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mcrdvcks · 3 days ago

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i love you, in every life ࿐‧₊ worst logan - imperfect for you pt.2

chapter summary: You and Laura find yourselves in the void. A few months later, Wade—who claims to be from your universe, and a different Logan appear with a way out.

word count: 13.7k+ (31k+ total)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: alright! this is the second part... to the second part. all the warnings/tags are the same! and take this as your warning-this is split in two parts! it's too long for tumblr to fit in one post!

(also, i know that it's 10 pm est, but i felt like i had to put this out now after watching lady gaga and bruno mars' performance at the grammy's)

warnings/tags: canon to 'deadpool and wolverine', black widow!reader, worst!logan, laura calls reader mom, violence, heavy angst, detached!reader, loverboy!logan, slow burn, fluff, wade wilson interruption, happy ending, not proofread

series masterlist - part 2

You had been to Italy a few times, never of course to see the sights. But Logan insisted, not caring that the mission was over and the two of you were supposed to be going back to the mansion.

“C’mon,” he murmured against your lips, pressing another chaste kiss against them. “I’ll show you around.”

"Do you even know where we’re goin’?" you asked, raising a skeptical brow as Logan laced his fingers through yours, tugging you along the cobblestone streets of Rome.

"’Course I do," he muttered, but the way his eyes flicked between the street signs said otherwise.

You smirked, leaning into his side. "Uh-huh. So, what’s the plan? Wander around aimlessly ‘til we find somethin’ interesting?"

"Pretty much," he admitted, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss against your knuckles. "Not like we’re in a rush."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Charles is gonna kill us when we get back."

Logan scoffed. "What’s he gonna do? Give me a disapproving look? Put me in time-out?" He squeezed your hand. "C’mon, darlin’. When’s the last time we had a real vacation?"

You exhaled, looking around. The warm glow of streetlights reflected off the damp stone, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread and espresso. It was peaceful. Normal.

You nudged him with your shoulder. "You’re lucky I like you."

He smirked. "Damn right I am." Logan leaned in a little closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Plus, it helps I got a girl who can speak Italian."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. "Yeah? And how exactly does that help you?"

Logan squeezed your hand, guiding you through the winding streets. "Means I don’t gotta fumble my way through orderin’ dinner."

You snorted. "So that’s why you’re keeping me around? For food?"

"Pretty much," he said, smirking. "That and the company."

You hummed, pretending to consider. "Could’ve just hired a translator."

Logan stopped walking, turning to face you with that look—the one that made your stomach flip, the one that told you he was serious even when his words weren’t. "Don’t need a translator. Need you."

Your breath hitched, but you covered it with a scoff, nudging him playfully. But before you could get out a word he spoke again.

“Let’s get married.”

You blinked at Logan, unsure if you’d heard him right. “What?”

Logan didn’t flinch. He just stood there, watching you with that same calm intensity he always had. “Let’s get married.”

A laugh escaped you, unbidden, half incredulous, half breathless. “You drunk already?”

Logan smirked. “Not yet.”

You shook your head, crossing your arms. “Logan—”

“I’m serious.” He stepped closer, taking your hands in his. “I know you know about the damn ring.”

Your breath hitched.

You did know.

You’d found it once, hidden away in his things. A simple gold band, unassuming, well-worn. You hadn’t asked about it at the time, but part of you had known—Logan didn’t keep things unless they mattered.

Your fingers curled around his. “You’ve had that ring for years.”

“Longer,” he admitted. “First time I met you, I bought it.”

Something in your chest tightened. “Logan.”

“I’ve lost a lot,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Too much. But you keep coming back to me. Life after life. And I keep finding you.”

Your throat felt tight. “This isn’t like the other times.”

Logan shook his head. “No. It ain’t. This time, I’m not gonna waste any more of it.”

You searched his face, looking for hesitation, doubt—anything that might tell you he was caught up in the moment. But there was nothing. Just certainty.

A quiet, stunned laugh escaped you. “You want to get married. Right now?”

“Why the hell not?” He grinned. “We got a whole city to ourselves. We’ve both seen enough shit to know waiting doesn’t always do us any favors.”

You exhaled, tilting your head. “You don’t even have the ring on you.”

Logan pulled his hand from yours, reached into his pocket, and held it up between his fingers. “You sure about that?”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“You carry it around?”

“Every damn day.”

You stared at him, at the way he was just standing there, so unshaken, so sure, like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.

Maybe he had.

And maybe, just maybe, so had you.

“Alright,” you breathed. “Let’s do it.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head, laughing under your breath. “Let’s get married.”

---

The church was small—hidden in the quieter part of the city, far from the crowds of tourists. The old priest inside raised a brow when you and Logan walked in, but he didn’t ask many questions.

Logan held your hand the entire time, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. When the priest asked if you were ready, Logan squeezed your fingers, just once.

Neither of you had vows prepared—there hadn’t been time for that. But you didn’t need them.

“You already know what you mean to me,” Logan murmured, slipping the ring onto your finger. “Don’t need words to prove it.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, looking down at the band that fit so perfectly. Then you looked back at him, that same familiar, stubborn, impossible man you had known for years.

You curled your fingers around his hand. “Good. Because I don’t have anything poetic either.”

Logan chuckled. “Don’t need poetic.”

You smiled, lifting your joined hands to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Then let’s just get to the part where they say we’re stuck with each other.”

Logan smirked. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The priest gave a small, amused shake of his head before speaking the final words. And just like that, it was done.

Married.

You turned to Logan, your new husband, and before he could say anything, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss.

He made a noise of surprise, but it didn’t take him long to catch up, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. His lips were warm, familiar, and when he broke away just enough to murmur against your mouth, his voice was thick with something you couldn’t name.

“’Bout damn time.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Logan cupped your jaw, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re mine now.”

You smirked. “Always was.”

He kissed you again, and this time, neither of you were in any rush to pull away.

---

You woke up, not with a start, just a slow realization that it was a dream—a memory.

The ceiling fan above you spun in lazy circles, the dim morning light filtering through the blinds. The scent of saltwater lingered in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of lemon cleaner from Laura’s half-hearted attempt at tidying up the place. For a second, you could still feel Logan’s hand in yours, the weight of the ring on your finger, the warmth of his breath against your lips.

But it wasn’t real. Not anymore.

You exhaled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before pushing yourself up. The bed was too big, too empty. You swung your legs over the side, the cool floor grounding you in the present.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. “Mom?”

You sighed, rolling your shoulders before standing. “Yeah?”

Laura cracked the door open, already dressed, her sunglasses perched on top of her head. “You okay?”

You huffed, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah. Why?”

Laura leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You were making that face again.”

You raised a brow. “What face?”

“The sad, I’m thinking about him again face.”

You snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

Laura shrugged. “Sure.”

Shaking your head, you moved past her and into the kitchen. “You eat?”

She grabbed an apple from the counter, biting into it as she hopped onto a stool. “Yeah. You?”

“Not yet.” You poured yourself a cup of coffee, the bitter scent filling the air.

Laura studied you for a second before speaking. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”

You took a sip of coffee before answering. “Maybe.”

Laura didn’t push, just nodded. “Was it a good one?”

Your fingers curled around the mug. “Yeah.”

She chewed her apple slowly, then said, “You think he ever dreamed about you?”

You swallowed, setting the mug down. “I know he did.”

Laura was quiet for a moment before hopping off the stool. “You wanna do something today? Beach, maybe?”

You glanced out the window at the waves rolling against the shore. The idea of a normal day, of pretending for just a little while longer, didn’t sound too bad. “Yeah. Beach sounds good.”

Laura nodded. “Cool. I’ll grab the towels.”

As she walked away, you let out a slow breath, staring at the coffee in your hands. The dream still clung to you, the weight of it settling deep in your chest.

You shook it off.

For now, there was the beach.

For now, there was Laura.

And for now, that was enough.

---

Logan exhaled, the cigarette between his fingers burning low. The Florida heat clung to him, sweat beading at the back of his neck as he leaned against the hood of his truck.

She was in there.

He knew her routine now—when she worked, when she shopped, when she left the house. He told himself he wasn’t stalking, that he was just waiting. But waiting for what, exactly? For her to acknowledge him? For her to let him in?

Wade had called him an idiot for sticking around. Said he was wasting his time. Maybe he was.

But maybe he wasn’t.

He took a slow drag, watching as a familiar car pulled out of the driveway. She was driving. Laura was in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, arms crossed, probably bitching about something.

Logan smirked.

He let the cigarette drop, crushing it under his boot as he pushed off the truck.

They weren’t running.

And as long as they weren’t running, he wasn’t leaving.

---

You stared at him, unabashedly. Something you only did when you were going to scold him for something.

“What?” Logan asked, turning to face you.

You crawled down the bed before sitting at the edge of it, chin in your hand, glasses slipping down your nose. “Why do you have to go to the bar? You could…”

Logan, who had just finished pulling his boots on, paused mid-motion. His brow lifted as he looked at you over his shoulder. “I could… what?”

You shrugged, pushing your glasses up absentmindedly. “I don’t know. Stay.”

Logan snorted, shaking his head as he grabbed his jacket. “What, and listen to Scott ramble about team-building exercises? No thanks.”

You huffed, tilting your head. “You could grade papers.”

He let out a short laugh, shrugging on his jacket. “Yeah, ‘cause that sounds like a real fun time.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back on your hands. “You wouldn’t have to grade them. You could just… be here.”

Logan’s movements slowed slightly as he adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. He didn’t say anything right away, just stood there, like he was debating whether or not to argue. Then, with a sigh, he turned, arms crossed. “What’s this really about, Y/N?”

You hesitated, tapping your fingers against the blanket. “Nothing. Just thought maybe, for once, you wouldn’t leave as soon as classes were done.”

Logan studied you, his expression softening. “Did something happen?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I just…” You trailed off, realizing how ridiculous you sounded. You weren’t clingy—at least, you didn’t think you were. But Logan was always leaving. Always heading off somewhere, whether it was a bar, a mission, or just to be alone. And even though you knew that was just the way he was, it didn’t mean you liked it.

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Darlin’…”

“Never mind,” you said quickly, pushing yourself off the bed. “Forget I said anything.”

Logan caught your wrist before you could move past him, his grip firm but gentle. “Hey.” His voice was quieter now. “I didn’t mean—”

You shook your head, pulling your wrist free. “It’s fine, Logan. Go.”

His jaw clenched slightly, like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just stood there, watching as you walked past him.

You didn’t slam the door behind you, but you wanted to.

---

Logan woke up with a sharp inhale, the remnants of the dream lingering in his chest like a dull ache.

He stared at the ceiling, his breathing evening out as he tried to push the memory away. But it clung to him, heavy and persistent.

You weren’t her. And he wasn’t your Logan.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

With a grunt, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face before reaching for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

He paused, staring at it for a long moment before setting it back down.

Outside, the Florida heat was already creeping in, the morning sun casting long shadows across the floor. He didn’t know what the hell he was still doing here.

But he wasn’t leaving.

Not yet.

---

The ocean breeze rolled in slow and steady, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen as you leaned back against your towel. The Florida sun wasn’t unbearable, but it was warm enough to make you drowsy. Laura sat beside you, picking lazily at the label of her water bottle, her sunglasses shielding her eyes.

It had been a good day. The kind of day you never thought you’d have—normal, easy.

Until he showed up.

Laura was the first to notice. She didn’t say anything at first, just hummed softly before muttering, “He’s here.”

You frowned, not even opening your eyes. “Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression neutral as you cracked one eye open. Sure enough, Logan stood a few yards away, leaning against a wooden post near the boardwalk. He wasn’t looking directly at you—just gazing out at the water, arms crossed, the picture of casual indifference.

It was bullshit.

You sighed, rubbing your fingers against your temple. “He’s not gonna leave, is he?”

Laura took a slow sip of her water. “Nope.”

You sat up, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. He still wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he knew you saw him.

Laura smirked. “You gonna say something, or just keep making angry faces at him?”

“I’m not making angry faces,” you muttered.

“You are.”

You ignored her, pushing yourself up. You dusted the sand off your legs before heading toward him, your steps slow and deliberate. Logan didn’t move until you were right in front of him. Only then did he glance down, his expression unreadable.

“You lost?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Logan smirked. “Nah. Just enjoyin’ the view.”

You scoffed. “Right.”

Silence stretched between you, the sound of waves crashing filling the space where words should have been. Logan shifted slightly, but he didn’t back off.

“You gonna keep following me?” you asked, your voice low.

Logan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Ain’t followin’ you, darlin’. Just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

You arched a brow. “Really? You just happened to be at this exact beach, at this exact moment?”

“Guess it’s my lucky day,” he drawled.

You clenched your jaw, debating if you should just turn around and walk away. But something about the way he was looking at you—calm, patient, stubborn as ever—made your skin prickle.

“You waiting for me to say something?” you asked.

Logan shrugged. “Figured you might.”

You inhaled sharply, taking a step closer. “I said goodbye, Logan. You’re the one who won’t let it go.”

His expression didn’t change. “Yeah, you said goodbye. I just didn’t listen.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, studying you. “I know enough.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Before he could respond, Laura called out from behind you. “Are you done flirting, or should I come back later?”

Your head snapped toward her. “Laura.”

She just shrugged, completely unfazed. “What? I’m just saying.”

Logan smirked, and you turned back to him, pointing a finger at his chest. “Don’t.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk didn’t fade.

You huffed. “If you’re gonna keep hanging around, at least be useful and stay out of my way.”

Logan’s gaze flickered over you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, with an infuriating amount of ease, he said, “No promises.”

You clenched your fists, exhaling through your nose before turning sharply on your heel and walking back toward Laura.

She was still smirking when you sat down.

“Shut up,” you muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

Laura leaned back on her elbows, tilting her head toward Logan. “You know, you could just talk to him like a normal person.”

You ripped open a bag of chips with more force than necessary. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Laura hummed. “Then why’d you go over there?”

You froze mid-chew before shooting her a glare. “You are so grounded.”

Laura snorted. “Good luck enforcing that.”

You muttered something under your breath, throwing another glance at Logan, who was still standing in the same damn spot, watching the ocean like he had all the time in the world.

You hated how much it felt like he belonged there.

Laura smirked again, popping a chip into her mouth. “You’re gonna have to deal with this at some point, you know.”

You exhaled sharply. “Not today.”

“Yeah,” Laura murmured, staring at Logan. “We’ll see.”

---

It had been a week since the beach. Another week of pretending Logan wasn’t lurking in the background, watching but never interfering. Another week of Laura making way too many smug comments.

You ignored both of them.

Mostly.

Right now, you were more focused on getting home before the storm rolling in had the chance to flood the streets. Florida weather was unpredictable as hell—one minute sunny, the next a full-blown hurricane. The dark clouds overhead rumbled, lightning flashing in the distance as you pulled out of the school parking lot.

You had just turned onto the main road when the car jolted.

Then, the all-too-familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of a flat tire.

You let out a slow, controlled breath through your nose. “Of course.”

You pulled over onto the shoulder, gripping the wheel for a moment before forcing yourself to relax. This was fine. You could handle this.

The moment you stepped out, the humidity hit you like a wall. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of rain and asphalt. You crouched, assessing the damage. The back tire was completely shot, rubber torn to hell.

You sighed, pushing your hair away from your face. “Just needed one more week, you piece of shit,” you muttered, kicking the tire lightly before heading to the trunk for the spare.

A familiar rumble of an engine approached.

You froze for half a second before gritting your teeth.

Not even five minutes and he was here.

Logan’s truck slowed to a stop behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was already climbing out, probably looking all smug and self-satisfied.

“Need a hand?”

You exhaled through your nose before straightening up and turning to face him. “No.”

Logan tilted his head, hands on his hips as he looked from you to the tire. “You sure? ‘Cause that looks pretty fucked.”

“I got it,” you said, crossing your arms.

Logan nodded, clearly not convinced. He watched as you popped the trunk, grabbed the spare, and then crouched back down to remove the damaged tire. You worked quickly, efficiently—this wasn’t exactly your first time handling something like this.

Logan leaned against his truck, arms crossed. “Y’know, most people would just say ‘thanks.’”

You didn’t even glance at him. “Most people aren’t me.”

Logan smirked. “No argument there.”

You ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. A bolt was being stubborn, refusing to budge. You adjusted your grip, using more force—nothing.

Logan pushed off his truck, strolling over. “Want me to—”

You stood up, cutting him off. “I swear to God, Logan, if you—”

Thunder cracked overhead, and the sky opened up.

Within seconds, you were both drenched.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply as cold rain soaked through your clothes.

Logan exhaled a short laugh. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

You snapped your head toward him, glaring. “Really?”

He smirked, completely unfazed by the downpour. “What? You don’t like the rain?”

You huffed, brushing wet hair from your face before crouching back down. “Just shut up and let me work.”

Logan didn’t. Instead, he crouched beside you, reaching for the stubborn bolt.

You swatted his hand away. “I said I got it.”

He just looked at you, unimpressed. “It’s rusted. You need more leverage.”

“I know that.”

Logan didn’t argue. He just waited.

You exhaled sharply before finally moving aside, just enough for him to take over.

With one sharp twist, the bolt loosened.

You clenched your jaw. “Show-off.”

Logan smirked. “You loosened it for me.”

You rolled your eyes, but together, the two of you worked in sync—removing the damaged tire, fitting the spare, tightening the bolts. It was quick, practiced, almost too easy.

By the time you finished, the rain had slowed, leaving the both of you completely soaked.

Logan stood, brushing water from his arms. “Could’ve just let me do the whole thing.”

You shut the trunk with more force than necessary. “Could’ve just driven past and minded your own damn business.”

Logan smirked. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You glared at him, but before you could respond, another engine rumbled down the road.

A blue sedan slowed beside you. The passenger window rolled down, revealing an older woman with a concerned expression.

“Everything alright, dear?” she asked, eyes flicking between you and Logan.

You forced a polite smile. “Yeah, I—”

“She’s fine,” Logan interrupted.

You turned sharply toward him. “Excuse you?”

Logan ignored you, giving the woman a nod. “Just a flat. All good now.”

The woman hesitated, glancing at you again before nodding slowly. “Alright, if you’re sure. Stay safe.”

The moment she drove off, you turned to Logan, scowling. “What the hell was that?”

Logan shrugged. “What? You were fine.”

You threw your hands up. “And I couldn’t say that myself?”

Logan smirked. “You could’ve, but you were takin’ too long.”

You huffed, rubbing your temples. “You are insufferable.”

Logan grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

You took a slow breath, reining in your frustration. “Are we done here?”

Logan looked you over, still clearly amused. “Need me to follow you home? Just in case?”

“I’d rather drive off a bridge.”

“Bit dramatic, don’t ya think?”

You turned toward your car, muttering, “Go to hell, Logan.”

He chuckled, stepping back toward his truck. “I’ll see you around, darlin’.”

You didn’t respond, just slammed the driver’s door shut before pulling back onto the road.

When you glanced in the rearview mirror, Logan was still standing there, watching.

And damn it, you hated the way it made your chest tighten.

---

Laura was already sitting on the couch when you walked through the front door, damp clothes clinging to your skin, rain still dripping from your hair. She took one look at you—soaked, pissed off, barely holding yourself together—and sighed.

"You let him help, didn’t you?"

You dropped your keys on the counter with more force than necessary. "No."

Laura arched a brow.

You clenched your jaw, yanking open the fridge just to give yourself something to do. "Fine. Kind of."

Laura smirked. "Figured."

You grabbed a water bottle and shut the fridge, exhaling sharply. "He just happened to be there."

"Uh-huh."

You turned, leveling her with a glare. "Don’t start."

Laura held up her hands in mock surrender, but the amusement never left her face. "I’m just saying, for someone who wants him to leave, you sure make it easy for him to stick around."

You threw the water bottle onto the counter. "You think I want him here?"

Laura’s smirk faded slightly, her expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "I think you don’t know what you want."

That did it.

Your patience, already worn thin, snapped.

"You think I don’t know?" you shot back, voice rising. "You think this is easy? That I like having him in the background, watching, waiting, making me remember things I don’t want to remember?"

Laura blinked, caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

You ran a hand through your wet hair, pacing. "Do you know how hard I worked to move on? How hard I tried to build something—anything—that didn’t lead back to him? And now he’s here, and I can’t—" You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "I won’t let him pull me back into it."

Laura’s brows pulled together, her voice quieter. "Mom—"

"No," you said, pointing at her. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like I’m the one making it complicated when he’s the one who won’t leave."

Laura’s jaw tightened. "Maybe he won’t leave because he actually gives a shit."

"That’s not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" she snapped, standing now. "That he’s not our Logan? That he’s not your Logan?"

You flinched.

Laura shook her head. "You keep acting like he’s a ghost, but he’s not. He’s here. And you can keep pretending it doesn’t matter, but it does. He does."

Your chest tightened. "He’s not the man I married."

"No," Laura said, her voice quieter but no less firm. "But he’s still Logan."

Silence.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a vice.

Laura let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I know you miss him."

Your throat burned. "It doesn’t matter."

"It does."

You shook your head, turning away. "I need to shower."

"Mom—"

"I need to shower, Laura."

She didn’t argue this time. She just watched as you walked toward the bathroom, your legs heavier with every step.

When the door clicked shut behind you, you pressed your back against it, squeezing your eyes shut.

You could still hear his voice in your head, feel the warmth of his hands on yours, see the way he used to look at you—like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

And now he was here. Not your Logan. Not the man you’d built a life with. But Logan all the same.

Laura was right.

But that didn’t mean you were ready to face it.

---

You grunted as you pulled again, trying to unlodge the stubborn screw. “Stupid. Fucking—” A warm hand enveloped yours, you didn’t need to turn around to know who’s. “I got it, kotik.”

He hummed, not condescending, but like he knew you did. “I know. Just lemme help.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose but didn’t fight him when his hand covered yours, his other gripping the wrench. With barely any effort, he turned it, the stubborn screw finally giving way with a sharp creak.

You scowled. “I had it.”

Logan smirked, setting the wrench down. “Sure, sweetheart.”

You huffed, swiping your arm across your forehead, smudging a bit of grease in the process. Logan caught it, his thumb brushing the mark off before you could duck away. His touch lingered, his eyes scanning your face.

“What’s wrong?”

You scoffed, grabbing a rag to wipe your hands. “It was the damn screw you just unlodged.”

Logan’s brow twitched. “Try again.”

You sighed, rolling your shoulders, the tension refusing to ease. “It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t ask if it was nothing,” he said, arms crossing. “Asked what’s wrong.”

You hesitated, gripping the rag tighter before exhaling. “Scott’s just… piling things on me. Ororo asked me to help out more with the kids during training, which I want to do, but then Scott starts throwing his bullshit at me too. Paperwork, scheduling, grading tests that he’s supposed to be handling." You shook your head. "And now, apparently, I’m also in charge of making sure half the team doesn’t set themselves on fire in the Danger Room.”

Logan nodded slowly. “That all?”

Your jaw clenched. “No.”

He waited, saying nothing. Just watching.

You groaned, tossing the rag onto the workbench. “It’s everything. The mansion, the missions, the meetings—God, the meetings. I swear, if I have to sit through another three-hour debate about whether the Blackbird should have a different paint job, I’m gonna throw myself off the roof.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer. “Y’know, you could just tell ‘em to go to hell.”

You snorted. “Yeah, and then Scott would really make my life miserable.”

Logan’s hand found your waist, his grip warm and steady. “Then let me do it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, that would go over great. You storming into a meeting, claws out, telling Summers where to shove his clipboard.”

Logan grinned. “Tempting.”

You sighed, finally leaning into him. “I’m just tired, kotik.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His hand traced slow circles against your lower back, grounding you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet hum of the mansion in the distance—it was enough to make you forget the stress, just for a second.

“You should tell him no,” Logan murmured.

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “And what? Let the entire school burn down?”

His lips twitched. “Not our problem.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “You say that, but we both know you’d be the first one running in if it did.”

Logan’s smirk softened. “Maybe.”

You sighed, resting your forehead against his chest. “I hate when you’re right.”

“Lucky for you, it ain’t often.”

You smiled against his shirt, letting the exhaustion slip away—at least for now.

---

You woke up to the sound of waves crashing outside, your chest tight, your skin too warm.

For a moment, you forgot where you were. You expected the distant hum of the mansion, the smell of Logan’s aftershave, the warmth of his body beside you.

But the bed was empty. The room was quiet.

And Logan was gone.

You swallowed hard, blinking up at the ceiling.

It was just a dream.

Just a memory.

And that’s all it would ever be.

---

The day passed in a blur. You went through the motions—teaching gym class, keeping the kids in line, pretending like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t spent the entire morning haunted by a dream that wasn’t just a dream.

Like Logan hadn’t found you.

You’d seen him again after work. He wasn’t trying to hide this time. He leaned against his truck, arms crossed, watching from across the parking lot. Not approaching. Not leaving. Just waiting.

And it pissed you off.

Laura wasn’t home when you got back. Probably at the beach or grabbing food. You had a few hours to yourself, time to think, time to breathe—

A knock at the door cut through the silence.

You stared at it.

Another knock. Louder this time.

You already knew who it was.

Jaw clenched, you walked over and yanked the door open, grip tight on the handle.

Logan stood there, his expression unreadable. “Hey.”

You didn’t hesitate. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

You stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind you. “No. Whatever the hell you think you’re doing? No.”

Logan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Ain’t here to start a fight, darlin’.”

“Then why are you here?” you snapped, crossing your arms. “Because if you think I’m just gonna let you hover around like some stray, you’re dead wrong.”

Logan’s jaw flexed. “I just wanna talk.”

“And say the same goddamn bullshit? Here’s the thing,” you gripped the collar of his leather jacket tightly, pulling him slightly closer to you. “I don’t fucking care.”

Logan didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stared at you, his expression unreadable.

Your fingers curled tighter around his jacket, the leather warm beneath your grip. “You think this is romantic? You think tailing me for months, showing up at my fucking door, is gonna make me change my mind?” You shoved him back—hard. He barely stumbled. “I don’t care what you have to say, Logan.”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah? Then why’d you open the door?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Because I knew you wouldn’t leave if I didn’t.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the humid night air.

He dropped his hand, looking at you like the answer was obvious. “I want to know why you’re lyin’ to yourself.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Jesus, Logan, get over yourself.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about me,” he shot back. “I’m talkin’ about you.”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I told you—”

“No, you haven’t,” Logan interrupted, stepping closer. “You keep pushin’ me away, but you ain’t sayin’ why.”

“Because I don’t owe you a fucking reason,” you snapped.

Logan studied you, his gaze slow, careful. “It’s ‘cause of him, ain’t it?”

Your stomach twisted, but your expression didn’t falter. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured. “The Logan you lost. The one that was yours.”

Your breath hitched.

Logan’s voice was quieter now, steady but rough. “That’s why you’re runnin’, why you won’t let yourself stop. ‘Cause you think if you do, you’re betrayin’ him.”

You hated how easily he saw through you.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced out a scoff. “You don’t know shit, Logan.”

