before she left. They suspected that you’d broken a rib during the first few laps, but it had punctured your lung, and you’d passed out in the car. Then you went straight into a barrier at almost 250 km/h. You broke 3 more ribs, 5 vertebrae in your back, your right hip, your right leg, your left arm, and you fractured your collarbone, as well as all the bruising and cuts you’d gotten. He felt sick to his stomach. The nurse left to inform the others.

Oscar stood at the end of your bed. “What were you thinking? Why would you refuse medicine?” He asked, his voice tense but calm.

“I wanted to see you,” you shrugged. “I needed to talk to you.”

He looked up to see you. The bruising, the cuts, the bandages, all of it, it was almost too much. 

“I lost the ring,” you admitted, choking up. “When I woke up it was gone. I’m so sorry Osc-”

“I dont give a fuck about the ring baby, I care about you. I care that you’re alive, alright?” He sighed, moving closer to your face. “I’ll get you another.”

You started crying as you held him close. It was all too much, the pain, the stress, thinking about what would happen after you got out, wondering if you’d ever be in an F1 car again, it was too much. Oscar always seemed to calm you down, to settle you, not this time. You’d never seen him this stressed, no one had. It was unsettling, unnatural, and it made you more worried, it made you think more, and it made everything too real. Every sob that left your body caused another surge of pain through your back and chest, god, broken ribs were no joke. You kept crying and he kept holding you, pleading with you to stop because he knew how painful it was, and he knew you’d pass out, and he’d be alone again. 

You passed out in his arms and the nurses ushered him away and back to the boys. 

“How is she?” Alex asked, standing from his seat.

“She passed out,” Oscar answered. “She’s in so much pain.”

Logan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll pull through. She’s the strongest person we know.”

Oscar nodded as tears filled his eyes. “This is so fucking unfair,” he cursed. 

“We know mate,” Lando agreed. “We’re fucking livid.”

“Did she at least take the meds?” George asked. 

Oscar scoffed. “Yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “She wanted to talk to me because she lost the fucking ring I gave her. Like I’d ever fucking give a shit about a ring over her.”

Logan chuckled softly. “Well, that’s your Y/n for you. Loyal.”

They all cracked a smile, even Oscar (kind of). 

“She’s going to be ok, alright?” George reminded him. “She’ll be back in that car in no time. She’s a fighter.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep going if she doesn’t,” Oscar answered. The weight of his confession sobered the other three to the somberness of the moment. 

“Well, it’s a good thing she’ll pull through,” Alex said. 

===========

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[bratzkoo]

our three year plan | pt. 1 wonwoo

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: chaebol heir! wonwoo x chaebol heiress!/ nurse! reader Genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut Rating: PG-15 to NC-17 Word count: 4k~ Warnings/note: merging arrangements rewrite. will keep the original merging arrangements chapters in my blog but it’s discontinued ☺️. Also! Updates for this fic is not going to be as fast because I haven’t been writing in advance. 😔 So see you between a week to a year. Lol.

summary: you think your life is ruined when your parents announced that you’re marrying the heir of a tech chaebol; jeon wonwoo. so you offered him a plan, pretend to be in love until you can fake a catastrophe to break the engagement.

jeon wonwoo thinks his life just got better when his parents announced that he’s marrying the heiress of the medical group. his long time crush and basically the woman of his dreams. so when you offered him your plan, he’s going to use it to make you fall in love with him

masterlist | next part

The conference room felt too small, too airless for the bombshell that had just been dropped. Y/N stared at her parents, certain she had misheard them.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" Her voice sounded distant, even to her own ears.

Her father, straightened his already impeccable posture. As CEO of Seoul's largest private medical group, he never made requests; he issued commands. "Your engagement to Jeon Wonwoo will be announced next month. The wedding is scheduled for spring."

"Engagement? Wedding?" Y/N's coffee cup clattered against its saucer. "To Jeon Wonwoo? The tech heir? I've barely exchanged ten words with him!"

Her mother's perfectly manicured hand reached across the polished conference table. "Darling, the Jeons are an excellent family. Their conglomerate is expanding into medical technology. This merger—"

"Merger?" Y/N stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "I'm not a business asset to be traded!"

"Lower your voice," her father hissed, glancing toward the door. "This is still a hospital."

Y/N inhaled deeply, the familiar antiseptic smell grounding her. Yes, Seoul Medical Center—her workplace, her sanctuary—was now the setting for this life-altering ambush.

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

Her father's expression hardened. "While you waste your medical degree playing nurse, the rest of us are securing the future of this institution."

The familiar barb stung, but Y/N had grown used to it over her years being a nurse. What she couldn't get used to was the idea of an arranged marriage.

"This discussion is over," her father announced, gathering his papers. "The Jeons are expecting us for dinner tomorrow. Wear something appropriate."

As her parents exited, leaving her alone in the conference room, Y/N sank back into her chair. Her phone buzzed with a notification for her afternoon rounds, a reminder of the life she'd built—the life that was now being dismantled without her consent.

"They can't be serious!" Alexys slammed her lunch tray down, causing several heads to turn in the hospital cafeteria. "Are we living in the Joseon dynasty?"

"Lower your voice," Dr. Ela Song whispered, sliding into the seat beside Y/N. "The walls have ears, especially when the CEO's daughter is involved."

Y/N pushed her salad around aimlessly. "They're dead serious. Apparently, the contracts are already being drafted."

"Contracts?" Alexys scoffed, her lab coat still bearing traces of what looked suspiciously like the methylene blue from the pathology lab. "For a marriage? Who does that anymore?"

"Rich people," Ela replied matter-of-factly, carefully separating her kimchi from the rest of her lunch. "Trust me, I know. My parents still haven't forgiven me for marrying Mingyu instead of the Chinese pharmaceutical heir they picked out."

Y/N looked up at her friend. Despite coming from immense wealth herself, Ela had chosen love over family expectations, a path that had cost her dearly. "How did you do it? Stand up to them, I mean."

Ela's expression softened. "I knew what I wanted. Do you?"

The question hung between them. What did she want? Y/N had spent years defining herself by her work—the midnight emergencies, the precious moments with patients, the medical missions to remote villages where her skills made a tangible difference. The thought of trading that for corporate functions and producing heirs made her stomach churn.

"I want my life," she finally said. "My career. My freedom to go on medical missions. Not... whatever this is."

Alexys paused mid-bite. "Then you need to find a way out of it."

"How? My father has made it clear this is non-negotiable."

Alexys grinned mischievously. "What if you make yourself so undesirable that this Wonwoo guy backs out? Men hate clingy women, right? Or maybe develop some disgusting habits?"

Despite everything, Y/N laughed. "You're suggesting I start picking my nose at business dinners?"

"I'm serious!" Alexys insisted. "Or what if—"

"What if you just talked to him?" Ela interrupted pragmatically. "This Wonwoo person might be just as trapped as you are."

The thought hadn't occurred to Y/N. In her mind, Jeon Wonwoo had been a faceless corporate puppet, willingly participating in this archaic arrangement. But what if he was another victim in their parents' chess game?

"Nurse Y/N to Emergency, Nurse Y/N to Emergency."

The overhead page pulled Y/N from her thoughts. She gathered her barely-touched lunch.

"Duty calls," she sighed, standing up. "I'll figure something out. I have to."

As she hurried toward the emergency department, a plan began forming in her mind. If Wonwoo was as reluctant as she was, perhaps they could form an alliance. A temporary arrangement with a predetermined expiration date. They could pretend just long enough to satisfy their families, then orchestrate some kind of falling out.

It was desperate, perhaps even foolish. But as Y/N pushed through the swinging doors of the ER and the familiar controlled chaos enveloped her, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would not give up the life she had fought so hard to build.

Seungcheol was already gloved up when Y/N entered the trauma bay, his calm presence a welcome sight amid the flurry of activity.

"MVA, three minutes out," he called to her, his eyes crinkling with the smile hidden beneath his surgical mask. As the ER's most experienced trauma nurse, Y/N was always his first choice for critical cases.

She nodded, slipping into the familiar routine with practiced ease. Gloves, gown, mask—the ritual momentarily pushed aside her personal crisis.

"Heard you got called to the executive floor earlier," Seungcheol remarked as they prepared the crash cart together. "Everything okay?"

Y/N hesitated. Despite Seungcheol being her closest friend at the hospital, something held her back from sharing her current predicament. The situation felt too raw, too complicated to explain—especially to someone whose opinion mattered so much to her.

"Just quarterly performance reviews," she lied smoothly, checking the laryngoscope light. "Nothing exciting."

He studied her for a moment, clearly sensing there was more to the story, but the wail of approaching sirens saved her from further questions.

For the next three hours, Y/N lost herself in the work she loved—stabilizing patients, anticipating needs before they were voiced, bringing order to chaos. Here, in the ER, she wasn't the reluctant heiress of the medical group; she was simply Nurse Y/N, respected for her skills and dedication.

By the time her shift ended, Y/N had almost convinced herself that she could find a way out of her predicament. Almost.

"You look like you could use this," Seungcheol said, appearing beside her locker with a steaming cup of coffee—made exactly how she liked it, with a splash of almond milk and no sugar.

"You're a lifesaver," she murmured gratefully, accepting the cup.

"Rough shift," he commented, leaning against the lockers. "You handled that crush injury like a pro, though."

Y/N welcomed the shift to professional topics. "The ortho team said we saved his arm. Sometimes I forget why we do this, and then days like today happen."

Seungcheol smiled, the kind of smile that usually made her day brighter. Today, however, she couldn't fully return it, her mind still preoccupied with tomorrow's meeting with Wonwoo.

"You seem distracted," he observed. "Sure there's nothing you want to talk about?"

Y/N took a measured sip of her coffee, buying time to compose her thoughts. "Nothing worth mentioning. Just tired." She forced a lighter tone. "Tell me about that new protocol Dr. Kim was discussing yesterday. The one for pediatric traumas?"

She could see Seungcheol wasn't entirely convinced by her deflection, but he respected her boundaries enough not to push. As he launched into an explanation of the new protocols, Y/N nodded along, grateful for his friendship yet oddly relieved to keep her impending engagement private—at least for now.

Some burdens, she decided, were better carried alone until she had a clearer path forward. Perhaps after meeting Wonwoo tomorrow, she'd have more answers than questions.

"Whatever's going on," Seungcheol said suddenly, interrupting his own explanation, "just remember I'm here if you need anything. No questions asked."

The simple offer of support without demands for explanation touched Y/N deeply. "I know," she said, her throat unexpectedly tight. "Thank you."

As they parted ways in the hospital parking lot, Y/N felt a strange mix of guilt and resolve. Seungcheol deserved her honesty, but until she understood her own situation better, silence seemed the wiser choice. Tomorrow, she would meet Jeon Wonwoo, and perhaps then the path ahead would become clearer.

The Jeon estate was exactly as ostentatious as Y/N had expected—a modern glass and steel structure perched on one of Seoul's most exclusive hillsides, overlooking the city like a watchful sentinel. As the security gates parted for her parents' Mercedes, Y/N smoothed down her conservative navy dress, chosen specifically to project seriousness rather than bridal potential.

"Remember to smile," her mother murmured as they approached the entrance. "First impressions are everything."

Y/N bit back a retort. If her parents wanted a corporate puppet, they should have groomed Haerin for the role. Her younger sister would have thrived in this world of strategic alliances and business dinners.

The thought of Haerin triggered a pang of longing. If only her sister were here instead of "finding herself" in Italy. Their last conversation replayed in her mind:

"You should be the heir," Y/N had insisted during their video call. "You actually want this life."

Haerin had just laughed, the Mediterranean sun glinting in her hair. "I just want to be in Italy and be rich."

"You just want to be in Italy and be rich." Y/N mocked in sing-song tone.

"Yes, thank you, next!" Haerin had quipped, ending the discussion with her typical breezy dismissal.

Now, as a stern housekeeper ushered them into an expansive foyer, Y/N wished for just a fraction of her sister's carefree attitude.

Mr. and Mrs. Jeon awaited them in a sitting room that could have been featured in an architectural magazine—all clean lines, expensive minimalism, and strategic splashes of color. Y/N instantly recognized Jeon Siwoo from business magazines, his silver hair and commanding presence befitting the CEO of one of Korea's largest tech conglomerates.

Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, but Y/N barely registered the conversation. Her attention was fixed on the conspicuous absence of her supposed fiancé.

"Wonwoo sends his apologies," Mrs. Jeon explained, noticing Y/N's wandering gaze. "He was called away to handle an emergency at our Busan facility. He's flying back tonight and is looking forward to meeting you properly tomorrow."

Y/N couldn't decide if she was relieved or frustrated by the delay. On one hand, it postponed the inevitable awkwardness; on the other, it prolonged her anxiety.

"Perhaps it's for the best," her father said smoothly. "The young people can meet privately tomorrow. Sometimes these arrangements are better discussed without parental interference."

