#protein fragility

[biology-geology-beaches-india]

The Science Research Notebooks of S. Sunkavally. Page 208.

[quiidam]

I think that all of the Batkids get a different version of Bruce as a father. But I think part of what makes his relationship with Dick so unique is that he was almost like a teen dad when he raised him. Yes, he was well into his late twenties early thirties but this man had never had a pet let alone been responsible for another life when he started raising Dick. He knew nothing about children. So of course he let Dick drink coffee and pull all nighters with him, started teaching him how to drive at eight years old, let him bulk up on protein shakes instead of eating regular meals and read any kind of book he could get his hands on. He vents about his life to Dick, no real boundary of parent and child. He’s the reason Dick climbs and jumps from every high point in the Manor— he’s a flying Grayson, he can handle himself. Until Alfred steps in starts explaining to Bruce that children need boundaries, that children are fragile. Dick still jokes about some of the things he was allowed to do as a child, Bruce still cringes.

[majaurukalo]

But the way we perceive health and ability is truly problematic. No, eating protein shakes, avoiding ultra processed food, training everyday, running on the treadmill, etc. don’t put you out of the “dangers” of disability and illness (if we want to call it that).

No one is immune to illness, bad genes, accidents or old age. And becoming disabled or ill isn’t synonym of failure or “bad behaviours”.

Our bodies are fragile. Human beings are fragile. That’s why disability needs to be taken into account more seriously and considered as a social issue. For you, your loved ones and all the people you don’t know of but who deserve to be treated with dignity and respect no matter the state of their health and abilities.

I didn’t get sick at one year of age because I deserved it or because I was morally corrupt. How could I be? I was 1. It just happened. It was an autoimmune disease. That’s it.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

"are you trembling for god, or for me?"

part I

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Angel!Reader

Summary: Ben never thought he'd like innocence this much... he wants to see how far he can twist it.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is a warning, language, corruption, religious reference, violence, innocence, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, corruption kink, praise kink), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,853

Ben hated waiting. Especially for those assholes.

The safehouse was hot, dusty, and stank of something sweet and rotten—probably whatever the last squatters left in the fridge. Or maybe MM's shitty protein shakes. He paced the living room like a caged dog, boots creaking on warped floorboards, jaw grinding as he chewed the inside of his cheek.

They were late.

Again.

And Butcher's last text—got somethin extra, stay fucking put!—wasn't helping.

He scoffed under his breath. "Better be a goddamn nuke."

Outside, gravel crunched under tires. Ben rolled his eyes and dropped onto the arm of the busted couch, leaning back with a sigh just as the door swung open.

Butcher came in first, blood on his sleeve and that usual sour look twisting his face. "Christ, that was a fuckin' mess," he grunted, tossing his gun onto the table. MM followed behind him, eyes sweeping the room with military precision. Hughie was limping. Kimiko had blood spattered across her cheek.

And then—

You.

Barefoot. Wrapped in someone else's coat—Hughie's, maybe. Your face was drawn, pale. You looked... wrong. Not in a monstrous way. Not like a supe. Just—

Fragile. Quiet. Too quiet.

Ben froze. The air changed. He sat up straighter as you crossed the threshold, your steps hesitant, like each one needed permission. You kept your arms close to your body, your fingers twitching like they weren't sure what to do without chains.

You didn't look at the others. You looked at him. And he stared back. Hard. But you didn't flinch. Didn't look away. You studied him. Wide eyes. Calm face. Like he was a puzzle to solve, not a weapon. Not a threat.

It unsettled him.

"What the fuck is that?" He muttered, voice low.

Butcher dropped into the nearest chair with a groan and unceremoniously cracked open a beer. "That," he said, nodding toward you, "is the reason this whole thing went sideways."

Ben didn't break eye contact. "Looks like a deer caught in a goddamn bear trap."

"Yeah, well, she's Vought's little secret. Kept her underground for—what'd Frenchie say—six years? Seven?" Butcher waved a hand. "Some angelic-class prototype. Supposed to be a healer. Maybe a nuke. Who the fuck knows."

"A what now?"

"Angelic. You know. Wings. Light. God complex. That kinda bollocks."

Ben scoffed. "You're kiddin'."

"Do I look like I'm in a joking fuckin' mood, cunt?"

He didn't respond. You were still staring at him.

And it wasn't scared. It wasn't reverent. It wasn't even curious. It was detached. Like you'd been dropped into a world that didn't make sense, and you were trying to find a shape in the noise. You looked at him like he was a radio station that kept cutting in and out.

Ben stood up slowly, letting the weight of his presence fill the room like smoke. He walked toward the kitchen, keeping you in his peripheral vision, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He popped the cap with his thumb and took a long, slow pull. Still, you watched him.

It wasn't until you spoke—soft, almost unsure—that something in him twitched.

"Are you the loud one?" You asked.

The room fell quiet.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You're the one I heard. From the van. The heartbeat." Your voice was calm. Tired. "It was very loud."

Butcher chuckled darkly from the couch. "Told you. Fuckin' weird."

Ben didn't laugh. He took another swig of his beer, then turned his full attention to you. You didn't back down. Just tilted your head again. Like a bird listening for rain.

She's not scared of me, he thought. That's gonna change.

He meant to forget you. Really, he did.

Meant to write you off like the rest of the weird shit The Boys dragged back from the edge of hell. Meant to file you away as some broken Vought pet project—another fucked-up science experiment with glass bones and too much light behind the eyes.

But the thing was...

You didn't do anything. You just were.

You wandered the safehouse like a ghost in someone else's body. Always barefoot. Always quiet. You'd trail your fingers along the walls like you were feeling the pulse of the place. You watched the toaster with reverence. You flinched when someone raised their voice but never spoke up. You didn't eat much. Didn't sleep, either.

And Ben—who wasn't subtle, wasn't patient, wasn't nice—found himself watching.

At first, he told himself it was because you were a liability. A Vought ticking time bomb wrapped in soft skin and borrowed clothes. He was just being careful. Keeping an eye on you.

But then you tilted your head at him one morning—like you were listening to a song only you could hear—and smiled. And he knew he was fucked.

It was late afternoon now. Too hot. Too quiet.

He sat on the windowsill, one leg propped up, watching the hallway like it owed him something. The rest of the team were out getting supplies. He'd stayed behind to "rest." Translation: he didn't feel like playing nice.

And there you were.

Walking slowly down the hallway, your hand brushing the wall, bare feet whispering over the scuffed floor like you weren't sure gravity applied to you yet. You stopped in front of a painting—ugly, generic motel art in a fake gold frame—and stared at it for a long time.

Then you said, softly, "Why is that tree on fire?"

Ben blinked. "It's fall."

You turned, startled. Then you smiled like he'd said something kind.

"Oh. I thought it was a warning."

He stared at you.

Who the fuck talks like that?

You walked toward him slowly, like someone approaching a wounded animal. You weren't scared. You were just... careful. He didn't move. You stopped a few feet away, folding your hands in front of you.

"Do you like it here?" You asked. No context. No explanation.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who likes anything?"

You tilted your head again. That damn bird look. Thoughtful. Soft.

"You don't have to, you know."

He scoffed. "Don't have to what?"

"Pretend to be angry all the time. It makes your heart beat too hard."

What the fuck.

He stared at you like you'd grown a second head.

You smiled, barely. "I can feel it when it's too loud."

That made his jaw clench.

"You feelin' me right now, sweetheart?" He asked, voice low.

You paused. Then nodded. Softly. Innocently. "Always."

Ben looked away. He didn't trust what his body was doing. Not his breath. Not his pulse. Not the coil tightening low in his gut.

You weren't flirting. You weren't trying to get a rise out of him. That was the worst part. You didn't know. And that made him want to bite something in half.

Later, the sun dipped low, painting the walls of the safehouse in bruised orange and peeling gold. The shitty air conditioning buzzed overhead, doing a whole lot of nothing. Somewhere down the hall, Butcher was yelling about someone eating his last protein bar.

Ben ignored him.

You were in the living room, cross-legged on the carpet, watching the tiny TV like it held the secrets of the universe. Some rom-com flicker of mid-2000s sap, all fake city backdrops and orchestral swells when the guy finally realised the girl was his entire goddamn reason for breathing.

Ben stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Shoulder leaned against the frame. Watching you watch the movie. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

You tilted your head the same way you looked at everything—curious. Quiet. Like you didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so you settled somewhere in between. There was a half-eaten orange in your lap. Your fingers were sticky with juice.

Ben didn't think he'd ever seen someone look more out of place and more made for a moment all at once.

"You ever seen a movie before?" He asked gruffly.

You didn't look away from the screen. Just nodded.

"Do you like it?"

Another pause. Then: "I think it's nice." You said it like it meant something.

He huffed. "Romantic shit always look that dumb to you?"

You blinked. Then turned your head, slow and deliberate, to face him. Your eyes held no edge, no sarcasm—just a soft kind of interest.

"I don't think it's dumb," you said. "It seems kind."

Ben didn't answer. He didn't move. Something sharp twisted in his ribs. You held his gaze like it was easy. Like you didn't know what it meant to make a man like him look away first.

He clenched his jaw. Then, before he could stop himself:

"You ever been kissed, angel?"

You blinked again, slower this time. Like you had to process the question. Your mouth parted, just a little, and Ben's hands twitched at his sides.

"No," you said.

He swallowed.

"Why?" That word. Soft. Curious. Not defensive. Not shy. Just you.

Ben stared at you. He didn't answer. Didn't trust himself to.

You turned back to the screen, unfazed. Like the question hadn't meant anything. Like it didn't split something open inside him. As if he hadn't just hurled a brick through the stained-glass window of your innocence and expected you to thank him for it.

Ben stood there for another beat, staring at the slope of your neck, the curve of your cheek, the way your lips parted in thought like you were tasting the word kiss without knowing what it meant.

And just like that—no warning, no control—

He got hard.

No buildup. No fantasy. Just you. Sitting there barefoot and honest, asking why. He shifted where he stood, jaw tight, swallowing back a groan like it might choke him.

Jesus Christ.

He hadn't been that hard in years. Not even during the real thing. This wasn't lust. It wasn't even want. It was hunger.

He turned and left before he embarrassed himself. In the hallway, he braced a hand against the wall, breathing hard.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

But he already knew. You were untouched. And now, he was fucked.

Ben didn't talk to you the next day.

Didn't look at you, either—not directly. Not when you drifted into the kitchen with that quiet grace like your feet barely touched the floor. Not when you tilted your head at Frenchie's joke and laughed like you didn't understand it but wanted to, anyway. Not when you gently pressed your fingers to Kimiko's temple after a headache and the girl visibly relaxed in your hands.

He didn't look.

But he felt you.

Every time you were near, the air changed. Like something holy was crackling just under the skin of the world, threatening to tear it open.

Ben kept to himself. Grunted when spoken to. Smoked more than usual. Tried to convince himself it was nothing. Just another freak in a long line of freaks.

But then the call came in.

A low-level Vought squad spotted across the city—unregistered supes doing damage, maybe a trap, maybe just cleanup. The team loaded up. He didn't ask why you were coming along this time. No one did. You just went where they went.

That was your thing. You followed. Quiet. Soft.

Ben sat in the back of the van, bouncing his knee, jaw tight as you stared out the window beside him. You didn't ask where they were going. You didn't ask why. You just watched the city blur past like it was a painting you weren't allowed to touch.

He told himself he wasn't going to protect you. That if things went sideways, you'd be fine. You had power. You could handle yourself. And if you couldn't? Not his problem.

Not his fucking problem.