“I know grief.” His voice was low, weighted. “I know what it does to you. How it makes you feel like movin’ on is some kinda sin.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“I also know,” he continued, “that it don’t go away. Don’t matter how far you run, how many times you try to start over.” His tone softened, just slightly. “It stays with you. But it don’t mean you gotta stay buried with it.”

Your hands trembled. You curled them into fists to stop it.

“Look at me,” Logan said.

You didn’t.

A rough sigh, then—you felt it. His hand, warm, familiar, pressing against the side of your face. You stiffened, but he didn’t force it, just let his thumb brush against your cheek.

“Darlin’,” Logan murmured. “I ain’t askin’ you to forget him.”

You swallowed hard.

“I just don’t want you to forget yourself.”

Your breath hitched.

You wanted to shove him away again. Wanted to punch him. Wanted to yell and tell him he was wrong.

But the worst part? He wasn’t.

And you fucking hated him for it.

Your eyes stung, but you refused to let them fall.

Finally, you forced yourself to move, pulling back, breaking the contact. “Go home, Logan.”

Logan didn’t move.

You inhaled sharply. “I mean it.”

He studied you for a long moment before nodding once. “Alright.”

Then—he stepped back, hands in his pockets. But he didn’t turn around. Didn’t leave.

Not yet.

His gaze lingered on you, something unreadable in it.

Then, quieter, rougher—

“I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t answer.

And this time, when he walked away—you didn’t watch him go.

---

He could tell you weren’t fully asleep, nor fully awake, when he got back. The lamp on your bedside table was still on, but your glasses were neatly folded on top of your book.

“Hmm? Logan?”

He slipped off his boots and pulled off his shirt before sliding in behind you, gently pushing your shoulder down so you wouldn’t get up. “Yeah. ‘S me.”

"It’s 2 in the morning." Your voice was quiet, thick with sleep. "You’ve been comin’ home later."

Logan exhaled through his nose, running a hand down his face as he settled onto the bed beside you. His body was still warm from the whiskey, the buzz clinging to the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t answer right away, just reached over and turned off your lamp, leaving only the soft glow of the nightlight in the corner.

You shifted, turning onto your side to face him. Even in the dim light, he could see your eyes—heavy with exhaustion but still watching him, still waiting. You always waited.

For months now, you had tried to get him to stay. At first, you asked outright, voice soft but certain—"Stay tonight?" And when that didn’t work, you tried coaxing, offering quiet conversation, little distractions, your presence alone.

Then, when that didn’t work either, it became this.

Half-asleep murmurs. The lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d come home early for once.

But he never did.

"Yeah," Logan muttered, shifting onto his back. "Got caught up."

You huffed, barely a sound, but he felt it more than heard it. "You always do."

Logan stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. He could feel the weight of your gaze on him, the way you were waiting for him to say something—anything—to ease the ache in your chest. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t know how.

The silence stretched between you.

Then, quietly, you spoke again. "You don’t have to go every night."

Logan swallowed, his throat dry. He could lie, say it wasn’t about the bar, say he just needed the air. But you weren’t stupid. You knew what he was doing, why he kept his distance even when he was right here beside you.

So he didn’t say anything at all.

After a beat, you sighed and turned over, your back to him. A clear dismissal.

Logan closed his eyes, listening to the quiet sound of your breathing as you drifted off.

It wasn’t always like this.

At the start, you stayed up for him. You’d wait in the library, curled up with a book, or in the kitchen with tea, pretending you just happened to be awake. You used to smile when he walked in, small and tired but warm. You’d ask how his night was, even when you knew he wouldn’t answer properly.

And then, when you realized nothing changed, you started waiting in bed instead. Eyes heavy but open, glasses slipping down your nose, always murmuring some half-asleep greeting before reaching for him.

Now? Now you barely waited at all.

Logan exhaled, turning his head to look at you. You were already asleep.

Something settled deep in his chest—heavy, uncomfortable.

This wouldn’t last.

You wouldn’t wait forever.

And for the first time, the thought of losing you—of pushing you too far—felt a hell of a lot worse than whatever he was trying to drown at the bottom of a bottle.

---

Logan’s eyes snapped open.

For a second, he was disoriented, still caught in the haze of the dream—no, the memory. He could still feel the warmth of you beside him, still hear your voice, soft and tired, asking him to stay.

But when he blinked, the bedroom was gone.

No mansion. No soft lamp glow.

Just the inside of his truck, the Florida heat creeping in through the cracked window.

Logan let out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. His body was tense, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The dream had been too real—too damn vivid.

He reached for the flask in the cupholder, unscrewing the cap with steady fingers. He didn’t drink from it. Just held it.

The memory had felt like a lifetime ago. Because it was—but not his. Not this Logan’s.

It was hers.

The woman who wasn’t his Y/N but still had the same voice, the same eyes, the same way of looking at him like he was something worth waiting for.

Except this time?

She wasn’t waiting.

And Logan wasn’t sure if he was ready for what that meant.

---

For the first time in weeks, Logan wasn’t there.

You didn’t see him leaning against his truck outside the school. He wasn’t loitering at the grocery store. He wasn’t in your goddamn peripheral, watching but never pushing, always waiting for you to acknowledge him.

And it pissed you off.

You should’ve been relieved. You had told him to leave, to back off. You had shoved him, yelled at him, made it perfectly clear that you didn’t need him here—didn’t want him here.

So why the hell did your chest feel tight?

Why did you keep glancing out the window when you left work, expecting to see him?

Why did it feel wrong that he wasn’t following?

Laura noticed before you did.

“You’re looking for him,” she said flatly, popping a fry into her mouth as the two of you sat at a booth in some local diner.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Laura gave you a look over the rim of her milkshake. “Logan.”

You scoffed, picking at the label of your water bottle. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” She dipped a fry in ketchup, not even trying to hide her smirk. “You’ve checked the door, like, five times.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was looking at the—” You stopped, realizing you had absolutely nothing to follow that up with.

Laura arched a brow. “Right.”

You huffed, slouching back against the booth. “He’s not here.”

“Yeah. Because you told him to leave.”

“So?”

Laura shrugged. “Didn’t think he actually would, did you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, you hadn’t expected him to leave. Logan was stubborn. Logan didn’t give up. If anything, you had expected him to show up again, keep pushing, keep trying to get you to talk.

But he hadn’t.

And for some reason, that scared you.

Laura sighed, wiping her hands on a napkin before leaning forward. “You can’t have it both ways, you know.”

Your brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you can’t tell him to leave and then get all weird when he actually does.”

You clenched your jaw. “I didn’t want him here.”

Laura tilted her head. “Didn’t you?”

You stared at her, stomach twisting, because you didn’t want him here—did you?

No. You didn’t.

But you didn’t want him gone, either.

You stood abruptly, tossing some bills onto the table. “C’mon. We’re leaving.”

Laura just smirked. “Where to?”

You grabbed your jacket. “I need to find Logan.”

---

It didn’t take long.

Logan wasn’t exactly subtle, and you had been trained to track people long before you ever met him. It was almost insulting how easy it was.

His truck was parked outside some shitty motel off the main road, tucked into the shadows near a flickering neon sign.

You could’ve knocked on his door. Could’ve walked right up, demanded an explanation—Why the hell did you listen to me?

But you didn’t.

Instead, you waited.

You sat in your car across the street, watching from the shadows, waiting to see if he’d leave. If he’d drive off, if he was planning on staying. If he was really, actually gone.

But Logan never left.

Hours passed. The motel lights flickered. You saw him once—stepping outside just long enough to smoke a cigarette before heading back in. No sign of him packing up, no sign of him driving away.

He wasn’t following you anymore.

But he hadn’t left, either.

You exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel.

This was the first time in months that Logan wasn’t hovering just outside your reach. And yet, you had tracked him down anyway.

Maybe Laura was right.

Maybe you hadn’t wanted him to leave.

Not really.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply as you stared at Logan’s truck.

What the hell am I doing?

You had spent months trying to get him to leave, and now here you were, parked outside some shitty motel like some stalker, watching and waiting. For what? For him to notice? For him to come back?

No. That wasn’t what you wanted.

You gritted your teeth, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Then why are you still here?

You could just drive away. Go back home, pretend like you never saw him, pretend like this didn’t bother you.

But it did.

It bothered you that he listened. It bothered you that he left. It bothered you that, for the first time since he showed up, he wasn’t pushing you.

And you didn’t know why that scared you.

With a frustrated sigh, you shoved the door open and got out, the night air thick and humid around you. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you crossed the street, your steps quick and deliberate.

You didn’t give yourself time to hesitate. If you thought about it too much, you’d turn back. And you weren’t ready to do that yet.

You knocked on the motel door.

Silence.

Your jaw clenched, and you knocked again—louder this time.

Still nothing.

A flicker of irritation ran through you. “Logan, open the damn door.”

Nothing.

Your patience snapped. You grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It was locked, of course, but that was never a problem for you. With a practiced flick of your wrist, you popped the lock and shoved the door open.

Logan was inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, a cigar burning between his fingers. He didn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, he looked tired.

“Real subtle, darlin’,” he muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose.

You crossed your arms. “You weren’t answering.”

“Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Too bad.”

Logan huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Figures.”

You stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind you. “You just gonna sit there?”

“What do you want, Y/N?” Logan asked, his voice rough. Not annoyed. Just… tired.

The way he said your name made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure why.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, crossing your arms tighter.

Logan studied you, taking another slow drag from his cigar before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Then why are you here?”

You shifted on your feet, avoiding his gaze. Because you left. Because I thought I wanted you gone, but now that you are, I—

You shook the thought away, exhaling sharply. “I just… I thought you would’ve left.”

Logan arched a brow. “And that bothered you?”

You hesitated.

That was enough of an answer.

Logan sighed, leaning back against the bed, arms resting behind him. “You told me to back off. So I did.”

You scoffed. “You don’t listen to people.”

Logan smirked slightly. “Guess you ain’t people.”

You hated how easily that threw you off balance.

Your throat tightened. “I don’t—”

“I ain’t askin’ for anything,” Logan said, cutting you off. “Not chasin’ you. Not pushin’ you. I meant what I said—I don’t wanna force you into anything.”

You swallowed hard. “Then why are you still here?”

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe ‘cause I don’t want to leave, either.”

The air in the room felt heavy. Stifling.

You had spent so much time running, so much time convincing yourself that pushing him away was the only option. But now, standing here, looking at him—tired, frustrated, but still here—you didn’t know what the hell you were supposed to do anymore.

You took a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. “You were… right.”

His brows furrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what part you were referring to.

You swallowed, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. “What you said. About grief. About moving on feeling like a sin.”

Logan stayed quiet, but his gaze sharpened, locking onto yours.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I spent years running because it was easier. Because if I stopped, if I let myself…” You trailed off, fingers curling around your arms. “Then it would feel like I was betraying him. Like I was forgetting him.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to keep talking. “I tried to build something new with Laura. I wanted to. And for a while, it worked. Seven years in Canada, we were okay. We were living, not just surviving. And then—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “The TVA happened. The Void happened. And suddenly, it was like all that time meant nothing.”

Logan was still watching you, but his expression was unreadable, his hands resting on his thighs as he leaned forward slightly.

“Then you showed up.” Your voice was quieter now. “And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that. Because I knew you weren’t him. I knew that. But every time I looked at you, every time you called me ‘darlin’ and looked at me like you knew me…” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “It just made me feel like I was losing him all over again.”

“I mean, I can’t even take off my damn wedding ring,” your voice cracked, “without feeling nauseous even though it’s been years.”

Logan’s gaze flicked down to your hand, to the ring still wrapped around your finger. His jaw clenched, something flickering in his eyes—something you didn’t want to name.

“You think that’s wrong?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, shifting forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Ain’t wrong to hold onto what matters.”

Your fingers twitched, curling slightly, but you didn’t look away. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

Logan was quiet for a moment, studying you. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, steadier. “Because you think lettin’ go means losin’ him.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t answer.

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I ain’t gonna tell you to take it off. Ain’t gonna tell you to move on, either.” He leaned back, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. “That’s gotta be your choice, darlin’.”

Something about that made your stomach twist. Maybe because you had spent so long convincing yourself you had to move on, that moving on meant leaving Logan behind—your Logan. The one who wasn’t sitting in front of you.

But then Logan spoke again, and his next words shattered every bit of resolve you had left.

“You ain’t the only one holdin’ on.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Logan reached into his pocket, pulling something out—something small, something old. He turned it over in his fingers before setting it on the nightstand beside him.

A ring.

Gold, simple, worn from time.

Your stomach flipped.

“I bought this the first time I met you,” he said, voice rough. “A long time ago. Different you. Different me. But you always come back, don’t you?”

You stared at the ring, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. “Logan—”

“I kept it,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb over the band. “Every time. Even when I knew I’d lose you again.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “And every time, I tell myself I won’t go through it again.”

You swallowed hard. “But you do.”

Logan smirked slightly, but there was no humor behind it. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. The motel room felt smaller now, the air thicker. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your chest tight with something you weren’t ready to name.

Finally, you moved.

You walked forward, slow but deliberate, until you were standing right in front of him. Logan didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched you with that same patient, knowing look.

And then—hesitantly—you sat down next to him.

Not close enough to touch. Not close enough for it to mean anything.

But not far, either.

Logan didn’t say a word.

And for the first time in a long time, neither did you.

---

A few weeks later

You were cooking dinner while drinking a glass of wine—or rather the whole bottle. It wasn’t your fault you had a high alcohol tolerance.

“Jesus, fuck kid!”

“You started it!”

You furrowed your brows, stepping onto the back porch, wine glass still in hand. The salty ocean breeze brushed past as you leaned against the wooden railing, watching Logan and Laura circle each other in the sand.

The backyard—if you could even call it that—was part of a private beach, the stretch of sand leading straight into the rolling waves. Normally, it was peaceful. Right now? Not so much.

Logan huffed, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, and I’m endin’ it.”

“Doubt it,” Laura smirked before lunging again.

You sighed, watching them spar. To anyone else, it probably looked brutal—claws flashing, sand kicking up with every hit—but you knew better. This was bonding. In the weird, violent, feral way that only the Howlett bloodline could manage.

Laura landed a punch against Logan’s ribs, but he barely flinched. He countered by grabbing her wrist and twisting her to the ground, pinning her for a brief second before she slipped free and jumped back to her feet.

“You two done trying to kill each other?” you called out, swirling the wine in your glass.

Logan scoffed, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. “She’s the one that don’t know when to quit.”

Laura grinned, unfazed. “Neither do you.”

You huffed a quiet laugh before pushing off the railing. “Dinner’s almost done. Either finish up or starve.”

Neither of them responded, too caught up in the fight, but you knew they’d trail in soon enough. You turned and walked back inside, closing the sliding door behind you.

What you didn’t see was Laura catching Logan staring at your ass as you walked away.

She paused, then turned slowly toward him.

Logan blinked, realizing too late that he’d been caught.

“…Don’t,” he warned.

Laura smirked. “Too late.”

Then she lunged—only this time, it wasn’t part of the fight. She jumped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, and before Logan could react, she drove her foot claws into his ribs.

“Mother—fuck!”

Laura hopped off, landing perfectly on the sand while Logan stumbled forward, clutching his side. Blood bloomed beneath his shirt.

“That’s what you get,” Laura said simply, brushing sand off her hands.

Logan glared at her. “For what?!”

“For being gross.”

Logan clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” Laura crossed her arms, looking unimpressed. “Don’t do it again.”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Laura just smirked, turning toward the house. “C’mon, old man. Before she yells at us for being late.”

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair before following her inside.

By the time they stepped into the house, you were already setting plates on the table. You barely glanced up—until you noticed the two fresh blood spots on Logan’s shirt.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Сраные идиоты,” you muttered under your breath.

Logan frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said flatly. “Sit.”

Logan sighed, knowing better than to argue. He pulled out a chair and sat down, peeling off his shirt with a wince. Laura dropped into the seat across from him, completely unbothered, already helping herself to food.

---

You took another sip of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Laura shoveled cereal into her mouth at a pace that should’ve been illegal. Across the room, Logan sat in a chair, looking far too at home with his cup of coffee, flipping through the newspaper like it was 1954.

It was normal. Too normal.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why the hell are you reading the paper?”

Logan didn’t look up. “Why the hell are you watchin’ me read the paper?”

Laura snorted, not even trying to hide her smirk. “He’s got a point.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of coffee. “It’s weird.”

Logan finally looked up from his paper, brow raised. “What’s weird?”

“You,” you said, motioning at him with your mug. “Sitting there, reading the paper like some suburban dad in a toothpaste commercial.”

Logan smirked, flicking the edge of the page. “It’s called keepin’ up with the world, sweetheart.”

Laura snorted. “You’re reading the classifieds.”

Logan flipped the paper shut with a sigh. “Well, excuse me for enjoyin’ the simple things.”

You shook your head, amused. It had only been a few weeks since he stopped lurking in the background and actually started integrating into your lives. He had a habit of acting like he didn’t belong—like he was just passing through, despite all evidence to the contrary. But moments like these, sitting at the kitchen table, bickering over nothing? They felt normal.

Not forced. Not heavy. Just… easy.

You were about to tease him again when the sound of a car horn blasted through the quiet morning.

Laura groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Logan frowned, setting the paper aside. “Who the hell—”

Another honk. Longer this time.

“Motherfu—” You set your coffee down and turned toward the door, already knowing exactly who it was.

Logan followed, his expression somewhere between annoyed and resigned. “You expecting company?”

You grabbed the shotgun from beside the door, checking the chamber. “Nope.”

Laura smirked, leaning against the counter. “I call headshot.”

You smirked back. “Good luck. I’m faster.”

Logan sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ. Just don’t kill ‘im.”

“No promises.”

You stepped onto the porch, raising the shotgun as you caught sight of Wade, standing beside his beat-up rental car, arms outstretched like some kind of messiah.

“Hello, my beautiful, homicidal family!” he called, grinning under his mask.

You pulled the trigger.

The first shot hit him square in the chest.

He staggered back, wheezing. “Okay—ow.”

You pumped the shotgun and fired again, this time hitting his shoulder.

Wade groaned, clutching his arm. “Rude!”

Logan stepped onto the porch behind you, arms crossed. “Really?”

You shrugged, pumping the shotgun again. “He’s still standing.”

Wade held up a finger. “Technically, I’m swaying.”

Laura stepped outside, standing next to Logan. “You missed his head.”

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t miss. I’m savoring it.”

Wade straightened, shaking out his arms. “Alright, I deserved that. Maybe. Probably not. But—” He put his hands on his hips. “Didn’t expect the welcoming committee to include bullets.”

“You helped him find us,” you reminded him, motioning toward Logan with the barrel of the gun. “And then you just disappeared.”

Wade gasped. “Disappeared? Sweetheart, I gave you your own personal brooding, clawed man-child and then respectfully stepped aside so you could work through your very complicated feelings.” He tilted his head. “Which, judging by the tension on this porch, you’re still working through.”

You aimed the shotgun at his head.

“Okay! Okay!” Wade put his hands up. “I come in peace! No missions, no TVA bullshit, no looming apocalyptic threats. Just little old me, paying a visit to my favorite dysfunctional murder family.”

Laura tilted her head. “You brought gifts?”

Wade paused. “No.”

Laura looked at you. “Shoot him again.”

“Gladly.”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let the idiot talk before you put another hole in him.”

You exhaled sharply but lowered the gun. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Wade dusted himself off, cracking his neck. “I can work with that.” He strolled past you and into the house like he owned the place.

Logan shot you a look.

You just shrugged. “I’ll reload.”

Logan exhaled sharply, shaking his head as Wade strolled inside like he owned the place. You followed, setting the shotgun back in its usual spot near the door, but you kept an eye on Wade as he plopped onto the couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table like he belonged there.

Laura sat back down at the kitchen counter, spooning more cereal into her mouth as she watched the interaction unfold like a live-action sitcom.

Logan crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “So? You gonna explain why you’re here, or am I just supposed to shoot you myself?”

Wade sighed dramatically, tilting his head back. “Wow. No ‘Hey, Wade, long time no see!’ No ‘How’s life treating you, Wade?’ Just straight to the violence. And after everything I’ve done for you.”

“You didn’t do shit,” Logan muttered.

Wade gasped, clutching his chest. “I helped you find your long-lost murder wife and stabby daughter! And this is the thanks I get?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You helped him track us, then bailed. So yeah, not exactly getting a warm welcome.”

Wade sat up, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. You two needed time to work through your very complicated emotions without my handsome, charming self getting in the way.” He glanced at Laura. “Right, stabby junior?”

Laura scooped another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “Don’t call me that.”

“See?” Wade pointed at her. “Bonding. Growth. Character development. I did you all a favor.”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You got five minutes to explain why you’re here before I throw your ass back outside.”

“Fine, fine.” Wade rolled his shoulders. “Like I said, no missions, no apocalyptic disasters, no TVA crap. I just thought, ‘Hey, it’s been a minute since I’ve seen my two favorite feral murderers and their grumpy third wheel—why not drop in?’”

Laura swallowed her bite of cereal. “You came all this way for that?”

“Yes!” Wade threw his hands up. “Is it a crime to want to visit family?”

You scoffed. “We’re not family.”

“Well, no, but emotionally? Spiritually? Definitely.” Wade turned to Logan. “Especially you, big guy. We’ve got history. We’ve been through things. We’ve murdered people together. That’s a bond you don’t just throw away.”

Logan groaned. “Christ.”

Laura wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You got a hotel or something?”

Wade grinned under the mask. “I was actually thinking I’d crash here.”

You, Logan, and Laura all responded in unison.

“No.”

Wade groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “You people have no hospitality.”

“We have boundaries,” you corrected.

“And I have a deep, unrelenting need to be included in your lives,” Wade countered, making himself comfortable.

Logan pushed off the wall. “You’re leavin’ in an hour.”

“Oh, c’mon, Logan, don’t be like that,” Wade whined. “I brought snacks.” He reached into his utility belt, pulling out a crumpled bag of gas station gummy bears.

Laura stared at them. “Are those even sealed?”

“Nope.” Wade shook the bag. “Still good, though.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Jesus, Wade.”

“What? It’s the thought that counts.” He sat up again, stretching his arms. “So, what’ve you lovebirds been up to?”

“Don’t start,” you warned.

Wade leaned in, resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I’m starting. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. And let me tell you—there’s a whole lot of unresolved, slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they going on.”

Logan scowled. “Ain’t shit goin’ on.”

Wade gasped. “So you admit there could be something going on?”

Logan turned to you. “Can I kill him?”

You took a sip of your coffee, considering it. “I mean, he’d just come back.”

Laura stood, grabbing her backpack from the counter. “I’m going to the beach. I don’t have the patience for this.”

Wade pouted. “Aww, leaving so soon?”

Laura slung her bag over her shoulder, grabbing an apple from the counter. “Yeah. Before I commit an actual homicide.”

You motioned toward the door with your coffee mug. “Have fun, don’t kill anyone.”

Laura pointed at Wade. “No promises if he follows me.”

Wade placed a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Laura shot him a look before heading out, leaving the three of you alone.

Wade stretched his arms over his head. “Sooo… what’s next? Movie night? Group therapy? A good ol’ fashioned team-building exercise?”

Logan grabbed him by the back of his suit, hauling him toward the door.

“Alright, alright! I get it!” Wade protested, feet dragging against the floor. “I’ll leave! But just know this—I will be back. Because deep down, you all love me.”

Logan yanked the door open and shoved him outside.

Wade turned back, wagging a finger. “This isn’t over.”

Logan slammed the door shut.

Silence.

You took a sip of coffee. “Ten bucks says he comes back in an hour.”

Logan sighed. “I hate that you’re probably right.”

---

The smell of fresh coffee drifts through the small kitchen as you rummage in a cabinet for cereal. Laura, half-asleep in an old T-shirt and shorts, slumps at the table with her chin propped on one hand. Across from her, Logan reads the newspaper, though he’s not really turning the pages—more like staring at the same article, his focus wandering.

You pull out the cereal box, shaking it to confirm it still has something inside. “Any of you want a bowl, or am I the only one who still eats this?”

Laura mumbles without lifting her head, “I’ll take some. Didn’t we run out of milk yesterday?”

Logan finally looks up, folding the paper. “I grabbed some on the way home last night.”

You tilt your head, somewhat surprised. “You did?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Figured you two would appreciate not startin’ the day with black coffee and dry cereal.” He sets the newspaper aside, standing to help. “I’ll grab it.”

Laura lifts her head, eyeing the two of you with mild suspicion. “That’s… domestic.”

Logan huffs a soft laugh, opening the fridge. “You callin’ me soft, kid?”

She smirks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Just making an observation.”

You slide a bowl across to her. “Say thank you, or he’s never doing anything nice again.”

Logan snorts, pouring milk into your bowl first. “You sayin’ I’m not nice?”

Laura just raises a brow. “You’re nice in a grumpy, borderline-feral way, sure.”

You stifle a laugh, taking the milk carton from Logan to finish up Laura’s bowl. “Settle down, you two. It’s too early for bickering.”

Laura mumbles a reluctant, “Thanks,” before digging in.

Logan leans against the counter, sipping from a mug of coffee. For a moment, there’s a quiet ease in the room: Laura’s crunching cereal, you adding sugar to your cup, the morning sun filtering through the windows. No drama, no big conversations—just normal, daily life.

Finally, Laura sets her spoon down, glancing at Logan over the rim of her bowl. “So… you’re picking me up after I’m done, right?”

Logan nods. “Figured I’d swing by. Unless you’d rather walk?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s like a hundred degrees. I’ll take the ride.”

You snort into your coffee. “Told you that you shouldn’t wear all black if you’re worried about the heat, muñeca.”

Laura shoots you a light glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I like black.”

Logan smirks, finishing the last of his coffee. “Kinda partial to it myself.”

Laura gestures at both your outfits—yours is a faded tank top and shorts, Logan’s wearing his usual jeans and a T-shirt. “We need a family shopping trip, or something. This color scheme is depressing.”

You exchange a glance with Logan, both of you raising a brow.

“Look, we’re not exactly the pastel type,” you say, shrugging.

Laura just sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll be the fashion icon in this house.”

Logan folds his arms, feigning seriousness. “I can’t wait to see what horrors you drag us into.”

---

Not long after breakfast, you find yourself sorting through a pile of laundry in the living room, music playing softly from an old radio. Logan wanders in from the porch, running a hand through his hair.

“Got your towels on the line,” he says, plopping down on the couch. “They should be dry by lunch.”

You raise a brow, folding one of Laura’s T-shirts. “Look at you, all domesticated.”

He grunts. “I know how to hang a towel.”

“Sure you do,” you tease, giving him a sideways look. “Next step: vacuuming.”

He picks an invisible speck of lint off his jeans. “Don’t push it.”

You fight a grin, focusing back on the laundry. It’s quiet for a bit, just the low hum of the radio filling the space.

Eventually, Logan clears his throat. “I was thinkin’,” he starts, somewhat hesitant. “We could grill tonight. Might as well enjoy the weather before it gets too hot.”

You pause, glancing his way. “Sounds good. Laura’s meeting with her friends later, but she’ll be back for dinner. We can pick up some extra stuff at the store.”