Mr. Jeon nodded in agreement. "Wonwoo will pick Y/N up at noon. I suggest lunch at the Sky Garden—private, yet public enough for propriety."

Y/N fought to keep her expression neutral as her future was arranged like a business meeting. Tomorrow, she would meet Jeon Wonwoo, and everything would change. Her mind raced with questions: Would he be as reluctant as she was? Would he consider her plan? Or would he be exactly like their parents, seeing her as nothing more than a beneficial merger?

As the evening progressed through an elaborate dinner where business dominated the conversation, Y/N remained largely silent, mentally rehearsing what she would say to Wonwoo tomorrow. By the time they left, she had a clear strategy: she would be direct, practical, and unemotional. This was a negotiation, nothing more.

The following morning dawned bright and crisp, autumn painting Seoul in shades of gold and crimson. Y/N had barely slept, her mind cycling through various scenarios of how her meeting with Wonwoo might unfold.

At precisely noon, her phone pinged with a message from an unknown number:

I'm outside your building. Black Tesla. - Wonwoo

Direct and to the point. Perhaps this was a good sign. Y/N grabbed her purse and headed downstairs, her heart hammering against her ribs despite her determination to remain calm and collected.

The sleek black car was idling at the curb, its electric engine silent. As she approached, the driver's door opened, and Jeon Wonwoo stepped out.

Y/N faltered momentarily. The man before her was not what she'd expected. Business publications typically showed him in formal attire at corporate events, looking serious and unapproachable. Today, dressed in dark jeans and a simple white button-down with rolled sleeves, he looked younger, more approachable—and annoyingly handsome, with sharp features softened by warm eyes behind round glasses.

"Y/N," he said with a slight bow. "It's nice to finally meet you properly."

His voice was lower than she'd anticipated, with a gentle quality that didn't match her mental image of a cutthroat tech executive.

"Likewise," she responded automatically, accepting his gesture to enter the car.

The interior smelled of new leather and something else—a subtle, clean scent that she assumed was his cologne. As he slid into the driver's seat, Y/N steeled herself. Handsome or not, this man represented everything she was fighting against—the loss of her autonomy, the end of her carefully constructed life.

"I know a place that's more private than the Sky Garden," Wonwoo said as he pulled into traffic. "If that's alright with you. Somewhere we can actually talk."

Y/N turned to study his profile. Was it possible he had his own agenda for this meeting?

"I'd prefer that," she admitted. "I have some things I'd like to discuss."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I thought you might."

The drive was mostly silent, but not uncomfortably so. Wonwoo seemed content to focus on navigating Seoul's busy streets, occasionally pointing out a landmark or asking a neutral question about her work. Y/N provided brief answers, saving her energy for the real conversation ahead.

He eventually parked near a secluded botanical garden, leading her to a small café nestled among trees just beginning to turn color. The place was nearly empty, offering the privacy both apparently craved.

After they ordered—he knew precisely what kind of tea she preferred, which was mildly disconcerting—Wonwoo leaned forward, his expression serious.

"I think we should address the elephant in the room," he said directly. "This arranged marriage."

Y/N appreciated his straightforwardness. "Yes, we should."

"I understand this must be difficult for you," he continued, surprising her with his perception. "Being told who to marry, having your future decided without your consent."

Something in his tone made Y/N pause. He didn't sound like someone equally trapped in this arrangement; he sounded like someone trying to be understanding of her predicament.

"Isn't it difficult for you as well?" she probed.

Wonwoo's eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered in their depths. "My situation is... different."

Before she could ask what he meant, their drinks arrived. Y/N wrapped her hands around the warm mug, gathering her courage.

"I have a proposition," she said once the server had left. "A way for both of us to satisfy our families without actually committing to a lifetime together."

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his expression cautiously interested. "I'm listening."

"We pretend," Y/N stated simply. "We go along with the engagement, play the happy couple in public. Meanwhile, we live separate lives as much as possible. After a suitable period—maybe a year or two—we stage a falling out. Something believable but not scandalous. We part ways amicably, our families maintain their business connections, and we both regain our freedom."

She held her breath as Wonwoo considered her words, his expression thoughtful. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke:

"And what if it doesn't work?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if our parents don't accept our breakup? What if they push us back together?"

Y/N hadn't considered this possibility. "Then... we make the falling out more dramatic. Irreconcilable differences. Something they can't fix."

Wonwoo studied her for a long moment, his gaze so intent that Y/N fought the urge to squirm in her seat.

"Three years," he finally said.

"Excuse me?"

"Not one or two. Three years. That's how long we commit to this charade. It needs to be believable." He leaned forward slightly. "If we announce the breakup too soon, they'll know it was planned."

His logic was sound, though the thought of maintaining a fake relationship for three years was daunting. Still, three years of pretending was better than a lifetime of reality.

"Three years," she agreed tentatively. "But with conditions. I maintain my career. I continue my medical missions. No children, obviously."

"Agreed," he nodded. "And I have conditions as well. We live together in the house my parents have already purchased. Separate bedrooms, of course," he added quickly, seeing her expression. "But we need to appear committed. They'll expect it."

Y/N swallowed hard. Living together would complicate things significantly. "Any other conditions?"

Something shifted in Wonwoo's expression—a subtle change she couldn't quite identify. "Just one. We make a genuine effort to know each other. To be friends, at least. Three years is a long time to live with a stranger."

The request was reasonable, even practical. If they were to convince the world of their relationship, they needed to understand each other.

"Alright," she conceded. "Friends. But nothing more."

Wonwoo extended his hand across the table. "Then we have a deal. Our three-year plan begins now."

As Y/N placed her hand in his, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something—something in the way his hand lingered around hers, something in the quiet intensity of his gaze.

What she didn't know, what she couldn't know, was that Jeon Wonwoo had just agreed to a plan that aligned perfectly with his own agenda—three years to make the woman he'd admired from afar fall genuinely in love with him.

The house was beautiful—Y/N had to admit that much. Nestled in a quiet neighborhood that somehow managed to be both exclusive and understated, the modern three-bedroom structure was nothing like the ostentatious mansions their parents inhabited. If she had to be trapped in a fake engagement, at least the cage was gilded.

"Your things arrived this morning," Wonwoo said as he unlocked the front door. "I had them placed in the master bedroom. I've taken the room down the hall."

She followed him inside, noting with surprise the warmth of the interior. She'd expected cold minimalism like his parents' home, but this space was inviting—clean lines softened by natural materials, large windows filling the rooms with light, and carefully chosen art that seemed to reflect both Korean tradition and modern sensibilities.

"Did you decorate this?" she asked, running her fingers along a handcrafted wooden shelf.

Wonwoo shook his head. "A designer handled most of it, but I made some adjustments. I wanted it to feel like a home, not a showpiece."

Y/N glanced at him curiously. There it was again—that disconnect between the corporate heir she'd imagined and the thoughtful man before her.

"Let me show you around," he offered, leading her through the space.

The tour ended in a kitchen that would make a professional chef envious—state-of-the-art appliances, expansive countertops, and a view of the small but immaculately landscaped garden.

"Do you cook?" Y/N asked, noting how at ease Wonwoo seemed in this space.

"It's one of my few hobbies," he admitted. "Work doesn't leave time for much else." He hesitated, then added, "I thought I might make dinner tonight. If you're comfortable with that. Consider it a housewarming."

The offer surprised her. In her family, cooking was the staff's responsibility; the idea of the heir to a major corporation preparing dinner was foreign.

"I'd like that," she found herself saying.

Later, as she unpacked in her new bedroom, Y/N's phone buzzed with messages from Ela and Alexys:

Well??? Did you meet him? Is he a troll? A robot? DETAILS, WOMAN! - Alexys

Hope you're okay. Call if you need anything. Mingyu says Wonwoo is actually decent, for what it's worth. - Ela

Y/N blinked at Ela's message. "Wait, Mingyu knows Wonwoo?"

As if on cue, her phone rang with Ela's call.

"You didn't know?" Ela sounded surprised when Y/N asked. "They've been friends since university. Mingyu never mentioned him because, well, you know how my husband is—he doesn't like to name-drop."

Y/N sank onto her new bed, processing this connection. "What else does Mingyu know about him?"

"Just that he's not like other chaebol heirs. Works ridiculous hours, actually earned his position rather than having it handed to him. Mingyu says he's brilliant with technology but awkward with people." Ela paused. "Did you propose your plan?"

"Yes," Y/N confirmed, lowering her voice although she was alone in the room. "Three years of pretending, then a clean break."

"And he agreed?" Ela sounded skeptical.

"Surprisingly easily. I think he's as trapped as I am."

There was a strange pause before Ela spoke again. "Y/N... did you consider that he might have his own reasons for agreeing?"

Before Y/N could respond, a gentle knock on her door interrupted the conversation.

"I need to go," she told Ela quickly. "I'll call you tomorrow."

She opened the door to find Wonwoo standing there, sleeves rolled up further and an apron tied around his waist. The domesticity of the image was so at odds with what she knew of him that Y/N momentarily stared.

"Dinner's almost ready," he said, seemingly unaware of her reaction. "Nothing fancy, just some doenjang jjigae and banchan."

"That sounds perfect," she replied, following him downstairs.

The kitchen was filled with mouthwatering aromas, the countertops lined with small dishes of perfectly prepared side dishes. As they settled at the dining table with steaming bowls of stew, Y/N found herself genuinely impressed.

"This is delicious," she admitted after her first bite.

A pleased smile curved Wonwoo's lips, transforming his serious face. "My grandmother's recipe. She insisted I learn to cook for myself, even though my parents thought it was beneath me."

"Your grandmother sounds wise."

"She was," he said softly, and Y/N noted the past tense with a pang of empathy.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the awkwardness of their situation temporarily set aside. It was strange, Y/N thought, how quickly the human mind adapted to new circumstances. This morning, she had been dreading meeting Jeon Wonwoo; now, she was sharing a home-cooked meal with him as they embarked on a three-year deception together.

"I've been thinking about our arrangement," Wonwoo said as they finished eating. "We should establish some ground rules. Beyond what we've already agreed on."

Y/N nodded. "That makes sense."

"For instance, we should discuss how we handle public appearances, family obligations, holidays..."

"And dating," Y/N added, thinking ahead. "If we're going to be living separate lives, we need parameters for discretion."

Something flickered in Wonwoo's eyes—so briefly Y/N thought she might have imagined it. "Of course," he said evenly. "Discretion would be paramount."

Their conversation continued late into the evening, mapping out the contours of their pretense. By the time Y/N retreated to her bedroom, she felt surprisingly at ease with the arrangement. Wonwoo was reasonable, practical, and seemingly as committed to maintaining their independence as she was.

As she prepared for bed in her new home, Y/N remembered Ela's question: Did you consider that he might have his own reasons for agreeing?

She dismissed the thought. Whatever Wonwoo's reasons were, they aligned with her goals. That was all that mattered. Tomorrow would be another day of adjustments, of learning to navigate this strange new reality. But for tonight, at least, she could sleep knowing she had found a way to protect the life she cherished.

In his own room down the hall, Jeon Wonwoo sat at his desk, a small smile playing on his lips as he closed the leather-bound journal where he'd been writing. On its cover, inscribed in his neat handwriting, were the words:

“Our three year plan.”

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 26

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 26

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 |Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Tommy leaves the hospital to handle business tied to the growing threat, you remain behind to watch over Finn. In the quiet hours that follow, the weight of everything they've endured begins to settle in. .

Word count:  5.5k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, physical assault, PTSD and war flashbacks, language, and emotional distress

--

Finn had been in the hospital for five days before he finally woke up enough to have a full conversation. 

The first few days had been touch and go. His eyes would flicker open, he’d offer a few slurred words, maybe a weak squeeze of the hand, before drifting off again. But that morning, when you walked into the room with a fresh cup of tea for yourself and a glass of water for him, he was already awake. Propped slightly on a pillow. Eyes open while he talked to Tommy. 

You paused in the doorway, just for a second.

Tommy sat beside the bed, his posture relaxed in the way only exhaustion could bring. One arm rested on the chair, the other lightly gripping the edge of Finn’s blanket. His coat was off and sleeves rolled. 

Finn looked small but alert. His skin was still pale, and the dark circles under his eyes hadn’t faded, but he was awake and speaking clearly. His voice was soft and hoarse, but steady enough to hold a conversation. He said something low to Tommy. It was something you couldn’t quite catch, but it made Tommy let out a short, quiet laugh. It was quick, almost under his breath, but you hadn’t heard him laugh like that in days.

The tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

You stepped fully into the room, and the sound of the teacup tapping against the water glass in your hand drew their attention.

Tommy turned to look at you. His eyes flicked down briefly to what you were holding before lifting back to yours.

“He’s asking for sweets,” he said, nodding toward Finn. “Says the food here’s terrible.”