You reached the target building around dusk. Grey light bleeding into alleyways. Frenchie and MM took the left flank, Butcher and Kimiko circled right. Ben moved dead centre—no orders, no backup. Just fists and fury.

You stayed with Hughie near the van, hands folded in front of you, waiting like someone told you to stay put and you still believed in rules.

The first hit came fast.

One of the supe bastards barrelled out from behind a stack of crates and slammed into Ben like a goddamn freight train. He didn't go down. Just grunted, spit blood, and swung back. Another one tried to jump him from behind—missed. Kimiko caught that one midair and threw him straight through a van windshield.

Chaos. Sharp and sudden. Concrete echoing with grunts, gunfire, the static of suped-up comms.

Ben was in it—fully, brutally in it—until he heard it. You. Screaming. Not a human scream. Not fear. Not pain. Something higher.

He turned before he could stop himself.

You were surrounded. Three of them. Closing in fast. MM was too far, Butcher pinned behind debris, Hughie unarmed. And you—barefoot, bleeding, breath hitched in your throat—you looked so damn small.

But you didn't run.

You stepped between one of the attackers and Hughie like you were made of steel.

Ben's blood roared in his ears.

"HEY!" He bellowed, already moving, too late to get there in time.

And then it happened. You raised your hands—trembling, bloodied—and screamed again. The air warped around you. Not like an explosion. Like a miracle.

For a split second, the sky went white.

Your wings burst into view—not solid, not whole. Like smoke and sunlight caught in motion, burning at the edges. Feathered shadow outlined in divine fire. They didn't flap. They didn't stretch. They just existed—blooming behind you like vengeance and purity all at once.

And above your head, a flicker. A ring of gold. Not bright. Not clean. Holy.

Ben stopped moving. His heart slammed into his ribs like it was trying to break out.

You moved faster than he thought you could—one hand out, a pulse of something unseen knocking one of the supes back twenty feet. Another charged and you touched him, palm to chest, and he dropped like a stone, eyes rolling back.

You turned to the last attacker, and for the first time, Ben saw your face twisted with something real. Rage. Sorrow. A divine kind of devastation.

Your halo pulsed brighter. Your wings burned.

And Ben didn't duck in time.

One of the remaining bastards clipped him hard from the side—a pipe or maybe a bat, he didn't see. Pain exploded across his ribs. He hit the ground with a curse, teeth clenched, vision blurring.

The fight blurred around him. Distant shouting. A body hitting the pavement. Concrete under his palms.

And then—

You. Kneeling beside him like you'd always been there.

Your hands hovered, unsure. "Ben," you whispered. "Ben, you're hurt." Your voice shook. You were crying.

He blinked up at you, his vision stuttering over the faint gleam above your head, the scorched shimmer of light curling behind your shoulders. Your wings were fading, flickering, like the moment was too much for the world to hold.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," he growled—weak, hoarse.

You didn't listen. You pressed your hands to his ribs. Light flared. Warmth poured through him—sweet and golden and goddamn unbearable. Not just healing. Not just power.

Pleasure.

His breath caught. His back arched. His hips twitched. He groaned. Loud. Rough. From the pit of his stomach, and your eyes fluttered open—wide, startled.

"Did I hurt you?"

Jesus.

He grabbed your wrist, holding you there.

"The fuck was that?"

You looked at him, confused. Tears still drying on your cheeks. "I made you better." Like it was that simple. Like you didn't just make him feel reborn. When you tried to pull your hand back, he didn't let you. You didn't fight it. You just tilted your head and waited.

She made me feel clean. I'm gonna ruin her.

He didn't sleep that night. Couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, it was your face. Your hands. The way your breath hitched when you healed him. The way your wings shivered before they flickered out. The way your halo burned like a gold ring above your head for a single, impossible heartbeat.

He swore he could still feel it. Your light. Inside him. Like warmth crawling under his skin, coating his bones, cleansing him. He hated it. He needed it again.

So when morning came and the others went out—supply run, recon, something he didn't give a shit about—he stayed behind.

Alone. With you.

It started in the hallway. Ben leaned hard against the wall, one hand pressed to his chest, brow furrowed. His breath came in slow, heavy drags. You found him like that. Quiet footsteps. The faint sound of your inhale as you saw him slouched against the wood paneling like something was wrong.

"Ben?"

Your voice was so gentle it made his fists clench.

He looked up slowly, gritting his teeth like he was in pain. "Heart," he rasped. "It's—fuck—beatin' too hard again."

You stepped forward instantly. No hesitation. Just soft urgency.

"I can help you," you whispered. "Let me—"

He caught your wrist, gently this time. Played the part. Scared. Shaky. Broken.

"Need you," he muttered. "You're the only thing that helps."

And God help him, he meant it.

You laid your hand over his chest, and his body lit up like a fucking altar. That golden calm sank into him again—cool and thick, like honey sliding down his throat, like blood being replaced with grace.

He groaned. Low. Unfiltered.

You froze.

"Is that better?" You asked, confused.

He didn't answer.

He watched your lips. The way your mouth moved when you said his name. He stared at your lashes, how they fluttered when you concentrated. He watched your throat work when you swallowed.

And then he said it. He had to.

"You ever think about how that feels?" He asked.

Your brows knit in confusion. "How what feels?"

"Touchin' me like that. Helpin' me." He leaned in. "You ever wonder if it feels good because you want it to?"

You blinked. "I don't—" You looked down at your hand still pressed to his chest. "I just... I want you to feel safe."

He chuckled, dark and low.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I haven't felt safe a day in my life." He leaned in, brushing his lips near your ear, not quite touching. Close enough to taste your breath. "But you made me feel somethin'," he whispered.

You made me feel clean. So I'm gonna make you dirty.

"I think you like it," he said next, voice gravel and sin. "I think part of you likes makin' me feel good."

You pulled back a little, eyes wide. "That's not what I meant."

He smirked. "You keep touchin' me like that, and I'm not gonna be the only one makin' noise next time."

You blinked, visibly thrown. "Noise?"

His smirk widened.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You really don't know what I'm sayin', do you?"

"I..." You trailed off. "I'm just trying to help."

Ben's tongue slid over his teeth. He took your wrist again, slower this time. Measured. Possessive.

"I know," he said. And then—just to twist the knife—"Come on, angel. Be good and calm me down again."

It was unbearable. Watching you. Every goddamn day. Still barefoot. Still soft-spoken. Still moving through the safehouse like a half-remembered dream.

You didn't flinch when you passed him in the hall. You didn't look away when he stared too long. You didn't snap, or scold, or blush—not even when his words started getting sharp around the edges.

He'd corner you in the kitchen just to see if you'd squirm. You didn't. He'd make jokes that would turn anyone else red. You'd just blink. Smile. Ask if he needed help. And every time, it got harder to breathe.

He wanted to snap his fingers and watch you shatter.

This time, you were leaning over the counter, slicing an apple with one of Frenchie's knives. Your fingers worked slow, careful. Your wings hadn't shown since the skirmish, but Ben kept watching for them anyway. Like maybe they'd twitch when he said the right thing. Like maybe they'd flare when you finally cracked.

He stepped into the kitchen, heavy boots echoing against the tile. You looked up. That same serene expression. That maddening stillness.

"Whatcha makin', sweetheart?"

You held up the apple. "It's fruit."

"No shit," he muttered.

You tilted your head. "Would you like some?"

"No," he said. "I don't want anythin' sweet."

You blinked. Confused again. He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Stopped just a few inches from where you stood, close enough that your elbow brushed his chest when you moved. You didn't even react.

He leaned down, voice low, thick, like honey slathered over gunmetal.

"You gonna keep pretending you don't know what I'm sayin'?"

You turned toward him. Wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"

He grinned, sharp and dangerous. "I mean, you keep actin' like you don't feel it."

"Feel... what?"

He laughed. "Jesus. You're serious."

You frowned, and for the first time, he saw a crack—tiny, delicate, like hairline glass in your expression.

He took it and twisted.

"You know what happens to good little angels like you?" He asked, voice dropping. "The world eats 'em alive. Chews 'em up. Spits 'em out in pieces."

You stared. Said nothing. He leaned in, mouth near your ear.

"But not me," he whispered. "I'd worship you while I ruined you."

Your breath hitched. Tiny. Barely there. But he heard it. He pulled back just enough to see your eyes. Still soft. Still confused. Still unbroken.

"Don't play innocent, angel," he said. "You touch me like you've already chosen."

You shook your head. "I was only trying to help. You said your heart—"

He grabbed your wrist again, same one he always reached for. Fit like a fucking habit now.

"You keep givin' yourself away like that," he said, "and someone's gonna take it the wrong way."

He waited. Waited for fear. For a flinch.

Instead, you just blinked. "Would that be wrong?"

Ben's grip tightened. He turned away before he did something stupid.

You don't get it. And I don't know if I want to teach you or just watch you fall.

He started doing it on purpose after that. The episodes. The short breath. The clutching his chest. The tension under his skin, real or faked—it didn't matter. Because you always came running. Like the good little angel you were.

This time, it was past midnight. The safehouse was quiet. Everyone else out or asleep. Ben was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, shirt undone, head tilted back, breathing shallow as the phantom ache in his chest throbbed like it knew your name.

He didn't have to wait long.

Your footsteps were light. Barely there. You stepped into the kitchen with that same wide-eyed calm, your hands already glowing before you even spoke.

"Is it happening again?" You whispered, already close.

Ben didn't speak. Didn't nod. Just looked at you through half-lidded eyes and said, "Help me."

You stepped between his knees, one hand on his chest, the other hovering just below his ribs. And when your power touched him—when that divine warmth bloomed inside him—his eyes rolled back.

He exhaled like it hurt. Like it ruined him.

"F-fuck..."

Your eyes snapped up. "Did I—?"

"Keep goin'," he growled.

You swallowed. Nodded. Let more of yourself pour into him. And it hit him again—hot this time. Like liquid sunlight. Like his nerves were singing hymns and bleeding at the same time. He groaned—and not quiet.

Your hand twitched. You didn't pull away. Ben opened his eyes. You looked flushed. Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was him. He smiled. Slow. Predatory.

"You like that," he said.

Your head jerked. "What?"

"You like touchin' me. You pretend it's just healing, but you keep comin' back." He leaned in closer. "You keep givin' me this." His hand covered yours. Pressed it harder against his chest. "You could stop anytime you wanted. But you don't."

"I... I just don't want you to be in pain."

He chuckled. "I'm always in pain, angel. You're just the first thing that ever made it feel good."

You blinked. Tried to look away. He didn't let you. He caught your chin, tilted your face back to his.

"I make noise every time you touch me. You notice that?"

"I..." Your voice shook.

"Bet you never heard a man moan like that before."

Silence.

Ben leaned in. "I could make you sound like that."

You blinked—horrified or curious, he couldn't tell. He hoped for both.

"I could make you scream so loud your halo'd crack in half," he whispered.

Your mouth parted, and finally, finally your breath stuttered. He felt it. That little flicker of your pulse under his fingers. He grinned.

Bingo.

Slow. Shaky. "I... I think that's enough for now," you said. You started pulling your hand back. He didn't let you.

"Uh-uh. Not yet," he said, voice low, rough around the edges. "Feels too fuckin' good to quit now."

Your eyes flicked up, a little unsure. But you stayed. Of course you stayed.

"You ever felt this before?" He asked, his fingers curling tighter around your wrist. "The way it heats up when you touch me? Like your whole goddamn body's tryin' to tell you somethin'?"

"I... I'm just trying to calm you—"

"Yeah?" He leaned in. "Well, newsflash, sweetheart—this ain't calm. This is fuckin' divine."

You blinked up at him, confused. And then you made the sound. A whimper. Soft. Involuntary. Like it slipped out before your brain caught it.