Logan nods, draping an arm over the couch. His gaze lingers on you a moment, like he wants to say more but isn’t sure how. Then he just nods again, quietly content.

You manage a small smile, folding another shirt. “Guess we’re doin’ normal pretty well these days, huh?”

“Could get used to it,” he murmurs, voice low.

Your eyes meet for just a second, something unspoken passing between you. Then you clear your throat, toss the shirt aside, and stand up. “Well, if we’re grilling, we might need marinade, and we’re nearly out of vegetables. Let’s go before the midday rush.”

Logan pushes himself up. “You want me to drive?”

You think it over, shrug, and toss him the keys. “Sure. Just… try not to side-swipe every car you pass.”

He catches the keys effortlessly, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that bad.”

“Says the guy who nearly took out a stop sign last week,” you retort, but there’s a teasing note in your voice.

He shakes his head, slipping on his boots. “You done with that laundry?”

“For now. Let’s leave it for Laura.”

Logan smirks. “Smart.”

---

Back from the store, groceries in tow, you find Laura sprawled on the couch, a book open on her lap. She looks up when you and Logan enter, arms loaded with bags.

“You got the stuff for the grill?” she asks, nose wrinkling. “Because all I see is lettuce.”

You frown, glancing down at your bags. “There’s more than lettuce, muñeca. Where’s the gratitude?”

She shrugs, turning a page. “Thanks, Mom.”

Logan sets his own bags on the counter with a grunt. “Everything else is in here, including that weird juice you like.”

Laura closes her book, swinging her legs off the couch. “You found it?”

He nods. “Took me five minutes to track it down, but yeah.”

A genuine smile creeps onto Laura’s face—rare, but it’s there. “Cool. Thanks.”

You give Logan a light nudge with your elbow, meeting his gaze and mouthing a silent “good job.” He just smirks, busies himself with unloading the groceries. For a fleeting moment, the three of you fill the small kitchen in quiet coordination—hands passing off produce, storing items in the pantry, the rustle of plastic bags and shuffle of feet the only sounds.

Eventually, Laura heads back to the couch, flipping open her textbook once more. You and Logan exchange a small, knowing look. No big conversation necessary—just an unspoken acknowledgment that this is how life is now: mostly ordinary, sometimes chaotic, but it works.

---

The storm rolls in fast, the Florida heat giving way to thick clouds and distant thunder. The air is dense with the smell of rain, the first few drops tapping against the windows as you toss a towel over the back of a chair.

“You get the towels inside?” you ask, glancing at Logan, who’s standing near the back door, watching the sky darken.

He grunts. “Got most of ‘em before the wind picked up. One got away.”

You arch a brow. “Got away?”

“Flew into the ocean.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “So much for that one.”

Outside, the wind picks up, bending the palm trees as the rain comes in steady now, streaking against the glass. Logan watches it for a moment longer before turning back to you. “Laura still at her friend’s?”

You nod, checking your phone. “She texted a little while ago. Said she’ll head back once the rain dies down.”

Logan doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s already debating whether or not to go pick her up himself. You shoot him a look before he can suggest it. “She’s fine.”

Logan rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, he moves toward the fridge, pulling out a beer. “You eaten yet?”

You smirk. “That your way of asking if I’m making dinner?”

He cracks the bottle open, leaning against the counter. “Just curious.”

You shake your head, pulling open a cabinet. “We got leftovers from last night, or you can figure it out yourself.”

Logan takes a swig, watching you for a beat. “You really gonna make me fend for myself?”

“You’re a grown man, Logan.” You grab a bag of chips, plopping onto the couch. “Figure it out.”

Logan makes a low noise in his throat—something between a scoff and a chuckle—but he doesn’t move right away. He just watches you, something unreadable in his expression. You pretend not to notice, flicking on the TV, scrolling through the channels.

The storm grows louder outside, wind rattling against the house. Logan finally moves, taking his beer with him as he drops onto the couch beside you. The cushions dip under his weight, the space between you smaller than it was a moment ago.

For a while, neither of you speak. The TV flickers with whatever show you landed on, voices blending with the steady hum of rain. It’s comfortable, easy—until you realize Logan isn’t really watching.

You glance at him. “You good?”

Logan exhales through his nose, gaze still on the screen but unfocused. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Liar.”

He smirks, finally looking at you. “You always call me out on my shit?”

“Only when it’s obvious.”

His smirk lingers for half a second before fading. He takes another drink, resting the bottle against his thigh. “Just been thinkin’.”

You hum, reaching for another chip. “That’s dangerous.”

Logan snorts, shaking his head. “Smartass.”

You grin, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Because you know whatever’s on his mind, it’s not light. Not casual. Logan doesn’t bring things up unless they’re already weighing him down.

You shift, turning to face him properly. “What’s up?”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “This—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “It’s been… good.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Okay…”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I ain’t used to it.”

You hesitate, fingers curling slightly against your leg. “Used to what?”

Logan glances at you, then looks away. “Not havin’ to fight.”

The words sit heavy between you. The wind howls outside, the rain beating against the roof in steady waves.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Logan’s fingers flex around his beer bottle. “Feels like any second now, it’s gonna get ripped out from under us.”

You study him, your stomach twisting at the quiet honesty in his voice. Logan isn’t afraid of a fight. But this? The lack of a fight? That’s unfamiliar territory.

You lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “If it does, we’ll deal with it.”

Logan huffs. “That easy, huh?”

“No,” you admit. “But I’m too tired to do anything else.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then, voice lower—“Tired of me?”

Your chest tightens. You turn your head, meeting his gaze. There’s no teasing in it, no smirk. Just something raw, something cautious. Like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’ll say next.

You shift closer without thinking. “No, Logan,” you say softly. “Not you.”

His eyes flicker—something unreadable passing through them. His hand twitches slightly, like he’s debating reaching for you but stops himself.

You study him for a second longer before deciding you’re done waiting.

You grab his collar and pull him into a kiss.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant. It’s rough, heated—like you’re trying to prove a point neither of you have the words for. Logan exhales sharply through his nose, startled but not resisting. His fingers find your waist, grip firm, steady.

You tilt your head, deepening it, nails curling against his shirt. Logan makes a low noise in his throat—a sound you feel more than hear.

The beer bottle hits the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.

He pulls you onto his lap, hands splayed against your back. The kiss turns almost desperate, years of tension unraveling all at once.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. His breathing is uneven, his grip still firm like he’s afraid you’ll pull away completely.

“Thought you were tired,” he mutters, voice rough.

You smirk, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Of everything but this.”

His fingers flex against your waist. “You sure?”

You tilt his chin up slightly, making sure he’s looking at you when you answer. “Yeah, Logan. I’m sure.”

Something shifts in his expression—something quiet, something settled.

Then he kisses you again, and this time, neither of you hold back.

---

The storm had passed by the time you stirred awake, the humid Florida air creeping in through the open window, mixing with the scent of salt and something undeniably Logan.

You weren’t the type to linger in bed—never had been—but this morning was different. You could feel the warmth of him beside you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arm draped loosely around your waist.

Your muscles ached—not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that made you very aware of what had happened last night.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

No regrets.

But a whole lot of what now?

You shifted slightly, and Logan’s grip tightened just enough to keep you from moving too far. “Where d’you think you’re goin’?”

His voice was thick with sleep, rougher than usual.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you were awake.”

Logan huffed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the lazy half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t peg you for the cuddling type.”

Logan grunted. “Ain’t cuddlin’. Just keepin’ you in place.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t try to move again. “Right.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound the distant crash of waves outside. Logan’s fingers traced absentminded patterns against your hip, his other arm still tucked beneath his head.

For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like you hadn’t spent months trying to ignore the inevitable.

Then Logan spoke.

“Not gonna lie,” he muttered. “Didn’t think this would happen.”

You arched a brow. “You doubting your own charm?”

He smirked, but there was something quieter beneath it. “Just figured you’d keep runnin’ circles around me first.”

You exhaled through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. “Jesus. I should’ve just left in the middle of the night and really kept you on your toes.”

Logan’s grip tightened slightly. “You wouldn’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. Because he was right.

Logan let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing against your side. “So what now?”

You thought about it. About the last few months, about the way you and Laura had built something here. About the way Logan had been circling your life since the moment he showed up, waiting, watching, never pushing—until last night.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan was quiet for a second, then, “good.”

You smirked. “That easy, huh?”

He huffed. “For once.”

The weight between you didn’t feel as heavy anymore. You weren’t thinking about the past, about the other Logans, about the lives you’d lost before. For once, you weren’t overthinking.

You glanced down at your left hand, the ring still on your finger. You twisted it around, feeling the weight of it—the warmth that had long since faded, but never really left.

Logan didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just watched, his jaw tight, his fingers flexing slightly against your hip like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for you or give you space.

You exhaled slowly. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you pulled the ring off.

The absence of it was immediate. Like a phantom limb, like something missing that had been part of you for longer than you could remember.

You held it between your fingers, staring at the small, worn band. The gold was a little dull, edges softened from years of wear, of fights, of moments that felt so distant now you weren’t sure if they were even real.

Logan stayed silent, watching.

You swallowed hard, bringing the ring up to your lips, pressing a kiss to the cool metal. A quiet farewell. A promise that none of it had been lost, that it still mattered.

Then, carefully, you set it down on the nightstand.

Logan exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly beside you. “You sure?”

You looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes. Like he was bracing himself, waiting for you to regret it, waiting for you to pick it back up, waiting for you to tell him this was a mistake.

But it wasn’t.

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. His palm was rough, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

“I’m sure,” you murmured.

Logan studied you for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if you meant it. Then, after a beat, his shoulders relaxed, just slightly. He turned his hand, squeezing yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Neither of you said anything after that.

Because for the first time in years, there was nothing left to say.

so i don't know if people caught it, but i thought i would just say it-the whole arc of logan was the fact that he always left his version of reader but this time he stayed. which is the reason he stayed in florida even when reader didn't want him there. i don't know if i made it obvious or not but i thought i would just put it out there

anyways, i hope this lived up to people's expectations :)

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sheepispink · 2 days ago

Text

Distance makes the Heart grow Fonder ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Chapter 6 of my Sweet As Sugar Series (baker!reader x lt ghost

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Simon leaves in deployment, though just before he goes, your father unintentionally sets a fire alight in Simon’s chest, one he’s never felt in years. It brings him to a realisation he didnt think was possible.

Prev Next

————————

It’s surprising; in Soap’s entire career, he never thought he’d see the day that Ghost actually looked reluctant to come back to work. Usually he was the one to complain about everything he missed, especially in the mess hall when they grabbed their meals together. Though today Ghost’s eyes were particularly downturned, and he hadn't interrupted Soap once to tell him to do less speaking and more eating. “Ye not gonna tell me to shut up today?” He tilts his head towards the masked man before promptly shoving a bland potato in his mouth, chewing it without a care in the world.

“This tea is horrible; that's why.” He grunts, placing the cup down onto the table with so much force the liquid almost splashes out of the cup altogether. “Thought ya didn't care about the taste?” Soap raises a brow, even more confused. When had his Lt thought twice about how good his tea tasted? Sure, he’d been bragging about the cafe in town for a while now, but he didn't think anything would sway Riley this much. He’s only seen the man this annoyed that time he was given rice instead of pitta when they grabbed their post-deployment kebab.

“My standards have been raised.” Ghost scoffs a little, watching as Soap gulps down a large swig of his strong coffee as always—licking his lips from the three sugars he had just stirred in. “Are you going to finally tell me who that lass was now? Gaz is dying to know too.” He rests his elbows on the table, grinning cheekily at the man opposite, who only shoos him back and narrows his eyes in a faux glare. “You told Gaz?”

“Wait till Capt’ comes back–”

Ghost wasn't sure how to feel about his team’s sudden interest in his private life, but he supposed it seemed natural given that he wasn't one for making friends, let alone getting close to the baker girl in the town they frequented off deployments. “She works at the bakery, that’s all. I helped her with some heavy things.” He chooses to omit the part where he had willingly joined you on a mini road trip and spent time with you at the winter market. Soap will definitely never know about the incident at your apartment either.

”Wait, she’s the one who makes those pastries your unit had? We ‘ave to pay her a visit too. I mean, my mouth watered when i smelt ‘em.” He laughs, remembering the time he had begged Ghost to let him try just a tad of the cookie you had graciously provided him once. He’d take the death glare, especially since after he ate half, he had easily decided it was the best one he’d ever tasted. Besides, he wanted to see what had caught Ghost’s eye to the point he spent more time off base than on. Unfortunately, the masked man had caught onto it quickly, standing with the tray in his hands. “Yeah, you go spillin’ crumbs on yourself in the middle of the briefing we have in ten.” He rolls his eyes, already expecting the alarm in Soap’s eyes as he quickly stands and throws his tray away too—he always had a tendency to rely on Ghost as a personal reminders app.

————

The meeting seemed to last forever, and he had to adjust himself to stand straight every so often just so his mind wouldn’t wander off with the memories of only last week. Though, he couldn’t keep them away for much longer since as soon as he was on the treadmill, everything in his mind was let free. The thing was, even though he hadn't said it directly, Johnny was right—you had caught his eye in a way that he couldn't even figure out himself. From the day he saw you in that shop, dancing along to a song that you embarrassedly shut off as soon as he entered, to the pretty smile you flash every time he enters the shop. In fact, your demeanour seems to light up without you even realising; it’s adorable, really. He notices the pep in your step, the slightly higher pitch in your voice, and even the way you greet the customers with happiness just ‘cause you’re eager to draw your doodle on the side of his coffee cup again. Maybe if he had a little more experience in all of this, he would’ve teased you about it all, or he would even go as far as to admit that you’ve made his heart thump more than any life-threatening situation will. Though, if he told you that then you might just force him to a doctor out of sheer worry.

What if you don’t even see it the same way? What if you’re just being friendly and he’s acting like a creep, reading into all of your actions? He ramps up the speed on the treadmill a little more, his thighs starting to burn the more forceful his strides grow. It’s empty in this room, no sound around save for the heavy thump of his boots bouncing off the walls. He’s heard female soldiers complain before; they huff about how the younger soldiers ogle, and the older lieutenants shamelessly give their remarks. What if he ruins everything and makes you uncomfortable? He’s not even sure he can handle a relationship; he always thought he could never commit to it, nor did he think he could put the constant energy and thoughts into caring so much for somebody. But with you, it just comes so naturally; he barely has to think twice when he converses with you, even less when you chatter to him about something that happened the other day. Relationships always seemed like obligations to him, even if the girl was nice or sweet; something always sucked the life out of him dry until he broke up with them just for their own sake. He didn't want the same to happen to you; no he wouldn't dare hurt you in such a cruel way.

Then what, should he just pull away from you altogether?

That thought alone stills him, the idea of never seeing you again making his body still like a bucket of cold ice dumped over his head. His feet falter as his heart stammers, and his hands can only graze the handles before his knees hit the floor with a painful slam—sliding off the treadmill altogether in a heap of limbs. He looks down in shock, more so down at himself as he sits on the floor in front of the treadmill he had accidentally pushed to the maximum speed. Damnit; he really has fallen for you.

————————-

The little bell rings as he pushes the glass door open; it’s the day before he leaves for deployment, and he was hoping he’d see your grin one last time before he goes. To his dismay, you’re not on shift today, likely doing a grocery run or something similar. Today, your parents are handling the shop, and although you informally introduced him once, he’s almost sure that they don't approve of him. It’s not like they’ve made it obvious; it just seems inevitable due to his chosen attire and his line of work. Naturally, he hadn't expected your father to smile at him widely and know his order before he could say it.

“Flat white or black today? No tea today, unfortunately.”

Simon can only blink in surprise, clearing his throat in hopes he doesn’t sound too hoarse. “Flat white. I’ve got deployment tomorrow, so I'll have to indulge now rather than later.” He doesn't usually add on detail, but he feels like he’s obliged to, just for the sake of seeming a little better towards your parents. Thankfully, there’s not a hint of the disdain he expected on your father’s face; he only laughs, ringing in the order whilst he turns to make the drink for him. “I’d hardly call a flat white an ‘indulgent’, kid.”

Simon barely gets the chance to acknowledge the fact someone just called him ‘kid’ before he’s talking again, and he feels himself stand a little straighter to make sure he doesn't look like some sleazy boy.

“She’s gonna be upset, y’know? Maybe you’ll be better off paying a stunt double to take your place instead of saying you’re on deployment.” The man chuckles again, his face lighting up the same way you do, and you’ve clearly learnt his technique of pouring the steamed milk too.

“I’m sure she’ll forget by the second day; the other customers will have to suffice with all her stories.” Simon brushes off your potential reaction, almost positive that you wouldn't even lose sleep on the matter. Besides, you’re plenty more friendly than he’ll ever be; he’s sure you’ll make quick friends with the other regulars.

“Forget? I won't hear the end of it until you return. I don't know what you did to that girl, but she’s been as bright as the sun since you showed up.” The older man pressed the lid onto the cup, turning around to hand it to Simon. “We’re grateful, y’know? She had a tough time when we first opened; it didn't help that we couldn't afford her further education.”

“I.. didn't know that.” He can't say much else, the words spilling out and surprise evident in his tone.

“We travelled a bit before buying this bakery, so she’s never had many constant friends; it was out of our control.” The man packs up a small bag, placing it on the counter for Ghost to take as well before giving him a grateful smile. “She’d have come around eventually, but the point is, she’s very fond of you. Always makes sure she has your favourite biscuits restocked too.” He chuckles, and Simon stares down at the bag, the faint outline of chocolate bourbons inside. He truly was a lucky man.

———-

Ghost had a hypothesis, and that was that the simplest missions were always the longest. Well, not literally, but they felt as if they dragged on forever. He was positioned up in these mountains to scope the area prior to his team’s entry; however they wouldn't be here for another two hours anyway due to unforeseen circumstances. That meant that for the meantime, he was a sitting duck. It also gave way to the thoughts he hadn’t been able to consider ever since he first processed them, promising himself he’d debate it later after this all blew over.

The thing is, he couldn't fathom the idea of you feeling low or even having a few friends. He considers himself to be on the loner side, considering most people perceived him that way, and he didn't exactly contact anyone outside of the military save from his old boss when he worked as a butcher—he always said happy new year to him. The difference is, he kind of liked it that way, but clearly you haven't been given a choice in that matter. It fills him with an urge, one that’s a little out of place for him yet fits perfectly in his chest. He wants to make sure you’re happy, well, as far as he can do so anyway. And on the off chance you do get upset, he wants to be the one to cheer you up after.

It’s weird to him, having someone that needs him as a presence in their life, someone who’ll miss him when he’s gone. But what’s worse for him, is that he realises now that he misses you every time you’re gone. He thought he had gone crazy the first time Johnny went on deployment without him, and he had to listen to Gaz talk about the latest football game all lunch— not that Johnny usually had anything better to say either. He had only realised he missed him when Soap described the same feeling when Gaz had left for deployment. He figured it comes with working closely with others very often; after all, being forced out of a routine would never feel right. So, he was even more surprised when he had only spent a month and a bit getting to know you, but somehow every moment away just seemed duller.

That night the evac trucks take him home quietly, along with the rest of his team. They’re exhausted, Soap and Gaz more so than himself; they're practically nodding off beside him. Not that he minds being their pillow for the ride, but he does stop to wonder what it’d feel like if your head was the one on his shoulder. He’d probably wrap an arm around you—if you’d allow him, of course—and maybe just sit in silence whilst a movie plays. You’d be happy with someone around, he’d be happy to have a quiet night in, and maybe a quiet sleep again.

That’s the moment he decided what he was going to do and what he’s currently doing right now. It’s two am, and he’s just got back, barely even washed up yet. His phone is in his hands, your little profile picture grinning at him cheekily as he stares at the unsent message.

“Are you free for dinner on Wednesday? My treat, and an apology for leaving you for so long.”

—————————-

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pursued-by-the-squid · 2 days ago

Text

vii. stage fright

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 12.5k

ao3 | masterlist

“You should eat.”

Rolling over onto your side reveals Gi-hun, standing over your bed with a frown. “I’m not hungry,” you mumble before returning to your original position.

“You need to keep up your strength.” The mattress dips down by your feet and the bed creaks softly as it adjusts to Gi-hun’s weight. He seems to start a sentence a few times, his inhalations quiet yet sudden, but whatever it is he wants to say seems impossible to speak aloud. In the end, he relinquishes himself to an awkward pat on your foot.

How many times have the two of you been here? Each of you lost to your own grievances, trying so hard to push through the fog and failing every time. How many times has he texted you a reminder to get to bed early, to be careful when you go out the next morning, to eat something filling before class? How many times have you tried to do the same in return?

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you tell him, even as you’re moving to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “The thought of eating anything makes me feel sick.”

Gi-hun nods once in comprehension, his eyes suddenly softer as he watches you. “I understand,” he murmurs. You try not to think about how much it makes your heart flutter knowing that he cares.

It’s that very understanding, you think, that leads you both to the meal line. Neither of you wants to eat, but neither of you wants the other to go hungry. Eating will keep his mind sharp, it’ll make him faster and stronger, and it will do the same for you of course, it’s just that you can’t stop thinking about all those people… All that blood…

Try not to think about it, you tell yourself, but it’s so much easier to say than it is to do. Everywhere you look is a reminder of just how dire your circumstances are. The ominous piggy bank hanging overhead, the player count, the blood still on Gi-hun’s face, each of them a ghost intent on haunting you. How can you possibly–?

“[___]?”

One moment you’re lost to the horror of it all, and the next you find yourself blinking up at the face of the last person you would have ever expected. “Young-il-nim?”

Your first thought is that you’re imagining things, so traumatized by the first game that you’ve fully lost it, but then – oh, then he’s smiling and he laughs, and it’s him, it’s really him.

“Oh my God,” you cry, throwing your arms around him in a desperate embrace. “What are, what are you doing here? How did you-? Why did you-? Shit, are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Young-il chuckles to himself as your trembling hands go scrambling over his shoulders and chest to check for injuries. “I’m alright,” he assures you, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. But then his expressions shifts and he ducks his head to try and catch your eyes. “But what are you doing here? You don’t belong in a place like this.”

A brief image of the masked man invading your home comes to mind before you banish it. You shake your head. “It’s a long story,” you sigh, “and difficult to explain. I…” Words are lost to you. You have so many thoughts buzzing inside your brain that it’s difficult to think clearly, to conjure up the shapes and sounds you need to explain yourself.

“It alright,” he says after a moment. You catch him glancing to the side, meeting Gi-hun’s eyes over your shoulder, before looking back to you. “Eat first. I’ll find you after and we can talk then.”

He nods his head respectfully to both of you before walking off, food in hand and the numbers ‘001’ sewn to the back of his jacket. Something twists painfully in your gut, probably the knife he’s just lodged between your ribs.

“Who was that?” Is it your imagination or does Gi-hun’s voice sound deeper than before?

“A friend.” But now the words are sour on your tongue. Because Young-il was the one to break the tie. Young-il was the one to trap you here for another game. Young-il was the one who stood up against everything Gi-hun has been fighting against, and your face is awash with shame because of it.

“Young-il-nim.”

From his spot on the steps, he’s forced to tip his head back to meet your eyes and for a moment, you almost forget the reason you’ve sought him out. His hair is different, you suddenly realize. It swoops over his temples, soft and boyish, and it changes his face just so. All those harsh edges you’ve grown accustomed to are rounded out, less garish despite the fluorescent lighting and the terrible circumstances. And still, the blue patch on his chest marks him as a traitor. It may as well be soaked in your own blood and Gi-hun’s for what it’s worth.

He smiles and gestures to the empty space on his left with his elbow. “Come and sit.”

How can he be like this? How can he sit there and look at you with such blatant fondness, how can he still have an appetite after the things you’ve both just witnessed?

Your voice comes out much harder than usual once you finally find it. “What are you doing?”

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “Eating?”

“No. Here. What are you doing here? Why did you vote to stay?”

Young-il glances down at the X on your jacket, nodding, and the light-hearted tint to his smile finally fades. “I’m sorry.”

Your legs kick into gear before your mouth does, bringing you to the step just below his. You can’t quite bring yourself to sit beside him, to allow yourself that familiarity or closeness when his betrayal still sits heavy in your stomach, but this is not a public conversation either. You’re not here to embarrass him.

“You’re angry.”

“Can you blame me? People died, I almost–”

“I know,” he sighs as he hangs his head. “I know.”

“So why?”

Young-il’s expression turns distant, serious. “It’s complicated.”

Yeah, there seems to be a lot of that around here. But there’s something more, something he’s not telling you. He’s usually decent enough at keeping his more intense feelings close to his chest, but for once you find that you can see the intricacies of his heart quite easily. Regret and uncertainty are the most obvious to you, yet there are others lingering in the creases of his eyes and his mouth, things you don’t know how to put into words but that strike you as profound all the same.

“Your business, is it… Did something happen?”

A shadow passes over him, then, that flicker of something cold and distant that you’ve seen only once or twice before. He nods thoughtfully. “You could say that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His mouth curls into a frown. You might almost consider it a gesture of concern. “And make you worry needlessly? There’s nothing you could’ve done even if I had.” He looks over your shoulder again, surveying the room, his throat bobbing near your eye level. “I could ask the same of you, but I’d wager I already know the answer.”

You huff, irritated and frustrated and a million other things, turning so he’s behind you as you open your dinner. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t come here for the money.”

The toe of his shoe nudges into your back, drawing your attention. “You let that recruiter talk you into it?” Young-il tsks. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

He’s only teasing, of course. You know that. But even as a joke, the words hit too close to home. You’ve never told him about your encounter with the ddakji recruiter. You’ve never told him about how you met Gi-hun. You’ve never told him that since coming to Korea, every problem you’ve faced has arisen in part because you were stupid enough to engage with a stranger. Before now, you never had any intention of telling him any of it.

You eye the dinner tin in your hands. It smells good enough, but you still feel a bit queasy. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to keep it down or not.

“It wasn’t the recruiter that got me here.” It’s easier to tell him when you can’t see his face, for some reason, when you’re pretending that it doesn’t rip you apart just to admit the truth. Poking your utensil at the rubbery looking egg in your tin, you let out a sigh. “Someone took me.”

The muscles in his calf go tight against your back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was kidnapped. One of them.” You nod in the direction of the dinner line. “The men with the masks.”

His voice is softer when he replies. “You didn’t call the number like the rest of us?”

“No. I promised Gi-hun that I wouldn’t, but I guess… I guess it didn’t matter, in the end.”

Glancing down at your food is a challenge, actually eating it is even harder. It tastes like sawdust in your mouth and the instant it hits the back of your throat, you gag, very nearly spitting everything out on the floor. You don’t, thankfully, but it takes a long swig of water to ensure that the food stays down.

“Why would the soldiers want to kidnap you?” he asks once several long minutes have passed. You can hear the low clinking of his dinner tin behind you as he presses the lid shut.

Your first instinct is to claim ignorance, and it wouldn’t even be a lie if you did. You have no connection to these games, no desire to play, and no reason to stay. Gi-hun provides you with everything you need. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Gi-hun is the sole connection you have – you shredded the ddakji woman’s business card ages ago, the night you swore to never play the game again, and you shredded the last one too.