You walked to the side of the bed and raised an eyebrow at Finn. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”

Finn gave you a tired smile. “They just brought me by some toast. There was no jam. Not even butter.”

You set the tea down and moved to help him sit up a little straighter. “God forbid.”

“I mean, I’m already suffering, I might as well do it with some jam,” he said.

Tommy gave a small shake of his head. “You’ll get jam once you can stand without falling over.”

Finn groaned. “How long will that be?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You’ll heal faster if you do what you’re told.”

Finn looked at him, unimpressed. “You never did what you were told when you got hurt.”

You blinked and turned to Tommy. “Is that so?”

Tommy gave a slight shrug, clearly not interested in revisiting that particular memory. “That was a completely different situation.”

You and Finn exchanged a look.

“Shelby logic,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Finn smiled again, smaller this time. His eyelids were already starting to droop again.

You reached for his cup and set it aside, letting him settle back against the pillows.

“You can rest, love,” you said softly. “We’ll be right here.”

He didn’t argue. Within moments, his breathing slowed again, deeper now, steadier. His face relaxed as he drifted off.

You let out a long breath as soon as his eyes closed. It was a quiet exhale you hadn’t even realized you were holding. Not until the fear loosened its grip.

Tommy reached for your hand. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

“He’s alright,” he said. 

You curled your fingers around his before leaning back in your chair. You glanced at Finn, then at Tommy. “Tommy, what are we going to do?” you asked. “The men who did this– they’re still out there. They could come back.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady on Finn, but you could see the shift in his posture, the way his jaw tensed, the way his thumb stopped moving against your hand.

“They won’t,” he said eventually. 

You studied his face. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll make sure of it.”

You hesitated, then asked, “How?”

Tommy looked at you for a long moment, weighing how much to say.

“I’ve had someone watching every point of contact since the night Finn was taken,” he said finally. “Every alley, every shipment, every man who’s ever shaken hands with the Italians in this city.”

You frowned slightly. “Since when?”

“Since the wedding,” he said. “I knew Luca wouldn’t stop.”

“And?” you asked. “What’ve they found?”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, voice low so as not to wake Finn.

“He’s got people doing the work for him. Not just the Italians. Locals, too. Some of our own.”

Your stomach turned. “What?”

Tommy nodded once. “That’s how they got to Finn. Whoever let them through knew when and where to hit.”

He sat back slightly, his eyes narrowing like he could see it all playing out again in his head.

“Luca doesn’t kick down the door himself,” Tommy said. “He bribes the man who’s meant to be watching it. Men like him don’t come to finish the job unless they know they’ve already won,” he continued. 

You glanced at Finn, your hand still curled lightly around Tommy’s.

Tommy followed your gaze. “He could’ve come after me. After Arthur. After any of the men who’ve had a hand in this war. But he chose Finn.” He paused, eyes fixed on the boy in the bed.  “A child. A boy who had no part in any of this.”

His hand clenched once in yours, then loosened.

“If Luca Changretta wants a war, I’ll fucking show him one.”

Tommy’s eyes were still locked on Finn, his jaw set, his shoulders coiled tight like a man already halfway out the door. The shift in him was subtle, but you knew it well by now. You saw the way he straightened his spine, the way his expression flattened into focus. It was the version of him that didn’t hesitate. The one who made decisions with blood on the line.

He looked down at your joined hands for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Then he stood slowly, his fingers lingering in yours until the last second.

“I need to check in with Johnny Dogs,” he said, his voice clipped, already shifting back into motion. “We’ve got movement near the rail yard.”

Your stomach tightened.

Of course he had to go. Of course this couldn’t wait. But that didn’t stop the sharp prickle of unease crawling up your spine.

“You’re going now?” you asked, trying to keep your tone even.

He nodded. 

You glanced at Finn, then back at Tommy. “I just…” you paused, trying to find the words without making it harder than it already was. 

Tommy let out a quiet sigh. “You just what?” 

You shook your head. “Never mind.”

There was something in his expression. An understanding, maybe, or guilt, or just the same exhaustion you felt. Like he knew what you were trying not to say: that you were tired of him walking out the door and not knowing what kind of version of him would come back. Or if he would come back at all.

“Go on. Just say it,” he said. 

“I know we’ve been cooped up in this hospital for days, worried about Finn and eating shitty hospital food. But we finally got a minute. Just us. Without the next fire already waiting.”

Tommy didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

“I knew it wouldn’t last forever. I know you have a job to do” you added. “But that minute was nice, that’s all.”

He looked down for a second, jaw working slightly, then back at you.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was quieter now. It wasn’t fragile. Tommy Shelby was never fragile. But it was honest in a way he rarely let himself be.

You nodded, arms folding across your chest. “It’s alright. I just wish it could’ve lasted a little longer.”

He stepped forward then, gently, like he was approaching something delicate. He reached for your hand again, his fingers closing around yours.

“We’ll have more minutes,” he said. “Once this is done.”

You searched his face for a lie, but there wasn’t one. Just the same tired man who kept doing what he had to do because he didn’t know how to stop.

“Go,” you said finally, voice low. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Tommy gave a single nod. He leaned in, kissed the side of your head, and let his hand fall away as he turned for the door.

You watched him go. Again.

You sat back down beside Finn’s bed, the chair groaning slightly under your weight as you settled into it like someone bracing for another long stretch of waiting.

…

The wind off the canal carried the stink of coal smoke and stagnant water. Tommy stepped out of the car without a word, shoulders stiff against the cold. Gravel shifted beneath his boots, sharp and loud in the stillness. He paused, glancing around the loading yard.

Tommy hadn’t been entirely honest with you earlier. He’d said it was a check-in with Johnny Dogs, nothing more. No point in making you worry about another possible setup, not when you’d just started to breathe again with Finn stable.

But the message that came two nights ago had been too precise to ignore. Someone claiming to speak for Luca. A neutral party. Promising terms. A place to talk.

Tommy didn’t believe in clean negotiations. Not with a man like Changretta. But if there was even a slim chance he could end this before another bullet flew, he had to see it through. 

Arthur climbed out after Tommy, scanning the dark edges of the yard with sharp eyes. He sniffed once, wiped his nose on the back of his glove, and muttered, “Place looks like it’s been dead a week.”

Tommy didn’t answer. His eyes were already tracking the shadows, the dim pools of light cast by a few failing lamps. 

Arthur stayed close, scanning every movement in the distance, but Tommy stood still. His gaze lingered on the far end of the lot. A delivery van passed in the street behind them. No one got out. No one pulled up. Nothing.

Johnny Dogs waited near the edge of the loading yard, half-hidden behind a stack of old crates. He didn’t wave. Just watched Arthur and Tommy approach with that taut, wary look he wore when something didn’t sit right.

Tommy lit a cigarette as he came up alongside him.

“Well?” he asked.

“No one’s shown,” he said without waiting for a greeting. “Nothing all day. Lads been posted since morning. Not a single fucker.”

Tommy nodded once, but his mind was already turning.

“Sure this is the right spot?” Arthur asked, stepping beside him. 

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He looked at the crates again. The open space. The clear exits. Too convenient.

“I’m sure,” he said. 

Arthur frowned. “You think they backed out?”

“No,” Tommy said. Even as he said it, the weight of the realization settled in his chest, cold and sharp. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “They were never going to show,” he muttered. “They wanted to know where I’d be.”

He’d known the message felt too clean. He’d known Luca didn’t send warnings. So why had he let himself believe it might be different this time? Because he was tired? Because he wanted to end it without more loss? 

He swallowed hard, jaw tight.

Arthur said something beside him, but it barely registered. A thin ringing had started in his ears, the kind he hadn’t felt since France, right before the shelling would start.

He turned slowly, his breath coming faster now, though he didn’t show it. Not on the surface.

“They wanted me away from the hospital.”

Arthur went still.

And now Tommy slowly turned, looking over his shoulder like he could already feel how far away he'd let himself get.

“They’re going after Finn,” he said.

“Fuck,” Arthur spat, already running back toward the car.

Tommy dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel, then he turned and followed, fast.

…

You sat beside Finn’s hospital bed, your body folded into the chair like you hadn’t moved in hours. Your head rested lightly against the edge of the mattress, one hand still holding his. His fingers twitched now and then in his sleep, weak but warm, a small reassurance that he was still fighting.

The room was dim. Just the overhead monitor lights cast a soft green glow around. It had been quiet since Tommy left about an hour ago.

You didn’t sleep, not really. Just let your eyes close every so often, tuning in to Finn’s breathing, the soft beep of the machines.

Then, the door creaked open.

You lifted your head slowly, groggy but alert.

A doctor stepped inside. 

He froze just past the threshold, like he hadn’t expected anyone to be there.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re… still here.”

Five days in the hospital meant you’d seen just about every doctor and nurse on this floor. Even the overnight staff. But you didn’t recognize this one.

“We’ve been staying with him. Didn’t want him waking up alone,” you said quietly, forcing a small smile as you rested your hand back over Finn’s.

The man gave a tight smile of his own, stepping inside a little farther now. “Of course,” he said. “That’s… that’s good of you.”

He glanced briefly at the monitors, then down at Finn. Not in a way that seemed particularly concerned, more like he was checking the room.

You leaned back a little farther in your seat, watching him.

“I thought I’d seen the entire staff rotation these last few days, but I haven’t seen you before yet,” you offered lightly. “You just come on shift?”

There was the briefest pause before he answered.

“Yes. Just filling in.”

He stepped a little closer to the bed, flipping open the clipboard in his hands without really looking at it.

“I’ve got some pain medication,” he said casually. “Just to help him rest a bit easier. Should take the edge off.”

You frowned.

Finn had been given pain meds less than an hour ago. You remembered the nurse coming in gently. She’d even explained the dosage aloud while logging it in the chart.

You straightened slightly in your chair. “They already gave him something,” you said, voice still even but firmer now. “About forty minutes ago.”

The man didn’t look at you right away. Just stared at the clipboard like he was reading something.

“Oh,” he said after a beat. “Well, this is a different dosage. Coordinated by a different team.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Which team?”

Another beat.

Then he smiled again, too quickly. “Pediatrics. Just an adjustment.”

You glanced toward Finn, then back at the man.

“I’d like to check with the nurse on duty first.”

The smile faded. Just a flicker.

“There’s no need,” he said, a little too quickly. “Really. It’s all logged—”

“I said I’d like to check,” you repeated, louder now, rising slowly from your chair.

The man’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly, but you saw it. Then, the man’s hand dipped into his coat. When it came out, he was holding a syringe.

Time seemed to stutter. For a split second, you couldn’t move. Your mind tried to catch up to what your eyes were seeing.

Then he lunged.

You stumbled backward, the chair screeching across the tile as it tipped over behind you. The man came at you fast, expression flat and focused, the needle clutched tightly in his fist.

You barely caught his wrist mid-swing, and shoved back with everything you had, your forearm slamming into his chest. The syringe dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, but his other hand grabbed your shoulder, shoving you hard into the wall.

You kicked out, caught him in the shin. He cursed, accent thick and definitely not local, and stumbled, but recovered fast. You barely had time to breathe before he slammed into you, tackling you hard onto the tile.

You hit the ground flat, the air knocked from your lungs, your head bouncing off the floor with a dull crack that made your vision blur.

Then he was on top of you.

Heavy. Hands everywhere. One clamped hard around your wrist, the other scrambling down toward your side—your coat, your pockets, something he was trying to get to. The syringe. Or worse.

You fought blindly.

Your knee came up hard, catching him in the ribs. He grunted but didn’t move. His other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and slammed your head back into the floor.

The lights above spun.

“What’s going on?” Finn’s voice cut through the haze.

It was thin. Fragile. The sound of a boy barely awake and already afraid. But you couldn’t turn to look. Couldn’t reassure him. 

All you could see was the man straddling your hips, his face inches from yours, sweat beading at his brow, nostrils flaring, breath hot and sour on your cheek. His jaw clenched tight, lips pulled back just enough to show his teeth. There was a smear of blood on his neck now. Yours, maybe, you couldn’t tell.

His eyes never blinked.

You saw the spit gathered at the corners of his mouth. Saw the twitch of his fingers as his hand moved toward your throat, slow but certain, like he wanted to feel the life leaving you. 

You twisted beneath him, arms pinned, the back of your head slick with blood against the tile.

His fingers closed around your neck, squeezing hard. 

Your breath cut off instantly, a strangled gasp catching in your throat as pressure surged against your windpipe. Your back arched instinctively, heels kicking against the slick tile as you clawed at his wrist, nails digging into skin that didn’t give.

The weight of him crushed down on your chest. Your lungs screamed for air.

Your vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in like spilled ink. You heard your own pulse thudding in your ears, heavy and distant.

One arm was still trapped beneath his knee, useless. The other scraped blindly along the floor, your fingers twitching and skittering across smooth tile, desperately searching, grabbing at nothing.

The panic was animal now. Pure survival.