Ben went still.

You looked down. Right at yourself. And fuck—his dick twitched hard enough to hurt. Your brows pulled in. Your hand drifted lower. Palm over your stomach. Down. Your thighs pressed together.

And Ben watched, breath shallow. You looked back up at him like you were scared of your own skin.

Holy fuck. She doesn't even know what the hell that is. And I'm the one who woke it up.

"You feel that?" He asked, voice rasped and wrecked. "That little throb between your legs?"

You nodded. Small. Scared. Curious. "I think something's... wrong."

Ben let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "Wrong?" He muttered. "Oh, angel. That's the best goddamn part."

He stepped closer, towering over you.

"That?" He pointed lazily at your hips. "That's your body sayin' thank you."

You swallowed, wide-eyed.

"It's me," he added. "I did that."

Another whimper. Fucking perfect. He wanted to throw you on the counter and make you scream until the light burned out of your eyes—but he didn't. Not yet.

"Don't worry," he said, voice soft now. Dangerous. "We'll figure it out."

Your lashes fluttered. You nodded. Like you trusted him. And that? That was the most fucked-up thing of all.

Ben heard the knock and already knew it was you. Soft. Three little taps. Barely there. He didn't answer right away. Just let it sit. Let the silence stretch. Let you wonder if he was asleep or ignoring you or worse—until finally, he grunted:

"Yeah."

The door creaked open. You stepped inside like you were crossing holy ground. Ben was sprawled across his bed, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, one hand behind his head, the other resting across his abs. He didn't bother sitting up. You just stood there. Barefoot. In one of Hughie's oversized hoodies again. Looking down. Looking unsure.

He kept his voice low.

"What's up, angel?"

You hesitated. Then closed the door behind you.

"I... I didn't know where else to go."

He sat up at that. His eyes dragged down your legs. Back up. You looked wrecked—not in the usual way. Not scared. Not hurt. Just... overwhelmed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Talk to me."

You shifted on your feet. Clasped your hands together like you were about to pray. "It happened again," you whispered.

His head tilted. "What did?"

You glanced up at him, almost afraid to say it. Then: "The... the ache. That throb."

Ben's mouth went dry.

You kept going. "I thought maybe it was just when I touch people, but I wasn't healing anyone. I wasn't even near anyone." You paused. Swallowed. "I was just... thinking about you."

His heart slammed against his ribs.

You looked down at yourself again, thighs squeezing together like you were ashamed. "And now it's worse," you whispered. "Now I'm looking at you and it's worse."

Ben exhaled through his nose. Tried to keep his voice steady.

"C'mere."

You blinked.

He patted the bed beside him. "Sit."

You obeyed without question. Slipped onto the mattress, still not looking at him. Ben watched you closely. You were flushed. Your breath came shallow. Your hands curled into fists in your lap.

"You don't know what to do with it," he said, voice low, almost kind.

You shook your head. "I don't even know what it is. Just that it... it hurts. But not like pain."

"It's not pain," he murmured. "It's want."

Your breath caught. He leaned in, slow, voice dropping to a gravel whisper.

"You ever touched yourself?"

You blinked. "I—what?"

He smirked. "Guess that's a no."

You looked away, embarrassed.

Ben's voice softened—not out of mercy. Out of calculation.

"It's okay, angel. Ain't your fault. You're new to all this. Whole world's been keepin' you wrapped in glass." He reached over. His fingers ghosted over your thigh, just enough to make you twitch. "But you came to the right fuckin' place."

You turned back to him. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

He grinned.

"You think I don't love that it was me?" He asked, voice rough with need. "That it's me you think about when it starts? That it's my voice in your head when your thighs start squeezin' together and you don't know why?"

You whimpered. Just a little. And Ben's whole body tensed.

Fuck me. She's gonna come apart and I ain't even touchin' her.

He brought his mouth closer to your ear.

"You wanna feel better?"

You nodded.

"You wanna learn?"

Your breath shook. "Yes."

He smiled against your cheek.

"Good girl."

You were squirming now. Sitting on his bed, knees drawn up under that borrowed hoodie, hands clasped so tight your knuckles had gone pale. Every few seconds your thighs twitched together like you were trying to hold something in.

Ben watched. Every breath. Every shift. Every desperate little tremble. His cock throbbed, heavy in his sweats, but he didn't move. Didn't touch you. He was too busy watching you unravel.

Come on, sweetheart. Fall.

You looked at him, eyes glassy. "I don't know what to do," you whispered.

He tilted his head. "Yeah, you do."

Your mouth parted. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and mean.

"You came here."

You nodded, almost guilty.

"You're sittin' there all hot and achey, thinkin' about me, and you came here."

"I just thought maybe—"

"—I could make it go away?" He finished for you, grinning. "That it'd stop if you let me touch you?"

Your breath hitched. Ben's grin faded. His voice dropped.

"No, baby. It doesn't stop. It starts."

You whimpered. Just a little. But your thighs pressed tight and you rocked forward slightly—so innocent you didn't even realise you were grinding down against the tension.

Ben exhaled through his nose like it hurt.

"You want me to help you?"

You nodded.

"Say it."

Your brows drew together. "What?"

"Say you want it."

You shook your head—nervous. "I don't know what I'm asking for."

He reached out. Ran his knuckles over your knee. "You want me to teach you?" He asked, voice low. "Wanna learn how to touch yourself right?"

Your lips parted again. Slow. Breath shaky. "Yes."

Ben's cock twitched hard.

Fuck. That's it. That's the sound. She's never said that word like that before. Never meant it like that.

He patted his thigh. "C'mere."

You crawled into his lap like it was instinct.

He adjusted you with firm hands—one on your hip, one around your waist—settling you over his thighs. Your hoodie bunched up as you straddled him, and he nearly groaned at the heat bleeding off you.

He didn't touch you where you wanted. Just leaned in.

"Okay," he whispered against your cheek. "Let's start small."

He took your wrist. Brought your own hand to your belly.

"Lower."

You slid it down.

"Little more."

You swallowed. Obeyed.

Ben's voice dropped to a gravelly murmur. "Feel that pulse right there? That little throb you keep cryin' about?"

Your fingers twitched. You nodded.

"Press. Gentle. Just hold it."

You did. Your breath shook.

Ben's mouth nearly touched your ear now.

"Good girl."

You whimpered. Louder. And then, your wings flickered into view behind you. Not full. Not glowing. Just flickering. Like the light inside you was trying to escape.

Ben nearly lost it.

Holy fuck. She's lighting up just from her own hand. Just from my voice. She's mine.

"Now rub," he whispered. "Slow. In circles. Just like that."

You bit your lip. "Feels weird," you breathed.

"That's good, sweetheart. That's your body learnin'."

You kept going. Small motions. Breathless. And Ben? Ben was smiling. Watching purity fracture in real time. Watching you come to life. One little touch at a time.

You were trembling in his lap like your body wasn't sure it belonged to you anymore. One hand buried beneath the hem of that borrowed hoodie. The other fisted into the collar of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd drift away.

Ben sat back against the headboard, legs spread, letting you straddle his thigh with all the slow grace of a sinner crawling toward salvation. You didn't even know what you were doing—and that? That was what made it perfect.

You weren't trying to grind down on him. Wasn't deliberate. Wasn't dirty.

It was instinct. Need. Your hips rolled in these shallow, searching little movements that made his pulse hammer behind his teeth. And you kept murmuring tiny things—"I'm sorry," and "I don't know why," and "It's so hot"—like you thought you were confessing.

Like he'd ever fucking forgive you.

He could feel the heat through his sweats. Radiating off you. Soaking into him. Your thighs trembled every time his voice dipped low, every time he told you "just like that, sweetheart" or "keep rubbin', you're doin' so fuckin' good."

It was working.

God, it was working.

He could feel you—glowing faint under your skin. Light like static trapped in flesh, flickering in bursts. Your breath coming in high, desperate little gasps like you didn't know if you were allowed to make noise.

She's gonna fucking break. She's gonna fall apart with her hand on her cunt and my name in her mouth and she won't even know what hit her.

And then it happened.

That sound.

A moan—real, full, unfiltered. It cracked right out of you like something ancient finally getting free. Soft and wet and so fucking pure it nearly brought him to his knees.

Ben gritted his teeth. His hand moved—instinctual—down to cover yours, guiding your fingers harder, tighter, lower.

"Yeah, baby," he rasped, voice thick with reverence. "You're right there. You feel that?"

You nodded, whimpering. And then—you froze. All at once. Like you'd been caught in a spotlight. Your hand jerked back from under the hoodie like it was burning you. Your thighs snapped shut so fast they slapped against his.

Your eyes were wide. Panicked.

"I—I can't—" You shook your head, voice ragged. "I can't do this. I'm sorry."

Ben blinked. Not angry. Not shocked. Just still. You pulled back, trying to climb out of his lap like you were filthy, like you'd broken something sacred, but he didn't let you go. Not rough. Not forceful. Just firm. Grounded.

"Hey." His voice dropped into something soft. Something careful. But never kind. "You're okay."

You didn't look at him. Your halo flickered behind your shoulder like a candle caught in wind. "I felt something," you whispered. "It was building and it felt—wrong. Too big."

Ben stared.

You were still glowing. Still lit up in that faint, holy shimmer. You were divine like this—flushed and shaking in his lap, eyes wet with something like shame.

She was so fuckin' close. So fuckin' perfect. She doesn't even know what that would've felt like. And I would've been the first.

You breathed like you were trying not to cry. "I couldn't stop it," you said. "I didn't want to but I did—"

He reached up. Brushed your jaw with the backs of his fingers.

"Angel," he murmured. "That? That's what your body's built for."

Your eyes found his. Blown wide. Searching. Terrified.

"Don't you dare apologise for that."

You swallowed.

"But I don't understand it."

"I know. And that's what makes it so fuckin' beautiful." He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. Breathing you in. "You want me to stop, I'll stop," he whispered. "But don't lie to me. Don't lie to yourself."

You nodded, breath stuttering. Ben pulled you in. Wrapped his arms around you, cradled you against his chest like you were something holy he'd just dragged out of heaven and didn't want to drop. Your halo pulsed once. Dim. And then disappeared. You stayed there. Still glowing under the skin. Still his. Still trembling.

And all he could think—over and over, as his hand curved around the back of your neck and you finally sighed against him—was:

Next time, you're not stopping. Next time, you're gonna see God. And it's gonna be me.

a/n: AHHHHH. Okay, I couldn't help myself, I had to post the first part. I've got the next two parts written up and ready to go, I just don't wanna post them until I've finished up the last two instalments. I'm so excited for you guys to find out what happens. Let me know what you think please!! And if you like it, then you can all thank @tinas111 because this was her idea, I'm just doing the writing, hehehe. All the love.

Soldier Boy/Ben taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @bitchykittenconnoisseur <3

[kingkaisen]

a short fic of sukuna (true form) known for being vicious but is soft towards reader where he lets reader take control during sex cause he wants her to trust him and cause maybe she has had a bad experience in the past or smth like that. and then he takes over as he sees reader getting tired from being in control and then also does aftercare or wtv you like tbh 😭

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 — RYOMEN SUKUNA

⎯⎯ ୨ �� ୧ ⎯⎯

♡ — 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: 18+ only // mdni — fem reader, true form sukuna, smut, riding, creampie, oral fem receiving, soft sex, & aftercare.