Your attention narrows in on a single grain of rice, as if it holds all the answers you seek. “I can’t help thinking it’s because of who I know,” you admit, reluctantly.

You glance up and over your shoulder in time to see Young-il fixing his eyes on something across the room – Gi-hun. “Player 456?”

You nod quietly in agreement.

“Isn’t he the one who’s played before?”

Another nod.

“So, he’s a friend of yours, then.”

The distant recollection of a night long since passed floats across your mind’s eye. That night seems so long ago now. Sure, it’s been a couple years, but it feels like even longer now that you’re here, as if the businesswoman and the ddakji are memories of another life.

“He warned me about this place, told me he didn’t want me dragged into all of this. That’s why I called you, you know – that one time, a few months back? I thought someone from this place had killed him and you were the only person I could think of to go to when I thought he was gone. And then last night, before the soldier, he came to say goodbye and I thought…”

You’d thought a lot of things. But you hadn’t thought of something like this ever happening.

“I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m stuck here now.”

It isn’t something that you mean to imply, but there’s an unspoken ‘no thanks to you’ that haunts the space between you. It’s not entirely his fault. Young-il has his own problems that he has to work through, that much is clear, and he has no way of knowing all the chaos going on in your personal life. If you have blame to place, it can’t rest solely on his shoulders, but that doesn’t make the reality of his vote any less painful or disappointing.

The stairs behind you groan as Young-il stands, the long shadow cast by the overhead lights falling lengthwise across your body. “You know,” he begins, steadily easing himself to the ground level on step at a time, “if your friend has played before, maybe we stand a better chance at winning the next round.”

Huh. That hadn’t even occurred to you. You were so busy being scared out of your mind that you hadn’t stopped to think there might actually be some hope. It’s slight, of course, and mostly obscured in your mind by the splatters of blood and lifeless bodies you saw on the field today, but the hope is there nonetheless. If you can survive the next round, then…

“Do you think there’ll be another vote?”

“Yes,” he nods, “after each game.”

Your shoulders suddenly feel a little lighter. “Then we could make it long enough to get out of here, vote a second time and go home.”

Young-il purses his lips in consideration. “Maybe.”

Before he can elaborate any further, a shout echoes across the room. It starts somewhere over his shoulder, near the middle or front of the room where a group of three younger men have gathered. You and Young-il both turn toward the sound just in time to see one of the men fall to the ground while the other two loom over him, slamming their feet into his body over and over again, and every time he tries to stand, they smack him down. They’re hitting him hard. The man on the ground isn’t fully screaming, but he’s clearly in pain.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it. There’s nothing you feel you can do, not without risking one of the attackers turning their vengeance onto you, but it flips your stomach to see someone being beat so mercilessly. You cast a quick glance around the room – none of the other players nor any of the soldiers stationed near the doors look inclined to intervene.

“God, they’re gonna kill him,” you mutter, more in disbelief than anything else. Isn’t someone going to stop them?

Someone, apparently, means Young-il. When he first moves, you think he’s trying to get a closer look. Because of course he’s intrigued by the violence, you think with a slight roll of your eyes. God forbid he, or anyone else here, do something actually useful, but he surprises you. Instead of observing, he acts.

“Boys, what are you doing in the middle of dinner?” His voice cuts through the cursing and the flurry of fists and feet against skin. One of the men left standing, the one with the purple hair, glowers at him as he approaches. “No fights during mealtime. There are elders present. Mind your manners. And two against one? Aren't you embarrassed?”

You’ve… never heard him speak like that before. With you, he’s often quite easygoing, soft when he needs to be and rarely ever stern unless he’s concerned about something. But with these men, he does speak sternly. His body moves with the ease of a man who has no doubts about his own strength or perception.

The man with the purple hair – Thanos, you think you’d heard – curls his mouth into a sneer. “You're lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” As he advances on Young-il, you’re immediately taken aback by the amount of disrespect – he’s gesturing rudely, swaggering into Young-il’s personal space, quirking his eyebrows as if to suggest that there’s nothing about Young-il that he takes seriously. “Dude, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

You’re so stunned, you almost forget to breathe.

Young-il is equally surprised. Even from far behind him, you can see the way his body stills. “What did you say to me?” You can’t see his face, but honestly, you don’t need to. You can hear it all in his voice, can read it in the line of his shoulders.

“I said save the lecture for your own damn kid–”

The speed with which his arm shoots out is startling. You don’t even see it, really. One moment, Thanos is yapping his face off, and the next, Young-il has his fingers digging into the tendons of his throat. He twists his arm just so and the other man bends unnaturally at the waist to accommodate him. Then the other player – 124 – surges forward with a swear and you feel your heart leap into your throat, terrified your friend has just gotten himself into a fight that he cannot possibly win, but then Young-il kicks him in the shin and 124 goes sprawling on his back.

When you’d asked yourself if someone would do something to stop those two, this isn’t what you’d had in mind. Young-il isn’t ancient or decrepit by any means and he clearly thinks he can handle himself, but these men are younger than he is. What if he gets–?

His fist smacks right into Thanos’ chest, doubling him over as Young-il takes the opportunity to loom over him instead. This will be it, you think, a surprisingly swift punch to the sternum and it’ll all be over. He’s already proven himself, already made a fool of both these players.

Thanos raises a hand quietly, begging for him to stop. Only he doesn’t. Your feet are already carrying you to the floor, your dinner abandoned as you watch Young-il grab his hand, twist, and use the momentum to slam the other man into the ground. For a moment, they’re both frozen like that, Young-il lowered onto one knee with his fist raised while the other chokes and squirms helplessly beneath him.

You’re no longer worried about the poor player that had started this whole fight, you’re worried about the man who had attacked him. He’s choking and Young-il won’t let go. You can see his entire body shaking, his face flushing as his mouth twitches, his fist rising higher. He’s gonna kill him instead.

“Young-il!”

There’s no way he can’t hear you, but you’re terrified that he’ll ignore you anyway. He wouldn’t kill this guy, would he? He doesn’t seem the type. But the grip he has on Thanos’ throat is too strong, too intentional, and you’re just about to rush in and pry him off the man when he finally lets up. The other player takes a deep gasp, hands clawing at his neck as he recovers the breath Young-il had squeezed out of him, and then the entire room is bursting with applause. For the life of you, you cannot fathom why.

How long have you known him now, a couple years? Never, not once, in all that time has he ever said or done a single thing to make you look at him as anything other than what he is – your friend, a lover of coffee and fine art, a dedicated businessman with a tragic past and a penchant for terrible jokes. He was and always has been Oh Young-il, nothing less and nothing more. But as he clambers to his feet, his head bowed bashfully as he accepts the praise offered to him, you find yourself wondering if there isn’t just a bit more to him than he’s let on.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re also a bit… flushed. Seeing him react so effortlessly, witnessing the strength you never knew he had – it’s stirred up a bit of warmth in the pit of your stomach. You don’t really want to consider what that says about you.

He returns to you some moments later with his eyes averted. There’s something lingering on his tongue, perhaps an explanation, but he seems hesitant to give it and you’re equally hesitant to ask for it. Still, you’d be a fool to overlook how deeply Thanos’ words had affected him.

“Are you alright?”

Young-il nods as he passes, taking your attention with him. “I’m not hurt,” he assures you. He’s moved to pick up your dinner tray, as well as his own, stacking them on top of each other in his hands.

You reach for your water bottle before trailing after him, following his path to the front of the room where the trash cans are. “That’s not what I mean.” He’d told you to lecture your own kids, you think, and you snapped. He became someone else entirely, someone you don’t recognize, and that worries you. It also eerily reminds you of someone.

If he intends to respond, he shows no sign of it. He makes light work of your trays, emptying them of any leftover food before handing them and the utensils over to the nearest guard, a Circle Mask manning what remains of the dinner station.

“Young-il-nim.” You try to catch his eye when he turns to you once more, but he’s remarkably evasive, which only serves to further unsettle you. “Are you going to ignore me, or…?”

And that, at last, is enough to grab his attention. His shoulders drop with the weight of his sigh. “What do you mean, [___]?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d actually think he was upset with you.

“I mean, you…” There’s a flash of fists in the back of your mind, of Thanos choking. “I’ve just never seen you do that before.”

He lifts an eyebrow, then, as his expressions shifts from irritation to derision. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

Is that what he thinks? That you’re bothered? “No. But I didn’t think you were going to stop and that worried me.” It’s more honest than you had intended to be and you feel stripped bare because of it, like Young-il can see right through you because of your vulnerability.

You wish you knew what he was thinking. While you’re at it, you wish understood your own thoughts just as much as you wish you could fathom his. This – beating a younger man to a pulp simply because you’d expressed concern over an unfair fight – feels like something you should’ve known about, though you can’t help feeling like that’s a pretty ridiculous expectation to have. When would it have been relevant to reveal his secret self-defense moves? And why? Is it even fair of you to feel wary of him when it was your instigation that had prompted him to act in the first place?

Something dark flickers in the very depths of his eyes, something you don’t understand, but it’s gone before you can linger on it. His attention settles just past your shoulder, in the direction you’d seen Gi-hun and Jung-bae go to pick at their meals, and then he looks to you once more. Whatever darkness you thought you’d seen is long gone.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Gi-hun and Jung-bae have settled in the far corner. You’d noticed earlier that some of the other players had gathered around them at one point, likely asking any number of questions now that they knew a previous winner had returned. They’ve even made a new friend, from what you can tell – a very expressive younger man with long hair, number 388 – though Gi-hun seems less enthused about the younger man’s presence than his friend does.

You have no reason to hesitate when it comes to introductions. Gi-hun is your friend as much as Young-il is, yet you still feel the pull of uncertainty in your gut at the idea. They’ve been separate for as long as you’ve known them. Young-il is more of a school friend than anything; the coffee dates (not that they’re dates because they’re not), your initial meeting, all of it had happened on campus. Gi-hun is your strangely wealthy friend who keeps to himself and lets you fire weapons in the depths of his abandoned motel. One of them is clearly more normal than the other. And only one of them has kissed you thus far, so there’s also that.

You try not to think about it. Every step you take brings you closer to Gi-hun, who has not pulled his eyes from you for more than a second, not since Young-il suggested the introduction. Every step brings both halves of your life closer and closer together, and you feel a bit nauseous because of it.

It’ll be fine. You don’t even have anything to worry about. It’s not like Young-il’s betrayed everything that Gi-hun stands for with a single vote. It’s not like Gi-hun still hasn’t addressed the fact that he kissed you last night and he’s about to meet the only other person in the world that you could possibly consider kissing after him. Not that you would.

Ah, shit. Here goes nothing.

If it’s shame that begs you not to lift your eyes in Gi-hun’s presence, then that’s something you’ll be keeping to yourself. “Young-il-nim, this is Jung-bae-nim and–”

“You said you've played these games before, sir.”

Your mouth is still hanging open, Gi-hun’s name still caught between your lips as Young-il quite literally talks over you. He’s never talked over you before, not ever. And neither does he stop. He waits only for Gi-hun’s acknowledgement – a hesitant inclination of his head – before finally continuing, and he doesn’t even spare you a second glance when he does.

“I pressed the O button because of you. Honestly, I was scared. I wanted to quit and leave. But you made me think maybe I could play just one more game.”

And you’re not offended in the least by his startling new rudeness. Not at all. Certainly not enough to snap your jaw shut with an audible click.

Jung-bae’s eyes suddenly alight with excitement. “Some of the other players said that!” He turns eagerly to his new friend with a grin, then nudges his elbow into Gi-hun’s ribs. “You see?”

Gi-hun is not amused and for once, you feel comforted by that. You don’t shrink when his gaze lingers on you, you return it confidently, if only because you’re less irritated with him than you are with Young-il. He braces his forearms atop his knees, his arms stretching out as he looks back and forth between you.

“If you had pressed the X,” he finally says, “everyone here would've made it out alive.”

Young-il hums lightly in response. “That's right. I was the last to press the O button,” and it’s remarkable, really, how unashamed he is to admit it. “But there were 182 more people who wanted to stay.”

“And there were also 182 people who wanted to leave. [___] included.”

Three sets of eyes settle upon you. Oh. You don’t like that. You don’t want to be brought into this discussion and you certainly don’t want Young-il to be looking at you like that, like he’s only just noticed you exist. You don’t like that everything you thought you knew has suddenly been flipped on its head, without rhyme or reason, and you don’t like that you’re left trying to fit the pieces back together entirely blind.

Gi-hun raises a brow. “You are friends, aren’t you?”

“We are.” He smiles and for the briefest moment, you feel like you’re watching a stranger rather than your coffee companion of two years. “But you’re a previous winner, Gi-hun-ssi. Why would you allow a friend to come here if it’s so dangerous?”

You don’t think much of him using Gi-hun’s name – why should you? But for Gi-hun, it seems to startle him. His eyes sharpen as they flicker across Young-il’s face, studying, searching, and then, “How did you know my name?”

You blink, pausing to look between the pair as you suddenly realize that you’re not sure you’ve ever explicitly used Gi-hun’s name before, not with him.

Young-il, to his credit, takes the inquiry in his stride. His smile falters for a moment as he tries to explain himself. “Oh, I… I heard [___] using it earlier, in line for dinner, and I thought I might try it.”

Did you? You can’t remember, though you aren’t sure that it really matters. You’ve loudly proclaimed Gi-hun’s name a handful of times since your reunion earlier today, so even if you hadn’t said it in line, it’s likely that Young-il noticed and made the connection himself. He’s always been perceptive like that.

Young-il leans in, his voice lowered and his face softened with an unspoken apology. “Does it bother you?” Just like he’d asked you only minutes prior.

A chill starts at the base of your spine. The air is thick with tension, both men gravitating toward one another as if there’s some grand competition going on that you’re entirely unaware of. You don’t like that either.

But before the tension can rise any higher, Jung-bae jumps in and attempts to diffuse the situation. His hands go fluttering about in the empty space between them, using some clever turn of phrase to smoothe out all the surface level ripples that have already transformed into waves rocking against your boat. A truce is formed, superficial at best, but it clears the air enough for you to breathe and for that, you’re grateful.

He keeps thinking about tomorrow. He keeps thinking about the sugary sweetness of dalgona on his tongue and the possibility of a pistol lodged against the base of his skull.

Gi-hun closes his eyes and takes a breath. It doesn’t change anything. The light from the pig lingers behind his eyelids as much as the thought of watching you bleed out and die does. The cool chill of a late night still clings to his bones, even among so many bodies. Or perhaps it’s Gi-hun who is cold. Perhaps he’s already dead and this is merely a delusion brought on by a half-sane mind in its final throes.

That would certainly be easier than the truth, wouldn’t it?

The stairs that lead to his bed creak beneath the weight of a foot, then another, and Gi-hun opens his eyes to see you standing close enough to touch. From this angle, the light doesn’t catch your face; you’re simply haloed, some bright and shining thing that he’s dragged with him into the pit of damnation.

“Hello.”

He hates that you sound so timid. You sound like the fragile student he once met in a snowy alley, not the passionate and bright-eyed person he knows you to be. But then, he supposes that it’s hard for you to find that spark he’s grown so accustomed to when you’re trying desperately to claw yourself out of a grave that is constantly demanding to swallow you whole. Unfortunately, he knows the feeling.

“Hello,” he replies. It feels forbidden to smile when he’s blockaded by memories and ghosts, but for you, Gi-hun finds that he can do all kinds of things. Even attempt a smile.

“Can I sit with you?”

Eyes darting first to the timer behind your head and then to the small stretch of open mattress by his feet, he nods haltingly, drawing his legs in so they’re folded atop on another. “Of course.”

There are no butterflies fluttering in his stomach when you sit on his bed. There’s no distant tremor in his hands or the drifting of his mind to far off places, imagining the sort of things he’d allowed himself only two nights ago. This isn’t the Pink Motel. He doesn’t know why he expects to feel the same stirrings in his gut that he usually does when he shares his space with you.

Then he remembers kissing you and he ducks his head in shame.

You take the far end of the mattress as expected, but it rather feels like you’ve placed yourself on the far end of a canyon. “I don’t want to talk,” you tell him, voice soft and uncertain. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just… don’t want to be alone right now.” Your feet dangle listlessly over the edge of the bedframe. “I can’t sleep.”

Gi-hun recalls feeling the same way on his first night. So much of this is painfully familiar. He almost wonders if Sang-woo’s spirit is watching him now, studying him from somewhere among the beds or lurking in the Squid Game field. He keeps expecting to see him every time he turns a corner. What would he think of the man that he’s become? The mattress squeaks when you adjust your posture and Gi-hun suddenly finds it hard to breathe. What would Sang-woo think of you?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, so why does he care?

“I’m sorry.” Your apology draws him blinking from the recesses of his mind. “For everything. I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Of course it isn’t, but why on Earth are you apologizing? “It isn’t your fault,” he starts.

“Maybe. But I still feel bad.”

Following the path of your attention leads him to a bed several paces away, closer to the main floor than his own bed. Your friend Young-il is settling in for the night, one of his legs drawn atop the mattress with the other hanging off as he contemplates something far beyond Gi-hun’s reach. And for the first time in months, probably since the night he followed your friend out of the university parking lot and all the way to his hotel, Gi-hun feels angry.

It’s a different kind of anger than the one he’d directed at you just today. That was an anger born of fear and helplessness and the realization that he’d put you in danger, born of his own guilt and his own affection for you. This? This is not that.

He’s not entirely sure what it is, but he knows that he feels it whenever you look at Young-il or Young-il looks at you. You have nothing to feel guilty for. You haven’t done anything wrong. It isn’t your fault that Young-il voted O and it isn’t your fault that you’re here, and he hates that you feel otherwise.

“You aren’t the one who should be apologizing.”

There’s more he could say, more that weighs on him, but he isn’t sure how to express it. He isn’t even sure if he should. What if he loses you tomorrow? And what if he doesn’t? What if the game isn’t dalgona? What if he’s the one who dies and you’re left alone with only Jung-bae and Young-il to protect you? A bitter piece of his heart flares up at the thought and he pretends not to think about what might happen if Young-il were to die instead because that’s not the kind of man he wants to be.

Instead, Gi-hun shifts around on the mattress until he’s mirroring your posture, his legs dangling over the side as he moves the pillow and blankets around. “Stay here tonight,” he says in response to your voiceless question.

Your eyes flash wide for a second. “With you?” And if he thinks that you sound either horrified or intrigued by the prospect, Gi-hun tells himself that it doesn’t matter either way.

“I’m not sleeping.” He’s going to be watching over you for as long as he can manage. It’ll be a good distraction and it will keep you safe, and he needs both right now more than he needs anything else. “It isn’t good for you to sleep alone here. And someone should keep watch.”

What little light is reflected in your eyes shimmers like water in a glass. “Watch for what?”

For the murderous bastards who like to take out their competition while they sleep, what else? But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want to scare you and he knows already that detailing the horrific possibilities of the Games right before you go to bed is a recipe for disaster.

“Sleep,” he insists. The bedding is nicely arranged now, as nice as he can make it for you, even though he wishes he could do more. What if you get cold in the middle of the night? What if you overheat in your jacket? Or you get thirsty? He can’t fix any of those problems. He can only give you his protection and pray that it’s enough.

Your protest is already half spoken by the time he’s drawing himself out of bed and prompting you into the space he’s just vacated. It takes some maneuvering and no small amount of whispered requests, far gentler than Gi-hun actually feels under the weight of his memories pressing in against his skull, but finally he manages to convince you to lay down. He tucks himself into the farthest corner of the bed, hoping that your legs have enough room, that you won’t mind him being so close for so long, and he watches the minutes on the display steadily count down.

There are less than ten minutes until lights out when Young-il decides to approach him. “Gi-hun-ssi,” he nods respectfully, his hands already pressing against his thighs as he takes the steps one at a time. His eyes wander over your sleeping figure and Gi-hun has to fight himself not to snap and make a fool out of himself simply because another man happened to look at you.

“Asleep,” he says, if only to fill the empty space with something other than his animosity.

Young-il nods in understanding. “I’ll be quiet, then.” A beat. “Could we talk?”

No. “Sure.”

The narrow space between rows of beds is taken up entirely by Young-il’s body. Perched upon the highest step, it places him at about eye level. Gi-hun’s not entirely sure he likes that. “I think I was out of line before,” Young-il finally sighs. “I'd like to apologize. I'm sorry.”

What he wants to do is tell your friend that he doesn’t care for, nor does he accept, his apology. What he wants to say is that he doesn’t like the way Young-il looks at you, all appraising eyes and quiet confidence, and he doesn’t like how Young-il has stolen almost all of your attention since the moment he appeared. He wants to say it all, but he doesn’t because his mother raised him better than that and Gi-hun has never been one to be purposefully rude except on very rare occasions.

This isn’t the time or place. So, he’s gracious. He bows respectfully to Young-il and allows the apology to settle in the space between them, even if the peace it offers is fraught. “No, I laid all the blame on you.” Even if I was right to do so. “I was out of line.”

And that, he hopes, will be the full extent of it – whatever it is. He’s not interested in having a full conversation with anyone right now, but even if he was, Young-il would be at the bottom of the list. He’s strange in a very off-putting way; quiet, observant, he makes you laugh sometimes, from what he can remember, and he’s able to fight off two younger men and make it look easy. That’s not normal. And then there’s the way that you had followed him during dinner like an alley cat chasing after scraps. You don’t do things like that.

“May I ask you something?”

It takes a minute, but Gi-hun eventually relents, inclining his head just slightly.

“Why did you come back to this place? You said you won and made it out.”

He swallows heavily. “I did.”

“Then why return? You got all the money, didn’t you? Did you spend it all?”

He spent some of it. He wanted so badly to let that money rot in the bank and to never touch a single won, but then Il-nam had happened. Then you had happened. Then so many things kept happening and he thinks that somewhere along the way, he lost sight of what he had set out to do. To remember, to protect.

“That money doesn't belong to me,” he mutters, and it’s like he’s back on the Squid Game field, watching the rain mix with the mud mix with the coppery tang of metal and blood. “It's blood money for the people who died here. The same goes for the money up there.”

“You don't have to think of it that way,” and where he expected to find judgement, he instead finds some gentle, understanding thing tucked behind the corners of Young-il’s words. “It's not like you killed those people and saving that money won't bring them back to life.”

Maybe it’s just the ghosts lingering in his head and his heart. Maybe he’s just a sentimental old fool, but there’s something about the way Young-il says it that reminds him of Sang-woo. He closes his eyes and wishes, probably for the millionth time, that he had been the one to die here three years ago, not Sang-woo. Not Ssangmun-dong’s golden child.

Young-il exhales through his nose, drawing Gi-hun’s attention and prompting him to open his eyes again. Where there had once been a glint of determination, now Gi-hun sees something far more vulnerable. It’s suspiciously disarming. “Not all of us have the luxury of mixing our morals with our money, Gi-hun-ssi. Some of us,” he says, and his voice begins to waver, “are forced to play the hand we’re dealt, blood money or not.”

Curiosity gets the better of him. “And what sort of hand were you dealt?” It isn’t asked unkindly. Gi-hun recognizes regret when he sees it and there’s no need for him to be cruel, but he does want to know.

Silence expands between them, permeating every atom of space until it’s so overwhelming Gi-hun thinks he might collapse beneath its weight.

Finally, Young-il speaks. “My wife.” And Gi-hun suddenly feels like he’s going to vomit. All this time, he’s been seething over a married man who happened to have befriended you. What kind of asshole is he?

“My wife was very sick. Acute cirrhosis, the doctors said, and she needed a liver transplant.” The slight waver in his voice becomes stronger, fluctuating as Young-il finds the strength to continue his explanation. The explanation Gi-hun demanded of him. Now he suddenly wishes he’d never opened his mouth to begin with. “When she was going through the tests, we found out she was pregnant. The doctor suggested a termination, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she'd give birth even if it killed her.”

Gi-hun realizes with a start what Young-il’s clenched jaw and sudden stillness means. He knows because he’s been there before, forced to pour his grief out to whichever person demands a little too forcefully to know what haunts him in the late hours of the night. God, he’s such a prick.

“I couldn’t save them,” he says, and his voice finally gives way. Unshed tears catch in the glow of the money pig and Gi-hun feels like he’s just had his throat torn out. “I need that money to pay off the debts. The hospital bills, the funerals – it costs something, Gi-hun-ssi. Perhaps it is blood money, but it’s still money.”

He can’t imagine. In some ways, he doesn’t have to. Ga-yeong is still alive and he stopped loving his wife a long time ago, but they’re no longer a part of his life. They may as well be dead to him – he knows he’s dead in their eyes anyway. Just another corpse slipping through the cracks of a broken world.

I’m so sorry. He doesn’t have to like Young-il to say it and mean it, but even still, the words stick in his throat. Just moments ago, he had imagined this man dead on his back, unable to touch you or taint you. He’d let his personal feelings get in the way of what really mattered. Young-il could pull a knife on him this very moment and it still wouldn’t justify anything that Gi-hun’s thinking or feeling about him, and he needs to remember that. He needs to remember what he’s here for.

He glances over at you, watching your face as you snore lightly. It’s a poor imitation of a similar situation that feels so far away now, it can only be a dream. The motel. His bed. You, safe and secure. His. That had never been the plan. But then again, he’d never had a plan when it came to you. For all the good it did you both.

He shouldn’t have kissed you. He wanted to, but he shouldn’t have done it in the first place. It should have stayed a secret desire known only to the depths of his shattered soul and the bullet he still deserves to bite. All it’s done is complicate matters. It’s made him twitchy and on-edge, made him grind his teeth down to the bone and search for enemies where there are none. It’s made him turn on a man who could very easily have been a friend if he weren’t so busy being blinded by his own desires.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s relieved that the words finally come.

Young-il merely shakes his head. He’s probably heard the same turn of phrase too many times to count by now. “It’s forgiven.”

The timer overhead flashes a one minute reminder and just like that, the spell is broken. Reality comes crashing down upon shoulders. There’s an awkward exchange of glances and half-hearted smiles, murmured farewells, and then Gi-hun is left with his legs dangling off the side of his own bed and the sound of your steady breaths.

The lights click out.

Slowly, so as not to wake you, he leans his weight back against the bedframe and positions himself so he’s facing the wide-open stretch of floor in the center of the room. The X and O carved there are the only lights that still remain, casting his surroundings in faint shades of blue and red, so faint that he can hardly make anything out.

He sighs. It’s going to be a very long night.

In-ho watches the soldiers as they work. It’s strange to be here once more, to be a part of the Games after so long. When he had made the decision to enter, it had mostly been on a whim, an impulsive choice driven from the frantic desire to control, to break, to bend you, Gi-hun, and the Games to his will. He hadn’t stopped to consider all the additional benefits he might reap from this harvest.

Already, a ridge has formed between you and Gi-hun. Something changed in him last night, In-ho had seen the shift, though he still doesn’t know what to make of it. Gi-hun had allowed you to sleep in his bed – and how common a recurrence is that, exactly? – but has hardly spoken a word to you since. Every time you try to meet his eyes, he smiles faintly, nods, and withdraws into himself, and the pain of that dismissal is written all over your face.