And then, your fingertips hit something. Cold. Flat. Metal. The trauma shears.

You wrapped your hand around them and wrenched upward, muscles screaming, body twisting.

The next second, you were swinging.

You swung upward first, the blunt-edged blades catching him across the ribs. He snarled through gritted teeth, fingers still crushing your windpipe, his face inches from yours, breath hot and sour. Black was creeping in around the edges of your vision now, your body screaming for air—

You swung again, harder.

This time, the shears connected with the side of his neck.

Not deep, but enough.

He shouted, voice guttural and animal, recoiling with a sharp jerk. The pressure on your throat loosened just enough for you to drag in a desperate, choking breath.

You coughed, wheezed, and drove your shoulder into him, pushing him off balance. He staggered back, clutching the side of his neck where blood was already welling between his fingers.

You lunged after him.

Not because he was still a threat. Not because he was getting back up. But because he might. Because he would, if you gave him the chance.

You straddled his chest, one knee digging into his ribs, your hand still clenched around the trauma shears. His eyes widened, but he reached for you again.

You didn’t let him.

You brought the shears down, once, through his chest.

Then again.

And again.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t careful. There was no technique to it, just the weight of adrenaline and terror crashing through your limbs like a storm.

He tried to yell, but it came out a gurgle. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Your hands were soaked now, his blood warm and slick on your fingers, your arms, your clothes. Your breathing came in gasps, ragged and animal. You couldn’t stop shaking.

You raised the shears again.

The man beneath you wasn’t moving. His arms were slack, his face unrecognizable through the mess. But your body didn’t understand that yet. Your mind was still caught in the moment, in the fear, in the fury.

Your hand tightened around the handle. 

One more.

The door slammed open behind you.

“Jesus Christ—”

You froze.

Your chest was still heaving. Your knees still dug into the man’s ribs. But you didn’t move. Didn’t lower your arm. Just slowly turned your head toward the doorway.

Tommy stood there. Arthur right beside him, wide-eyed, a half-drawn pistol hanging forgotten in his hand.

The room was silent now, except for your breathing and the soft beeping of Finn’s monitor, still alive, still steady.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just knelt there, frozen, blood smeared up your arms, drying in streaks across your hands and mouth. Your chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shallow and ragged. The trauma shears were still clenched in your fist, white-knuckled and rigid, as if some part of you believed he might get back up.

The room felt like it was underwater.

Then, Tommy's voice broke the silence. "Are you alright, Finn?"

“He was trying to kill me. But she stopped him.” His voice was thin and scared. "I'm alright."

You didn’t turn to look at him.

You just stared forward, eyes unfocused, fixed on the blood pooling beneath the man’s body, the red streaked across your skin, the shears lying motionless by your knee.

You couldn’t feel your hands. Or your legs. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing.

Tommy stepped forward slowly, like you were a wounded animal, still caught in the middle of the fight.

He didn’t speak.

His eyes dropped to your hand. The shears still gripped tight in your fist, the blades slick with blood, trembling slightly as they hovered in the space between you and the man on the floor.

“You can let go of them now,” he said softly, his voice low but steady. “It’s over. He's gone.”

Tommy took another step forward, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t respond. Your eyes didn’t leave the body. You looked like you couldn’t hear him, like your brain was still caught in the moment, waiting for the fight to start again.

“Give them to me, darling,” he said gently, reaching out but not touching you yet.

Tommy crouched down in front of you, just far enough to meet your eye line.

Your grip didn’t change.

Not at first.

But then slowly, your gaze lifted. It met his. Your eyes were wide, glassy, hollow. He saw the exact second you came back to yourself.

“Give them to me,” he repeated, softer this time.

Your fingers finally loosened. The shears fell into his open palm with a faint, wet clack.

Without taking his eyes off you, Tommy reached back and handed them to Arthur, who stepped forward silently and took them without a word.

And then your body collapsed.

You pitched forward into his chest, sobs breaking loose from your throat in jagged waves. You didn’t hold back. Your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, your fingers fisting in the back of his coat as you clung to him like gravity itself had given out.

Tommy caught you instantly, one arm strong around your back, the other at the back of your head, pulling you in close.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Your entire body shook in his arms. Sobs tore through you with no rhythm or control. The weight of it all came crashing down at once: the fear, the blood, the way it could’ve gone so much worse.

Tommy’s hand moved gently, sliding up the back of your head to cradle it. He leaned in, forehead pressing against the side of yours.

You clenched your fists tighter in his coat, fingers aching, nails pressing into wool. The scent of him was thick in your nose. 

“He—” you choked. “I thought he was going to—”

Tommy pulled you closer, as if he could shield you from the memory itself.

“I know,” he said. 

During the war, you’d grown accustomed to death. You’d seen bullet wounds tear through men, grenades blow off limbs, and life slip away more times than you could count.

But you’d never been the one to take it. Until now.

And even though it had been his life or Finn’s, it still clung to you. In your clothes. In your hair. Under your nails. You could feel it in your bones, humming like something you couldn’t scrub off.

Tommy held you for another moment, then slowly shifted, rising to his feet and taking you with him. His arm stayed locked around your waist, steadying you as your knees threatened to buckle.

“Arthur,” he said, voice suddenly cold and clear. “Call John, he can help get the body out of here quietly. Have Polly come stay with Finn. I don’t want him alone.”

Arthur blinked, then gave a sharp nod. “Right.”

He moved fast, stepping around the blood, grabbing a sheet from the cabinet and crouching by the still form on the floor. You couldn’t even look at what you’d done.

Tommy’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head again, guiding you gently to his chest. “There we go,” he murmured. 

You didn’t argue.

You just let him hold you while the weight of what you’d done sank in, and the mess of it all began to be swept away. 

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t resist.

Your feet moved clumsily beneath you, barely aware of the sticky warmth of blood drying on your skin, or the dull ache in your knees and shoulders. You just followed the pressure of his hand at your back, leaning into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

Behind you, Arthur was already moving. The sound of fabric dragging across tile echoed faintly behind you as Tommy opened the door and guided you out into the hallway.

You blinked against the overhead lights, everything feeling too sharp, too clinical after the chaos of the room. 

There were no footsteps. No voices. No nurses with clipboards, no doctors making their rounds. The station at the end of the corridor sat empty. Even the usual low hum of activity had vanished.

You slowed, just slightly, scanning the space.

Nothing.

Just white tile. Pale walls. Abandoned chairs pushed crooked beneath tables. Machines left idle. A silence that stretched too long.

You didn’t ask.

Tommy said nothing either. Just adjusted his grip on you and kept walking. His pace was steady, purposeful. Like he already knew this floor was clear. Like it had been expected.

Like this, too, was part of the war.

He guided you through the back stairwell, down the side corridor, and out into the night. The cold hit your skin instantly, sobering and sharp. Tommy’s car waited at the curb. 

Tommy helped you in gently. But you didn’t remember buckling in, and you barely even noticed the drive.

When you pulled up in front of the house, you didn’t move right away. You stared out the window at the familiar shape of the doorway, the stone steps, the light flickering just inside the hall. 

Tommy came around and opened your door. He didn’t speak. Just reached for your hand.

You let him help you out of the car, your body still trembling. Inside, the house was quiet. Warmer than the hospital. But even that couldn’t touch the chill that had settled into your skin.

 Tommy gently guided you up the stairs, his hand steady at your back, and down the hall to your shared bedroom. The room was dim, untouched. He walked you straight to the adjoining bathroom. 

He turned on the tap, warm water rushing into the basin. Steam rose, fogging the mirror slightly. He found a clean towel on the shelf, poured warm water into a bowl like it was second nature, and soaked the cloth.

You stood by the door, unmoving. Watching.

“Come here,” he said quietly, holding the towel in one hand, his other extended.

You stepped toward him slowly.

He dipped the towel again, then reached for your wrist.

You flinched—not because it hurt, just because your skin still felt on fire with urgency.

His fingers were warm. The towel was even warmer. He moved slowly, wiping in steady, careful motions.

He started with your wrists. The insides, where blood had dried into fine lines like cracked paint. Then the backs of your hands, where bruises were already forming across your knuckles. He worked methodically, rinsing the towel, wringing it out, coming back again.

When he reached your forearms, you caught yourself holding your breath. 

He moved to your jaw next. The cloth brushed away a faint smear there, the pressure just enough to remind you flinch.

When he got to the streak along your cheekbone, he paused.

Just a beat.

Then he lifted the towel again and wiped gently, following with his thumb, soft and deliberate, like he wanted to wipe the memory of it. 

“I killed him,” you said suddenly. 

The words barely left your mouth. They didn’t sound like yours.

Tommy stilled. His hand hovered just beneath your jaw, not pulling away, not pressing closer. Just there.

“I know,” he said quietly.

You looked down, your vision narrowing to the floor tile between you. There was a smear of blood on your shirt sleeve, nearly dry now, the edges gone dark.

You swallowed hard, your throat raw. “I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. He was already down and I just– I couldn’t stop.”

He lowered the towel, letting it rest on the edge of the basin. Then he reached up and gently tilted your chin, just enough to meet your eyes.

“You did what had to be done,” he said, low. “That’s it.”

You shook your head, the weight of it all pushing back up through your chest, but Tommy was already shaking his.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t start second-guessing it now. It was him or you and Finn. And you did what you had to do.”

His voice wasn’t cold, but it was certain. Solid.

You didn’t respond. Just stood there, still trembling faintly, still feeling like you were trapped inside your own skin.

Tommy watched you for a moment longer, then set the towel down beside the sink and stepped past you.

You turned your head slightly, following his movement with your eyes as he crossed to the tub. He turned the taps, adjusted the temperature, let the water begin to fill the basin.

It was so ordinary a thing, so domestic, it made something ache behind your ribs.

Steam began to rise, curling around the edges of the porcelain. He tested the water with his hand absentmindedly.

You hesitated for a second. The thought of peeling off your bloodied clothes made your stomach twist, but the weight of them was worse, the way they clung, stiff and damp, heavy with what had happened.

Your fingers moved slowly. First the buttons of your blouse, then the skirt. You peeled each layer away with care, as if the fabric might tear you open if you weren’t gentle.

Tommy didn’t watch. He turned slightly, giving you just enough space to move without feeling exposed, but still staying close.

When you were down to your skin, you stepped into the tub. The water was hot, almost too hot, but the sting felt grounding. You sank slowly, easing your body beneath the surface until the warmth wrapped around your chest and shoulders like a weighted blanket.

Your hands hovered for a moment over your knees, trembling faintly. You weren’t sure if the shaking would stop, even here.

You heard the soft shift of fabric behind you. Tommy’s coat, his boots, his shirt hitting the floor one piece at a time. 

The tub creaked as he climbed in behind you.

You didn’t turn to look, but you leaned back the second his arms opened. He pulled you against his chest, one arm looped gently around your waist, the other resting on the edge of the tub. 

The water lapped gently around you both. His breath was slow against your shoulder, and his skin was warm and solid behind you. 

“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he said. Regretful in the way only he could be.

Your fingers, resting just above the surface of the water, twitched slightly. You swallowed, but still didn’t speak as you laid your head back against him. 

“But I’m glad that you did,” he said finally.

You felt the shift in his chest as he spoke, the rhythm of his breath syncing with yours. The weight of the day pressed into the room like fog. Tommy tightened his arm around your waist, anchoring you against him.

<< Previous Chapter

Next Chapter >> (coming soon)

[luvvixu]

mind over matter pt. 7

synopsis: witness how your marriage was bound to fall apart with you on the front seat and your husband gojo had missed the show—now, he gotta figure out the story on his own.

content: arrange marriage au, angst, husband!gojo, mean!gojo, mention of blood, mention of drugs, strong languages, some unsettling scenarios, emotional trauma, read at your own risk

a/n: ooh he's getting soft

previous / masterlist / next

almost two months had passed since that incident. your stitches were now getting more better and satoru's cursed energy has been long stable. while your son, kazuki, he's such a little fighter. he keeps on getting better each day inside the incubator.

right now, it was 2:36 am at the neonatal intensive care unit (nicu) where your son was, you and satoru were watching kazuki quietly.

the room was filled with soft beeping and the low hum of machines keeping fragile lives steady. a dim light casts a pale glow over the rows of incubators.

kazuki was now bigger than gojo’s hand, cocooned in wires and tubes, his tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical aid. his skin was pale and his fingers twitching slightly every now and then.

you sat beside the incubator in your hospital protective gown, drained and stiff. one hand rested against the glass. you hadn’t spoken in hours.

gojo stood silently behind you, also wearing the same gown as yours. his hands shoved in his coat pockets, guilt painting his features.

“i think he has your nose,” you whispered suddenly. your voice cracked like paper being torn.

gojo stepped closer, hesitating. “yeah…and he has your mouth.”

a brief silence engulfed you two.