♡ — 𝐚/𝐧: I had to tweak your request just a bit because it approached a topic I am not comfortable with writing (refer to my rules for more info) so I hope that's okay! Thank you @hoshigray for helping me out (:

♡ — 𝐰𝐜: 1K

⎯⎯ ୨ ♡ ୧ ⎯⎯

Your hands were on Sukuna’s abs — his hard, solid muscle underneath your soft fingertips. His entire body was covered with bulging muscle, as the King of Curses had an excellent physique that the great majority of human men could never achieve, even if they spent hours in the gym lifting weights and drinking protein shakes.

Slowly, you raised yourself up and down on his big cock, your hole stretching around him in a way that made him look at you with eyes filled with worry and concern — a look he never, ever gave to anyone else.

After all, he was huge. Everything about him was huge. And the last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt.

But, much to his surprise, the stretch of his cock only made you moan softly in pleasure once you were able to properly adjust to his size.

“You like riding me, huh, pretty girl?” He smirked a bit. As badly as he wanted to touch you, he resisted the urge. While he might have murdered anyone else without a second thought, he treated you like a fragile piece of glass — or a beautiful flower he didn’t want to crush or ruin by being too harsh.

And not only was he softer with you, but he’d take the life of anyone who wasn’t.

“You’re huge,” you mumbled, your words mixing in with the soft moans that also fell from your lips.

“I know, babygirl. You’re taking me so well, though. You’re making me feel so damn good, you know that?”

With a groan, Sukuna tossed his head back, stretching his arms out along the couch.

You couldn’t respond — riding a cock like his typically tended to drive away every single coherent thought your pretty little head could form.

For a while, you simply rode him, your moans growing louder as your pace and rhythm started to fall apart, becoming unsteady.

Suddenly, you stopped moving, and you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck as you tried to catch your breath.

His heart melted a bit when you touched him so affectionately.

“You okay?” He questioned, speaking softly since you were so close.

Gently, he placed a hand against your back.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you said, resting against his shoulder. “I needed to take a break. I didn’t ruin your orgasm, did I?”

“No. You know how long I can last.”

“Oh. I was worried I did,” you pulled away from him, which sank you further along his cock as you looked him in the face. “I ruined my own, but my knees were hurting too much.”

A little frown appeared across your face, but you quickly replaced it with a fake smile.

“Don’t worry, I can still make you finish, just let me rest a little.”

You couldn’t fool a curse like Sukuna. He knew you too well. You were the kind-hearted, adorable human being who didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

After all, you were only hurting because your muscles were getting worn out from trying to bounce up and down on his enormous cock, and you didn’t want to make him feel bad about being so huge.

“Maybe I could . . .” Sukuna paused for a minute. He was thinking. “Maybe I could hold you up, and fuck you that way.”

He didn’t want to risk hurting you, truth be told, but the thought of his sweet girl ruining her own orgasm from exhaustion didn’t make him happy.

He always wanted you to cum, and to cum first. And multiple times.

When you nodded eagerly, Sukuna slowly gripped your ass with his lower arms.

As gently as he could, he started to move you up and down along his cock.

“Sukuna, you’re not going to break me, I promise.” You smiled at him softly. “You can move me faster. I want you to be in control, okay?”

Sukuna, the curse responsible for the death of thousands of men, women, and children, looked at you worriedly.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” You said.

And, with that, Sukuna started to increase his speed.

Any uncertainty that this was the wrong decision melted away when you tossed your head back in pleasure.

“Oh my god, Sukuna,” you moaned.

Slowly, Sukuna started to let himself succumb to the pleasure that your tight pussy had brought. Breathing heavily, he started to buck his hips a bit, fucking you like a doll.

“That’s it,” Sukuna said. “Keep moaning my name, baby. Just like that.”

“Sukuna,” a pathetic whine fell from between your lips.

Suddenly, the mouth on his stomach opened, the tongue darting out and running along your clit rapidly.

The sound of your beautiful moans could have made Sukuna cum all on their own.

But, what truly made him come close to the edge was when your juices started to soak his big dick.

“Are you cumming, baby?” He grunted as he spoke. “That’s right. Cum all over my cock — I wanna feel it. I wanna taste it.”

That tongue of his continued to rapidly lick at your button.

“Sukuna! Shit-” You gripped his large arms — the arms that dragged you over his dick until you were practically delirious.

As you came, a wave of pleasure washing over every nerve within your body, your legs started to shake as you started to squirm around, but Sukuna held you still, because his cum only belonged in one place: inside of you.

God, your pussy milked his cock until he couldn’t hold back his moans anymore. His rhythm started to become sloppy. Sweat coated his skin. He suddenly no longer minded the existence of humans.

“I’m gonna cum inside of you,” he warned.

The swirling pleasure in the pit of his stomach had snapped, and he shot his warm cum deeply inside of you.

Everything about Sukuna was massive, including his load. His cum stuffed your pussy until it had no choice but to dribble back out and slide down his cock, settling in a circle around the base of his dick.

When Sukuna pulled out of you, the tongue belonging to the mouth on his stomach instantly started to lap at your messy cunt, cleaning and tasting the sweet mixture of your cum.

And, as that tongue made out with your pussy, Sukuna grabbed the back of your head with his large hand, holding you still as he shoved the tongue belonging to the mouth on his face into your mouth. He groaned at the taste of your sweet mouth. Feeling your little tongue swirl around his as if it could compare to his bigger one was rather humorous, and when he pulled away, he laughed a bit.

“You’re somethin’ else,” Sukuna said. “Come on, let me clean you up.”

“Okay.”

And, with that, Sukuna raised you off of his dick, taking you to the bathroom where he ran a hot bath — not a shower, as you’d both just end up fucking again.

Afterward, your lover put his four arms to use, gliding his large hands across every aching muscle in your body. As he massaged you, he couldn’t help but think about two things: how much he loved you, and how much he enjoyed being in control.

♡ — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠!

[amyzworldds]

Title: Fitness Quest

Masterlist

Woozi, a fitness enthusiast, drags his lazy, homebody girlfriend out of bed for an early morning jog, tired of her frequent colds and low energy. Pairing: Woozi x reader Genre: Fluff

The sun hadn’t even thought about rising yet, and the world outside was still cloaked in that pre-dawn hush—perfect for sleeping, in yn's opinion. Curled up under a mountain of blankets, she was blissfully lost in dreamland, probably imagining a world where calories didn’t exist and couches came with built-in snack dispensers. Meanwhile, Woozi—her gym-obsessed boyfriend—was already up, lacing his running shoes with the kind of enthusiasm that made yn wonder if he was secretly a robot powered by protein shakes.

Woozi wasn’t just a “go to the gym sometimes” guy. No, he was a gym rat. The kind who had a favorite treadmill and a handshake with the guy at the supplement store. He thrived on early mornings, green smoothies, and the satisfying clank of weights hitting the floor. Yn, on the other hand, thrived on netflix marathons, instant ramen, and the art of doing absolutely nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be healthy—she just figured her body was already doing its best by keeping her alive, so why push it?

The problem was, yn’s 'best' came with a side of frequent colds, low energy, and a general vibe of “I’ll get up in five minutes” that stretched into hours. Woozi, bless his heart, adored her anyway. He’d bring her soup when she was sick, tuck her in with extra blankets, and even let her whine about how “unfair” it was that her immune system betrayed her again. But lately, it was getting out of hand. Last week, she’d caught a cold again, and Woozi had spent three days playing nurse while she dramatically declared she was “one sneeze away from the grave.” Enough was enough. He loved her too much to watch her wilt like an unwatered houseplant.

So, today was the day. Operation “Get Yn Moving” was officially in motion. Woozi had planned it like a military strategist—step by step, easing her into exercise so her body wouldn’t go into full rebellion. Step one: a simple morning jog. Nothing crazy, just a light loop around the neighborhood. He’d even checked the weather (chilly but manageable) and laid out her comfiest sportswear the night before—a soft oversized hoodie, stretchy leggings, and sneakers she’d probably only worn twice.

At 5:30 a.m., Woozi crept into their shared bedroom, his gym-honed resolve unshaken by the sight of yn cocooned in the blankets like a human burrito. “Baby,” he whispered, nudging her gently. “Time to get up. We’re going jogging.”

A muffled groan emerged from the blanket pile. “Noooo… tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Or I’ll drink vitamins. Promise. All the vitamins. Just… five more minutes.”

“Yn, you said that last week. And the week before. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Woozi’s tone was patient but firm, like a parent coaxing a toddler out of a tantrum.

She peeked one eye out, glaring at him like he’d suggested they climb Mount Everest barefoot. “Fun? It’s not even light outside! This is torture, Babe. Torture! I’m calling the police.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “You’re not calling anyone. You’re jogging. Let’s go.” Before she could protest further, he yanked the blanket off her in one swift motion, earning a dramatic yelp as the cold air hit her.

“Nooo! I’m fragile! You’re gonna shock my system!” she wailed, flopping back onto the pillow like a stranded fish.

“Your system’s been shocked plenty by all that instant ramen. Up you go.” Ignoring her theatrics, he scooped her out of bed, setting her on her feet. She swayed there, pouting, her hair a bird’s nest of chaos. He handed her a water—“Drink this, it’ll help”—and started tugging the sportswear onto her like she was a grumpy mannequin. She whined the whole time, muttering about how “leggings are oppression” and “sneakers are a conspiracy,” but Woozi was relentless. By the time he tied her shoelaces, she looked halfway decent—if you ignored the scowl.

“Perfect. Let’s move,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door.

“Babe, it’s freezing! I’ll die out there! You’re dating a popsicle!” she protested, dragging her feet as he hauled her outside. The sky was still a dusky gray, the air crisp and biting, and yn immediately hugged herself, shivering exaggeratedly. “This is how horror movies start. Early morning, creepy silence—next thing you know, I’m running from a monster.”

“You’re running with me, not from me,” Woozi teased, starting a light jog down the sidewalk. “Come on, keep up.”

Yn shuffled behind him, her “jog” more of a zombie stumble. “This isn’t keeping up! This is survival!” she huffed, already winded after ten seconds. Woozi, naturally, was in his element—breathing steady, pace smooth, looking like he could jog to the moon and back. Meanwhile, yn’s lungs were staging a full-on protest. “You’re too fast! Slow down! My legs are shorter!”

“They’re not that short,” he called back, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Just breathe, you’ll get the hang of it.”

“Breathe? I’m trying not to die!” She stopped dead in her tracks, hands on her knees, panting like she’d just run a marathon. Woozi didn’t notice at first, too focused on his rhythm, but when the constant stream of whining went silent, he turned around. There she was, a good twenty meters back, sprawled across a bench like a victorian lady who’d fainted from exhaustion. Her arms dangled over the sides, and her eyes were closed—either asleep or pretending to be.

“Yn,” he said, jogging back to her. “Are you serious right now?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a pitiful look. “I’m resting. My body said ‘nope,’ and I respect its decisions.”

“You’ve been jogging for three minutes.”

“Three minutes too long,” she groaned, letting her head loll back. “Look at me. I’m adorable like this. Don’t ruin it with exercise.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. She was adorable, all flushed cheeks and pouty lips, but he wasn’t falling for it. “Nope. Up you go.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet despite her protests. “We’re finishing this jog together.”

“Together? You’re basically usain bolt, and I’m a sloth with asthma!” she whined, but he kept her hand in his, tugging her along at a slower pace this time. She stumbled beside him, grumbling under her breath about “gym tyranny” and “protein shake propaganda,” but she didn’t stop. Not completely, anyway.

Every few minutes, she’d dig her heels in, forcing him to pause so she could “catch her breath”—which mostly meant bending over dramatically and declaring things like, “My lungs are quitting. Tell them I love them.” Woozi just stood there, hands on his hips, smirking at her theatrics.

“You’re doing great,” he said after her third break, squeezing her hand. “See? You’re not dead yet.”