That hadn’t been entirely intentional. It is beneficial, no matter how confounding, and he plans to utilize it as best he can because Thanos rattled him last night. That bratty remark about his children had sent him over the edge and it had only been the sound of your voice that was clear enough to cut through the maelstrom of his fury, to bring him back to himself. That had rattled him too and, much like the gallery, In-ho had handled it poorly. He was too short with you, too fixated on a philosophical spar at Gi-hun’s expense, and had unintentionally pushed you away as a result.

He needs to fix that. Curious how the opportunity presents itself almost immediately.

The arena is presented, the instructions are given, and the timer is set. Gi-hun is entirely unprepared.

“Aren't we playing the dalgona game?” demands another player – number 100, who In-ho is sure he saw lurking about and asking questions of Gi-hun over dinner yesterday. But what truly catches his attention is the mention of dalgona.

It takes everything he has within himself not to laugh. Had Gi-hun really expected all the games to be the same as before? While In-ho hadn’t anticipated that Gi-hun would be so keen to rejoin the Games, he and every other Front Man in the world prides himself on his ingenuity. It’s a part of the job description. VIPs aren’t interested in the same old tricks each year. It would be foolish – no, truly stupid – to assume that the Front Man would not alter the Games to discredit or disadvantage Gi-hun in his mission for vengeance.

“No,” Gi-hun finally says as he hangs his head, “it doesn't look like it.”

“What's the game then?”

Yes, Gi-hun, tell us what game should come next. Show us all how carefully thought through your plans are.

Dark eyes trembling with uncertainty flicker aimlessly across the stretch of dirt beneath their feet. “I'm not sure.”

So when Player 100 turns on Gi-hun and demands, “What? You said you’d done this before! Was that all bullshit?”, In-ho is not surprised. Players turning on one another is an inevitability that Gi-hun should have accounted for.

Still, his obvious discomfort and shame is another victory mark on the scoreboard In-ho hides at the back of his mind.

“I'm sorry,” he says, pleading for compassion from a man who has clearly never said a kind word to anyone in his life.

“Sorry won't cut it!”

Gi-hun is trembling now, his entire body flinching with every cruel word flung his way. He folds in on himself like a child folds under the weight of a parent’s belt, and In-ho watches. Will he not stand up for himself? Is he content enough in his self-loathing to take abuse from a man who would kill him in an instant if the opportunity arose?

“You talked like you knew everything! All these people believed your bullshit! What are you going to do, huh? Will you take responsibility?”

He thinks to insert himself into the fight, to diffuse the tension and endear himself further to Gi-hun and his cause, and perhaps even regain your trust in the process by defending the man you so clearly love. But for once in his life (or rather, for the second time), In-ho is too late.

“Excuse me, sir.” There is no feigned politeness in your voice, no deference to your elders in your words or tone. If anything, the tacked on ‘sir’ sounds more like a slap in the face than a term of respect. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Player 100 blinks back his shock, tripping all over the practiced insults he is so eager to distribute. His face goes red and his mouth falls open, gaping like a fish, until he finally manages to compose himself a few moments later. “This has nothing to do with you.” He closes in on you then, and In-ho sees it before you do, all the rage that’s beginning to boil over, the quivering fists and bared teeth, and he feels the shock of it in his stomach.

“Then it has nothing to do with you either,” you retort, and you go so far as to take a step closer to the man. Are you insane? “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

It isn’t instinct that drives him to press his chest into your back. It isn’t instinct that pushes him to glare a pseudo-bullet hole into 100’s head. It is simply the movement of a chess piece across the board. “That's enough,” he utters, and the word is final.

And he expects to be rewarded for it. It was a calculated move, intentional and deliberate down to the weight of his body against yours and the timbre of his voice. That’s why he feels so unmoored when, rather than turning to thank him, you immediately rush to Gi-hun’s side. That’s why he’s left blinking at the empty space you’ve left behind and wondering what crucial part of his plan he’d missed. There is no other reason for the taste of bile in his throat or the slamming of his heart against his ribcage. None.

He takes no pleasure in your rejection, either. That’s what he chooses to believe. When Gi-hun accepts your comfort for a few treasured moments only to then pull away when he’s had his fill, to not allow you to dote on him, your reaction is so immediate and so blatant that the entire group can see it. Jung-bae and Dae-ho at least have the courtesy to look away and offer you a second of privacy; In-ho does not.

You chose this and he wants you to know that he knows. He does not look away when your eyes land on him. He does not soften his gaze. Rather, he tilts his head as if to say, I stood up for you. What has Gi-hun done?

The next ten minutes are unbearably awkward. The five of you already constitute a team, so no need to search for any further additions. Dae-ho officially introduces himself, only to immediately stick his foot in his mouth by inquiring exactly how everyone knows each other. Your eyes land on In-ho, then slide over to Gi-hun, and none of them answers. If he were watching this from the observation deck, it might almost be humorous, but he’s not and it isn’t. In truth, it’s painful.

Jung-bae is in the middle of a remarkably boring re-enactment of the time he and Gi-hun had gone out for soju as teens when another player approaches. In-ho has never been so relieved by a distraction in all his life.

“Excuse me,” she says sweetly, “can I join you?”

Jung-bae already seems displeased by having his story interrupted, but he softens his frustration for the girl’s sake. “Sorry, we’ve already got five people.”

“Please.” She takes a step closer, pushing herself slightly into the loose arc the five of them have formed, and takes a turn looking at each person. There’s something about her that gives In-ho pause, something he can’t put his finger on. “Help me. I’m pregnant.”

The girl rests her hand on her stomach, just over the little swell of life below her ribcage, and for a moment In-ho is very far away. He sees the hospital bed, the IVs and faded scars of needle pricks along Min-jung’s arm, he sees her sallow face, and he feels the same blinding needing to protect, defend, defy. To save. It passes quickly enough, but leaves him off-centered and irritable. Vulnerable.

He casts his eyes to Gi-hun first, curious to see just how the mighty hero of the Games plans to handle the situation. He flounders, of course, and In-ho isn’t surprised. Jung-bae is the one to break the news, apologetic and kind, but with the weight of the world on his shoulders because they all know they’ve created a decent team. They all know what it means to turn her away. That’s why it surprises him when yours is the voice that rises in response.

“I can… I can find another team.”

He and Gi-hun both share the same exclamation. “What?”

Your face practically folds in on itself with the force of your emotions. You don’t hide your compassion very well, but neither do you hide your fear – you’re uneasy about leaving the security your team offers you, however false it may be, but you’re equally uneasy about putting a pregnant woman at risk. And while he would never admit it aloud, In-ho finds himself sympathetic to your predicament.

Gi-hun’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, his frustration written into every crease and dimple in his skin. “It’s safest for you to be with us,” he asserts, reluctantly.

“But Gi-hun-a, she’s pregnant!” As if Jung-bae hadn’t already elected to turn the girl away.

He looks to Gi-hun once more, studying, noting every twitching tendon and flicker of regret that cuts across his face. What will you choose, Seong Gi-hun? Which horse is most likely to win the race?

“It’s alright,” says the girl with her soft doe eyes and pregnant belly. In-ho does not see his wife in her. He doesn’t. “I’m sure I can find another group.”

“No!” you exclaim, scrambling forward to take her hand in both of yours. Then your voice drops, it softens and shakes with the certainty of your sacrifice. “No, you should stay with them. They’ll keep you safe.”

You guide her to stand in the perfectly sized space between himself and Gi-hun, your brows now furrowed as you seem to be searching inside yourself for something. Then your chin tilts up and your gaze lands on Gi-hun. Several seconds tick by as you survey his face, so raw and exposed in a way In-ho isn’t sure he’s ever seen on you before.

The cold slice of bitterness cuts across his lungs at the sight. What can Gi-hun do to save you beyond sacrificing someone from his own carefully constructed team? You should be looking at him like that. He is the only one here with the power to save your life, the only one who might possibly be swayed by your fear and desperation.

“Gi-hun-a.”

And something deep within In-ho’s stomach twists in delight. He knows better than to raise his expectations after the countless hundreds he has seen fight and die in this very room, but logic cannot always outweigh intrigue, not for him.

Jung-bae leans forward, casting his old friend a smile. Sweat is already beading along his hairline. “Let them both stay, Gi-hun-a. I’ll go find another team.”

That something in his stomach lifts higher until it’s crackling like a firework behind his ribcage. Another gamble. The stakes are higher, but so is the reward. The question is whether or not Gi-hun still feels inclined to betting on horses the way he once did. In-ho already knows the answer, but it’s Gi-hun’s self-realization he wants to see, the inward understanding and acceptance that In-ho found for himself years ago. Which of your pawns will you sacrifice first, and which of them will come back when the clock runs out? Who deserves to live, Gi-hun? And who deserves to die?

It is Jung-bae who makes the decision in the end, and the loss of Gi-hun’s conflict is admittedly disappointing, but the Game hasn’t started yet. There is still victory to be found and In-ho will find it. The Front Man always does.

Ddakji. Biseokchigi. Gonggi. Spinning top. Jegi.

You’ve never played a single one. There are games that are similar enough in your home country, but the rules or the materials are slightly different. Different enough that you don’t have nearly as much confidence in your ability to successfully play any of these games as you wish you did.

Ddakji is a blatant no. Even though you’d managed well enough against that businesswoman all that time ago, it still feels wrong to play. You promised Gi-hun you never would again and that suits you just fine. The pregnant girl, Jun-hee, takes it, much to your relief.

Gonggi goes to the boisterous gentleman, Dae-ho. He says he grew up playing it with his sisters and seems confident in his skills, which is more experience than the rest of you have put together.

“That leaves biseokchigi, spinning top, and jegi.” Gi-hun looks to you. “Which do you think you’d be better at?”

You try very hard not to look as deeply panicked as you feel. “Which one’s the easiest?” It’s not a question that inspires very much confidence, you know that, but in truth you’re not sure you’d be very good at any of them.

Young-il and Gi-hun share a rather pointed look, which doesn’t help your confidence in the slightest. Defeat already feels imminent. You should’ve picked another team, at least that way your friends would be more likely to survive. Jun-hee and her baby, too.

“Don’t say that,” Young-il chides when you find yourself admitting as much. He rests a gentle hand upon your shoulder. “We’re a team, [___]. We’ll work together.”

“That’s right,” Gi-hun nods. “Why don’t you watch the first round and see how they’re played? You can decide which one is best for you.”

And it would have been such a brilliant idea if the first team to go hadn’t been brutally slaughtered. And the second team too. How are you meant to have any faith in yourself when the Korean-born players ahead of you keep getting themselves shot because they can’t throw a damn rock? You haven’t even had a chance to see jegi played yet because no one has made it that far.

“Don’t panic.” But no amount of kind and quiet compassion from Gi-hun, or even Young-il, is enough to calm your nerves. “[___]. [___], look at me. Look.”

You hesitantly lift your eyes to meet his. For a moment, all you can see are the bodies dropping to the floor behind him, the blood, you can hear the screaming and the gunfire. But then he reaches for your hands and holds them tightly.

“Think back to when you were a child. What kinds of games did you play? What were you good at?”

You try very hard to do as he asks. At the very least, it’s a distraction from the death that looms all around you. Searching your memories doesn’t offer as much hope as you would’ve liked – nights spent playing board games or reading, or the few activities you were decent at when you would go to recess. There’s not much that transfers over. Until, quite suddenly, you remember something.

“I used to skip rocks,” you tell him, a smile finally winning over the despair that’s been clinging to you like a second skin. “At the lake. I was good at it, too. That’s close enough to biseokchigi, isn’t it?” Just by watching the other players, the actions look comparable enough. It takes a certain amount of precision to make a rock skip smoothly over the water, as it takes a certain amount of precision to hit a target.

Gi-hun nods amicably. “Good. That’s good.” He squeezes your hands one last time before finally releasing them and you miss his touch immediately. He keeps you grounded whenever he’s near. “Young-il-ssi. Which one are you better at – jegi or spinning top?”

“I’ll take whichever you pick for me, Gi-hun-ssi.” There’s a softness to his voice, something that you wouldn’t have expected to hear in the midst of all this bloodshed. But Young-il continues to surprise you, as he has since you met him.

Gi-hun seems as surprised by Young-il’s deferment as you are, though he doesn’t speak on it. You can see him trying to work it out in his head before finally giving up. “Then… I’ll take jegi.”

The decisions are made just in time for the next round of teams to start playing. You can’t make out the team on the opposite end of the room, but you recognize one of the players on your side – Hyun-ju. She’s teamed up with several others you haven’t spoken to yet, but the mother player and her son are with her. That’s good. They all seem to have a good head on their shoulders and while you aren’t happy that Hyun-ju voted O, you don’t want her to die either. You end up rooting for her louder than any of the others on her team.

It's a close call. The woman playing spinning top makes several mistakes when it’s her turn and it very nearly costs the entire team their lives. There are several stretches of awful, agonizing seconds where you forget to breathe. So many people have already died today. You don’t want Hyun-ju to die, you don’t want her team to die. You want to believe there’s even the slightest glimmer of hope for the rest of you.

They make it to jegi. Everyone turns around. There are only seconds left on the clock. You can’t look. You can’t bear to watch their bodies get riddled with bullets. Everyone around you is shouting and jumping, and then the clock runs out and there’s no gunfire, no bullets, no blood sprayed across the rainbow track.

You open your eyes to see one of the soldiers unlocking the restraints on Hyun-ju’s ankle. And then you feel Dae-ho jerking you by the shoulder and spinning you around so he can hug you. They’re alive. Jun-hee looks up at you with the truest smile you’ve seen on her yet. You don’t realize until your eyes start to sting that you’re crying.

They’re alive. There’s hope!

Things don’t seem so bleak after that. More players die, yes, but more players survive too. You have to keep your chin up so you don’t fall back into your despair. Despair won’t keep you alive. You and Dae-ho huddle together at one point so he can practice his gonggi skills. Jun-hee sits quietly beside you both with a hand on her stomach, content to watch you both. You try to strike up a casual conversation with them, something to draw your minds away from the dwindling player numbers, but your heart isn’t really in it. Neither is theirs. You’re all too preoccupied to care that much.

When he takes a moment to think on it, In-ho is genuinely surprised to realize that he’s enjoying himself. When another team wins, the celebration is contagious. More than once has he found himself grasping at Gi-hun’s shoulder, his mouth cracked open to laugh and shout, his heart pounding with the joy of community and the relief of hope.

Hope.

He sees it on your face as clear as day. As often as he has found himself cheering and clinging to Gi-hun, he has felt you do the same to him. Both of them, in fact. Your smile has seared itself into his brain, your hands have clutched at his jacket and Gi-hun’s shoulder, and In-ho has found himself truly lost to the rush of it all.

The Games hadn’t been like this when he had been the victor. There was no camaraderie in the arenas he’d spilled blood in. Hope was a fleeting thing for him even then. He’s amazed at just how much can change in the span of a few years, aided by the illusion of friendship.

Jung-bae’s voice calls across the courtyard, then, drawing the entire team’s attention. “Hey!” He lifts his arm high in the air as one of the soldiers latches his ankle in place. “We'll see you again at the finish line!”

In-ho very highly doubts that.

“Yes!” cries Dae-ho, a bit too loudly for his tastes. It makes his ear ring. “We'll see each other again!”

“Gi-hun-a!”

In-ho can feel Gi-hun’s body go tense against his, his shoulders suddenly rigid as he smiles bittersweetly at his friend. In-ho already knows what he’s thinking; likely, it’s the very thought he’d had when faced with the possibility of being separated from you – that he can’t control the outcome of the game if you’re out of his reach.

For the sake of the game, though, he pretends to care. “I believe in our team,” he says as Dae-ho loops one arm in his and Gi-hun does the same with the other. He smiles. “Both our teams. Plus, we have the previous winner with us.”

Suddenly, you lean forward and gesture frantically to get his and Gi-hun’s attention. “Let’s not rush ourselves, okay? If we try walking too fast, we’ll trip and fall and that’ll waste time. Yeah?”

In-ho finds himself nodding. He finds that his smile is a touch more genuine. “Good plan,” he nods, and Gi-hun is quick to agree.

One of the soldiers raises their pistol in the air. In-ho’s heart gets caught somewhere between his stomach and his shoes.

Bang!

Ddakji comes first. The girl gets it on her first try and he’s elated. He swallows up the rush of adrenaline that her success brings and goes blindly chasing for more, his vision tunneling around the stone you’re meant to throw.

“Take your time.” He doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t plan or rehearse it, it just comes out of him as naturally as anything else might.

Dae-ho nods eagerly beside you. He’s wringing his hands as he tilts out of your way, pressing his shoulder against In-ho’s. (Strangely, he finds he doesn’t mind it.) “Yes! Deep breaths, [___]! You’ve got this!”

But you’re already waving your free hand in his direction. “Ah, quiet, quiet! Let me think!”

The arena falls quiet save for the thundering of In-ho’s pulse and the steady, measured pace of your exhalations. You lower yourself into a partial crouch, feet wide, elbow out, and your lips parted. One second ticks by. Then another. Your shoulders rise and fall with another deep breath and then–

The intercom blazes to life. “Fail.”

Shit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay! We still have time!” Gi-hun exclaims. He’s pointing wildly at the clock and In-ho is grateful for it because it reminds him of where he is, who he is. Not even a full minute has passed yet. Everything’s going to be fine.

It takes about fifteen seconds to retrieve the stone and march back to the starting point. One minute gone, four minutes to go. He might be a bit nervous, but he isn’t truly worried. A lot can happen in four minutes. And besides, he gets a rare chance to study you now. Watching you calculate your next move, cataloging the distance between yourself and the target stone, hefting the weight of the other rock in your hand as you think – it’s exhilarating.

You’re about to throw again when his eyes drop and he practically lurches forward, almost pulling everyone off balance so he can swing his arm out in front of you. “[___], your feet!”

You were standing directly on the line. It would have disqualified your throw and wasted even more time. Self-preservation. Survival instinct. That’s all it is. So why does he get such a buzz from wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t said anything at all? How your face might have contorted when you suddenly realized you’d doomed your entire team?

He loses the opportunity to know for sure when both stones go tumbling top over bottom and the soldier for this station raises their arms overhead. “Pass.” Even so, he cheers just as emphatically as everyone else.

They march steadily on. The entire team drops into a crouch. You and the pregnant girl lean into one another and In-ho does the same on Dae-ho’s other side. His knee knocks against Gi-hun’s and rather than pull away, he embraces it. Camaraderie. Fellowship. Hope. It’s as thrilling to embrace them once more as it is to level a semiautomatic at a traitor’s head and squeeze the trigger.

Dae-ho rubs his hands together. His fingers are deft, his body light, and in seconds – seconds – he’s flawlessly performed each round of gonggi and elevated them to the next part of the challenge. In-ho cheers for that too, and it’s the truest thrill he’s felt in years.

Spirits are high as they round the track. He can hear you and Gi-hun chanting in time, can hear Dae-ho’s excitable mutterings. He can even feel himself smiling again. Apart from your initial slip-up, things are going perfectly and there’s still almost three minutes left on the clock. It’s just such a shame that the VIPs crave a bit of excitement, isn’t it?

The twine is slick with blood and sweat when he picks it up. The top itself is slightly dented along the edge and its lower point dulled after too many landings, but it’s still useable. He had ensured as much himself just last night, but the others don’t know that. As far as any of them know, Young-il could be horrific at spinning top. Young-il could be the one to get them all killed.

He transfers the top into his non-dominant hand and with a flick of his wrist, the top goes sprawling onto its side.

Gi-hun squeezes his arm amicably. “It’s alright. We still have time, Young-il-ssi. Everyone! One, two, one, two, one–”

He restrings the top, stopping only to spare the timer a glance. Nearing the two minute mark, which means he has enough time for one more delay, maybe two if he’s fast enough. He pushes Gi-hun out of the way – rather nicely, actually, all things considered – and positions himself accordingly. He doesn’t even mean to toss it backwards like that.

“Shit, I’m sorry–”

“Ah, it’s okay,” Gi-hun mutters, even though it’s not, even though his voice is wracked with tremors.

He smiles when he hears your voice, how you’re trying to offer him a bit of encouragement but it falls flat because you don’t think he can do it. Because you’re afraid. Because you believe more in Gi-hun than you do in him.

That’s alright, he thinks. Assuming he doesn’t get you killed in the next two minutes – and he knows he won’t because he’s planned for that too – he’ll be able to teach you a decent lesson in patience and faith.

A minute thirty. He has time enough.

In-ho blinks dejectedly at the top in his hands. His heart is caught in his throat. Even when he screams, even when he slaps himself so hard that it makes his ears ring, it sits there like a lump of food that refuses to go down. And he chases that feeling too, allows the dread to settle in his stomach and run cold through his veins.

“You goddamn idiot! You fucking idiot! What’s wrong with you, huh?”

Voices are clamoring over one another. Hands are scrambling and bodies are leaning away. The timer ticks down another few seconds and In-ho fights the urge to smile because there you are. Eyes wider than ever before, your mouth and brows puckered with concern as you reach across Dae-ho’s body and try to soothe him. Gi-hun beats you to it, of course, but he gets what he wants in the end.

“Pass.”

He’s never found jegi nearly as interesting before as he does now. He doesn’t know where to look. He wants to capture it all, every fleeting micro expression and frantic breath, every tense muscle and colorful swing of the jegi. The last non-adrenalined, partially composed piece of his brain that still functions notes the idea of rewatching the game footage once he returns to his apartment. And then he’s not really thinking of anything logical or composed at all because he’s shooting his foot out to save the day, to save his own life (he doesn’t need to), your life (he doesn’t need to), to save Gi-hun, Dae-ho, and the pregnant girl’s lives (he doesn’t need to, but he does it anyway).

“Pass.”

The finish line comes into sight, a pink band that breaks across his chest. How strange to think that such an insignificant thing can make the difference between life and death. How strange to find himself crying out in the embrace of a friend and finally, finally, feeling alive.

And then he sees that flash of pink in the distance. Guns raised, legs stanced. He meets Park Jung-bae’s eyes for a fleeting moment before the gunfire starts, and then the only thing he can hear is Gi-hun’s throat ripped raw from the force of his own grief.

#seong gi hun x reader #gi hun x reader #hwang in ho x reader #in ho x reader #squid game #my fics

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soangelbaby · 22 hours ago

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ৎ୭ tainted by you ; clark kent

“c’mon, nobody’s gonna catch us,” clark prodded, his hands sliding up your hips, twirling his fingers into the waistband of your denim skirt as he pushed you back against the cold brick of the alleyway wall, “you know i could get us out of here before they’d even register what was happening.” his voice low, leaning into the crook of your neck, his tongue grazing over the warm skin before sinking his teeth into it. you yelped at the contact, your arms shooting up to push at his chest, your stomach churning, “clark! what the hell was that?” you whined out, but clark’s grip was firm, and he didn’t even bother to pull away. his mouth still working on you, his hands slid up your denim skirt, it bunching up at your hips as he gripped your ass harshly and pulled you flush against him.

your head tipped back as your held back a moan of pleasure and pain, your acrylic nails tugging his hair, and he groaned against your skin. “there ya go baby, gonna let me take care of you right?” clark’s fingers looped around your panties yanking them down, your hands shot to push his wrist away—still attempting to hold onto any sense of control over this moment, but you knew it was useless. “clark—we shouldn’t—” but he cut you off by smashing his lips onto yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth with ease, forcing you open for him. you whimpered into his mouth, feeling him plunge to fingers inside your throbbing pussy, clark’s lips traveled down your jaw and behind your ear, “you tell me no but you’re so wet for me, why is that?” he bites down on your earlobe, his tongue gliding over the cartilage, placing sloppy kisses everywhere. you can’t help but moan at the feeling, melting into him, he knew your body, exactly where to place his lips, his hands, every single spot, like it was specifically designed for him to unravel.

your body rocked against the brick wall, his fingers working so fast in and out of you, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your clit. you arched into him, feeling the tightness build your stomach, “cl-clark m’ gonna—” you barely made out, your body glitching against him, before squirting all over his fingers, staining his grey sweatpants, drops trickling down onto the pavement. clark’s fingers barely slowed down, “fuck baby, that was so hot,” he groans, “such a dirty girl, ruining my clothes in this damn alleyway, not as innocent as you pretend to be hm?” his fingers slide out of you, reaching into his sweats and tugging his dick out. you can barely speak, still trying to catch your breath from the action that just transpired. but clark’s moving fast—too fast for you to catch up, “wait-wait-slow down” you pant, pushing at his chest. clark doesn’t listen, his tip sliding in between your slit, already coating himself in your wetness, “you want me to slow down? you think you have a say in this?” he growls, slipping into you, raw and rough, feeling the intense stretch of him between your walls.

you squeal loudly trying to back away him, moving up the wall. clark slaps your face, your head whipping to the side, cheek stinging hot, anger welling up inside you—and even more so, fear as you looked into his eyes, vision blurry through your tears, “stupid slut, you must wanna get caught, making noises like that” clark bites at your jaw, before licking down your neck, “say my name then, tell em’ who’s got you folded up like this.” shaking your head, you clench around him, still pulsating from your last orgasm, your fingers lock in his hair, “bitch, i said say it.” he slaps your ass, causing you to jerk forward, his tip slamming against your cervix, you bit down on your lip, hands tightening around his neck, “f-fuck clark, please” you gasp out, he rests his forehead on yours, grunting as he speeds up, his eyes locked on yours, “louder.” clark demands, and you gasp, feeling the tightness in your stomach once again, your eyes dare to roll back but you stay focused, for your sake, you can’t bare another harsh slap.

“yes—fuck clark—im so close,” you moan uncontrollably, your head tipping back hitting the brick wall repeatedly, your grip on him slips, lazily clawing at his shoulders, clark’s ears twitch, and he smirks at you “people are coming. but you’re gonna cum on my dick anyway, right slut?” you nod weakly, halfway feeling ashamed, the other half craving the humiliation, loving how he makes a fool out of you, being so desperate and needy for him. it’s pathetic, you know, but you don’t care, you need him, and he wasn’t afraid to let everyone else know it. just then, you felt his warm cum shoot into you, your eyes squeezing shut, trembling against him, throaty moans escaping both of your mouths as he collapses on top of you, chest presses hard against yours, still holding you up against the wall. and you hadn’t even realized you had squirted again on him, completely drenching his sweats, puddles on the pavement around you. you fought to catch your breath, the group of people passing by the alleyway, in deep conversation, completely oblivious to what was happening underneath these red lights.

“see what happens when you’re good for me? so where are we thinking next? the mall? movies?”

★ rini’s note ; spoiling my red kryptonite clark lovers today huh?? i can’t get enough of him—too hot to handle, but he’s got me wrapped around his finger. & ik he’s just such a freak like i just know it 💔 srry ab any typos grr i rush but they will be fixed in due time <3

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im-so-normal-iswear · 3 days ago

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Can you do an Isekaid child reader who's a cat Mobius with platonic yandere sonic, Amy and tails? 🥹👉👈 I was reading holorform2009's post, it was so damn delicious. And I loved the fact that Isekaid reader is based on scraps from dandy world. And I also liked your writings too!