“do you think he’ll make it?” you asked as your voice was slightly muffled due to the face mask in your lower face. and it was clear that your tone was flat, but the fear laced in it was unmistakable.

gojo’s chest tightened. “he will,” he said, firmer than he felt. “he's strong. like his mom.”

you let out a bitter laugh—soft, empty. “don’t romanticize me, satoru. we both know i wasn’t much more than an obligation to you.”

gojo froze.

your hand stayed on the glass. “they said i was lucky to survive the abruption.” his breath hitches when you opened the topic about your placenta abruption.

for the first time in almost two months, you had spoken about what happened when his students found you in your room and what you had been through. satoru thought he would not be able to press you into telling him these things since it's a very sensitive topic and yet, here you are, initiating the talk about it.

you try your best to keep going as you swallow the nightmare away. “they said that if the surgery had been delayed even a few minutes, kazuki wouldn’t have made it. or me.”

gojo’s voice was hoarse. “don’t—don’t say that.”

“why not?” you said quietly. “it’s true. and if i had died that night, you would’ve finally been free.”

he moved beside you now, kneeling slowly so he was eye level with you.

“y/n…don’t say that. please.”

you finally turned to him. your eyes were red. hollow. “i was eighteen when they told me i had to marry you. do you remember what you said that day?”

gojo looked away.

you answered for him anyway. “you told me not to expect anything. that it was just politics as the head of your clan. you even said you wouldn't pretend to love me.”

he swallowed hard.

“and you didn’t,” you paused. “you really didn’t pretend. you ignored me. you went weeks without speaking to me unless it was for clan duties. and when you did speak, you made it sound like i was a burden.”

gojo’s fingers curled into fists. “i know.”

“and then yukie showed up, and suddenly you had time. you smiled more. laughed. held her like it was nothing. meanwhile, i was here like a fool who shouldn't be even expecting anything from you but i still did. and now, i am carrying your child, alone.”

he slowly looked up, eyes glossy. “i was… a coward. i hated being forced into something i didn’t choose. and i punished you for it, even when you never did anything wrong.”

you scoffed. “i may beg for crumbs of affection from you, but i am really just asking for basic respect. i didn’t even ask you to love me—you knew i didn’t. but you still treated me like a ghost in our own house. actually, who am i kidding…that house is not even a home.”

gojo leaned forward, hands pressed against his knees. “i don’t deserve you…or kauzki. but if there’s a chance… any chance at all… i want to fix this. i want to be his father. and i want to make up for every day i made you feel unloved.”

you looked at him, almost in disbelief. “you can’t erase the past so easily, satoru.”

he nodded, tears slipping down his cheek. “i know. but i can be here now. i want to be here now.”

silence fell again, broken only by the steady beeping of kazuki’s monitor. you turned back to the incubator, eyes softening as you stared at your son.

“i don’t know if i’ll ever forgive you,” you whispered.

gojo closed his eyes. “i’ll wait.”

you didn’t answer.

but you didn’t tell him to leave either.

so he stayed.

and for the first time in months, you feel like weren’t entirely alone.

fast forward again, it has been three weeks since your emotional conversation and gojo practically begging to give him a chance—which you let him for the sake of your son.

you found yourself again inside the nicu. it was quiet, as it always was at this hour. the nurses moved like ghosts, their motions gentle and efficient. kazuki, still nestled in his tiny incubator, breathed softly beneath the halo of medical light.

you sat alone for a while, eyes red from fatigue, until the soft squeak of shoes against tile interrupted the silence.

gojo stepped in.

he looked exhausted too—hair disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days. his usual carefree aura was gone, replaced by something raw. human. he just finished some mission and immediately went here because he knew you'd be here, you always do.

he approached slowly, unsure if you'd want him here.

but you didn’t stop him.

you were watching kazuki—your hand inside the small porthole of the incubator, your pinky finger resting gently in your son’s little palm. he had gripped it, weak but determined.

gojo watched the two of you for a moment. he sat beside you quietly, not saying anything at first.

“he's holding my finger today,” you whispered, still looking down at kazuki.

“i saw,” gojo said softly. “i stayed in the hallway for twenty minutes before i had the courage to come in.”

you turned slightly, surprised.

“i thought…maybe you wouldn’t want me here,” he admitted. “maybe it’d be easier for you if i didn’t come at all.”

your eyes met his, tired but clear. “it wouldn’t be easier. it would just be lonelier.”

gojo’s throat tightened.

you looked back at kazuki, voice softening. “they say he’s stable and soon will finally be discharged.”

gojo nodded. “he’s strong. gets that from you.”

a beat of silence passed between you. then another.

gojo’s voice cracked as he whispered, “i didn’t think i could love anyone more than i loved her. that’s why i stayed. why i didn’t try with you again. i was so sure nothing could ever compare.”

“i thought we're over this conversation?”

“i know. but my conscience keeps on eating me.”

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have to.

he looked down at his hands. “but then he came out of you…so tiny and fighting so hard to live. and suddenly everything i thought i knew—about love, about regret, about what matters—just…fell apart.”

you turned to look at him again. his face was wet with tears.

“i hate who i was,” gojo said, voice trembling. “i hate how i treated you. you deserved comfort, and i gave you cold silence. you deserve peace, and i gave you loneliness. and now i just—” his breath caught. “i look at him, and i look at you, and all i want is to be good enough. even if you never forgive me, i want him to know that i changed for him.”

you watched him crumble, finally, completely.

this wasn’t the strongest sorcerer in the world sitting beside you.

this was just satoru.

a man who finally realized what it meant to have something to lose.

you reached over slowly and placed your hand on top of his.

not because it fixed things.

but because, in that moment, you knew you didn’t want to walk through this alone.

and neither did he.

kazuki stirred softly in the incubator, still clutching your pinky. still fighting. still holding on.

just like you and satoru inside this marriage.

—©luvvixu2025

open for taglist! just comment it and you'll now be updated on every update of this series.

[r0ttencandies]

♥︎ Escapee ♥︎

A Ticci Toby x (female) reader fanfic.

Cw: hospital room, outdoor sex, gentle sex(rough sex too) , stolen virginity, biting, fingering, size difference, oral (fem receiving), accidental creampie, saliva and just freaky shit.

Summary : Toby ends up being found severely injured after a mission by a bystander, leading to him ending up in a hospital and is trying to escape . ( you two are in the same room divided by a curtain

Minors dni below the cut.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Toby had been out for god knows how long, when he slowly did come to consciousness, he quickly sprung up once he took in the surroundings, his neck twitches aggressively as a nervous tic came on. “Fuh-Fuck.. N-No, -shit- No!” He choked out, the glistening hospital room making his body shutter and his stomach churn with uneasy, then his eyes met the curtain. Toby in an act of desperation and hope, shot out of the bed he now sat in, pulling his I.V in the process. His hand reached for said curtain without a trace of hesitation and swiftly pulled it open, his eyes widened when he saw you. A young woman, laid asleep in a hospital gown, covered in cuts and scraps, the thin blue cloth barely covering your fragile skin, he shook his head, pushing back any lustful or strange thoughts. He needed your help and he was gonna get it, he had to get out of here before the police caught him.

He frantically reached for your arm, shaking you aggressively to wake you. A few minutes pass of his shaking you, his force getting stronger with each push, gripping your skin tightly, definitely bruising your skin. You groggily open your eyes, making direct contact with his gaze, your brain hazy from the exhaustion, eyelids barely apart. Before you can could even think of a coherent sentence, let alone a thought, he breaks the panicked silence. “I-I need your help.. please” He called out weakly. You shift up, body wobbling slightly from your exhaustion, eyes widening from the full sight of him. Toby looked horrible to say the least.. he’s covered in deep cuts, sickeningly thick, chunky, dried blood coating his clothes and pale skin and that deep gash on his cheek that exposed his teeth, his broken teeth. Your stomach sunk at the sight and your heart definitely ached for him. He looked so fucking pitiful. You began to rub the sleep away your eyes, trying to process everything that’s happening. You wanted to know everything about him.. what happened? What he needed help with.. honestly with the state he was in, whatever it was you wanted to help. You clear your throat, his dark brown orbs peering at you, awaiting your response, the anxiety clearly painted within them. Finally breaking the awkward silence with a gentle..“w-what do you need help with?” Your voice still soft from your sleep. You see the man perk up, his head jolting quickly with a tic, startling you a bit, nonetheless he still looked like a helpless boy to you.

“I need -tsk- to escape.” He spoke softly, voice cracking and barely audible. His words struck you, hitting you like whiplash, your curiosity and confusion spiking almost instantly. Toby’s expression made you weak, made you feel inclined to respond with quickness. “Why..?” You asked, your tone hissing with hesitation, part of you.. with his condition makes feel evil, mean for even asking, but your concern for his health overpowered that. Toby stiffened, his shoulders tense, gaze pulled down to his feet, making your guilt set in, his silence almost drowning you. Suddenly it’s broken, taking you aback as he spoke. “L-Look.. I can explain later but.. I need -tsk- you to trust me.” He’s now clinging onto the end of his torn shirt, knuckles turning white from the pressure.. it looked painful. It hurt you, made all of your thoughts and worries disappear, all you wanted to do was help this stranger. “H-How do you want me to help?” The concern for him, making its way through your voice and with that, his grip upon his shirt loosened and those anxious eyes met yours again. Toby spoke as quickly he could, ticking for a moment. “I need you to run with me.. and -and- watch my back to make sure no one catches us.” He said in a harsh whisper. Your muscles tensed, heart raced, running away with a stranger seemed terrifying, but oddly enough it made adrenaline pump through your veins, it was exciting. It was something so new to you, something so different from your isolating, mundane life. 

With this you nod back up at him, your mind was made, you wanted to help, wanted to know more about him.. he was such an interesting stranger. The tired state you were in now disappeared as you quickly sprung out of the thin hospital mattress. Your exposed feet touching the chilled tile, making you shutter as you stood, your bare feet would be something you’d worry about much later. “Let’s do it.” You said with a soft smile, reassuring him to the best of your ability. Soon after this your following Toby as he carefully inched the metal door open, making it creak softly. He nudged through the space, quietly tiptoeing through the hallway and you slowly joined in. Once you enter the hallway, your breath is taken away by the emptiness and that beautiful orange sunset that casted from the windows that laid next to each door, dust particles flowing along the light. Your peace abruptly cut short by thunderous shoes stomping , eyes now darting toward Toby who was sprinting, hearing more steady steps behind you two makes you spring into action, now racing to catch up to Toby, your feet clacking against the solid floor, legs tingling from the sheer force you applied to each movement you made, you heart felt as if it could explode at any moment and your blood ran warm with excitement and fear. 

After what felt like hours of running through this place, hour of hearing workers and nurses yelling in the distance, footsteps .. so many foot steps. You finally reached the outside world, the sky now set and the ground was barely lit by the pale blue moon, both you Toby still speeding away from the building and fuck your feet were paying the price, the ache from them making you wince with each step you took, making you regret not thinking about shoes.. fuck it was agony but you powered through until you too reached the forest, the trees swallowing you into the night. With a complete stranger. Toby slowed and so did you, both of you letting out sharp, piercing breaths, the heat radiating from it forming a thick layer of fog around him and you. Your legs are shaking, hell your whole body was from all the energy your form produced, all that adrenaline you had, crashing down the second you relaxed and that horrible agony becomes more intense, uncomfortable, dreadful. You cry out from the sheer amount that you made yourself withstand for this man, just for an adrenaline kick? There more to this.. you can’t quite pinpoint what else it was. You didn’t care.. this was too much and you collapsed, your legs throbbing once they gave out.

Toby stiffened, hearing a thump against the earth, his head immediately turning to its direction. He sees you crying out in pain, usually he’d enjoy this, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty, feel the need to help you. The man quickly sprints to you, crouching down to your level, his orbs locking into your swollen, tear filled ones. It made his heart drop, sunk so deep into his stomach, it made him feel sickened.

“Y-You okay, hun?” He asked gently, not even meaning to let that pet name out. He knew the answer just from your whimpers and cries, your voice unable to escape your lungs all you do is point towards your feet in your pathetic state. With this his gaze goes towards them and his eyes widened, the sight tugging at his tight heart strings. “Shit..” He inhaled sharply through his teeth, trying to figure out how he could make your pain go away, without hurting you more, he didn’t want to do that, you helped him, he couldn’t. He brought his fingers to one of the cuts that laid along the sensitive skin along your foot, that were covered in dirt.. this was definitely going to get infected. You jolt to his warm, rough fingertips, making a shiver run down your spine. Without a moment of hesitation, Toby attached his teeth against his already ripped sweatshirt, tearing off a thick layer of fabric from it, the sound of its force echoed through the trees and before you knew it he was wrapping your injuries with it, doing the same for the other foot, making sure the pressure and tightness of the cloth was comfortable enough for the pain to be contained. Your tears slowed down from not just the action, but the relief it brought your pounding agony. “T-Thank you.. uh.. what’s your name?” You choked out, a small chuckle escaping your lips as you asked his name.. finally you could get to know him.