“Yet,” she wheezed, glaring at him. “You’re lucky I love you, or I’d have faked a heart attack by now.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss her sweaty forehead. “I love you too. That’s why I’m doing this. I want you around for a long time, whining and all.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

The jog—or, in yn’s case, the “near-death shuffle”—had finally come to an end. The sun was just beginning to spill its golden rays over the quiet neighborhood, casting long shadows on the pavement. Woozi slowed to a stop near a weathered wooden bench, his breathing steady and calm, while yn looked like she’d just survived an alien invasion. Her legs wobbled as she collapsed onto the bench, sprawling out like a starfish that had washed ashore.

“Sit here for a bit,” Woozi said, his voice gentle but still tinged with that no-nonsense tone he’d used to drag her out of bed. “You need to let your skin soak up the morning sun. It’s good for you—vitamin D and all that.”

Yn groaned, flopping her head back against the bench. “Vitamin D? My body doesn’t even know what that is anymore. It’s too busy screaming at me for this betrayal.” She rubbed her legs dramatically, as if they might fall off from the sheer audacity of exercise.

Woozi stood in front of her, arms crossed, looking every bit the picture of health with his flushed cheeks and steady posture. He didn’t sit—he never did after a jog; something about “cooling down properly”—but he softened when he saw her pitiful state. Yn, sensing his presence, scooted forward and pressed her forehead against his stomach, wrapping her arms around his waist in a half-hug, half-collapse.

“Babeee,” she whined, her voice muffled against his hoodie. “I’m so tired. And sleepy. And my legs hate me. And I hate jogging. And the sun’s too bright now. Can we go back to bed? Please? I’ll be good, I swear.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her cheek, and brought a hand up to stroke her messy hair. His fingers were gentle, untangling the knots she’d accumulated from flailing around during their run. “You did great, you know,” he said, his tone softening into something warm and fond. “I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?” she mumbled, tilting her head up just enough to squint at him. “I stopped, like, ten times. And I’m pretty sure I’m legally a sloth now.”

“Still counts,” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You made it through. That’s more than yesterday.”

She huffed, burying her face back into his stomach. “Yesterday, I was happy and cozy and not dying on a sidewalk. Take me home, Woozi. I need to recover from this trauma.”

He laughed again, letting her cling to him for a moment longer. The morning air was still crisp, but the sunlight was starting to warm things up, casting a soft glow over them. Yn’s breathing was still a little ragged, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she recovered from her “ordeal.” Woozi kept stroking her hair, patient as ever, waiting until she didn’t sound like she’d just run from a bear.

After a few minutes, her dramatic gasps settled into normal breaths, though her pout remained firmly in place. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. “Okay, I’m alive. Barely. Now what? Don’t say more jogging, or I’m breaking up with you.”

Woozi grinned, crouching down so they were eye level. “No more jogging. Promise.” He paused for effect, watching her pout twitch into something hopeful. “How about this: I’ll carry you home, make your favorite pancakes, and let you sleep as long as you want. And I’ll stay with you all day. Deal?”

Her eyes lit up like he’d just offered her the moon. “All day? Like, no sneaking off to the gym or fiddling with your music stuff?”

“Nope. Just you, me, pancakes, and the couch,” he confirmed, standing up and offering his hands to pull her to her feet.

Yn hesitated, then sighed dramatically as if it were a huge effort to stand. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Gym Rat. But if those pancakes don’t have extra syrup, I’m rioting.”

“Noted,” he said with a smirk, turning around and crouching slightly. “Hop on.”

She blinked at him. “Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually carrying me?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” He glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. “Unless you want to walk—”

“No, no, no!” she interrupted, scrambling onto his back before he could change his mind. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on top of his head as he hoisted her up with ease. For a guy who spent half his life lifting weights, she was light as a feather—or at least, he made it look that way.

“Comfy?” he asked, starting the trek back home with her clinging to him like a koala.

“Very,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his hair. “You’re warm. And you smell nice. Way better than jogging.”

He snorted. “Glad I rank higher than exercise.”

“Barely,” she teased, though her voice was already growing drowsy. The steady rhythm of his steps, the warmth of his back, and the exhaustion from their morning adventure were lulling her into a sleepy haze. “Don’t drop me, okay? I’m too cute to fall.”

“I won’t,” he promised, adjusting his grip on her legs. “Just don’t fall asleep up there, or I’ll have to eat all the pancakes myself.”

Her head popped up instantly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he shot back, grinning as he felt her tighten her hold on him.

The walk home was quiet after that, save for yn’s occasional sleepy mumbles about pancake toppings and how she was “never jogging again.” Woozi just smiled to himself, the weight of her on his back a comforting reminder of why he’d dragged her out in the first place. She might’ve whined the whole way, but she was his—lazy, dramatic, and all. And as long as he had pancakes and patience, he’d keep her around for a long, long time.

When they finally reached their apartment, he set her down gently on the couch, where she promptly sprawled out like a cat claiming its territory. “Pancakes now,” she demanded, though her eyes were already half-closed.

“Coming right up,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead before heading to the kitchen. True to his word, he stayed by her side all day—pancakes, cuddles, and a nap-filled afternoon included. And if yn noticed the extra syrup he drizzled on her stack, well, she was too blissed out to complain.

[izzih22]

maybe paige is on her period and a hormonal wreck and crampy but didn’t tell azzi because she didn’t want to worry her and the next day in practice she missed an easy layup or geno yelled at her and she burst into tears and everyone was shocked and azzi didn’t know why paige was so upset and then paige cried again when she forgot extra stuff and then everyone made fun of her after practice or something (lightheartedly ofc) especially nika or ice and then the next day at practice she cried again and geno was confused and then nika or ice or whoever you choose laughed at her (they still cared for her) and then they get their period as well and paige cried to azzi obv lol

Hormones And Huskies

Note: I think I got it all. I also think this one’s pretty funny ngl😂

It starts with the cramps.

Not the kind Paige can ignore, either — not the dull ache she usually powers through with Advil and a heating pad and pure stubbornness. No, these are gnarly. The kind that make her curl up in bed and go, “Is this what dying feels like?”

But there’s a game this weekend. Film to study. Practice to run. Expectations to meet. So she takes three ibuprofen, pretends she’s fine, and doesn’t tell Azzi. She knows Azzi would worry, or hover, or pull her out of drills, and Paige doesn’t want any of that. She just wants to be a functioning human being.

Unfortunately, her body has other plans.

⸻

Day 1: The Meltdown

Practice is intense. Full-speed scrimmage, Geno yelling, girls diving for loose balls like it’s the Final Four.

Paige is playing fine, considering. But then she misses a layup. A bunny. Wide open. Her bread and butter.

She hears Geno’s voice before she even lands. “PAIGE! That’s a layup! A LAYUP! What are we doing?!”

Normally she’d nod, shake it off, and lock in. But today?

Her throat tightens. Her chest caves.

Before she can stop it, tears are sliding down her cheeks.

And not like, discreet watery eyes. No. Full-on red-faced, silent-crying, why am I sobbing tears.

The gym goes quiet.

“Uh…” Ice mutters. “Did someone just break Paige?”

Nika, confused and mildly alarmed, lowers her water bottle. “Is she crying? Is this real? Is this a prank?”

Azzi’s halfway across the court before anyone else can move, eyes wide, worried but calm. She doesn’t say anything, just touches Paige’s elbow gently.

Paige sniffles. “I’m fine.”

“You’re definitely not,” Azzi says, voice low and even.

Paige wipes her face with her jersey, which only makes it worse. Now she looks blotchy and like she has a toddler’s level of emotional regulation.

“Y-you’re gonna think I’m being stupid.”

Azzi shakes her head. “I literally never think that.”

Paige opens her mouth to respond — and bursts into tears again.

KK leans over to Ice. “This is above our pay grade.”

Ice nods solemnly. “I think we broke the golden retriever.”

⸻

Later that day

After practice, Paige opens her locker and realizes she left her extra compression shorts and backup socks in her dorm.

She stares into the empty space.

And starts crying again.

Azzi turns from her own locker, alarmed. “Paige?! What happened?!”

Paige wails, “I FORGOT MY SECOND PAIR OF SOCKS!”

Nika chokes on her protein shake. “No shot you’re crying over socks.”

“I’m emotionally fragile!” Paige shouts through her tears. “I don’t know what’s happening to me!”

⸻

Day 2: The Chaos Multiplies

The next morning, Paige wakes up still crampy, bloated, and emotionally unstable. She considers faking sick. But that’s not who she is.

Unfortunately, that means she’s crying on the court again. This time because Geno raised his voice while giving her a defensive assignment.

He doesn’t even yell. Just talks firmly.

Cue: Tears.

Geno stares at her, lost.

“What — are you crying again?!”

Paige sniffles. “I don’t know whyyyyy.”

KK hides behind Nika, whispering, “She’s been hacked. We need a factory reset.”

Ice looks around. “We should get a medic.”

Even Azzi, usually calm in the face of Paige-related madness, is speechless. “Okay, babe. What is going on?”

And that’s when Paige finally breaks.

“I’m on my period and I feel like a walking hormone and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry and now I can’t stop crying and I’m sorry if I’m annoying but I really needed my second pair of socks yesterday and I miss my heating pad and I—”

Azzi puts her hands on Paige’s shoulders. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Paige whimpers. “I’m just also dying.”

⸻

Team Chaos: Fully Activated

Once the truth’s out, the floodgates open.

Azzi wraps her up in a hug and kisses her forehead. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve helped.”

“I didn’t wanna be weak.”

“You’re not. You’re just hormonal. There’s a difference.”

Nika, hearing the last part, nods solemnly. “Yup. Been there. I once cried over a grilled cheese.”

KK pipes up, “I cried watching a turtle cross the road.”

Ice shrugs. “I cried in Target because I couldn’t decide between two brands of deodorant.”

“Wait…” KK frowns, rubbing her stomach. “Why do I kinda feel like…”

Ice squints. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

Nika’s eyes widen. “Wait. You guys—?”

“NOOOOOO,” Ice groans. “It’s happening.”

Paige stares at them in horror. “Did I… start the wave?!”

KK collapses dramatically on the bench. “You contaminated us!”

Azzi is dying laughing now, Paige buried in her shoulder, sniffling but giggling through it.

Geno walks by, sees four girls laying on the floor and Paige being spooned by Azzi in the corner.

He pauses. Blinks. Keeps walking.

“I don’t want to know,” he mutters.

⸻

Post-Practice: Team Roast Session

In the locker room, the mood’s lighter. Paige has fully embraced the fact that she’s now the emotional mascot of the team.

She sits curled up next to Azzi, sipping Gatorade, while Nika sits across from her smirking.

“You really cried over socks?”

“Yes.”

KK adds, “And a missed layup.”

“And Geno’s tone of voice,” Ice contributes.

Azzi, lovingly rubbing Paige’s back: “Let’s not forget the great heating pad monologue.”

“Shut up,” Paige groans, shoving her face into Azzi’s shoulder.

Nika pulls out her phone. “I’m writing a memoir. ’The Period Chronicles: Week of Tears.’ You’re chapter one.”

Paige mutters, “I hate all of you.”

Azzi kisses her temple. “You love us.”

“Only you,” Paige mumbles, pouting harder. “And maybe the heating pad.”

⸻

Day 3: It’s All Downhill from Here

By the third day, it’s officially team-wide.

KK and Ice are dragging through warmups, groaning every five minutes. Nika’s got a heating pack tucked into the waistband of her shorts. Geno looks haunted.

Paige? Still crying occasionally. But now it’s funny.