A/n: holorform is a great mutual

Yandere Sonic, Amy & Tails x Isekai’d Child Reader

Platonic

Your first memory here is... static. Trying to remember it was the same as trying to gather sand in your hands, it just slipped past you. One moment, you were somewhere else, a place of light and strange voices. Then, nothing.

Now, you're here. In a world of blue skies and rolling hills, staring up at a trio of strangers who look at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

"Whoa, little buddy, you okay?" The blue one, Sonic, crouches in front of you, ears twitching forward trying to hear you better. His voice is casual, but hes careful in the way he speaks, like he's trying not to spook you.

Amy, the pink one, is already kneeling beside you, gloved hands hovering like she wants to scoop you up. "They look so lost, Sonic! Poor kid... Where did you come from?"

You tell them your name, one of the onky things you *can* remember, everything else a blur.

"Thats fine Y/N, we'll help you get back to wherever you cane from in no time!"

Tails observes you, he seems to have some sort of device in his hands he keeps looking back at hefore squinting his eyes at you again. "huh, it seems like there was some big burst of energy from where they are!"

Sonic looked back at you reachibg out a hand for you to take"Don't worry, we'll help you figure this out," he declares, as here l helps you up.

Amy beams at you, her enthusiasm palpable.

"You're safe with us now! We'll take care of you," she promises, her voice gentle.

Tails nods in agreement, already brainstorming solutions. "We should head back to my workshop. I have equipment there that might help us understand your situation better."

They guided you through the hills and stretching scenery until they made it to his workshop.

At the workshop, he ran various test, his fascination with your form evident. Sonic and Amy hover nearby, their protective gazes never leaving you.

"You're truly unique," Tails remarks, his eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and something else you can't quite place.

Days turn into weeks as you adjust to life in this new world. Sonic, Amy, and Tails rarely leave your side, their devotion unwavering. They shower you with attention, always eager to assist you, but their overprotectiveness becomes stifling.

One evening, as you sit by a tranquil lake, Sonic approaches, his usual carefree demeanor replaced with a somber expression.

"Hey, I know this is all new for you," he begins, sitting beside you. "But we care about you, a lot. We just want to keep you safe."

Before you can respond, Amy appears, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"You're like family to us now," she cradled your face. "Please, don't ever think of leaving."

"Seriously." Tails stated, his voice firm.

Their words weigh heavily on you. While their affection is genuine, there's an underlying possessiveness that makes you uneasy. Their love had good intentions, but it was becoming obsessive.

As days pass, their behavior becomes more controlling. They insist on knowing your every move, discouraging you from interacting with others. The once warm and welcoming environment now feels like a gilded cage.

One night, the moon shone overhead, full And bright. You decided eniygh was enough. You need to reclaim your freedom, to find a way back to your world. But escaping their watchful eyes woudn't be easy.

Gathering your resolve, you waited for the right moment, a moment when no one was watching, a moment where they weren't practically smothering you with worry.

But the moment you try to leave, the moment you so much as hint at being anywhere but here.

One of them is already in front of you. Blocking your path.

"Whoa there. Where d'ya think you're goin'?"

…You're not sure.

But wherever it is, you get the feeling they won't let you reach it.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic the hedgehog x reader #sonic x reader #yandere sonic the hedgehog #yandere amy rose x reader #yandere amy #yandere sonic the hedgehog x reader #yandere tails #yandere tails the fox

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ghostinripley · 2 days ago

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Alone time

jey uso x rhea ripley

AN: the fic was written after last week's raw before the rumble. Jey won RAHHH

Warnings: making out

Rhea and Jey were finally alone in the locker room after their separate segments tonight on Raw. Rhea's title lies on the table beside the couch where she straddles Jey during their make-out session. Jey's hands found their way to her hips, and Rhea's hands traveled over the tattoos on his chest under his white jacket.

The kiss deepened, a slow, sensual dance of tongues and teeth. Jey gently sucked on her bottom lip, She felt Jey’s hands grip her hips tighter as a low groan escaped his throat, She moaned softly in response before pulling away and smiling down at him.

"I'm glad we could find time for this." Rhea says still rubbing his chest. "Y'know I always got time for you girl," he says before leaning in and pecking her lips and she smiles into the kiss."I know it's just that everything has been so busy, especially with the rumble around the corner." She says as Jey's thumb caresses her thigh.

"I'm very biased but you're my pick to win the Rumble." She says. "I'mma win it then I'm getting the strap at Mania." He says before kissing her again. "mhmm my future world champion." she hums against his lips loving the confidence in his voice. "Yeah you like that?" he asks. "Mhmmm." she nods and he smiles.

The sound of Jimmy clearing his throat brings both of their attentions to the door. "here y'all freaky asses go." Jimmy says before walking into the locker room. Jey rolled his eyes. "we not even doing nothing." Jey says and Rhea chuckles. "right…" Naomi says as she walks into the room to get her bags. "damn I can't have some alone time with my girl." he asks. Naomi chuckles. "not when y'all tryna be freaky in the locker room." Naomi says causing rhea to chuckle.

Jey smacks his lips. "Man, what do y'all want?" Jimmy laughs before he speaks. "we wanted to see if y'all were coming to Waffle House with us tonight." Jey looks at Rhea for confirmation. She nods. "Yeet." Jey says and they both stand up. Jimmy rolls his eyes and Naomi giggles. Rhea grabs her title as they all head out of the locker room towards the exit of the arena.

#jey uso #rhea ripley #jhea

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kashverse · 3 days ago

Note

nerd gojo fawning over nerd reader

kinda went crazy with this one….nerd gojo in the 90's….naia u really bring out the best in me💗

gojo adjusts his round, too-big glasses—thick enough to magnify his already ridiculous blue eyes—and takes a deep breath. he runs through his mental calculations one more time.

"wonderwall" equation for max effectiveness:

optimal vocal projection: 85 decibels (±5dB)

ideal tempo: 87 BPM (±3 BPM for emotional effect)

nasal twang coefficient: moderately high

statistical probability of rejection: 12.3% (adjusted for charm bonus)

potential embarrassment level: catastrophic

this is fine. standing in front of your house, decked out in a windbreaker that is as violently neon as it is unnecessary for the mild weather, he strums an imaginary guitar and belts out:

"today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you~"

he pauses, adjusting his stance. “hmm. no, no, that was flat. i need to increase my pitch by 1.3 semitones. let’s try that again.”

he clears his throat and goes again, this time making sure to align his vibrato with the harmonic frequency of maximum emotional resonance (as determined by extensive research conducted via rolling stone magazine and a questionable conversation with nanami, who muttered something about 'a disaster' before walking away), kicking the dirt for dramatic effect, and goes again—this time leaning into the nasally britpop vocals hard.

"by now, you shoulda somehow realized what you gotta do~"

he glances at your window. no movement. he’s losing you. quick, gojo, pivot.

“statistically speaking,” he calls out, adjusting his glasses, “your chances of experiencing a more mathematically perfect prom night are significantly higher if you go with me. i have prepared a powerpoint.” he gestures at the projector he has somehow set up on your front lawn.

your door creaks open. you're standing there, arms crossed, a mixture of amusement and secondhand embarrassment etched on your face.

“satoru.”

he straightens. “yes, my beloved quadratic equation?” you blink. “what the hell is happening right now.”

“romance,” he says, dead serious. “but also: physics.”

"oh my god—"

“listen, babe, i crunched the numbers. we’re talking optimal slow dance potential, prime photo booth placement, minimum cringe risk—”

“minimum cringe?” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “you’re standing on my lawn singing oasis like a dork.” gojo grins. “yeah, but, like, in an endearing way.”

“is that why you’ve been calculating the acoustic properties of your own voice for the last ten minutes?”

gojo gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “you noticed? babe. we really are meant to be.”

you stare. he stares back.

“…so, prom?” he asks, hopeful. you sigh, rubbing your temples before nodding.

he fist-pumps so hard he nearly dislocates his shoulder. “YES! the experiment was a success!”

“there was an experiment?”

“of course! and the hypothesis was that gojo satoru is the most dateable nerd this side of the millennium!”

“…and the conclusion?”

“that you are super hot and super smart, and i am also a genius.”

you shake your head, unable to fight the grin tugging at your lips. maybe prom night with a human calculator wouldn’t be so bad.

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heyits481 · 1 day ago

Text

Lando’s smile drops a bit when he sees the man approaching, knowing he’ll want a picture with the both of them. The restaurant is small, nothing too fancy, and he’d naively hoped that maybe they would be able to finish their meal and enjoy the short drive back to the hotel without being bothered. This close to Paul Ricard, Lando supposes he shouldn’t have been so optimistic.

“Pardon, you two drive the race cars, no?” The French accent is so thick Lando can hardly understand the man, but tries to paste on a grin in response.

He hopes Oscar understands. Thinks that he will. It’s not like Lando’s ashamed of being seen out getting dinner with Oscar, or anything. Not like he’s embarrassed of having him as a teammate, or friend really, if Lando’s being honest with himself. It’s just that he hates sharing everything. He knows the picture will get posted somewhere. Hates that he can’t have this be just for him.

Oscar smiles at the man politely, hands messing with the glass of water in front of him. Lando watches a bead of condensation drip down the side. “Yeah, sure do.” Lando can almost feel Oscar’s gaze move to him, but he keeps his own firmly planted on the tablecloth. Picks at the hem of it under the table.

“Did you want, um-” he flops his right hand toward the man’s phone. Doesn’t know why he’s asking, of course the man wants a photo.

Jon’s told him before that he can always tell people no, that he’s not obligated to anything, if he doesn’t want to. But then Jon’s not the one being asked, not having to face the pleading eyes, the demanding tones, the dropped shoulders that followed the few times he had declined.

The man crouches down slightly as he nods, hand coming up, phone at the ready. Lando tries to avoid looking at himself in frame, looks at the man’s reflection instead, tries to mimic the bright smile with his own face.

The sound of a shutter. Lando resists rolling his eyes, he’s never understood old people’s obsession with having their phone volume on full blast. The man squeezes his shoulder. “Ah merci, merci, I will have to send to my daughter, she adores you!”

Lando lets himself zone out a bit while the man repeats the process with Oscar. Focuses back just in time to tell the man to thank his daughter for being a supporter before watching him walk back to his own table.

Oscar doesn’t say anything for a bit, but once again Lando can feel him watching. Lando pushes his food around his plate under the guise of eating. Shivers slightly when he accidentally scrapes his fork across the porcelain. Oscar clears his throat. “You ok mate?”

Pushing the sleeves of his sweater up his arms Lando shrugs, doesn’t quite know how to say “I want to keep you just for me,” in a way that doesn’t sound creepy and possessive and not at all how he should feel about his teammate. Decides to go with, “Yeah, I’m fine.” instead.

Oscar doesn’t look convinced, but lets it slide, keeping up a polite stream of conversation about how the tires they were testing felt, how they spent their break, random stuff that Lando only half listens to. It’s on the drive back to the hotel that Oscar brings it up again.

“Hey. What’s the matter?” His tone doesn’t leave much room for discussion and Lando’s hands begin to sweat slightly where they’re gripping the steering wheel. He hums. “Nothing’s the matter.” He hopes Oscar doesn’t notice the way his knuckles whiten around the wheel.

He hears Oscar shift in his seat slightly. “It’s just, ever since that guy-” Lando shakes his head, interrupting. “Osc. I’m fine.” He glances over quickly before looking back to the road. Indicates his turn into the hotel car park. “Honestly.” Oscar waits until he pulls into a spot to speak again, and Lando now has no reason to not turn and look at him.

Oscar is twisted slightly in his seat, hands resting on his thighs. The dim lights of the car park cast a slight glow against his profile. Lando wants to trace the line of Oscar’s jaw.

“Is it because we were out at dinner? And you didn’t want people to see you with me?” There’s a slight flush under his eyes as he says it.

Lando shakes his head, turning his body more toward Oscar, hand reaching out before he can stop himself. He freezes when it’s inches away from Oscar’s neck. “Shit. No- I- I mean yes, but not because of you, I just hate that there’s no privacy, or that it couldn’t be just me and you having dinner, you know? It’s not like I want to hide you.” When he realizes what he’s said Lando’s eyes go wide. “Not saying your mine to hide-”

Oscar’s blush deepens, but he’s smiling now. Not like the one he’d given at the restaurant, but genuine this time. The type of smile Lando is used to being on the receiving end of. “I get it, you know I feel the same.”

And Lando does know. Oscar’s always been a private person. It had taken a month for him to mention breaking up with his girlfriend to Lando, let alone the rest of the world.

Lando lets out a breath, the puff of air ruffling Oscar’s bangs. He didn’t realize he had leaned so close to him. Lando shifts away slightly, dropping his hand to the fiddle with the gear shift.

“I wouldn’t mind though.”

Oscar is almost whispering. His eyes on his own lap now. Lando feels the way his own eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Wouldn’t mind what? Not having privacy?” Oscar’s head shakes, hair soft across his forehead.

“Being yours.”

Lando feels like his skin is on fire. It’s overwhelming how quickly his brain flashes the images before him- Oscar letting him touch, stretching Oscar out over the bed, tracing over his pale skin with his tongue, the tight feeling of Oscar around him, Oscar under him gasping out his name.

He presses his legs together. “Oscar don’t say- fuck- don’t say that if you don’t-” Oscar’s eyes snap up to meet Lando’s. “I do mean it.” His tone is bold, eyes dark like he’s daring Lando to question him.

There’s a pause and then Lando can’t stop himself from reaching out, one hand twisting into the front of Oscar’s shirt, the other gently brushing his hair back, Lando holding his breath as the soft strands glide between his fingers.

“Osc. You’d let me? Like, I could- you’d be mine?” Lando knows he’s not really making sense, but his tongue feels cottony and dry. He wants to wet it in Oscar’s mouth.

Oscar’s pupils are huge, head tilted back slightly as Lando leans over him. Lando bushes his thumb across Oscar’s temple. Watches Oscar’s eyes dart down to Lando’s lips as he whispers, “Yeah. I want you to.” Lando’s not sure if Oscar even knows what he’s agreeing to, but then Oscar leans forward, mouth brushing against Lando’s. “Want to be yours.”

#landoscar #getting together #how do you tell your homie that you want to keep him just for you forever but not in a creepy way #wrote one angsty Drabble but am now back to my normal self

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ashblooddragons · 2 days ago

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This Mysterious Love (Chapter 9/?)

Series Masterlist

Daemons pov

I anxiously wait for the council meeting to begin. This is the earliest I ever been to one of these blasted meetings but Viserys sent a note saying today would be the day I truly am free of my blasted Bronze Bitch.

I'm already on my third glass of wine, the sweet tang of the honeyed wine hits my tongue. Though with each sip I find instead of soothing my nerves it is amplifying them. I keep wondering if Viserys changed his mind, perhaps burned the annulment papers so there would never be proof of them. Perhaps he changed my wife's mind. Too many possibilities run through my mind for me to truly celebrate.

I whip my head towards the door when they creak open only to find Otto walk in shutting the doors behind him.

I see the look of shock wash over his face before he quickly covers it with his cold mask once more.

“My Prince, what a surprise to see you here so early.” He says as he sets so papers on the table before taking a pot of ink and a quill that seems to be on its last legs out of his pocket.

I presume he must be doing last minute paperwork before the meeting begins. Most likely things my brother should've done but neglected in favor of his idiot sculpture of Old Valyria.

“Yes well I hear good news is to be spoken at this one. News worth my while for once.” I respond with a cocky grin that only deepens when I notice his scowl at my words.

“You are the Prince, the heir until the King deems otherwise or has a son. You should be here no matter what is spoken. Do you think I want to be here? I could be in my chambers reading poetry or philosophy with a glass of amber gold at my side. But I am here because it is my duty to the realm.”

I can't help but roll my eyes. Viserys has never seen me as his heir, he would rather have none than me. Seven hells he even made a deal so my first born son will sit the throne. Not me, never me.

“Yes, well do tell my brother that for me. He doesn't care if I'm here, in fact he seems to prefer it if I were not.” I respond and from the sad sigh Otto releases I know I'm right.

“I cannot speak for your brother's thoughts. But I can speak of what I've observed. He wants you to be…compliant to his demands. He wants to seem strong in charge, even though you and I both know that isn't the case.” He says stopping when I let out a snort at the thought of Viserys seeming strong and capable. “And when you are in the room, the Lords turn to you. The mind of a warrior is ever helpful when one house declares war against the other. You know the people of Kingslanding and their needs, compassionate to those in need. Your brother is neither of those things. And seeing you have authority in a situation that he should be the powerful one in is well, frustrating to say the least.”

I freeze at his words, trying to find any jest in them only to find nothing but truth.

“And how do you know this so well?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

“You seem to forget I myself am a second son. And yet I have more authority in all the Realms than my brother does even in our house. When I would visit he would be anything but kind. A snide comment here and a cruel look there. All because of one thing, the people turned to me for guidance instead of him. I am the Hand, it is only natural for them to want to know my opinion on matters. But my brother didn't see it that way. He saw his little brother try and take what is rightfully his. That is one of the many reasons I don't visit Oldtown anymore, that and too many memories.” He says before crumpling a paper and throwing it into the hearth.

It is unsettling to realize I have more in common with this snake than I ever thought. I knew we were both ambitious but to hear him speak the same story I have went through so many times only for it not to be mine but his. Well it leaves a pit in my stomach.

But I then pick up his last words. ‘That and too many memories’. And there is only one clear answer. His wife. And I realize that they married in the Starry Sept, they had all their children in Oldtown, and the day she died he was preparing to visit Oldtown in hopes of his wife's health improving. No wonder he doesn't want to visit, there truly are too many memories.

I go to speak when the doors open once more and the chatter of the other councilman fills the room. I watch as Lord Corlys and Lord Lyonal whisper amongst each other, I know Lord Strong is helping Colrys with having Laena become Queen though as far as I'm aware, that will never happen.

And just when they all are about to sit my brother enters the room Rhaenyra grumbling beside him. From the scowl on his face I assume he had to drag her here again.

“My Lords, good morrow.” Viserys says as we all stand in a show of respect. I never quite understood this rule but I know it will get me in more trouble than it's worth to stay seated.

“Your Grace.” They all say as one with a bow of their heads.

I wonder how often they say this for them to be so uninformed. Perhaps I should be here more often. I think before taking my seat eyeing my brother for the annulment papers.

“You said you had news on your decision for your heir, Your Grace?” Lord Corlys speaks with a curious look in his eye.

My brother shifts in his seat like a toddler about to be scolded. Gods we picked him to rule the seven Kingdoms. I think with a exasperated sigh.

“Uh, yes. Though I know it's an unorthodox plan it is the one that will be set.” He starts before setting my annulment papers on the table. I can tell he has signed it for no one has worse handwriting than my brother. I swear a drunk monkey would do better.

“And what is this unorthodox plan, Your Grace?” Lord Beesbury asks as he shuffles his papers around taking in each expense my brother has demanded, more than likely for some feast or tourney.

“As you all can see I have annulled my brother's marriage to the Lady Rhea Royce.” He starts when the men gasp before Lord Lyonal reaches for the papers to inspect them.

“That you have…Your Grace.” Strong says confirming to the rest that it is true.

“What does your brother's annulment have to do with the situation with the heir?” Lord Corlys asks, holding his hand over his glass as Rhaenyra goes to pour.

You would think the girl would realize he doesn't like to drink during council meetings and yet each time he must remind her at least twice. Speaking of my niece I can see a look of anticipation in her eyes. She no doubt thinks she will be named heir instead.

“Because I do not plan to remarry.” Viserys finally says which makes the lords all erupt into chatter of how he must. “Yes! Yes, I know I should. But I just…can't, I can't remarry after feeling what I did with Aemma. I can't, I just can't.”

Some of the lords still seem upset even calculated with this news when Rhaenyra sets her hand on her Father's shoulders.

“Calm yourself.” She whispers. Before pouring more wine in his chalice.

My brother takes a moment to breathe before looking at us all again, he seems more determined “So instead of remarrying and having a son, I have decided that the first son born from my brother will be heir and King once I'm dead and gone. Hence the annulment as my brother has made it abundantly clear to this council he will never bed his ‘Bronze Bitch’.”

I can see this calms the lords, especially ones such as Corlys and Lyonal. I watch as their eyes glaze over and new plans form.

But just as I noticed the men calm I notice a certain Princess fume. Rhaenyra slams the pitcher of wine on the table staring down at her Father.

“You would have your Nephew on the throne, before your own daughter?” I can hear the hurt in her voice, and I don't think anyone can blame her. All her life she was just a daughter while Viserys chased after a son. One he would kill her Mother to have and yet that boy still didn't make it.

“It is the way of things Rhaenyra. I surpassed Rhaenys because I am a son. What would it look like to the realm and the lords who stood behind Rhaenys if I were to name you my heir? They would turn to Daemon anyways because my Father surpassed Rhaenys as well, establishing that an uncle comes before a daughter. Even King Jaehaerys surpassed his niece Aerea. This is the way of the world Rhaenyra.” Viserys says trying to reason with her but she only glares at him more. “What would you have me do? I have already decided not to marry again because you demanded it. I can not uproot the realm anymore than I have!”

The council room falls silent, deathly so. No man is willing to step in and nor would we want to. Viserys has just spoken the words they all were wondering. Why he isn't marrying is because he can't say no to his spoiled little girl.

Rhaenyra says nothing, only turns and leaves the chambers with a slam of the doors. I don’t think she realizes that waasn’t the swift and powerful exit she thought it would be, it only showed every council member that she truly isn’t fit for the role.

None speak only glaring each other's way. I know they all are judging my brother, because that is exactly what I am doing.

He is a man with all the power in the realm, and yet he can't say no to his daughter. He speaks of peace but forgets that at times for peace you must have wars. He truly is nothing but a weak man unable to deny his little girl anything.

It is Otto who initiates the meeting once more with a clear of his throat.

“Perhaps the Princess just needs a breather. Let us continue.”

Viserys nods, finally looking at the lords once more. From the way he winces he sees our judgmental looks but like always he does not speak on it. “As I was saying, because of this my brother will be in need of a wife, and the sonner the better. Does anyone have objections to this plan of action?”

Each lord stops to think for a moment when Otto finally responds. “You are right, it is unorthodoxed, but it may yet keep the realm from tearing itself apart. I see no issue with this, if you truly will never remarry.”

Though I hate that Otto is in a way trying to take this from me, I understand it. There is no point in me courting and wedding his daughter if my brother will remarry. He may say he won’t now but that doesn’t mean the desire won’t come in the future.

Viserys seems to think on this before saying once more, he will not remarry, not ever.

“Then I say this is a fine plan.” Otto says before turning towards his fellow council members.

I watch as one by one each gives a nod, if reluctantly.

“Then it is settled, this meeting is over.” Viserys says before standing and leaving so quickly I would think my brother was running.

I watch as each lord looks my way as if assessing me, I know why they want one of their daughters to be my wife. Too bad my Little Hightower has already taken that spot for herself, even if she doesn't know it yet.

I walk quickly through the market square holding a bouquet of flowers. Thankfully I didn't need to find that maid as I quickly asked the Lord Hand what his daughters favorite flowers are.

I could see the slight joy cross his face when I did, it was clear his daughter has yet to speak to him of our little trip to the Dragonpit.

“Forget me not, and gardenias. Preferably together but likes them both separate as well.”

Though at first I thought it an odd pairing, the small blue clusters pair perfectly with the soft white petals of the gardenias.and for some reason it reminds me of her, maybe because she is always in such soft and light colored dresses. So in contrast to my niece who prefers deep rich fabrics.

Those two truly are an odd pair. I think as I walk up the steps to the Red Keep.

I don't miss the way Lords whisper to their daughters, normal the way after those same girls push their cleavage down so their busts practically fall out of the dress. It's truly a pathetic though amusing sight. For these Father's take pride in their most pious daughters, but as soon as a Prince is available to wed then they are them harlots.

Some of these ladies go as far as to pretend to drop something only to bend over showing their busts before slowly rising again. I would perhaps think it an accident if it weren't for the fact these ladies make sure to stare right at me.

Yet again, pathetic to say the least of these Lords.

I move about the Keep looking in all the places I can think of, I even tried that damned Sept. But my Little Hightower seems to have disappeared.

I at times wonder if I should ask a passing maid but decide I haven't stooped that low. I finally decide to call it a day when the sun starts setting.

I will just have to give the flowers to her on the morrow. I think with a frown as I climb the steps towards my chambers.

But just as I'm about to reach the top of the stairs do I hear someone muttering to themselves.

“Just tell him you can't continue, it's that simple.”

I know the voice instantly, the softness of each word, how even when angered you can't help but smile at the sound of them. My Little Hightower is at my chamber door.

But just as that answer comes does another arise.

What does she mean by we can't continue?

And with that thought I take the final steps watching as she lifts and then drops her closed fist mumbling mumbling herself.

I can't help but think how cute it Is that she can't knock on my door without it becoming a blushing mess.

“I do believe when you want to get someone's attention it's easiest to knock on the door.” I jest with a smirk as she whirls around to face me.

“I thought–” She starts staring at me with wide doe eyes.

“I know what you thought, but while you were panicking over a closed door, I was searching for you as well.” I say walking towards as I try not to crush the bouquet when her scent of vanilla fills my lungs.

“I need to talk to you.” She says picky at her nails.

I notice how some are already raw and bleeding. I reach forward taking her hand in mine as I inspect her fingers. I swipe my thumb over them frowning when she hisses in pain.

“Well I figured that out, why else would you be at my door?” I tease reaching for her other hand when I see her start to raise towards her lips.

I can't help but smirk at how small her hands are compared to mine. But also how soft and delicate they are to my rough and calloused ones.

I watch as she blushes at the contact but then she quickly straightens her shoulders and gives me a glare trying to reach her hands from mine.

“You asked to court me, and yet you are a married man–” She starts but I quickly cut her off.

“I was a married man, the annulment went through just this morning. I have the papers if you wish to see.” I say letting go of her hands for all of a moment as I reach into my jerkin pocket handing her the finalized papers.

She quickly opens them scanning over each word and signature. Once she sees everything she needs see she folds up the papers with a sigh of relief.

“Still, you were married when you asked to court me. You could've ruined me more than I already am.”

I think over her words before nodding my head. “I must admit, when I asked I was already planning on losing my wife, one way or the other. It didn't matter much to me, I figured it didn't to you either when you came.” I say with a nonchalant shrug.

She only sighs, shaking her head moving to move past me and down the steps when I catch her arm.

“Though if you want an apology, then here it is. I'm sorry I made you feel misled or used. It wasn't my intention. And though this isn't what they were meant for I suppose they can work as an apology gift.” I say holding out the bouquet for her.

She stares at them wide eyed before tentatively taking them into her hands admiring them.

“How did you know these were my favorites?” She asks, running her fingers along the soft petals.

I bite the inside of my cheek deciding if I should be honest or not. It isn't a hard choice, I'm not going to make a fool of myself.

“Lucky guess I suppose.”

I can tell she doesn't believe me, and I don't blame her. I wouldn't believe me either. But she is better than I for she lets me keep my pride only nodding with a sly ‘sure’ smile.