“T-Toby.. call me, Toby.” He muttered, his dark eyes etched with concern, expression soft and sweet, brushing away a stray hair from your tear coated cheeks. His touch.. it was so warm.. it made your heart flutter. “T-Toby.. got it..I” you managed to stutter out, before he abruptly cut you off, his voice shaping into a hissing appreciation, as he quickly hugged you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, making you freeze, breath now trapped in your throat from its suddenness and how flustered it made you.. it was comforting though. “T-Thank -tsk- you, miss.” his tics cutting into his words, causing him to curse under his breath in embarrassment and you couldn’t help but chuckle. returning the embrace after your shock wore off, your hearts thumping in sync. It wasn’t just you that felt.. something.. it was him too. You two held one another for some time, both mumbling ‘thank you’s and ‘you’re welcome’s. The heat radiating off of Toby was suffocating, but you wanted more.. you needed more. Something you were sure of was that he could sense that, because after that thought crossed your mind he was pulling away and grabbing your chin, so light, so sweet. It made your cheeks go warm and flush, your eyes beaming up at his with an underlying desire, Toby’s matching yours. After just staring at each other, reading every line painted within each others irises, Toby breaks the tension, still holding your jaw, his thump tracing your bottom lip, so softly that it made it quiver. “C-Can.. I kiss you?” He asked, hesitantly, his voice shaking from all the wants that lay thick between you two. You nodded silently and with that he’s closing that distance. His cracked lips so soft upon yours, it made you melt, it made you whine and made those needy little eyes of yours flutter shut.

Toby slowly presses against you, both of you now seeping into the dirt ground. easing deeper into the kiss, making your lips part, granting him permission to explore you and when his warm tongue enters, you just couldn’t help but whine. This was he’s breaking point, he needed to feel more of you. His rough hands roam your body, the thin fabric of the hospital gown leaving little to the imagination, the warmth radiating off of you, the squish of your curves, it made him groan into the kiss, your back arching from the sensation. it shot all the blood flow from his chest straight to his cock, making it throb desperately through his jeans, making him pull away from the kiss, the mixture of saliva holding both of your lips together with a thin string. Your both left panting, gasping for air, the cold breeze hitting your lungs instantly. “T-Toby..” you cooed out, the tightness in your throat making it almost impossible to speak. The way you called his name made a wave of lust to crash down upon him, his body shivered from the pressure of it. His lips now pressed against your neck, making you whimper, hands instinctively gripping tightly against his sweatshirt. You could feel your entrance get slick with arousal as he laid opened mouth kisses along your skin, savoring the sweet flavor of your sweat. “I cuh-could just eat you up..” he mumbled against your collarbone, his words making you moan, your thighs rubbing together for any type of friction to relive that now, pulsating pussy of yours. He chuckled at your attempts, finding it adorable, now pulling away from your neck to look back at your pitiful, needy face, covered in blush. fuck, it was beautiful to see you like this.

His hands began to slowly shift closer to your most sensitive spot, triggering your muscles to tense and a gasp to escape deep within your chest. “D-Does your p-pussy need attention, love?” He asked softly, his voice deeper with is own growing need for attention. his hand rested along your inner thigh, his thumb circling gently along your sensitive skin, making your thighs twitch, you bit down on your lip trying to hold back any noise, your throat tightening. “I-I..please” you begged, your voice shaking from the lack of oxygen intake. His face contorted into a devilish grin, humming in approval to your pleas. Toby’s touch grazed lower until his index finger is gently caresses your dampened panties, making you gasp, your already swollen bud twitching. “Y-you’re this wet just from some kisses h-huh? wha- what a dirty girl~” his voice, horse and teasing. Your nails now digging into his back, breaking the skin, though he couldn’t feel the pain, he felt that pressure and it was only fuel for him. Toby’s thumb now press gently upon your needy, covered clit, making your sweet sounds escape your lips, your body flung up from the pleasure, arms now embracing his back trying to stabilize yourself, you were so sensitive and he knew it. He let out satisfied hum with each gentle moan you let out, his pace increases with each one you left slip. You could feel your vessel heat as he edged you closer to your build up release, your whimper becoming more needy and your hold grew tighter with each trace he made.

“A-Are you gonna cum for me already, baby?” He knew you were close and he was loving every second, every minute of making you melt to his touch. You whimpered when that heat shifted down the second he said those words, your muscles tensing and your vision went black the second that high hit you, your release soaked your panties completely, your juices seeping through, trickling down to your ass. Your legs shook as he dragged you through your orgasm, the intensity of it all almost overstimulating, your chest heaving with silence moans and whines, drool puddling in the corner of your lip.“Mmm, such a g-good girl..” he hummed, slowly releasing his hand from you, giving you a moment to recover. He lays tender kisses against your cheeks and forehead, waiting for your breathing to slow. “T-Toby..” was all you could muster out, left completely whipped. The second your body stopped twitching and your chest stopped heaving, he was sliding of your drenched pantie, exposing your glistening folds to the exposed air making you shiver the moment it brushes against your clit. “I-I don’t think can handle more.” You coughed out, your hands gripping the grass that laid under you. This was so dirty.. so gross.. but so hot. He leaned back, taking a look at your glistening folds and twitching entrance. Toby’s dick twitched at the sight, just ready to pop out, making him groan, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I t-think you can, you’re pulsating, pra-practically begging for me.” His voice strained from his arousal. You couldn’t even process his words as he spreads you open, his tongue slipping against your opening, gathering all of your delicious fluids, swallowing it whole without hesitation and your left a moaning ball of mush in his hand, so pathetic and needy for him. “Y-You taste so good..” he praised softly, now inserting his finger gently inside of you, making you yelp from the sudden size adjustment for your virgin hole, walls clinching around his long finger so perfectly, so tightly. “Y-You’re so tight

sweetheart, I’m g-gonna stretch you out.” Toby hummed, gently pumping his digit into you until your fluids coated his finger, now beginning to thrust another in. Despite how gentle he was it still took you aback, making you gasp, your eyes widening to the stretch, your walls actively trying to reject his digits. Toby quickly flicks his tongue along your clit, easing you into the way he opened you with just his fingers, making your gasp turn into those sickeningly sweet moans once again, the sound was like music to his ears, hearing your pleasure, let alone the pleasure he was giving you was hypnotizing. His fingers curl up, hitting your sweet spot, your knees buckling from the unknown feeling that was now coursing through out you, your moans turnings into shaking mess just like you were, then it hit you. “T-Toby, I~” you whimper his name like it was made just your dirty lips, your hips thrusting, body convulsing, your hands now tearing out the dead grass, your vision blurred, tears streaming down your waterline.. this one damn near took you and and he was still dragging it out.

Toby released you from his grasp, leaving you stretched open from his fingers as you heave, left a complete mess of drool, your own release seeping out of your shaky form. “I-I need to feel you baby.. I c-can’t hold back anymore.” His voice was thick with his own pent up energy, deep and horse. You couldn’t even form a coherent thought, just left a trembling mess. Your ears perk up when you hear him unbuckling his belt, your clit twitching to the very sound, you didn’t even think you had more in you, but your body said otherwise. Suddenly he’s freeing himself, his cock so long and thick, all you could do is stare blankly at it, biting down on lip, trying to fathom how that was going to fit in you, before you could even ask him, his grinding his thick warmth against you, leaving you completely dumbfounded and cock hungry instantly, your whimpers so broken. “Mm.. you already feel s-so g-good and I’m not even in yet.” He whispered softly, leaning down towards your ear, his breath so arm and heavy like he had just buried you in. You could feel his pre-cum drip against your clit, making you shutter, you tightly grip onto his hair, unable to contain how much pleasure he was really giving you. That’s when you feel it, that stretch once again, this time it’s painful, almost ripping. You inhale sharply, your eyes water as he slowly pushes his way through, less than half way and it was already too much, it knocked the wind out of you completely. “F-Fuck.” Toby growled, your walls already trying to milk him, pulsating so tightly around his length. He stilled, giving you time to adjust to the thickness, you felt so full already, it so painful, yet so addictive already. After a few minutes pass, he’s pumping more of his inches into you, making you cry out, your throat itching from the dryness.

“I-It hurts..” you said weakly, Eyes barely open. “I-I know, it’ll stop soon, just relax, p-pretty girl” he spoke softly, reaching his hand out to caress your face and with that he’s pushing another inch in, feeling your virgin layer bend, almost snapping. You whine, droplets now sliding down your cheek, eyelashes clumped together from the build up. “T-This parts gon-gonna hurt the most, and then it’ll stop soon, I promise.” His voice was so sickening kind, you couldn’t help but believe him. His thumb gently rubbed circles against your clit to calm you and then he’s breaking your hymen, making you scream. Your pretty face contorting in discomfort and pleasure, it was honestly a beautiful sight to him and you were now his. Toby thrust himself in completely, so gently with your poor pussy, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, leaving you completely filled to the brim with his length. You’re crying softly, because of the large adjustment, genuinely convinced it won’t feel better.. but just like he said it did the second he increased his speed against your sensitive bud, making you moan softly and relax. The second Toby feels your body relax, he starts pumping softly, the pain still lingers making you bite down on his shoulder, the mix of sensation sending a wave through both of you. “Y-You feel so good, taking me so well..” his words make you bite down harder breaking the skin, the taste of iron flooding your mouth, he doesn’t mind it though, he can’t even feel it but it’s definitely encouragement for him. That one action sent you through a whole spiral of pleasure as his pace increased, making you jolt away from his shoulder, your mouth agape for a moment as you let out a dragged moan, so responsive, so sweet. He groans, feeling your walls twitch against him the second he hits your sweet spot, your head shoots back the second he does, your noises becoming more desperate the closer you get to release.

Something snaps in him when he witnesses this, he quickly grabs your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you whine, your pussy coating him in more of your heavenly juices, his eyes roll back from the sensation. It breaks him, makes him pound into you relentlessly, his hips grinding against yours, the sound of your skin slapping against one another’s echoing through the air, he didn’t care who heard, you were his now and that’s he wanted. Silvia is pouring out of your mouth out of your mouth at this point, your moans turning into weak whines and gasp, brain completely fried from the pressure. Heat.. tingling heat coursed its way into pussy, you came undone, your walls milking him completely dry, fulfilling his own release, yelping as he filled you with his seed, so warm.. so filled. Toby collapsed onto you, your body left twitching messes, panting, drooling puddles of pleasure. After you both come down, he pulls out, the emptiness making you whine, his cum seeping out of you so beautifully. “S-Such a good girl~” his voice, still shaken from his intense orgasm, laying a gentle kiss on your forehead.

(GOD THIS IS LONG.. I honestly think this could have been better but.. I’ll make a part two at some point 👀 thank you for reading <3 )

[panerasbox]

Until It Feels Like Home

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x Fem!Reader

Rating: M for future chapters.

Word Count: 541.

Summary: When your best friends die unexpectedly, their will names you and Melissa Schemmenti—your polar opposite and barely more than an acquaintance—as co-guardians of their four-year-old daughter. Neither of you feels ready. Neither of you thinks it’ll work. But for Bea, you’re willing to try. Grief, love, and an unexpected family take root in the house they left behind. inspired by the movie “life as we know it”

A/N: This is just a little sneak peek/test run of a new fic idea I’ve been playing with—kind of a soft launch to see if there’s interest! If anyone’s into it, I’ll keep going with full chapters. Appreciate any thoughts, reblogs, or likes!

(update) I decided to continue this! thanks for your support & encouragement! however, i will be continuing the fic over at A03. I will still try to post the links to the chapters here. i’m also panerasbox over there! https://archiveofourown.org/works/65239519/chapters/167825491

The world doesn’t stop when someone dies. The emails keep coming. The neighbors still walk their dogs. Your boss still leaves voicemails about that project you said you’d have done by Friday.

But all you can do is sit, hands clenched in your lap, watching the second hand on the lawyer’s office clock tick louder than your heartbeat.

You’re not sure how you got here. One moment, you were buying coffee on a rainy Tuesday. The next, you were standing in a hospital corridor with a trembling hand over your mouth as a nurse said the words you’ll never un-hear.

Car accident. No survivors.

Now you’re in this sterile office with its fake ficus plant and framed degrees on the wall, waiting for your whole life to change.

Melissa Schemmenti walks in five minutes late. Her coat is soaked at the shoulders, and she doesn’t look at you right away. Her jaw is set like she’s bracing for war, not grief. But her eyes—bloodshot and rimmed with smudged eyeliner—betray her.

She sits across from you without saying a word. That’s fine. You don’t know what to say either.

The lawyer clears his throat and begins reading from a stack of papers. You only catch fragments.

“…beloved friends and family…”

“…custody arrangements…”

Then:

“…Melissa Schemmenti and [Your Full Name] are to be appointed as co-guardians of Beatrice “Bea” Bennett-Russo, effective immediately.”