Like when she got misty-eyed because Azzi passed her a water bottle and said “you’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Or when Ice said “nice cut” and Paige got overwhelmed by the support.

She sniffled, “I love us.”

KK yelled, “WE’RE LITERALLY JUST PRACTICING.”

⸻

Final Scene: Softness Overload

That night, Paige is curled up in Azzi’s bed, a heating pad on her stomach, a blanket around her shoulders, and a bag of chocolate chips in her lap.

“I’m sorry I was a hormonal disaster,” she mumbles.

Azzi smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You were adorable.”

“I cried like… seven times.”

“You’re human.”

“I also started a period chain reaction.”

Azzi laughs softly. “You’re a leader, remember?”

Paige snorts and buries her face in Azzi’s neck. “You’re so annoying for loving me this much.”

Azzi holds her tighter. “You can cry every day for the rest of our lives and I’ll still love you.”

Paige lets out a choked laugh. “Don’t say that or I will cry again.”

Azzi just kisses her cheek and whispers, “Bring it on.”

[enwoso]

weight of the world | part three

alessia russo x baby!reader

-> based on this request | some upsetting themes throughout so read with caution

grumpy masterlist | part two here

it took two days for alessia to even work up the courage to message ella and even then her finger hovered over the send button for a few minutes before she quickly clicked it before she had time to talk herself out of it.

less | ‘hey. can we talk? i'm really sorry.’

the reply came within seconds, like ella had been waiting.

tooney | ‘course. whenever your ready, come by carrington.’

alessia stared at the message until the screen dimmed. even then, she didn't move. her fingers stayed clenched around her phone like it was the only thing tethering her to something real.

her stomach churned the whole drive over. her hands trembled on the steering wheel. part of her wanted to turn around. to just disappear. to just go back home where you and her mum was. but the guilt, the shame—it sat in her chest like a stone.

and underneath it all, a deeper, more painful fear: what if they didn't want her anymore? what if alessia had pushed too hard, too far, and broken the very thing that used to feel like home?

when she got there she stood outside the changing room for nearly five full minutes.

carrington sounded different now—brighter, louder. the energy buzzed in the walls. laughter echoed down the hall.

it felt so far from the silence of alessia's flat, from the wails and whimpers and isolation that clung to her like a second skin.

it felt like life. and alessia didn't know if she belonged in it anymore. but she stepped inside anyway. the room quieted almost instantly when the door clicked shut behind her.

several of the girls looked up from tying boots, laughing over playlist debates, sipping protein shakes. conversations stilled. expressions shifted. curiosity. concern. relief.

and then ella stood up from the bench. ella looked exactly how alessia remembered—steady, grounded, warm—but something flickered in her eyes. caution. hope. a kind of quiet ache.

"hey," alessia said, voice barely above a whisper.

"hey you," ella replied. alessia swallowed hard. the words were burning in her throat.

"i- i was wrong," alessia said. "i wasn't okay. and i took it out on you. on everyone. i thought i could hold it all together, but i couldn't. i didn't. i'm really sorry."

ella didn't speak for a moment. her jaw clenched—once, twice—and then she stepped forward. "we never needed you to be perfect, less," ella said a soft smile on her lips. "just honest."

alessia nodded as her voice cracked. "i- i didn't know how. i thought if i slowed down, everything would fall apart. that i would."

"you were falling apart," ella said gently. "you just didn't have to do it alone."

and that was it. the dam cracked open.

"i'm scared all the time, el," alessia whispered. "i love her so much it hurts and i'm constantly terrified i'm doing it wrong. that i'll mess her up. that i already have. i've been so angry and tired and empty and i didn't know what else to be. and i thought... i thought you'd hate me."

ella blinked quickly, trying to keep her own tears from surfacing. ella stepped closer, her voice a murmur.

"i was scared too," ella admitted. "not because you yelled. but because i thought you might hate me. for calling your mum. for stepping in."

alessia looked up at her then, properly. her mouth opened, then closed again. alessia shook her head, overwhelmed. "i don't," she managed. "i couldn't hate you. i think... i think you saved me."

and then ella—blunt, bold, unshakable ella—wrapped her arms around alessia like she'd been waiting weeks to do it.

held alessia like she wasn't fragile, but sacred. held alessia like friendship was a promise, not a transaction.

"you don't have to be anything but here," ella whispered. "we've got you. and we've got y/n."

around them, the girls slowly stood. millie came over first, squeezing alessia's shoulder without a word. then mary, who gently took alessia's bag and set it down like it was nothing.

one by one, the team drifted closer—not swarming, just present.

someone handed alessia water. someone else a towel. little things, quiet gestures.

but to alessia, they felt like lifelines. they didn't ask questions. didn't make a scene. they just showed up.

and after weeks of isolation and silence, that was enough to split something open in alessia's chest—something that ached and healed all at once.

for the first time in what felt like forever, alessia let herself believe it: she wasn't alone anymore. she didn't have to do this alone.

not with you. not with the fear. not with the healing.

alessia had them. and they had her.

⸻

a couple of weeks had passed and the mornings still started early. but they were getting lighter. you were waking only once a night now, around four a.m. your soft gurgles and sleepy kicks a gentle, almost sacred alarm clock in the grey-blue hush of dawn.

alessia didn't resent the early hour like she used to although she does sometimes find her self dreaming of a lie in once in a while but she now didn't meet the sunrise with dread or panic or that crushing sense of failure before the day had even begun.

there was a rhythm now. not perfect. not smooth. but it was hers.

alessia moved slower in the mornings, with more care than urgency. less like she was sprinting against time, more like instead she was moving along with it.

alessia lifted you from your crib and pressed a kiss to your warm, squishy forehead. you smelled like baby lotion, milky breath, and dreams. with your small fingers curled instinctively around alessia's shirt as you yawned, blinking up at your mummy with pure, sleepy trust.

"good morning, my little love," alessia whispered, rocking gently, swaying on the balls of her feet like it was second nature now.

the house still bore the marks of a life interrupted—but it no longer looked like a war zone.

there was a bib draped over the couch. a half-folded baby blanket on the armchair. your toys littered the corner like evidence of joy instead of chaos.

the sink had dishes, sure—but there was food in the fridge. a half-drunk coffee on the table. a warmth in the walls.

not neat. no where near pristine. but lived in. loved in. safe.

alessia's mum had returned back home to kent three days ago—but not before leaving order behind like breadcrumbs in the woods.

there was fresh calendar hung on the fridge, days colour-coded between training sessions, therapy check-ins, and your growing milestones. a corkboard held emergency contacts, appointment slips, and a laminated sleep guide ('just in case, love')

and there, stuck to the front of the freezer with a magnet shaped like a heart, was a small, handwritten note on floral stationery:

dr. finch – women's health & postnatal support private line. safe, discreet. kind.

alessia had stared at it since her mum had placed it there. she'd walked past it, opened the fridge for oat milk, stared, then shut the door again.

alessia had told herself she was fine. that the worst had passed. that she was stronger now.

but every night, when the quiet crept in again—when the world shrank to just alessia and you and the long dark—alessia felt that same undercurrent of fear tug at her ankles.

not drowning anymore. but maybe not exactly steady either.

and so, a few days later, alessia reached out and peeled the note from the fridge. sat on the couch. phone in hand. heart pounding.

alessia's thumb hovered over the number like it was a trigger. and then alessia tapped it.

the phone rang once. then twice. then a voice answered, warm and even. "dr. finch's office. this is morgan. how can i help?"

alessia's voice caught for a second, thick in her throat. then she exhaled. "i- um i think i need someone to talk to," alessia said quietly. "um i'm a new mum. and i... i think i'm not okay."

there was no judgment. no silence. just a gentle, "of course. we can help with that." and for the first time in a long time, alessia didn't feel weak for asking. she felt brave.

she looked down at you—now curled up on your mummy's chest, snoring softly—and tucked the blanket around your tiny body.

maybe it wasn't about getting it all right. maybe it never had been.

maybe it was just about showing up—over and over. messy, tired, healing. but still here. still choosing to keep going.

[biology-geology-beaches-india]

The Science Manuscripts of Satyendra Sunkavally, page 38.

[cricket-reader]

Glass Hours

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: After a series of awful dates, Bucky is fed up with the way each man leaves her bruised. He gets a call late one night and doesn't hesitate to be there for her. Something fragile blooms that night, beautiful as the first snowdrop flowers after a long winter. (Thunderbolts!Bucky)

word count: 4,223

A/N: prompt fill for day 2 @juneofdoom | "I’m worried about you" | Protective

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

Bucky smiled as he walked into the common room, where giggling filtered throughout the room. His heart skipped a beat, seeing the woman he’s grown to admire lounging on the couch surrounded by Yelena and Ava.

It had taken a while for her to find her place amongst the New Avengers, but as soon as she realised that they were all just people trying to survive in this crazy world, same as her, she began to relax.

He remembers the first time he caught her in the kitchen, cooking up a feast for breakfast. At first, he had thought she was someone’s fling or girlfriend that they hadn’t mentioned. As soon as she turned around to put the hashbrowns on a serving plate behind her, her entire body tensed upon seeing she wasn’t alone. He’s surprised she didn’t drop the sizzling pan, given how shocked she was to see him standing on the other side of the island with his arms crossed. She clumsily introduced herself as the personal chef that Valentina had hired, disproving his original assumption.

Through the months, the team had fully accepted her into their circle, including her on movie nights and trips to the mall, to training (even if she mostly used the gym to swim) and girls' nights out. And over the months, Bucky has grown closer and closer to her.

At first, it was nothing more than platonic on his end, but then it grew into something more. His gaze lingered on her every time she entered the room, he began to anticipate her needs—whether she needed her morning coffee (with an unhealthy amount of sugar), a steaming cup of tea (usually chai), or some chocolate to cheer her up. He noticed the little things that no one else paid attention to: the way she always waited before talking, hesitant still even as she made herself a home with them; the way she’d always try to make herself smaller, never trying to take up too much space. He couldn’t understand it, not when she was sunshine personified.

“Okay, but look at Todd, though, you can’t deny-”

“Lena!” She shrieks with laughter. “You can’t seriously be trying to set me up with that guy.”

“What’s so wrong with Todd?” Yelena questions, biting her lip.

“His profile is all fish pics and gym selfies!” She makes a dramatic gagging noise before bursting out into giggles with the girls as they look over his profile.

If there is one thing Bucky hates about her, however, it is the number of dates she goes on. Every time, without fail, she is way too good for them. He hates watching her trudge home from another horrific date time and time again, hates watching her creep into Yelena’s room with tear tracks running down her face—Ava booking it to the room as soon as Yelena texts her. He doesn’t understand how these boys (because with the way they treat her, they can’t possibly be called men) could possibly forsake her. Not when she was an angel walking on earth, overflowing with kindness and care, not when she was the most gorgeous person he’d ever had the chance to lay eyes on.

He clenches his jaw as he walks over to the fridge to get his post-workout protein shake. He doesn’t understand why, even after everything those losers online put her through, she continued. She deserved someone that was willing to upend the world for her, someone who would never take her for granted, someone who would cherish her for all her days.

He wishes that someone could be him.

It’s something he knows that will never come to fruition. No, she deserves someone whose hands aren’t stained with blood, whose mind isn’t filled with horrors unspeakable, whose heart isn’t shattered into pieces. She deserves the world, and he is but a scarred man.

“Bucky!” Yelena calls him over, gesturing wildly. “Come look at Todd!”

His hand clenches around the bottle as he turns to face the three girls on the couch. Ava is smirking at him, Yelena is still recovering from her giggle attack, and the object of his affection is beet-red. She stares down at her phone, hair falling down into her face. She nudges Yelena, shooting a scathing glare towards the blonde as Bucky approaches.