Asshe admires the flowers I take the time to admire her. Her hair is tied up in a braid bun with thin golden thread woven in. And her dress is a light grey. But what keeps my attention is the necklace on her neck. It's the one I gave her all those moons ago.

She was most likely going to give it back, but now I think it will stay on that delicate throat. I think with a smirk.

When she looks up at me again that adorable blush has yet to leave her cheeks. “Well, now that we have everything cleared up…” She trails off too embarrassed to continue.

“Meet me in the gods woods tomorrow at midday. I will have a meal set for us.” I say as I reluctantly let go of her arm.

She smiles giving me a small curtsy before turning to leave. The faint whisper of “yes, my Prince.” barely reaches my ears as she walks down the steps smelling her apology gift.

When I enter I realize I made a mistake. I don't even know what she likes to eat!

Special thanks to my bestie @sugutoad for making the header for this fic! I swear I'd be lost without you girly!

TAGLIST: @sugutoad @ilikefelines @classicsimpforaaronwarner @sachaa-ff @mmogurl @themoonlitquill @thelastemzy @athzhowakar @fictionlurker @yn-jackson @edensfanfictionsuggestions @lady-ye @nommingonfood @dreamlandcreations @baybaybear1 @seaevans @ninihrtss @zara-zara11

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notcaring99 · 2 days ago

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Bad Decisions (Bucky Barnes x Female! Reader) Part 1/?

Warnings: Alcohol, Possible Smut, and Swearing

Ft: OG Avengers

Synopsis: You usually keep to yourself, avoiding significant social events. You are confident but never cared too much for lavish parties. After Tony and Wanda ask, more like beg, you to go to the party welcoming a new Avenger. The new Avenger is Bucky Barnes, who instantly has your attention. The others warn you of him and how getting involved is probably not best, but you feel drawn to him. May not be the best decision, but you can't help it.

A/N: I have not written fanfiction in a long while, but as I am currently stuck in my career writing, I thought I would give it a shot again.

Wanda and you have not been to any of Tony's parties. You were a bit too antisocial, and Wanda was too 'young' according to Steve. Tonight was different, though. Tonight's party was to welcome a new Avenger. You and Wanda were invited naturally, and after some pushing from Tony, you went. You both were in a corner of the party, watching as the rest of the Avengers were mingling with ease. "Great, we are outcasts," Wanda mumbled as she sipped her sparkling water.

"Well, it could be worse. I could not be allowed to drink," you tease her, making her roll her eyes at you. You bring your drink to your lips, looking around the party for someone to bring you two out of boredom. "Speaking of, where is Steve?" You ask her as you don't see the super-soldier.

"I heard the new Avenger is his friend," Wanda speaks up, making you look at her with a tilt of your head. "Before you speak a smart-ass comment, he does have a life outside of us." Wanda laughs, taking another sip of her water.

"I hate how you get into my head. Could you stay out?" you ask her, making her giggle just as you both hear a commotion. You turn around and see Wanda looking behind you. When you turn, you see Steve standing with someone who made your breath hitch in your throat.

The man was beautiful, with his stormy eyes and black hair hanging below his ear. He wore simple blue jeans, a white shirt, a leather jacket, and black boots. His eyes were darting around the room, and he avoided direct eye contact with everyone besides Steve. That is until you caught his eye, you both stared at each other for a moment till someone shouts your name.

"Y/N!" you feel a heavy hand land on your shoulder, making you look over. Thor stands there looking at you with a big smile, holding a flask in his other hand. "How are you doing?" Thor asks, making you smile at him and then at Wanda, who still looks at the man.

"I am doing alright. Do you know who the new guy is?" You ask him as you sip on your drink again. Thor looks behind you, making you glance as well. You still see Steve introduce the man to the others.

"That is soldier Bucky Barnes. He is one of Steve's friends from when he was a child." Thor tells you before taking a swig of his flask. You nod your head.

"How did he live this long? That would mean he is around 100 years old, and that man looks like he is 25 at most." You state, looking thoughtfully at Thor.

"Well, he is 106 years old. He is an ex-assassin from HYDRA." Thor says, confused at your sudden interest. You were usually one to keep to yourself, well,l besides Wanda. Thor clears his throat, drawing your attention away from the man to him. "Lady Y/N, you should know he is bad news; no one you should be interested in." Wanda chuckles behind Thor, making the two of you look at her.

"Don't you know Thor, that is how Y/N likes them? The bad boys." Wanda laughs as she takes a sip of her water. You are about to counterattack when you hear a throat being cleared. You turn around to see Steve standing before Thor with Bucky beside him.

"I hope we aren't interrupting anything," Steve states, looking at all of us as you stare at Bucky, whose eyes are already on you.

"Of course not, Steve." Thor cheers loudly. "You must be Bucky! Welcome to the team! You have probably heard of me." Thor booms before shaking Bucky's hand, which is covered by a leather glove. Bucky's eyes move from you to Thor, and his smile is awkward as the god greets him. Bucky was glancing at you as he greets Thor.

"I have God of Thunder. Thank you." Bucky smiles as Thor's hand tightens, his veins popping out more. Steve looks at you like your eyes haven't left Bucky's form.

"Wanda. Y/N. This is Bucky Barnes, the newest member of our team and my best friend." Steve introduces, and as soon as your name is said, Bucky makes eye contact. You quickly bring a smile to your face before outstretching your hand.

"Nice to meet you, Bucky. Welcome to the team," He smiles when you speak before shaking your hand.

"Thank you, Y/N." Bucky's eyes don't leave yours as Wanda approaches beside you. You notice the gaze lingering on you, so you quickly let go of his hand before looking at Wanda.

"Like Y/N said, it is lovely to meet you." Wanda nudges you with a shake of her head as her eyes drift elsewhere. You turn to see Bucky hasn't stopped looking at you.

"You two are both a part of the Avengers?" Bucky asks, not taking his eyes off of you. You smirked while you bit your lip, slightly drawing his attention to your mouth for a moment.

"Yes, we are. What intimidated by some strong women?" you ask as you take another sip. Bucky smirks, shaking his head as he takes in your whole form.

"Not at all, doll." You smile at his nickname for you. You snap out of eye contact as someone clears their throat, making you tear your eyes away, looking at Steve, Thor, and Wanda. Wanda has her eyebrows raised, making you sigh as you know she needs to talk.

"Steve, Thor, Bucky." You hold out his name a little longer than the others. "It was lovely chatting with you all. Wanda, do you want to get a refill?" You ask her, and she nods her head. You both loop your arms before smiling at the guys.

"See you around," Wanda calls out to the group before you both walk to the bar. You make sure to accentuate the way you swing your hips while you walk. When you get there, Wanda is quick to express her opinions. "I got a read on both your minds and you both are too broken for anything. You better not get involved with him." Wanda lectures, making you turn to look behind your shoulder discretely to see Bucky's eyes are on you. You turn your eyes back to Wanda, who is glaring at you.

"Wanda, he can't be that bad. He seems perfectly pieced together." You speak with a smirk as the bartender comes over. "One vodka tonic and a soda for her." You ask nicely as you feel your heart flutter. The bartender nods before you look at Wanda, who is still glaring at you.

"I am serious." She states, and you nod your head. The bartender sets the drink in front of you, and you take it, turning your back and leaning on the bar to look out at the crowd.

"It is already too late," You tell her as you lock eyes with him before winking at him, making him smirk deeper as Steve talks with him.

"I know," Wanda mumbles, chugging your drink.

"Hey!" You accuse, making her sigh at you.

"Helps numb the brain, and I can't hear your thoughts about him anymore. Nasty," She states, disgusted, making you glare at her as you return to the bar.

"Fine. Bartender!" You call out, ready to numb your own thoughts.

As everyone left the compound, the Avengers settled in the living area, where pizza sat on the coffee table. Everyone was laughing and joking around as you leaned into Wanda, who was just as intoxicated as you. You are all chatting as Wanda was watching you as you were practically eyeing Bucky the whole time. He wasn't shying away from your stare. You would catch him sometimes already looking at you. You are so wet and wanting him so badly, practically licking your lips while looking at him.

After a few minutes, you decided to go to bed as everyone was tired. "Well, this was fun," you stand up, adjusting your outfit while swaying a bit. You were feeling just a little buzzed and felt dead on your feet from the socializing. "I am going to head to bed, though." you were a bit unstable in your heels, so you swayed a bit too roughly, almost landing on the floor, but Bucky was already beside you, grabbing your arm.

"Woah there, doll," Bucky mutters, his voice a bit husky. You hum in response as you take in his cologne that fills your nose. You wanted to bury your head in his chest. "You okay there?"

"You girls are really drunk, aren't you?" Tony asks, laughing a bit as Wanda leans onto the couch with a goofy grin.

"Yess, sir," Wanda slurs before falling slowly. Steve catches her looking frustrated as you take in Bucky's scent and warmth.

"I think we made Cap mad." Wanda laughs as she leans into Steve, who huffs and looks at Bucky holding you.

"I think we did. You seem more drunk than I am, though." Wanda looks at you with a glare as you are getting more and more sober at the thought of Wanda being unsafe and drunk.

"Bucky, can you help Y/N get to her room? I'll take Wanda to hers." Steve suggests making you look up at Bucky with flirtatious eyes. Bucky looks at you in his arms, helpless. He moves his thoughts out of the gutter and looks back at Steve.

"Yeah," Bucky states before guiding you to the elevator while Steve fights with Wanda to stand up. You stand up, stumbling a little, but not as much as before. "Come on, Super Soldier. Apparently, I need a chaperone." You mumble out, making your way to the stairs. Bucky is there instantly, helping you up the stairs.

Once in the hallway, you seemed to be getting more tired. You were slowing down, so Bucky eventually had to pick you up bridal style. You are looking up at him, his eyes looking straight ahead as you study him. "You know you are really handsome?" You ask as you reach out and trace a finger along his stubble if you don't mind. He smiles down at you, catching your finger with his human arm and bringing it to his lips.

"Thank you, doll," He kisses your finger before setting it back into your lap. You sigh as he makes it to your door. You are frustrated, and you let yourself get this wasted before you can make a move on this beautiful man.

"That's me." You try to escape his arms, and he lets you. "Friday, can you open the door? " A hiccup interrupts you." Friday opens the door, bringing a smile to your face. "I love technology." You try to go in, but the lip of the doorway causes you to almost fall into the room.

"Jesus, doll." Bucky catches you by the arm, bringing you to stand before wrapping it around his shoulders. He walks you into the room, turning on the lights to see. "You are really wasted, aren't you?"

"I am not that bad, honestly. I am just exhausted." You stumble on your words as he sets you on the bed. "I was up very early this morning training with Clint. The alcohol doesn't help my exhaustion." You try to lean over to remove your heels but give up with the tiny straps with a groan.

"Here," Bucky kneels before you to take off your heels. Your breath is shaky at seeing him kneeling in front of you. Your core is level to him, but he doesn't glance up. His eyes are focused on your feet. You breathe as his cold metal fingers hold onto your ankle while his warm human fingers undo the straps.

"I love this view," You whisper, your voice raspier than usual. He looks up at you, his eyes widen slightly, but a smirk is on his lips. He doesn't break eye contact as he slips off the first heel.

"Careful darling, you can't say things like that without consequences." Bucky's words were supposed to warn you, but it heated your core more. He moves his eyes down to the heel before working on removing it.

"I can't wait to see those consequences." You whisper out to him, and he sighs, standing up as he has removed the last heel.

"Now, I may be bad news, but I won't take advantage of you." Bucky picks you up, easily bringing you to the bed's head. His touch is electricity on your skin. He helps you get into the sheets with you fully dressed.

"Who says I am not trying to take advantage of you," You slur out to realize you are genuinely more drunk than you think as he pulls the comforter up to your chest. "Never mind, you are right, but my words are true." He chuckles as you settle into your bed.

"Goodnight," Bucky says, leaning close to your forehead as your eyes flutter closed. At the last minute, he moves away and leaves you alone.

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barns x reader #bucky x reader #avengers imagines #avengers x reader #avengers #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #bucky barnes

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fandomsandflyingstingrays · 1 day ago

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The dialogue for this came to me out of nowhere while I was trying to fall asleep last night and I knew I had to write it, so here's my take on Circe meeting Penelope

“Spit it out, Hermes.”

A chuckle from the treetops was the only indication Circe got that the god had heard her. “Tired of my company already?”

“Always.”

“Hmm. No accounting for taste.” Hermes deigned to descend from the treetops at last, his winged sandals bringing him to hover just above the ground. “But since you insist, I came to give you a warning.”

Circe stiffened.

“A ship will be arriving shortly.”

She stood, dropping her basket of herbs.

“It’s friendly.”

She blew out an exasperated breath, even as her muscles relaxed. “Your definition of a warning could use some work. If they’re not a threat to me, why did you come all this way?”

“For their sake more than yours, darling. I have a vested interest in making sure you don’t add this particular crew to your pigsty.”

Circe rolled her eyes. “I haven’t turned anyone into a pig in eight years.”

“She’ll be glad to hear it.”

“She?”

Hermes disappeared before the question had fully left Circe’s lips. She rolled her eyes again, so hard that it sent a spike of pain through her skull, but she had to admit that he’d piqued her interest. The nymphs of Aeaea had come from many different walks of life, bearing many different tales, but none had ever arrived by boat. Whatever woman approached now would be different than any Circe had met before. It would only be fair to greet her in person.

Arrival at the shoreline only deepened Circe’s confusion. The boat docked at the beach was just like all the others that had arrived on Aeaea in recent years: same wood, same design, same pattern of men moving about. The lone, black-haired woman standing at the ramp truly was the only strange thing about it.

The man beside her caught sight of Circe and began waving frantically with both arms— more out of excitement than fear, she thought. Perhaps the woman wasn’t the only strange thing after all.

Circe waved back, albeit with a single hand and much more dignity, and approached the ship— only to stop in her tracks as her breath caught.

The man lowering his arms was clean-shaven and youthful and tall, but otherwise, he was a dead ringer for—

“Odysseus?”

The man bowed. “No, Lady Circe. My name is Telemachus. Although I’m told my father and I look a lot alike.”

So this was the boy Odysseus had spoken of with such affection. “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, prince of Ithaca.” Turning to the woman at his side, Circe added, “I suppose that must make you Queen Penelope.”

“That’s right.”

“Has the king come with you?”

“I’m afraid not. Our seas have never been calmer, but he still says he’s had his fill of sailing.”

So he had made it home, in the end. Warm relief trickled down Circe’s spine, but it chilled at Penelope’s next words.

“May I disembark so that we can speak more easily?”

Circe didn’t think the only kind man to set foot on Aeaea in centuries would have sent his wife and son after her for revenge, but it wasn’t out of the question that they had come on their own. She’d grown accustomed to her empty sty, and she wasn’t eager to fill it again. Best to find an excuse to send them on their way.

But still, Circe was curious— curious about what had become of Odysseus, curious about what his wife was doing on her shores. An entire crew might pose a threat to her nymphs, but one mortal woman she could overpower if need be.

“I’m not in the practice of allowing men into my palace these days, but you may disembark alone, if you wish.”

Penelope hesitated, and Telemachus squeezed her shoulder. “Go ahead, Mom. I’ll keep an eye on the crew.”

Penelope kissed her son on the head and swept down the ramp, clasping Circe’s hand once they reached the bottom. She let Circe set the pace as they set off for the palace, seeming content to walk in silence.

Circe made it all of five minutes before she could no longer tolerate it. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for attempting to seduce your husband.”

Penelope actually laughed. “Well, it’s not as though you knew he was married. From what Odysseus has told me, his loyalty to me was what inspired you to help him in the first place. And besides, having seduced him myself, I understand the urge.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt you were trying to get him to let his guard down so that you could kill him more easily.”

Penelope stopped, and Circe tensed. But when she turned, it wasn't anger on her face. It was sorrow. Almost pity, but not as grating. It was empathy.

“From the moment my cousin returned from the war with no news of my husband, men from across the island came to my palace to vie for his crown. I held them off for years, used every trick I could think of, while they eat my food and stole my possessions and tormented my child. Every single night, I barricaded my door and fought tooth and nail to sleep through my terror.” Penelope’s eyes hardened, holding Circe’s gaze. “Again, Lady Circe. I understand.”

In all her millennia, Circe had never felt so seen. It was a deeply uncomfortable experience— but liberating, in its own way. There was no shame in seeing herself in a mortal when she had been cast away by the gods. Circe had spent her years trapped, using all her cunning to keep her daughters safe. Just as Penelope had waited in her own prison, her wits the only thing keeping her and her son from ruination.

“Divine blood runs through your veins. I can sense it.”

If Penelope was confused by the abrupt change of subject, she didn’t show it. “Yes. My mother is the Naiad Periboea.”

It wouldn’t give her the same strength as one descended from a god, but Circe had taught many a Naiad before. She could make it work.

“With your husband’s return, I would imagine your suitors no longer plague you. But I’d happy to teach you how to turn such men into pigs, if you wish. There’s never any harm in being prepared.”

For the first time, the queen of Ithaca smiled. “Lady Circe, why do you think I'm here?”

#epic the musical #epic circe #epic penelope #epic telemachus #epic odysseus #ray rambles #ray writes

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starlightsuffered · 3 days ago

Text

Nylons and Heels

Info - nylon and heel kink, mommy kink, needy Timothée, foot job, anal, premature cumming, public sexual acts, sitting on dick, a little hard dom, stepping on cock

He’d been kissing me hungrily in the cab, and before that at the house he’d been begging for a quickie before we left. I should have known my outfit would have made him go absolutely gaga.

A button up, white blouse with sheer peasant sleeves was accompanied with a black shirt. I knew this combo was a start, but it wasn’t the homerun my bottom half was. I wore dark, soft nylons and black high heels. He was such a sucker for nylons and heels. I didn’t quite know what it was.

The second he’d seen my legs he’d gotten on his knees and began to kiss up my legs. He treated me like a goddess, moaning that he needed his mommy. Ironically, we were going to meet his mother for lunch. I told him, through giggles he was being incredibly inappropriate.

“We could go to the bathroom, I’d be so fast,” Timothée promised. “Mommy I promise.”

“Baby boy,” I soothed and reached for his hand. I saw him wince and I knew he’d twitched just from the touch. This was how needy he got. I actually found it quite endearing.

“She’ll just think we’re late,” he whined. “That’s the worst that could happen. Fuck, your tits look great. I want to suck-“

I slapped away his hand from grabbing my breast. I gave him a hard look. He cowered back into his seat.

“You know that I’ve wanted to meet your mom for a while. You always speak so highly of her. We aren’t going to let your problem get in our way.”

“But, but- oh hi mom!” He cut his own self off to call out to his mother. I smirked and leaned back into my booth.

Nicole hugged me and we introduced herself. She seemed like a very sweet and wonderful lady. One would wrongly assume from Timothée’s kinks that he had mommy issues. He was very close with his mother. However, when he was horny, boy did he lose some brain cells.

He continued to give me needy eyes as we talked. I assumed he wanted me to excuse myself to the bathroom. Out of frustration, I lifted my foot and pressed my shoe hard into his crotch.

I expected a yelp of pain, I expected a glare, I may have even expected some tears, but none of that happened. Instead he made an odd strangled noise of pleasure. He white knuckled his cutlery and I felt his bulge pulse against the flat of my footwear.

“Mommy-“

“Yes Timothée?” Nicole asked. He grew even redder now. I realised he liked this. He liked the humiliation and embarrassment and having his hard on pressed. Was this why he loved nylons and heels so much?

“N-nothing, I just, I ohhh,” Timothée nearly squealed when I used my actual heel to squish his member. I wondered if it hurt, and found I didn’t care if it did.

“Alright, are you feeling okay? You are quite red,” Nicole noted.

“I’m f-fine,” he nodded as if to convince himself.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom, excuse me,” Nicole said.

“You’re going to kill me!” He hissed at me when she was out of earshot.

“Oh dramatics,” I said, taking a sip of water. I pressed harder on his cock. His eyes rolled back in his head and he made such a pathetic sound I giggled.

“Mommmmmy, please, I need you. Even if you just let me rut between your cost nylon covered thighs,” he wailed.

“You’re pathetic,” I chuckled.

“Yeah I am,” he nodded. “So pathetic for my mommy. I love heels and nylons and everything my mommy does to my subby dick.”

“You want me to tell Nicole you call me mommy,” I asked. He groaned at my tone and power.

Nicole came back and smiled at us. There was a bit more talk after that. She gave me many compliments and acted quite fond of me.

“Oh dear!” She exclaimed, when she looked down at her phone. She seemed worried.

“What is it?” Timothée asked.

“Oh, Pauline said the baby is super fussy and has no one to help. I hope you don’t mind if I send early and run over there.”

“No, it’s fine mom, you do what you need,” Timothée said, a little too eagerly.

“We’ve got the bill,” I told her softly.

Nicole had soon bustled out of the restaurant. I turned my heavy gaze on Timothée. He paled considerable.

“Get your cock out,” I purred.

“H-Here?” He squeaked.

“You wanted me to touch you so badly, so yes, right here,” I snapped.

“Y-yes mommy,” he whispered. I watched him as he put his hands under the table. I slipped off my heels.

I began to rub my nylon feet all over his cock. He was white knuckling the table. He was also panting and biting his lip so hard it looked like blood was blooming.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” he gasped and chanted. He was humping his cock between them. I pressed hard, squeezing his dick between my nylons.

“So soft, so good, m’such a slut for you,” he slurred as he laid back in the booth. He was powerfully thrusting his hips. He looked in total bliss, in complete abandon. He didn’t seem to mind he was in public.

“What a pathetic gooner, even mommy’s feet will do,” I teased.

“Anything will do, oh anything,” he promised,” he seemed so desperate. In was a a high on him. He was so sexy.

“Feel it,” I purred.

He did and he got close. I knew it from the way he acted.

“Mommy!” He begged.i removed everything.

“You want mommy?” I cooed? He squirmed in his seat and nodded. I played with his cock a bit more before I quit it completely

“Mommy pleaseeee!” He pleaded. I tried to ignore him.

I continued on. I kept alternating between pressing and stepping and rubbing on him.

“We’re going,” I snapped suddenly. I got up abruptly.

“Mommy?” He whined. He looked utterly pathetic. His hair was tousled, curls out of place. I noticed his lips were swollen from when he’d been biting them. His cheeks were bright pink.

“Come on, we’re going home,” I said, grabbing his hand.

“B-but I didn’t, I mean, I haven’t-“

“Awwwwww,” I chuckled and took hold of his jaw. “You think your cummies matter.”

“Fuck, it’s so hot when you’re mean,” he whispered.

“Come on,” I smirked. He was trying very hard to cover his boner as we made our way to the bus. Once we were on it I pushed him down into a seat.

“Mommy,” he moaned under his breath as I sat on his lap.

“Get it out,” I murmured to him. His breath hitched excitedly.

“You wanna put it in mommy’s ass? Huh? You wanna be squeezed by mommy’s ass on the bus? With all these people around?” I cooed.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted, his voice going gooey with lust at the end.

Strategically we got out his cock. He nestled it deep inside me. He throbbed so hard and he was panting in my ear needily.

“I can’t fucking hold it,” he wailed.

“Be a big boy, don’t make a mess,” I instructed.

“I can’t fucking take it, I’m going to nut in your ass mommy,” he whispered hurriedly.

“Timothée-“

“Fuuuuuuck,” he whimpered and his torrents of cum began. His load was large from being teased. He was filling me up and unabashedly humping upwards.

“You’re such a naughty boy,” I giggled.

“M’sorry mommy, ass is so good,” he said in a dreamy voice. I didn’t know how we’d smoothly make it off the bus but for now I enjoyed his whipped demeanour. I wiggled, sliding down further on his cock. He was hardening again.

“Mommy,” he sighed. “You’re spoiling me.”

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker @therealbeabodoobee

#reader insert #x reader #timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee chamalet #timothee fanfic #timothee imagine #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee x you #timothee smut #timothee chalamet smut #smut #nylons and heels #mommy kink

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jessicaloons · 3 days ago

Text

Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince:

Chapter 10

Masterlist - Previous - Next

The Heartbreak Prince

"Arthur, I don’t have time for this. Who ever Lindsay is, Maman knows what’s she’s doing…" Charles’s groaned, waving at the sea of fans that were waiting for them at the Whitleburry Hall hotel close to the track.

"Lauren. The girls name is Lauren." his little brother retorted, waving at some girls screaming his name.

"Whatever. It’s not something I need to think about as well, okay?" the Ferrari driver smiled at his fans, signing pictures of himself and taking selfie after selfie, when the security guards waved him in he looked at his brother, who waited together with Joris for him "Also, why are you so interested in Larissa?"

"Lauren! Are you even listening?" Arthur sighed frustrated, leaning against the steel wall of the elevator.

"Honestly? No. I don’t. Like I said, I have other things on my mind." the older Leclerc scratched his chin.

"Oh, whatever…"

"Why does this bother you so much?" Joris asked when they left the elevator, looking for their rooms "Since when are you this interested in your mother’s business?"

"I’m not! It’s just-… it was the way she said the name? The way she smiled? I don’t know, I’m just curious…" Arthur sighed and Charles patted his shoulder.

"Listen, whoever Leonore is, Maman will know what she’s doing. So can we now please focus on this weekend? Yeah? I need a good weekend, you as well… so stop thinking about some girl you’ve never even met and start focusing on your job…"

"FUCKING HELL, HER NAME IS LAUREN!" Arthur spat out, pushing his brother’s hand off his shoulder, entering his hotel room "You’re doing this on purpose!" and with that he slammed the door shut.

"That was childish…" Joris rolled his eyes and Charles nodded.

"It was…"

"Not him, you! Oh don’t look at me like that! You were riling him up on purpose!"

"I swear I didn’t. I just don’t have time to remember irrelevant things!" he unlocked the hotel room and put his stuff down "I’m in no position to think about other things then the race weekends ahead and how I can thank my mother to take care of Ava this much. And if Maman hires someone to help her out, I honestly shouldn’t question it. She’s the reason why I can still have my career while being a single father…"

"Maybe you should offer her to pay the-…" Joris began but Charles interrupted him.

"I should pay the salary of Lynette!"

"Oh now you’re messing with me as well!" his best friend threw a pillow at him and Charles caught it laughing.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about… can we focus now on Silverstone?"

"No water. No radio. No car that’s doing what I want. What a shit show…" Charles muttered underneath his breath when he got out of a van at the airport and grabbed his bags, waving at some fans at the fence.

He sighed, the weekend was a disaster with a mediocre qualifying and then a bad race with a 5 second penalty for speeding in the pit lane and a disappointing P7 at the end. He wanted to leave. He had to leave.

"It wasn’t the best of weekends, that’s for sure…" Joris nodded, taking his bags.

"The only good thing about this weekend was that it was the penultimate race before the summer break…"

"Yeah, I think you never needed it this badly…"

"I just want 3 weeks with Ava in the sun, far away from camera’s, fans and all of this." the driver nodded towards some screens that showed the race highlights.

The two men followed the airport hostess to their secluded terminal where another surprise waited for them.