Time stops. Air rushes from your lungs.

You glance at Melissa. Her head jerks up like she’s sure she misheard. “You gotta be kidding me.”

The lawyer pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s quite clear. Gina and Tasha made the decision jointly.”

“No offense,” Melissa says, turning to you, “but you and I can’t even get through a dinner without arguing. You really think we’re supposed to raise a kid together?”

He holds up a hand. “They believed you’d balance each other out. That Beatrice would have the best of both worlds.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to run back to your quiet, one-bedroom apartment and pretend this is just a terrible dream.

But then you picture Bea—four years old, with Gina’s curls. You remember the way she used to fall asleep on your shoulder during movie nights. The way she called Melissa her “Auntie Lissa” and insisted on helping her cook spaghetti every Sunday.

And you know—deep down—you can’t walk away.

Melissa’s jaw works as she stares at the paperwork. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she sighs.

“Fine. We do this. But on one condition—we take her back to their house. That’s where her stuff is. Her room. Her toys. She needs stability.”

You nod stiffly. “Agreed.”

The lawyer offers a faint smile. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up.”

As you leave the office together, Melissa turns to you, eyes hard.

“I’m only doing this for Bea. Don’t think this means we’re suddenly friends.”

You look right back at her. “Trust me, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She scoffs, pulls out her car keys, and walks off into the drizzle.

You exhale and lean against the wall, letting the rain find your skin. Because ready or not, your life just changed forever.

so what do we think? should this become a full story after 30 days of melissa schemmenti ends??

[engie-ivy]

949 words

Sirius Black is known as the office Grinch, so what has suddenly gotten into him?

You Make It Feel Like Christmas

You Make It Feel Like Christmas - Gwen Stefani

“You're delusional.”

“I'm not!”

“You must be.”

“No, I swear,” Benjy hisses.

“Well, maybe you misheard,” Hestia offers.

Benjy huffs. “You think I would not recognize ‘Jingle Bells’?”

Emmeline shakes her head. “Anything is more likely than Mr Black humming that song.”

“He was in front of me at the coffee machine,” Benjy says. “And I swear I heard him do it!”

You see, the reason why the mere idea of Sirius Black walking around the office humming ‘Jingle Bells’ is so preposterous, is because Sirius Black is known as the office Grinch.

The man dislikes everything that's even remotely related to Christmas.

When Mary and Dorcas were hanging the Christmas lights, Mr Black commented on energy savings for the office and the necessity of cutting down on the electricity bill. In his opinion, Christmas was a huge waste of energy in its entirety. No one actually knew if he was still talking about electricity.

When the first Christmas song was played on the radio, Mr Black pointedly put on his noise canceling headphones. Plus, he actually has no idea who Mariah Carey is, which is shocking in its own right.

When Edgar came to work wearing his Christmas jumper, Mr Black reported him for inappropriate work attire (though luckily Lily from HR simply told him to get over it).

Moreover, Mr Black constantly complains that Christmas Day is an obligatory day off, instead of him being able to save his vacation hours for, in his words, ‘when he actually needs them’.

He has also called Christmas markets a trick to sell junk no one needs, he's known to think that a gift certificate makes for the best Christmas gift, and that black coffee tastes better than any hot chocolate ever could.

“Okay, I'm actually getting really worried,” Caradoc whispers as they convene at the coffee machine.

“Me too,” Edgar replies in a concerned voice. “Maybe he's come down with some sort of illness?”

“Did you guys hear what he said when he saw the little Christmas tree on my desk?” Mary hisses. “He said it looked ‘nice’. Nice! No eye roll, no sarcastic undertone. Just nice.”

“I almost had a heart attack when I saw his tie this morning,” Emmeline says faintly. “I mean, tiny snowmen?”

Dorcas bites her lip. “Could it be some sort of brain disease?”

“Or maybe he hit his head and he has a concussion?” Benjy offers.

“Should we like… take him to the hospital or something?” Fabian asks.

“Gosh,” Hestia says. “Why are you all so negative? Maybe he just finally caught the Christmas spirit!”

“Excuse me?”

Everyone pauses their work to look at the man who appeared in the doorway to their office. He's got floppy, honey-coloured hair, is wearing a rather tattered coat and is carrying a box with a bow tied around it.

“I'm looking for-”

“Remus!” Mr Black jumps to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

A light colouring appears on the man's cheeks as he looks at Mr Black and he smiles a little sheepishly. “I hope I'm not disturbing you?”

Mr Black closes his laptop without giving it a second look. “Not at all! I can always make time,” says the man who once almost made Gideon cry because he dared ask him a question while he was in the middle of an Excel sheet.

“Great,” the box-carrying man, Remus, grins, and despite the scars on his face, it makes him look strangely endearing. “My mum and I baked Christmas cookies, and we, of course, made way too much for just us, so I thought I'd drop by your office to bring some?”

“That's so sweet of you!” Mr Black happily takes over the box. “I absolutely love Christmas cookies,” says Mr Black, who has never even touched any of the cookies Caradoc baked for the office.

“I see you're wearing the tie I gave you,” Remus says.

“Of course,” Mr Black replies. “It's my favourite.”

“That's good,” Remus smiles softly.

They both just look at each other for a moment, while the rest of the office exchanges looks.

Then Remus averts his eyes and looks down at his shoes. “You know, I was wondering…” He begins. “Would you like to go and look at the Christmas lights together tonight? It may sound cheesy, but they're actually really pretty and it's one of my favourite Christmas activities to-”

“I would love to!” Mr Black replies a little breathless. “I've been really wanting to go and see the lights.”

Mary makes an indignant sound, but both men hardly seem to notice there's anyone else in the room.

“Great!” Remus looks up and beams at Mr Black. “And I was thinking that maybe we could visit the Christmas market and drink some hot chocolate together?”

“I love the Christmas market,” Sirius replies without skipping a beat. “And I'd love to drink hot chocolate with you.”

“Good. Great. Perfect,” Remus says. “So, it's… it's a date?” The colouring on his cheeks increases.

"It's a date,” Mr Black agrees.

Both men stare at each other for a long moment, having completely forgotten there's a room full of people looking at them, people who start shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.

Remus is first to snap out of it. “I… I

I should let you get back to work.”

“Work,” Mr Black repeats, like he's trying to remember what the word means. “Right. Work.”

“See you tonight?” Remus asks.

“Can't wait,” Mr Black replies.

As Remus leaves and Mr Black turns back to the room, everyone immediately turns to their computer, pretending to be working.

Hestia exchanges a look with Emmeline.

Sirius Black definitely caught something alright, but it ain't Christmas spirit.

[redvdress]

"YOU SHOULD BE SCARED OF ME"

A/N: villain dabi x nurse reader who just got home after an exhausting shift, and guess who’s already waiting for her in her house? (I’ve seen this prompt everywhere on tumblr so here’s my version, enjoy my bite mark!!)

You walked through the door of your apartment, your footsteps heavy with exhaustion from another grueling day at the hospital. But despite the weight of your fatigue, there was a part of you that felt lighter—an anticipation you’d come to recognize.

You no longer jumped at the idea of seeing Dabi sitting there, waiting for you. He was part of your nights now, just as much as the darkness outside or the flickering streetlights. It wasn’t normal, but then again, nothing about you was normal.

As you stepped into the dimly lit living room, there he was, sprawled out on your couch like he owned the place, that familiar smirk curling his lips as his blue eyes locked onto you the moment you crossed the threshold. He looked like trouble, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as you dropped your bag near the door.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up,” Dabi drawled lazily, one arm draped across the back of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. He watched you with that glint in his eyes, the one that made it seem like he was always a step ahead of you, like he had already planned out how the night was going to go, and you were just along for the ride.

“Long day,” you muttered, your tone sharp but softened by the way your shoulders relaxed the second you saw him. It wasn’t the way normal people greeted each other after a long day, but they weren’t normal people. You ran a hand through your hair, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

“What are you still doing here? Thought villains had better things to do than hang out on my couch all night.”

Dabi’s smirk widened, his eyes following you as you moved toward the kitchen. “I’m more efficient than you think,” he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. “Took care of a couple of things earlier, got bored, figured I’d come here and wait for my favorite nurse to show up.” He paused, his grin turning a bit sharper. “Besides, what makes you think I don’t have ‘better’ things planned for the night?”

You snorted, but you couldn’t help the slight smile tugging at your lips. Your banter had become part of their strange routine, a way to mask the fact that beneath the teasing and the sharp words, something deeper was growing between you. Something neither of you wanted to name, but it was there, lurking just beneath the surface.

“And by ‘better things,’ you mean lounging around and stealing my food,” You shot back as you grabbed a drink from the fridge, cracking it open with a quick flick of your wrist. “Really villainous of you.”

Dabi raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “If you had better snacks, I wouldn’t have to resort to that, now would I?” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze intensifying. “Besides, I did get you something.”

You froze for a second, your eyes narrowing as she turned to face him. “What do you mean, ‘got me something’? What did you do?”

Dabi’s grin turned downright wicked, and he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, delicate object. He tossed it to you casually, and you caught it without thinking, your eyes widening as you looked down at the piece of jewelry in your hand. It was a necklace—elegant, silver, and clearly expensive.

“Stole it,” Dabi said nonchalantly, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied smirk. “Figured it’d look good on you.”

You blinked, your fingers running over the smooth surface of the pendant. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but the fact that he’d stolen it just for you sent a jolt of conflicting emotions through you.

You raised your gaze to him, your expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “Are you serious? You can’t just—”

“Can’t what? Steal something for my girl?” Dabi interrupted, his voice smooth, but there was an edge to it, like he was daring you to challenge him. “Come on, y/n, you’re not exactly dealing with a saint here.” His smirk grew, his eyes flashing with amusement. “What? You don’t like it?”

You opened your mouth, ready to snap back, but then you stopped yourself. Despite everything, the fact that he had done this for you—in his own twisted way—made your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t the gesture itself that mattered, but the intent behind it. Dabi wasn’t the kind of person to care about anyone, let alone risk something just for a piece of jewelry. But he had.

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. “It’s not that I don’t like it, you idiot. It’s just… you know stealing isn’t exactly the way to win me over.”

Dabi’s smirk softened slightly, and he stood up, closing the distance between you in a few easy strides. His presence was overwhelming, as it always was, but this time, there was something different in his eyes. Something almost vulnerable, though he’d never admit it.

“Who said I was trying to win you over?” he asked quietly, his voice lower now, more serious. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against your cheek for just a moment before he pulled away, letting his hand drop back to his side. “You’re already mine.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine.

You hated how easily he could make your heart race, how he could get under your skin with just a few words. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny the truth behind you. You had let him into your life, despite everything. And now, even if you wanted to, you couldn’t imagine him not being there.

“You’re such an arrogant ” you muttered, but there was no real bite to your words. Instead, you reached out, grabbing his coat and pulling him closer. “But you’re my arrogant bastard, apparently.”

Dabi chuckled, a low, dark sound that rumbled in his chest as he allowed you to pull him in. “Damn right.”

Without warning, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling your flush against him. The heat of his body seeped through your clothes, and you couldn’t help the way your breath caught in your throat. His other hand slid up your back, fingers trailing lightly over your skin as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You should be scared of me, you know” he whispered, his voice a low rasp that sent chills down your spine. “I’m not exactly the kind of guy you bring home to meet the parents.”

Your fingers tightened in his coat, your heart pounding in your chest. “Maybe I like living dangerously,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper. You hated how much you meant it.

Dabi’s lips quirked up into a smirk, his breath warm against your skin. “Good,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, you stood there, the world outside forgotten. It was just the two of you, tangled in a mess of sharp edges and unspoken emotions, but somehow, it felt right. You rested your head against his chest, closing your eyes as you let yourself melt into him, if only for a little while.

“Long shift, huh?” Dabi asked after a moment, his tone teasing but softer now, as if he was letting down his guard for just a moment. His hand rubbed lazy circles against your hip, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin.

“You have no idea,” you muttered, your voice muffled against his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, a reminder that despite everything, he was still human.

“Wanna forget about it?” he asked, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rasp that always made your knees weak.

You smirked against his shirt, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “And how exactly are you going to make me forget?”

Dabi grinned, his hand moving to cup your chin as he leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

And with that, the world outside ceased to exist. There was no hero or villain, no right or wrong. Just the two of you, tangled in a dangerous game, one you both knew would burn you in the end. But for now, you didn’t care. For now, you were all that mattered.

[shelbgrey]

Hii! I’m in a greys anatomy rewatch and completely desperate for some jackson avery fics… if you’re taking requests for him, do you think you could do a jackson avery x reader? maybe something where they’re sneaking around and dating in secret ! anything would be amazing tho. ty!