Bucky barely chances a glance at the loser on the screen before saying, “You could do better.”

“Look at him, though,” Yelena tries her best not to burst out into another fit of laughter. “I mean, he’s got the smile, he works out and has a body to show for it, he likes fish? What more could you want in a man?”

Bucky frowns.

“I’m not going out with him,” she says. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

The girls giggle again, peering over her shoulder to look at the next guy. Bucky’s stomach swirls at the thought of her going on another date, at the thought of her falling for him, at the thought of them getting married and her completely forgetting about him, abandoning him just as the last person he had fallen for did. Instead of continuing to watch this horror show, Bucky stalks away, dented protein shake in hand.

“I’m just saying,” Alexei says, voice as boisterous as always as he slings an arm around Bob and Bucky. “If the girls all are going out tonight, why don’t we find dates as well? Even John has gone to see his girl!”

Bob shifts out of his grip, “Yelena and Ava are not dating anyone, and John went to see his kid.”

“Well, our resident chef is on a date! We should be out, we go to bar and all get ladies. Easy for men like us.”

Bucky grumbled under his breath, knocking Alexei’s arm off of him. He didn’t think anyone else would be in the common room since the girls and Walker had left for the evening. Staying out in the open was just a strategic move. If she came home early, heartbroken and in need of company, Ava and Yelena wouldn’t be there to comfort her. Which left him to await her return, ready to do anything to take that frown off her face, to make her forget about that stupid loser who wasn’t worth her time.

He’s just about to go back into his room when his ringtone cuts through the room. Her name flashes across his screen, sending his heart racing. He picks up right away, jogging to his room to grab his jacket. “Doll? What’s up? I thought you were on a date.”

Her sniffles cut through the phone like knives to his heart. “Doll?” His voice is laced with urgency and anxiety.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” she murmurs, voice warbled. He can hear how she’s on the verge of a breakdown. “Lena and Ava are busy and John too, and Bob never has his phone on him, and I didn’t want to call Alexei… and I didn’t wanna bother you, but… I didn’t have anyone else. I’m sorry.”

“Doll, tell me what’s going on. Where are you?” Bucky races out of his room to the elevator, ignoring Alexei’s confused shouts and Bob’s worried look.

“I’m-” she hiccups over a sob- “I’m at the bar… The Loft? Well, I’m in the alleyway, but it’s right next to it.”

“I’m on my way, okay, are you safe right now?” Bucky sprints over to his motorcycle.

“Hurry, Bucky,” she whimpers before devolving into muffled sobs. His heart aches as he mounts the bike.

“Okay, babydoll. I’m on my way,” he transfers the call to his Bluetooth helmet—an element he swore he’d never find a use for. He’s never felt more grateful for it than now.

He zips through traffic, weaving in between cars and angering every driver along the way. His mind is focused on her, the sniffling and crying echoing in his motorcycle helmet.

He pulls up to the bar, not even bothering to follow the parking rules listed on the nearby sign.

The sight that greets him is enough to stop his heart. Curled up against a dirty brick wall, the light of his life trembles like a flower. He can’t see her face from here, but he knows the sight of her wobbling lips and tear-filled eyes will knock him off his feet. He approaches slowly, footsteps intentionally audible. He sees her tense, her head whipping up to view the intruder. Upon seeing him, her entire body melts into the pavement.

Rage boils under the surface when he sees the blooming bruise upon her cheek, the red handprint on her arm. He keeps his face dangerously calm as he crouches down beside her. Her pretty dress is torn by the thin sleeve, falling dangerously down her chest. He doesn’t hesitate to shrug off his jacket and wrap her up in it.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” she murmurs, her words slightly slurred. “I didn’t wan’ you to see me like this… I’m a mess.”

Bucky wants to shake her until she regains her common sense. She has nothing to be sorry for; the only one that should be sorry is the asshole who did this to her. He knows that if that man isn’t, he sure as hell will be by the time he’s done with him. “No need to be sorry, angel. You did good calling me.”

She chokes on a sob. “I just went to the bathroom, Buck… I didn’t think he’d… Why was I so stupid?”

Clenching his jaw, he brings his flesh hand to the delicate skin on her face, wiping away the salty tears. “You’re not stupid.”

“But-” hiccup- “that’s like the first rule of bein’ a girl an’ goin’ to bars. Don’t leave your drink unattended.”

“It was supposed to be attended by that asshole you went out with. He should’a never done that.”

“It was the first time I met him, though, Buck. I… I shouldn’t have trusted him.”

The mere fact that women couldn’t even trust men on the first date was enough to send his skin ablaze. No woman should ever have to fear for their safety like that. “I think it’s a damn tragedy that you can’t trust no one these days.”

“C’mon, doll, let's get a taxi,” Bucky says, offering a hand to her. She readily takes it. He almost smiles at the way she lets out a little yelp at how easy it was for him to lift her off the ground. He adjusts the jacket around her shoulders, making sure that it won’t fall and expose her before going out to the street.

He hails a taxi, and soon enough, they’re sitting in the warm backseat. He tries to ignore the feeling inside him that ignites upon seeing her in his jacket. The last thing she wants right now is more unwanted attention. That doesn’t, however, stop his heart from racing as she leans her head on his shoulder, eyes drooping shut as sleep overtakes her.

When they pull up to the Watchtower, she’s still out cold. He pays the taxi driver and manoeuvres himself out of the cab without waking her. He lifts her into his arms and brings her up to their sleeping quarters. Alexei and Bob are still in the living room, both looking awfully concerned for their resident chef. Alexei opens his mouth, but Bob is quick to shut him up.

Bucky reaches her room and stops at the precipice. He’s never been allowed in there, never seen so much as a glimpse into her tiny world. It feels almost too intimate. He shuffles her around, trying to open the door without waking her.

As soon as he enters, he is overwhelmed by her scent. It seeps into every pore of her room, candles and perfumes and lotions scattered about. They’re all the same scent, that smell that he’s known to associate with her. He glances around the room, noting how it looks very clustered yet also tidy. Knick-knacks line her shelves and desk, and a giant bookcase filled to the brim with a variety of books sits opposite the door. It’s everything he would have suspected of her room.

He sets her down on her unmade bed, gently pulling the killer high heels from her feet. He frowns at the sight of her smudged makeup, knowing that it needs to come off. He feels like an invader as he rifles through her bathroom drawers and closet—not that there’s anything incriminating in there, just average bathroom stuff and an unholy amount of unused bath bombs and salts and body scrubs.

He finds a bottle of micellar water that claims to work on even waterproof makeup, and hopes that this is what she usually uses. He didn’t see any makeup wipes, so it would have to do.

When he comes back into the room, she’s sitting up on the bed, arms wrapped around her legs. He startles her out of her staring contest with the wall. She looks at him, eyes glancing down to the bottle and cotton pads in his hands. Her brows draw together. “What’re you doing?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.

“I was just gonna take off your makeup. Didn’t want you to fall asleep with it on.”

“Bucky Barnes,” she chuckles, wet and sad sounding, “What even are you?”

He furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“You’re like… like the best man I’ve ever known. You’re so… so sweet and–and whoever said chivalry is dead, hasn’t met you.”

The tips of Bucky’s ears heat, heart thumping erratically in his chest. It has to be the drugs, he tells himself. She would never say something like that to him sober. “Okay, doll,” he says, not allowing himself to believe that his words are genuine. He walks over to the bed. “This is what you use to take off your makeup, right, sweetheart? Didn’t see anything else.”

“Mhm,” she hums, her inquisitive eyes boring a hole into his head. “You looked through all my stuff?”

Bucky splutters, “No–just–I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to sleep in the makeup. I didn’t see anything, just-”

She laughs at his stuttering apology, “It’s okay, Bucky.”

His heart skips a beat when his eyes meet hers. He can only chalk it up to the intoxication, but she’s looking at him like he hung the entire galaxy. He’s never seen them look so expressive, so loving—and it’s him that she’s looking at. The makeup comes off surprisingly easily, given how gentle he’s being. And when he’s finished, he finds that she’s still looking at him with that same expression, equal parts content and reverent.

He clears his throat when he realises he’s been staring too long. Getting up to throw away the dirty cotton pads and return the bottle to the bathroom, he is stopped by her hand reaching out to grab his vibranium hand. He instantly stills, turning back to look at the delicate thing resting in such a dangerous weapon.

“Please don’t leave me, Buck. I don’ wanna be alone tonight.”

He swallows past the emotion wedged in his throat, knowing that this is a huge leap for her. It’s the inebriation, he knows, but some part of him preens at the way she’s asking for his help—something she rarely allows herself to ask of anyone.

“Okay, doll. Do you wanna get into something more comfortable?” Bucky asks, eyes dropping down to see that the right side of the dress had fallen down again, the jacket hanging loosely off her frame. He quickly averts his eyes.

She nods, stumbling to her feet and ambling over to the closet. He watches her grab a huge sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. He has to tamp down the protective instinct to follow her into the bathroom to make sure she doesn’t pass out and hit her head. He settles for listening to her, hearing the way she hums as the clothing rustles and plops onto the floor.

When she emerges from the bathroom, swallowed up in that giant hoodie, his mouth dries. He’d been looking for that hoodie for ages. He had declared his search a lost cause after the resident hoodie stealer (Ava) had denied having it. This whole time, it was squirreled away in her room.

“Nice hoodie,” he can’t help but comment, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Thanks!” She chirps, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “Ava gave it to me.”

Bucky shakes his head; he should have known.

“Used to smell really good, but now it just smells like me,” she pouts, fiddling with that stupid loose string that’s still hanging on the sleeve. Bucky’s face bursts into flames, his insides melting. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Bucky reminds himself.

“You should get some sleep, babydoll. I’ll be here all night if you need me.” Bucky gets up from the bed, ready to camp out on one of her chairs. It’s far from the worst place he’s slept. Besides, if it’d give her peace of mind, he’d sleep on a bed of coals.

He situates himself on her desk chair and watches as she tangles herself up in several soft blankets. She tosses and turns a few times before she eventually faces him. He fights back the smile on his face at the sight of her head poking out from the covers, sleepy eyes blinking up at him.

She frowns suddenly, the space between her brows creasing. “You’re gonna sleep there?”

“Told ya, I’m not leaving you… unless you want me to go-”

“No! I just…” she trails off, eyes drooping shut for a second before blinking back to him. “Wouldn’t you rather sleep in a bed?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, doll. Just get some sleep.”

“Would you…” she trails off, biting her lip and looking at the floor. He sees the apples of her cheeks redden.

“Yeah?” Bucky doesn’t tell her that he’d do anything for her, that whatever she asked, he’d give her. On the off chance that she does remember any of this tomorrow, he’ll need all the plausible deniability he can get.

“If you wanted… You could sleep with me,” she murmurs, hiding her rosy cheeks with her fluffy blanket. Clenching his jaw, Bucky reminds himself that there is no possible way that she could truly mean that.

“Doll,” he mutters, painstakingly aware of how much his heart yearns to have her close after the scare she gave him. “I don’t think you want that.”

“Lena and Ava do it all the time,” she protests, eyes wide and glimmering. Bucky bites down on his lip, her eyes practically begging him to give in.

“That’s… that’s different.”

“Why? I trust you, Bucky, and I really don’t want to be alone right now.” She sniffles a little. “Unless… unless you don’t want to, of course.”

Resolve crumbling like wet sand, Bucky can’t help but acquiesce to her plea. “Okay, um… I’ll just… If you’re sure.”