"I know that look…" Charles began, looking at the red head in front of him.

"Charles, there is a problem…" Silvia said slowly, her eyes wary "There’s no easy way to say this, but your jet… it’s not here. You have to take a commercial flight… and the next one available is at 6:25 am."

Charles was too stunned to speak. Her words hit him like a freight train. 6:25 am?

"What?" was all he mustered to say, taking a deep breath.

"The jet is not here. You have to fly commercial."

"Are you serious? What do you mean the jet is not here? And isn’t there an earlier commercial flight? Like tonight maybe?" Charles looked at Silvia with wide eyes.

"The booking wasn’t confirmed… and now the jet is booked for a different flight…"

"I have to be at home tonight, Silvia. My mother is leaving early in the morning and I told her it’ll be just fine! I can’t miss this flight!"

"Well, technically you’re not missing your flight… also, you’re not the only one who has to go back ho-…"

"But no one else has to be at home because their mother can’t watch their daughter forever!" Charles whisper shouted frustrated, his mind racing. Always when he thought a weekend couldn’t end worse, life was showing him just how worse it really could be, now that he stood in the little terminal for private jets, with no way to fly back home "Fuck!" he let out frustrated, typing away on his phone.

"I don’t know what else-…" Silvia began when Charles shook his head, walking away to call Lorenzo.

"Charles?" a voice behind him made Charles flinch, turning around to look at Max "You okay, mate?"

"Of course, an amazing weekend with an amazing end, no?" he pressed out, not in the mood for more unnecessary conversation.

"Umm-… sure. I overheard-… well who didn’t? You weren’t speaking quietly. Anyways, if you have to be in Monaco this urgently, you could fly with us? I have two seats left?" the Red Bull driver offered and Charles cocked an eyebrow.

"Are you sure?"

"I mean, yeah, it’s not the first time we share a jet, it’s been a while but… yeah you know, I don’t know why you have to be in Monaco, but your voice tells me it must be important…" Max replied, tilting his head.

"It really is. I- umm… I promised my mum to be at home tonight. She needs me…" the Monegasque driver said vaguely and Max nodded.

"Alright, then come on, you and Joris can join us."

"She’s amazing. She helps me so much… I can now fully divide my time between the salon and my gorgeous granddaughter… leaving for the convention tomorrow was also only possible because of her!" Pascale raved about her new assistant while feeding Ava "Best decision ever to hire her."

"I didn’t even know you were looking for an assistant and now you constantly talk about her?" Arthur asked, looking up from his tablet.

"Constantly? She’s here now for what? A month? A little more?" Pascale rolled her eyes "Also, I wasn’t looking for an assistant, it was more coincidental, you know? She got a haircut, we talked and et voila I hired her… and she’s doing such an amazing job! She manages the whole salon on her own! I just have to come and cut some hair and then I can leave already because she took care of the rest…"

"As long as she’s a help for you…" Arthur shrugged, right when Charles walked in, hair still damp from his shower.

"Who’s a help for who?" the older Leclerc brother asked, gently kissing his daughters fingers.

"My new assistant-…" his mother began but got interrupted by her youngest son.

"L-a-u-r-e-n… you remember? Maman is raving about her for the past weeks now…"

"You hired a new assistant?" Charles asked, ignoring his brothers eye rolling while sitting down next to her, watching her feed his daughter.

"Yes, it was all really spontaneous. I gave her a haircut, we talked, and then I hired her and believe me Charles, she’s amazing. A hard worker, sweet and charming to all my clients, always polite. She’s a quick learner, amazing with her hands… and don’t let me start on how beautiful she is! She could be a model for sure…"

"Oh yeah? I might have to visit you then in the salon…" Arthur wiggled his eyebrows, earning a slap on his upper arm from his mother "Ouch! What was that for?"

"You have a beautiful girlfriend yourself. Behave!" she replied and then turned slightly to her other son "You on the other hand…"

"Stop. No. Don’t do that, Maman!" Charles rolled his eyes, groaning. He was too exhausted for this. It was the middle of the night, he was tired, frustrated from the weekend and not in the mood for his mother’s attempts to meddle with his love life. He knew her all too well. How she always eyed up his girlfriends, saying him that she wasn’t the one and frankly she was right every single time, but it wasn’t something she had to know.

"Don’t do what?" his mother asked innocently.

"You’re not setting me up with your new assistant-…"

"I wasn’t! I just said that if someone wanted to come over and get to know her it should’ve been you. The single one." Pascale shrugged her shoulders, cooing at her granddaughter.

"Single father…" Charles replied, sighing.

"I don’t think that would be a problem for La-…"

"See! You want to set me up with her. No. Not happening. I have Ava and my career. That’s all I need."

"I didn’t say-…" Pascale began but then shook her head "Whatever, Charles. But just so you know, you would love her. You all would, I for sure am. That’s all I’m saying."

"Yeah, yeah…"

"Alright, now that you’re here, I can go home and have some sleep before I have to get up and leave." Pascale leaned over, laying Ava down in her father’s arms "I’m glad we didn’t have to stick to plan B…"

"I am able to take care of her!" Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Sure you can…" his mother patted his arm "Now come on, you have to drive me home."

"Fine." he got up as well, gently stroking his nieces arm "Good night, little Ava. Charles." he winked at his older brother who smiled lazily, watching his daughter fighting off the inevitable sleep.

As soon as his mother and brother left, Charles got up and laid Ava down in her bassinet, his own tiredness and exhaustion slightly taking over. He pulled the bassinet next to his bed and laid down, watching his daughters every little movement.

"Good night my pretty little princess. Daddy’s here now…" he whispered, before he fell asleep almost immediately.

Charles woke up from Ava’s crying and whimpering. Worse than anything he ever heard before. He was up in an instant, switching on the bedside lamp.

"Hey my little angel, what’s up?" he cooed at her, gently scooping her up, her tears dampen his shirt "Hey, hey, hey. What’s the matter baby girl, hmm?" he patted her back gently, rocking her in his arms "Are you hungry?" he got up and made his way to the kitchen, preparing a bottle, all while Ava cried and whimpered into his chest. He never heard her cry like this before, his heart braking with every new sound from his little girl and when he 10 minutes later sat down with her, trying to feed her he had to learn that it wasn’t the bottle she wanted "Fresh diaper then?" but again, not what was wrong. Charles sat in his bed, rocking Ava who got squirmier with every second, her little sobs making her tiny body shake, which made Charles heart clench "What is it, Ava? Hmm? You’re not hungry, your diaper is clean. What do you need baby girl?" he turned her a little, so he could look into her eyes, tears staining her face. She was pale. But her nose and cheeks were red. Her hair felt like it was a little damp. Charles gently stroked her cheeks and he thought they felt warmer than usual. But was it a fever? Or was it now from crying that much? Charles checked his phone. It was 5:46 am. Ava was awake over half an hour earlier than usual as well "We should try to sleep a little more baby girl… let’s put something on the TV and then try to sleep a little more…" Charles scooted into the middle of his bed, propped up a little against the headboard so that Ava could sleep on his chest, pillows on his left and right in case he fell asleep that Ava was safe. Then he put her down on his thighs and took off his shirt, remembering what the nurse told him the night Ava was born, and put her back on his chest, pulling the blanket over them "Look at that. A nice documentary narrated by David Attenborough… with his soothing voice, we’ll be sleeping in no time…" Charles cooed at Ava, gently rubbing circles on her back. And he was right it didn’t take long for her to fall asleep again. Not her peacefullest one, but she slept. And with her finally settling down, Charles followed shortly after. But not for too long. From the moment Ava woke up an hour later her crying got worse. Her tiny sobs sounded as if she was having a cold and Charles wondered what he should do. When he was having a cold he drank hot tea, took some medication and that was it. But what was he supposed to do with Ava? He grabbed his phone, already dialling his mother’s number when he hung up. His mother was already on her way to the convention and he knew she would turn around immediately. He had to figure it out himself. So he googled. But the results were all too different. Too many different opinions on what to do and he was confused. He was rocking Ava in his arms, pacing back and forth in his apartment, when he called Enzo, asking for help from Charlotte but his older brother told him that she wouldn’t be home for the next couple of hours.

"What’s wrong with her?" Enzo asked, sensing his brother’s distress "I can be at yours in 10 minutes?"

"She’s just not calming down. I tried to feed her, she’s not really eating much. She’s changed, so that shouldn’t be a problem, she can’t be tired because she doesn’t want to sleep. And… she feels a little warmer than normally? She’s a little sweaty… I don’t know what to do? I’m feeling like Maman would know what to do, but I can’t call her. Not when she finally, after years, does something for herself again!"

"Charles, maybe you should go and see a doctor?" Enzo suggested "I can drive you there?"

"I don’t even know who her doctor is…" Charles whispered "I have no idea… Maman took her to the doctor the last times…" he felt like the worst father on earth.

"It’s at the children ward at the hospital. Get ready I’ll pick you up in 10."

"It’s okay, baby girl, we’re going to see a doctor, you’ll be fine. Just fine…" Charles whispered, looking outside the car window, checking where they were "Just a little longer, Ava."

"Almost there." Lorenzo said, looking into the rearview mirror, seeing his brother’s pale face, jaw tightened "5 minutes…"

"You hear that? Almost there, little princess." Charles gently stroked Ava’s cheek, feeling her warm skin "Almost there…"

"I’ll drop you off and then I’ll head to the airport picking Charlotte up… and you let me know what’s up with Ava, okay? And when I have to pick you up…" Lorenzo said.

"Yeah…" Charles mumbled, unbuckling his seatbelt the moment his brother stopped in front of the hospital.

He got out of the car and opened the boot of the car, taking out Ava’s stroller.

"Here you go…" Enzo gently laid his niece down "It’s going to be alright, little Ava." he cooed at her, pulling the blanket over her "Call me, whatever it is, if you need me, don’t want to feel so alone, just call me, okay?" he then said to his brother, hugging him "It’s going to be okay, you hear me?"

"Okay… yeah…" Charles replied "And thanks for driving us… I’m not sure I would’ve been able to drive safely…"

"It’s okay. Now go inside…" Lorenzo patted his back and Charles nodded, pushing Ava’s stroller to the entrance, through the doors to the front desk.

"Hi, umm- I need a doctor, no, my daughter needs a doctor, she’s restless and she feels hot and sweaty and I don’t know what to do, the temperature is rising I think? My mum- she umm, she was here before with Ava, my daughter…" Charles stammered, looking at the nurse who smiled at him.

"Okay, so your daughter’s doctor is here at the children’s ward?" she asked and he nodded "Okay, do you know where the children’s ward is? No, okay… follow the rainbow coloured line on the floor, to your right…" she pointed at the different coloured lines on the floor and Charles nodded.

"Thank you." he replied and walked off, following the line through the hallways until he arrived at a glass door, children’s ward written in colourful letters on it "We did it, baby girl, just a moment… they will help you…" right when he wanted to push the door open it sprang open and an older looking nurse walked out, looking at him.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Umm yes-… this is Ava, my daughter, she umm- she needs a doctor, she’s sick I think…" Charles said and the nurse cocked an eyebrow, looking into the stroller.

"Ava? So you are Ava’s father, I was wondering when we would see you here…" she said, nodding towards the front desk inside the children’s ward "Go on in there…"

"Umm- okay." Charles was a little confused by the icy tone of the nurse but he couldn’t think too much about it, walking to the front desk "Hi, my daughter needs a doctor. She’s restless and cries a lot, she didn’t sleep much, doesn’t want to eat and she feels warmer than usual… I think she has a cold…" he explained to the nurse behind the desk and she got up immediately.

"Alright, please follow me…" she brought them into an examination room and helped Charles with getting Ava out of the stroller, taking off her jacket, right when the door opened again "Could you please fill out the paperwork with Mr. …?"

"Leclerc… I’m Charles and this is Ava…" Charles replied and the nurse nodded.

"Alright, can you please help Mr. Leclerc with the paperwork?"

"And Ava?" he asked, his eyes widened.

"Don’t worry, Mr. Leclerc, the doctor will be here shortly, I’ll take care of her, and as soon as you’re done with the papers you’ll be back with your daughter." the nurse smiled and he nodded "It won’t take long, don’t worry. And I’m here, taking care of Ava."

"Mr. Leclerc, would you please follow me?" the other nurse lead him outside and Charles followed her hesitantly "Don’t worry, she’s in really good hands. I just need you to fill out these documents, you can sit down there…" she pointed at some chairs lined up at the wall of the hallway and Charles took the clipboard and sat down, scribbling away.

Charles hands were a little shaky, he never liked hospitals, too many people did he lose in one. But for Ava he had to be strong, push the negative thoughts away and focus on her wellbeing. When he was done with the paperwork he looked up, but the nurse wasn’t sitting behind her desk and he looked to the left, where two women walked up to him.

"Mr. Leclerc? Hi, I’m Cleo Bernoit, this is Marianne Goulard, we’re from the CPS in Monaco…" the blonde woman began.

"CPS?" Charles interrupted, looking confused between the two women.

"Child protective services…"

"What? Are you kidding me? Why?" he was at a loss of words, confused and scared.

"Someone called us after the incident with your daughter… it’s a standard procedure. Mandatory." the red haired woman, Marianne, said "And since we have an office here in the hospital, we just want to check in quickly."

"You see, you’re a single father with a demanding job. We’re just here to make sure that everything is alright." Cleo added and Charles swallowed hard.

"Umm- okay… but it wasn’t really an incident? I just wasn’t sure what to do and couldn’t reach my mum, that’s why I brought her to the emergency room…" he mumbled, his hands gripping his thighs tightly, knuckles turning white "She was restless, cried and felt a little warmer then usually. I couldn’t calm her down. So yeah, I thought taking her here would be the best."

"I see. Does this happen more often?" the blond woman asked.

"That she’s restless and cries and I can’t calm her down? Or what? The slightly higher temperature?" Charles was confused.

"No, that you need to check in with your mother, regarding your daughter’s health." the redhead said.

"What?" he was taken aback "What do you mean?"

"Ava is your daughter. You’re the one responsible for her and-…"

"I know that she’s my daughter and I’m responsible for her. But she’s also my first child, I don’t know everything about babies yet and before I make a mistake I check in with my mother, who successfully raised three kids-…" Charles began, his voice wavering with emotions.

"We know that Mr. Leclerc. It’s just… we’ve been notified that for the last two check-ups, it was your mother who brought Ava in. Not you." the redhead said and Charles eyes widened "And when Ava got her second round of vaccines a month ago, it was also your mother who brought her in again…" she continued.

"Yes. Because I had to work. And while I’m being away working, my mother takes care of her granddaughter. Is there a problem with that?" he said.

"Mr. Leclerc. Ava is your daughter, she’s not even three months old but you are more interested in travelling the world then-…"

Charles had enough. He got up from his seat, his hands balled into fists, breathing heavy.

"I am not more interested in travelling the world than being with my daughter. It is my job. I am a Formula 1 driver. Travelling the world is my job. I am a single father who is more than grateful that his mum takes care of his daughter while he’s away, working. Excuse me, but I want to see my daughter now." his voice was dangerously low, his anger and frustration palpable.

He walked away towards the nurses station, already typing a message out for his mother.

"Hi, can I see my daughter now?" Charles asked the nurse who smiled at him, taking the clipboard from him, looking it over.

"Let me just check if you didn’t forget anything and then we-…" she began.

"No. I want to see her. Now." his voice louder than intended.

"No, of course not, Mr. Leclerc, follow me…" the nurse got up from her seat and gestured for Charles to follow her, down the hall.

"Thank you-… I didn’t want to get loud and be rude. I was just-… I’m just scared and frustrated… I shouldn’t have let it out at you…" he stammered but the nurse just smiled at him.

"It’s okay, it’s your first child, that’s normal." she patted his arm and stopped in front of a door, knocking gently "Dr. Richefort? I have Mr. Leclerc here, little Ava’s dad, can we-"

"Of course, of course, come on in, Mr. Leclerc!" an older man waved Charles inside and he hastily walked in, his eyes immediately on Ava in a little bassinet on the table, the other nurse holding out a teddy bear to her "Everything is alright with your little one. Just a little fever and stuffed nose, nothing out of the ordinary, that happens sometimes."

"She’s okay?" the young father whispered, his eyes rooted on his daughters face "Nothing serious?"

"Nothing serious. Nothing a warm bath in a little steamy bathroom can’t cure. Close all windows and doors, start the shower with hot water and let some steam build in the room, that’s perfect for her nose and lungs. I gave her some syrup to calm her down and reduce the fever, I wrote that one up for you to get as well as something for her stuffed nose." Dr. Richefort said and he was relieved, cupping Ava’s cheek who was smiling lazily, playing with the doctor’s stethoscope now.

"I can take her home?" Charles asked, looking up.

"Of course, I don’t see any reason why not. Just get her medicine and give her something of the syrup before bed and she should be perfectly fine in one or two days. You’re good to go." the doctor nodded to the nurse who grabbed Ava’s onesie from a stool helping Charles getting her ready.

His eyes didn’t leave Ava’s face for one second, his heart racing. As soon as his little one was safely in her stroller and the Doctor handed him the prescription for the pharmacy, the nurse showed him the way outside.

"Can I ask you something?" Charles had to know "Why did you call the CPS?"

"CPS? They were here?" she stopped, looking at him "Why?" she seemed genuinely confused opening the door for Charles and the stroller.

"Yeah… they said it’s mandatory, after all I wasn’t with Ava for her last check-ups and that because my mum was taking care more of her than I am…" he almost whispered and the blonde woman thought for a moment before she sighed, shaking her head.

"Angelique… the head nurse. She’s one of the older nurses here. Very settled in her way of thinking and how families are supposed to look like. Single parents? God no! Worse, a single father? Who works? I bet it was her. She’s the one who does the administrative stuff like that… I’m very sorry that she called them…"

"The older nurse who opened the doors when I arrived?"

"I didn’t see, but yeah, that could be…"

"Am I on their watchlist now?" Charles asked when they entered the foyer of the hospital "Now that they looked into my-no Ava’s file?"

"I wish I could say no… but the truth is, now that you got their attention, they will have an eye on you… I’m sorry. I’ve seen you with your little girl and I think you’re doing a good job…" she said genuinely and Charles mustered a tiny smile.

"Thanks… have a nice day." he walked out of the door, waving the nurse goodbye.

As soon as Charles was outside he put on his shades and a baseball cap, hoping that no one would recognise him. He made a mental note to call his lawyer later on, not sure if she could do anything about the CPS and also the fact that he was here today. Ava was sleeping in her stroller and he decided a nice little walk would do them some good. Some fresh air. He also knew that Ava slept the best in her stroller, the slightly bumpy sidewalks rocking her gently in her stroller, making it perfect for a nice long slumber. Like that he could also stop at the little pharmacy that was far off the usual busy streets of Monaco, getting Ava’s medicine.

Charles decided to make a little stop at the harbour, enjoying the sun, calming down his nerves. His mind was racing. The fact that someone called the CPS on him was bad enough, but to think that because of that, all the hard work to keep Ava safe and a secret were for nothing was worse. He tried his best to be at home with her as much as he could. Took it upon him to travel in between races back home where he usually would just straight fly to the next race. Even if it was only for a couple of hours, he didn’t miss a single chance to see her if possible. Was it ideal? No. He knew that. He felt it. He missed her. Every single minute he was gone, he missed her like crazy. But he couldn’t ask his mother to travel with him around the world so Ava could come with him. His mother had her own life and it wasn’t fair to ask that of her. She probably would agree, she would sacrifice everything for her children and now granddaughter. Charles leaned back, sighing.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he mumbled when Ava stirred in her stroller, waking up crying "Hey, baby girl, it’s alright… all good…" he gently picked her up and held her close to his chest, rocking her slowly "It’s all good my little princess…"

But it wasn’t. Ava’s cries were getting louder, making Charles trying desperately to calm her down. He looked up in the sky once, sending a prayer out for anyone to help him.

"It’s the sunglasses, you know?" a gentle voice commented, making Charles flinch, he didn’t notice that someone was sitting on one of the other benches.

"Sorry?" he asked confused.

"Lose the sunglasses, yeah and maybe the cap too…" a pretty girl replied, her eyes shining "She wants to see you, but she can’t…" her beautiful smile almost made Charles heart skip a beat.

"Umm-… just… just take off the sunglasses and the cap? It’s that easy?" he cocked and eyebrow but did as told after he looked around for a moment, making sure that no one else was around.

"I mean, it could be… it’s worth a try, now she can look at her dad, sees that you’re looking at her too… that you’re here for her." the girl explained and Charles nodded slowly, looking down at Ava.

"I’m here, Ava. It’s all good…" he smiled at his daughter, kissing her forehead, when she seemed to calm down a little.

"Or she’s just hungry or needs new nappies…" the girl continued and Charles looked at her.

"So you’re just throwing out some guesses? You’re not some kind of a baby guru?" he chuckled a little and the girl shook her head "What a shame, I could’ve used one…" he mumbled and she looked at him "Sorry… it’s- it’s been a short night. And a way too long day…"

"No need to apologise. I know how you feel…"

"You have one as well?" the young man looked at her with big eyes, sounding surprised "Sorry! I shouldn’t have said it like that… it’s just you look quiet young? I mean not that it’s bad to be a young mother! It’s great, like you know… I think I better just shut up…" he groaned, shaking his head and the girl had to stifle a laugh.

"I mean I am young. But not too young… but no, I don’t have one… I worked with some tho…" she replied.

"You worked with babies?"

"I‘m a paediatric nurse…"

"Padric what?" Charles was confused, tilting his head a little.

"Paediatric nurse… kids… I was trained especially for kids and did some hours on the new born ward…" she explained.

"Oh! Wow! You’re more than qualified to give some advice then…" he looked at her "You’re here on vacation?"

"No… I moved here actually… just a couple of weeks ago, still trying to get used to everything…" the girl replied and he nodded.

"Don’t worry, not all Monegasques are as lost as me and need help from a pretty stranger…" Charles said and then blushed, the moment he realised what he just had said out loud.

"Oh- umm… it’s alright… don’t worry…" the girls cheeks were turning red.

"I- I should go… I have to put her down soon…" Charles carefully laid his daughter in the stroller next to them and put his cap and sunglasses back on "Thanks for umm- for the help…"

"Sure. If she’s still a little grumpy later on, you should try a warm bath…" the pretty girl got up as well "Umm-… bye."

"Yeah-… umm bye…" Charles turned around and pushed the stroller in front of him before he stopped again, turning a little "Oh and welcome to Monaco."

"Thanks." she smiled back at him, making Charles heart definitely skip a beat.

"I’m Charles, by the way. Maybe I’ll see you around some time, Monaco is almost like a little village." he chuckled and she nodded, turning around, walking away "Well now I need to see her again…" he mumbled, cooing at Ava "She didn’t tell me her name."

"Charles?"

"Hmm?" he blinked looking at his mother "What?"

"What happened then?" she asked and he was confused for a moment, the smile of the pretty stranger in the back of his mind "You left the hospital and then? Did you hear from the CPS again?"

"No. Not yet… I mean it’s just 2 days ago, no? I didn’t give them any reason…" Charles sighed.

"You must’ve been scared, after they jumped at you like that?" Pascale patted his arm and he sighed.

"Yeah… it was scary… but yeah I mean, it’s like this. I can’t change it, not now at least, I’m leaving for Spa in an hour…"

"The most important thing is that Ava is healthy. She’s all good, you took care of her just like a good dad would. The rest we’ll figure out." Charles’ mother smiled at him and he nodded slowly "Okay, there is something else? Since I’m back your thoughts seem to drift away every now and then? And you have this smile on your face? What happened? You’re going from worried to happy and dreamy in a heartbeat?"

"Hmm? What?" Charles looked at her, scratching his beard.

"You don’t even listen to me? What happened?" Pascale cocked an eyebrow and he averted his gaze immediately, looking at Ava "You can’t even look me in the eyes?"

"I don’t know what you mean…" he replied, a soft smile on his lips, when he thought back to the girl from the harbour "I’m just happy that Ava is all good… and now I should check that I packed everything…"

"No, I know you… there’s something else… it’s almost like…" Pascale began, when Joris plopped down next to her on the sofa.

"It’s almost like he has a crush on someone. I know that smile, almost a little dumb... and the fact he can’t look us in the eyes when we ask him what’s going on? How he changes the topic? Charles met someone…" he chuckled and his best friend groaned, although he began to blush slightly "And now look at his face! He’s blushing!"

"You really met someone! And that someone must’ve left quite the impression on you… I mean, look at you!" Pascale grinned, although she was a little disappointed that she couldn’t introduce Lauren earlier to her son "Who is she? Where did you meet her?"

"Okay, okay. Calm down. I met her once. After the hospital, I don’t know her name, or anything. She helped me with Ava. She was amazing. But that’s it. I don’t have a crush. Or anything like that, okay?" Charles said but his mother and best friend just exchanged glances and he knew that he shouldn’t have said anything "Can we please leave it be? I have one last race before the summer break. Let me focus on that and then after you can annoy me again?"

"Oh you can bet on it…" Joris laughed and Pascale nodded.

"I can’t wait to hear more of it…" she added.

"Alright, now let me enjoy the last minutes with my little princess before we have to leave."

Lauren swiped the floor clean, when the phone rang and Pascale answered the call, smiling while speaking in a soft voice. The young girl continued with cleaning the mirrors and wiped the console tables underneath, storing away the cleaning utilities as soon as she was done.

"La porte de derrière est ouverte... D’accord."

Lauren thought for a moment, trying to translate what Pascale had said.

"The backdoor is open." Pascale said, looking at the young girl "You tilt your head and poke out your tongue, when you’re trying to translate what was said…"

"Oh…" how embarrassing.

"You’ll finally meet one of my sons, Charles is coming over. " her voice was always filled with love and pride as soon as she mentioned one of her sons, it made Lauren’s heart swell, hearing her talk so fondly and adoringly of her sons.

But at the same time it also stung a little, making her miss her mother even more.

"Charles? He’s the youngest?"

"Middle."

"Oh, okay." Lauren nodded, storing away some bottles, when a breathtakingly handsome young man, stepped out of the hallway, a young man Lauren knew from somewhere.

"Charles, come in, come in. I want you to meet Lauren-…" Pascale switched to English, making her son cock an eyebrow.

"Your new assistant you can’t stop talking about?" he chuckled and Pascale nodded, he then followed his mothers look and as soon as his eyes landed on Lauren his whole face lit up, something his mother noticed, making her grin "It’s you! The girl from the park!"

"You two know ea-… wait? The girl from the park? OH! The girl from the park!" Pascale made big eyes, a big smile spreading on her face.

Charles blushed immediately, but he wasn’t alone, Laurens eyes widened and her cheeks were turning red, he was talking about her?

Chapter 10 - I AM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! Life was messy, hectic and really a lot these last weeks and I didn’t want to post something only okayish. It finally happened. Lauren and Charles officially met ♥️ now the real party starts hehehe

Please leave a comment/ like/ reblog/ message and tell me how you liked it! I'm dying to hear your thoughts!

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Last but not least, English is not my first language and although I tried my best: please excuse any mistakes I made!

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