Secrets (Jackson Avery)

Paring: Jackson Avery x Sloan!Reader

Summary: Jackson and y/n have been seeking around since the first started dating. They weren't ashamed and had nothing to hide, but he didn't want his mother scaring her off and Jackson knew he would be dead where he stands if Mark finds out. In the end, sneaking around is just so much fun, right?

MasterList ML2

At first Jackson wants to keep you a secret from his mom. His mother can be overbaring and he was afraid she'd scare you off or hate you.

You also just didn't want to be the reason Jackson and his mother have a falling out, it wouldn't be fair to Jackson and you knew it would hurt him deeply. So you agreed.

“yeah, he's got beautiful blue-green eyes and he's a plastic surgeon” you smirked, discribing him then cup his jaw and kissed him to shut him up.

Sneaking around the hospital and the people in your lives just gives the relationship a lot of thrill. In the early stage of your relationship it felt sexy to sneak into on-call rooms and it was just fun.

Sometimes the dating in secret gets Jackson jealous, especially if someone you work with has a crush on you “I still don't buy it... unless you're trying to impress someone”

He can never stay mad at you, He'll smile and play along with your joke. “Does he have a name, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, he shares the same last name as those stupid awards doctors are obsessed with getting” you joked. You never understood doctors wanting a harper Avery award, which happened to be an award named after Jackson's grandfather. You met him once and he was the only one in his family who knew about you two, he liked you at least.

Jackson pretended to look offended at that, though he couldn't actually hold back his laughter when you called the Harper Avery Award stupid. He knew you didn't really understand the big deal about the award. Despite your joking, it was very clear how fond of you his grandfather was.

“You take that back. Those awards are what us doctors live for”

“Nuh-uh, I don't need the award. I got you, those stupid awards don't have your eyes and it would be hard to cuddle that thing”

Jackson couldn't help but smile over how adorable you were when you were being a total stubborn ass. “They also don't kiss as good as I do, I'm assuming” He said smirking.

“Can't fuck me as good as you do either” you smirked.

Your brother Mark doesn't know about you two either, Mark was over protective and you both knew Jackson would be dead the moment Mark found out.

It was months that went on and Mark still didn't figure it out. He almost did, once. You and Jackson snuck off to have sex in one of the on-call rooms, after words Jackson was paged to be on Mark's service. Jackson and you got dressed in a hurry and during that, Jackson took your lab coat by accident. Thank God Mark didn't notice.

After a while, sneaking around would get to the both of you and there were too many close calls. Jackson eventually just told Mark without talking to you. “I love her, Mark... Everything about her, even the things I don't like. I'm sorry I lied to you about it”

He also told his mother which resulted in an awkward dinner and Jackson coming to your aid a few times.

When you told your friends, they weren't suprised. Meredith and Alex saw the signs. “me and Jackson are dating... We have been for awhile”

“yeah” Alex nodded

“what do you mean, yeah?”

Alex knew you too well, he just rolled his eyes and smirked. “it's obvious, Avery isn't good at hiding his love sick puppy look”

Jackson's mother doesn't completely like you, but she doesn't hate you.

Once you become public everything just feels better. You didn't want the thrill of sneaking around anymore, just holding his hand in the hospital where anyone could see just felt nicer.

[moonhoures]

Insatiable

🕷️ kinktober — day 4: biting kink (& blood play)🕸️

pairing: sunghoon (enhypen) + reader (afab/fem)

genre: non-idol!au, vampire!au, smut

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, explicit smut, vampire bf!hoon, human!reader, tw! mention of blood, biting, blood drinking, oral (fem. receiving), cum eating, overstimulation (kind of, i guess?),

word count: ~2.1k

synopsis: your vampire bf suddenly becomes clingy which can only mean he’s hungry or horny . . . or both

a/n: where’s all my vampire!au lovers?!?!?!?!!?! 🧛🏻

posted: october 4, 2023

kinktober masterlist

You should’ve seen it coming when Sunghoon had stayed with you in the bed until you got up this morning. Usually, he would be up busying himself with something by the time you woke up. You should’ve seen it coming when he somehow found a reason to be in every room you were in at any given time. You were in the bedroom folding laundry? He was digging through his clothes to find ‘that one shirt he thought he lost’. You were in the living room watching TV? Suddenly he was interested in it too—though he had complained to you multiple times he didn’t like the shows you liked. You were in the bathroom? He was knocking on the door asking how long you would be because he needed to brush his teeth.

You should have confronted him during one of those instances, but you finally snapped in the kitchen. You were in the middle of making yourself a sandwich for lunch when you felt Sunghoon’s presence lingering behind you. He wasn’t touching you or hovering, but you could still feel him, mostly his gaze. It felt like he was your own shadow, following you around incessantly. The jelly-coated knife in your hand clattered onto the counter as you let out an annoyed groan.

“What’s your problem? You’ve been all over me all morning.”

“I can’t just be close to my girlfriend?” he asked, a dumb smile on his face. But you could tell there was something sinister about that smile; he had ulterior motives that he wasn’t going to give up so quickly.

“Suddenly, like this? No,” you leaned back against the counter, but there was still not even a foot of distance between you two, “So what do you want? Are you horny? Hungry? What is it?”

If he could blush, he would be doing so in that moment. His smile turned sheepish, embarrassed that you had caught on so fast. He didn’t mean to be so clingy, but he couldn’t help it. He woke up with his stomach feeling empty and his gums aching. His cock had also been basically rock hard when he woke up. His body was essentially begging him to eat and get laid, and soon. But he knew how tired you had been lately with work, so he let you sleep in. And you seemed grumpy after you woke, so he let you go about your day without bothering you too much. He suffered in silence for as long as he could until your outburst.

“Would you hate me if I said both?”

This time his smile revealed his pointed canines, longer than they usually were. You noticed the pale skin around his eyes had a dusting of rose-colored pigment, and small, faint, spindly veins branched around them. Those usually signified his hunger, and now that you thought about it, you couldn’t remember the last time he had fed.

Having a vampire as a boyfriend, while as outlandish as it sounded, was surprisingly low-maintenance. You weren’t sure if it was because of Sunghoon’s personality or if all vampires were like this—he was the only one you had ever met, to your knowledge—but he was really easy going. He held himself with great self control, only feasting when absolutely necessary.

When you had started dating him, he admitted his identity to you and assured you that he only fed on animals. For a while he had tried stealing blood from a local hospital, but he felt guilty, so he had quit. As nice as human blood was, he always felt it was morally wrong, so he stuck to an animal-exclusive diet. It wasn’t until you were almost a year into dating that you suggested he feed from you, and even then it took him a couple months to come around to the idea.

The first time he fed from you was overwhelming, to say the least, but he displayed way more self control than he thought he could. You had gone limp in his arms, which held you tight at the waist, crushing you against him while his teeth were sunk into the junction of your neck and shoulder. When you let out the smallest whisper of his name, he released you as fast as he possibly could, using his thumb to cover your puncture wounds. He had taken a bit more blood than he should’ve, but thankfully it wasn’t enough to cause you damage.

You healed up just fine after some food, water, and rest, and the next day you were good as new. But he still held off as long as possible between feedings, not wanting to take advantage of the food supply he could get from you. Though, secretly, you loved when he used you. The feedings almost felt like taking drugs. The rush you got from them was euphoric, even if it did take a large amount of energy out of you. And Sunghoon looked hot when he fed, you couldn’t deny that. The way his eyes turned that dark red (almost black) color. The way your blood stained his lips with a crimson hue. The way he became hungry for you in a way that surpassed normal lust. It was so primal. So carnal. So excruciatingly sexy. Every time you just wanted him to have his way with you, there and then.

“Okay,” you said, “but can we try something different this time?”

Sunghoon was shocked you were agreeing to a feeding right now, given your seemingly indifferent mood all morning. But he simply nodded, willing to do almost anything to get blood in his mouth soon, “Sure.”

“Do you, um, have to take blood from my neck every time?” you asked him, looking up at him with the art of seduction brewing in your eyes.

“No, I guess- I guess I could take it from your wrist or somewhere else on your arm. It’s just that the neck is the easiest access point,” he tried to explain, but admittedly he was pretty thrown off by the question. No one had ever asked him that before.

“So, you could really bite me anywhere then?”

“Y-yeah, I suppose I could. What did you have in mind?”

You simply smiled to yourself, having no doubt in your mind that you would get him to feed from you exactly how you wanted him to. Exactly like you had imagined a handful of times.

And, boy were you right. Not even five minutes later he had you thrown unceremoniously onto your bed, your shorts and underwear discarded and tossed across the room. His inhuman strength was used to grab your legs and place them over his shoulders as he wedged himself between your thighs. One tantalizing look from him and then he was committing the most sinful acts on you with his tongue. Licking and prodding and kissing and sucking your sensitive skin in all the right ways. In all the right places. He drew the most erotic, filthy noises from you, along with some moans of his name. He smirked wickedly into your pussy, his pride—and his cock—swelling.

Low growls rumbled from deep in his throat as he ate you out. His mouth moved with ardor, as if your cum was his life source instead of the red ichor that flowed in your veins. And he didn’t plan on stopping until he got both. So he hummed, holding your clit between his lips. He opened his eyes just in time to see you slipping, your eyes vaguely crossing and your lips agape, a gasp stuck in your throat.

“Hoon- Please- I need . . . Oh my God,” your words trailed off into a moan that was so pornographic you couldn’t believe it came from you. Your boyfriend was always great at eating you out, but this was on another level.

“Need what, _______? To cum? Then do it. Cum on my tongue, baby,” he pulled away to egg you on, then promptly returned to lapping at your slick lips. Your skin felt like velvet over his tongue, and your arousal tasted like juice from the sweetest fruit. But your blood would be the richest and smoothest of wines. And he wanted to get drunk off of you at any means necessary.

You wanted to answer, but you physically weren’t able to. Any words that you thought of formed in your throat and died before they could reach your lips, coming out in faint croaks or cut-off moans. His name was the only thing you could get out, and even that could only escape in choked gasps or panted breaths. It was the loudest when your orgasm finally snapped.

Your stomach felt like it was doing flips, and the area between your ribs and your thighs felt warm. Sunghoon’s grip on the outside of your thighs tightened as he tasted the first drips of your cum. His tongue collected as much of it as he could get. But he had to act quickly. While you were still in the throes of your orgasm, he pulled his lips away from your cunt, directing them to the plush of your inner thigh. He bared his fangs as much as he could before breaking your skin with them, sinking them as far as he could without seriously harming you.

A sharp gasp sounded from your mouth, and your hands fisted the sheets at your sides, tugging them into the tight grip of your knuckles. The pain was borderline insufferable, but you knew the taste of ecstasy that soon followed would make it all worth it.

In a matter of a minute, the pain was subduing and was being replaced by waves of pleasure. The warmth that was caused by your orgasm was ignited into a fiery heat, like the nozzle of a stove slowly being turned from low to high. Then, the tingling started. First in the thigh that he was feeding from, then the other one. It spread to your knees and hips. And soon after that, the numbness set in. That’s when you knew it was getting to be too much. Your body was going into a panic, but your mind was still dazed from the effects of his venom, which seeped in from the bite.

“S-“ you groaned, barely able to form a coherent thought, “Sung- . . . Sunghoo . . .”

Your boyfriend’s eyes shot open, and he immediately withdrew his mouth from your leg, “Fuck, I’m sorry, ________.”

You shook your head lazily, not entirely sure if the lack of energy was more from the orgasm or the feeding.

“You tasted so good, I couldn’t help myself,” he spoke quickly, his voice full of panic. He leaned down to lave his tongue over the puncture marks, using his saliva to heal them. It would seal them for now, keeping you from bleeding, but it would take a few hours for them to close, “Are you alright?”

In the blink of an eye, he was hovering above you, and anyone else would’ve been startled. But you were so used to his inhuman speed by now, you were unfazed. You were, however, dismayed still, and concernedly so. Sunghoon’s hand reached up to gently grab your chin, tilting your head from side to side, “________, baby, answer me. Are you okay?”

A drunken smile appeared on your lips, but your eyes remained closed, “‘m great.”

He sighed in relief, shaking his head, “Don’t do that. I was worried I drank too much.”

“A little,” you mumbled in a half-response, slurring your words, “but . . . felt s’ good.”

“Don’t black out on me,” he chuckled softly, a hint of worry still in his red-colored eyes as he peered down at you. His fingers gripped your chin a little tighter as he leaned forward and kissed the corner of your lips, “I mean it.”

“Or what?” you teased, eyes half-opening to see his handsome face inches from your own. If you weren’t so weak, you would have rolled you both over and taken the reigns then.

“Or I’ll eat you,” he mocked you, booping the tip of your nose with his before kissing you again, this time on the lips. His lips were tinged with blood still, the taste of iron present on them but not unbearable.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“You decide,” he patted your thigh affectionately, his thumb smoothing your skin and lingering near the marks he left on it. Then he got up off the bed, heading for the door, “Don’t move, I’m gonna get you a snack and some water.”

— taglist #1

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