She opens up her mountain of blankets, inviting him in to stay the night. He shuffles into bed beside her, careful to keep his distance. Her eyes remained fixed on him. Bucky meets her unwavering gaze, tracing every freckle with his eyes. “You really scared me tonight, doll,” Bucky whispers, the confession releasing the heavy pressure that had been put upon his chest since the first sound of her distress came over his phone speaker.

Her eyes dart up to meet his. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely audible.

“Don’t have to be sorry,” he murmurs, daring to reach out a hand to tuck away a stray strand of hair. “I’m worried about you, that’s all. I always worry about you. None of those guys deserve you, and… and I hate seeing you get hurt all the time.”

She burrows her head into his chest then, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. “I think I’m done.”

Bucky furrows his brows. “What d’ya mean, doll?”

She chuckles, wet and sad, low in her throat. “I don’t think love exists. Not for me anyway.”

Heart surging with a protective heat, he says, “Of course, it does. You… you’ll find the perfect person.”

“And how many more times am I gonna have to get hurt?” She questions, fingers playing with the strings on her hoodie. “Feels like no one wants genuine connection ‘cept me. All they want is a fling or… or someone to control. I’m just so tired of it all.”

Bucky hums low in his throat, reaching around her to pull her into a comforting hug.

“Why can’t there be more men like you?” She murmurs, eyes drifting shut.

Bucky bites back his immediate thought: why not me? He knows why. Despite how hard he tries, no one will ever be able to look past his blood-stained history. He may be “gentlemanly” and “sweet”, but that won’t erase the fact that he will always be seen as the ruthless assassin that HYDRA forged in fire and pain.

After a long period of silence, her hesitant voice breaks through the room, “Would you ever date someone like me?”

Bucky’s mind blanks, leaving him scrambling for the appropriate response to such a question. Whilst there’s no doubt in his mind that he would, it doesn’t mean he should say such a thing. His silence is apparently too long, for she pulls away from him.

“Sorry, that was… I shouldn’t have asked that. I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he mutters, feeling colder than ever without her body pressed up against him.

“It’s just that Ava said something, but I didn’t believe her, and I shouldn’t have. She always likes picking on you guys, and maybe it was a joke-”

“What did she say?” Bucky questions, heart beating faster. All those looks she shot him whenever he was around her, stealing his hoodie to give it to her, that couldn’t all be by happenstance. Which means she knows, and if she knows and she told her…

“She said that you’re always more grumpy than usual when I go out on dates, that she’s surprised you haven’t asked me out.” She shakes her head, eyes gleaming with mirth. “Could you imagine that?” Her bitter laugh cuts through his heart. “You asking me out?”

“Why d’ya find that so hard to believe, doll?” Bucky asks, hoping his voice sounds more unaffected to her than it does to him.

She raises a brow, eyes sweeping across his face. “C’mon, Buck! You can’t tell me that you’d ever go for a girl like me. Not when you’re like… the most perfect guy ever.”

“That’s not… I’m not-”

“Hush,” she interrupts him. “I’m practically a nobody. You’re an Avenger. I’m just a girl that likes to cook.”

“That’s not what I see when I look at you,” Bucky says, and to her furrowed brows, he continues, “I see a woman with more kindness and compassion than she knows what to do with—someone who always lends a shoulder to those who need it. I see a gal that loves to read, cook and bake. I see a girl who doesn’t know her true worth, that doesn’t realise she lights up every room she walks into. I… I see the girl that has stolen my heart by insisting that I eat your sweet treats and by listening to what I have to say and… well, I could go on and on, but I think you get the gist of it.”

Bucky’s hand is unreasonably clammy, his heart stuttering in his chest as she just stares at him. They stay like that for a while, and Bucky is certain that he said too much. He wishes he could shove it all back down, wishes he never got into bed with her, wishes he knew when to shut his trap.

Bucky sits up when he notices that tears are streaming down her face. Damn, he really fucked this up, is all he can think.

“Shit,” he mutters, heart in his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spring that all on you-”

“Don’t… No… I just… no one’s ever said anything that nice to me before.” She wipes her eyes, sitting up alongside him. “You… you really feel that way about me?”

Bucky can feel the tips of his ears burning, the apples of his cheeks following suit. “Yeah.”

“I… I like you too.”

Bucky’s heart explodes into a swarm of butterflies. Never in a million years did he think that she’d return his feelings. He doesn’t know what he did to be deserving of such affection, but he’ll do his damndest to be worthy of it.

“Let’s talk more when you’re sober, doll,” he suggests. He grins at her adorable pout. “I’ll still be here in the morning, and I’ll still be head over heels for you if you’re worried about that.”

“Fine,” she murmurs, lying back down and pulling the blankets up to her chin. “As long as you get down here to cuddle with me.”

“Of course,” he says, his heart the most giddy it’s been since the early nineteen hundreds. That night, surrounded by her warmth and comforting scent, he gets the best sleep he’s had since being put in cryo.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair

[4evermutated]

bayverse! April headcanons

because i hate the way megan fox was sexualised in the movies i wanna give her more personality than just being hot and smart 😭 i heart u bayverse April

- she thrifts! not just expensive 'real vintage' designer labels but everything, she also finds clothes than can be easily upcycled and tweaked for the boys. Her signature color is yellow so you KNOW she has rare and whimsical pieces she collects in her wardrobe

- speaking of which; she sews! Mikey often rips or breaks his stuff (like shoes and shirts) and hes always giving her bits and pieces to fix up. As much as Donnie is a tech wiz, Aprils expertise lies in the art of DIY! shes tried to teach Don how to sew but ironically its one of the few things he cant crack

- shes a stem nut, OBVIOUSLY! her and Don bond the most over new technology and the advancement of science and digital technology. her and Don made her a pc from scratch and its one of her most precious memories

- April has a really bad sweet tooth, when the guys get pizza for the rare nights in, she's reaching for Mikeys candy stash for sure (she makes sure to replenish it with all their shared faves)

- her favourite candy is anything sour! but actually sour, we're talking throat numbingly sour to the point where at the end of the bag all you taste is blood 💀 it freaks everyone out lmao

- she has a masters in journalism and a degree social sciences, its so important to her to give visibility to the stories rarely talked about. Shes very dedicated to her profession and genuinely gets mad that all vern cares about is attention from fans and the camera

- April is also very passionate about nutrition and fitness! she goes total big sister mode when the turtles neglect their protein intake especially with how big and physically demanding their jobs are. a few times she's tried to teach Leo how to cook for his brothers and hes just about learned how to not burn eggs on toast but shell be damned if she starts cooking for 4 6ft men 😭 respectfully not her job!

- she's incredibly protective of her friends, whoever they may be, even Vern. she doesn't take lightly to disrespect and she WILL trash talk you to silence if you make anyone she cares about feel less than

- when she was younger she wanted to be a zoologist or anthropologist. Like her dad, she's always had a love for science and research, but she loved animals so much as a kid and it crushed her when she realised her father was experimenting on animals

- she feels personally responsible for the turtles and Splinter, she visits them atleast once a night, whether on face time or in person. the fact that they feel theyll never be accepted in society weighs heavy on her heart. she wishes things were different

- she knows Mikey has a crush on her, but she doesn't know how to let him down gently and honestly doesn't wanna open that can of worms, so she just pretends she doesn't notice his very desperate flirting

- sleeper build april. SLEEPER BUILD APRIL. people treat her like shes fragile just because she's beautiful but shes also incredibly strong with amazing endurance. i mean hello?! SHE CAN RUN IN HEELS. thats badass

- she loves game nights w the turtles and Casey, she loves playing MK and her go-to character is ofc Mileena (goated and no im not biased)

- she may or may not have a dedicated collection of disguises for super sleuthing and recon. shes very proud of it and will give a tour if asked

- she wants to learn ninjitsu, just doesn't know if she should ask or wait to be asked. she feels awkward and sometimes wonders if its not her place, even though in reality Splinter would be happy to train someone so dedicated to justice.

- her favourite drink is banana protein smoothie!! the lair has a blender just for her 😭 they have to hide it from Mikey before he gets back into his liquid pizza phase again

- she likes hero comics/shows (like 2012 leo!). Naruto was her childhood and its kinda beautifully ironic that she's like a ninja by proxy now

thats all for now! its been like 5 years since ive written headcanons so sorry if the format is boring, lmk if you want more headcanons! ok bai

[mocchiixxx]

Words in Ruin Series # | 05 : Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) 🐯

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Outburst, Reconciliation, Soft Romance

Warnings: Raised voice, mental and physical exhaustion, emotional vulnerability, guilt, crying, self-doubt

Summary: Hoshi lives and breathes performance. As SVT’s performance leader, he pushes himself beyond his limits just to deliver perfection— not just for fans, but for the team he treasures. But when pressure turns to frustration, and exhaustion becomes too loud to ignore, he ends up saying something he shouldn’t. When he sees your reaction— your flinch, your silence, your tears, he realizes he’s just hurt the one person who sees him as more than a performer. Can Hoshi learn that he doesn’t always have to roar… especially with you?

The clock on the studio wall ticked past 2:18 a.m.

Soonyoung’s body was on autopilot; pivot, spin, pop, freeze— every move executed with force, as if perfection was just one repetition away. Music blared from the speaker in loops, over and over, until the beat felt like it was stitched into his heartbeat. But it wasn’t right. Not yet. Not enough.

Never enough.

You sat quietly near the mirror wall, watching his every move like you always did. Not because you were assigned to be there, not because someone told you to, but because you wanted to. Because if he wasn’t going to look after himself, someone had to.

“Soonyoung,” you tried, standing slowly, voice soft with concern. “You’ve been at it since before dinner. Can we stop for ten minutes? Just to breathe? I brought your vitamins and a protein bar—”

“I can’t take a break!” he barked, whirling around. “Don’t you get it?! This has to be perfect!”

You froze.

“I’m trying to carry this team, these expectations, this image— do you think that just happens without blood and sweat? If I rest now, someone else will outwork me. I’ll fall behind!”

You opened your mouth, stunned by the storm in his voice.

“I just wanted to help,” you whispered.

“Well, don’t,” he snapped. “I don’t need help. I don’t need you here right now. Just leave me alone!”

The air went still.

Something fragile broke between you. Not with a shatter, but with a soft, stunned silence that cracked the center of your chest.

You looked down, blinking fast, trying to gather your emotions before they slipped out and betrayed you.

“Got it,” you murmured, your voice trembling like a loose string.

“You don’t need me.”

Your words echoed louder than the music.

Soonyoung’s breath hitched.

“Wait,” he said, panic bleeding into his voice. “Y/N, no—no, no, I didn’t mean that.”

You were already backing away, slowly gathering the jacket you had draped over a chair for him earlier.

He rushed toward you, desperate, his hand catching your wrist. “I didn’t mean any of that. I’m so sorry. Please just… don’t go.”

You didn’t pull away, but your voice was quieter now. Tired. “Hoshi… do you know what it feels like to watch someone you love tear themselves apart, piece by piece? And still be told you’re not needed?”

His lips parted. A thousand words swarmed his head, but none of them felt enough.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, this time softer. “I’m just… so exhausted. Everything’s spinning. I feel like I’m being watched all the time, like if I stop for even a second, I’ll disappoint someone. So I keep pushing. I keep dancing. Because that’s what Hoshi does, right?”

You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “And what about Soonyoung?”

He blinked.

“What about the boy who loves tigers, who drinks banana milk before bed, who texts me three times just to ask how I’m doing even when he’s the one falling apart?”

Your voice cracked slightly. “You don’t have to roar with me, Soonyoung. You don’t have to perform. Just let me be here— for you, not the stage version of you.”

The guilt on his face twisted into something heavier— remorse, grief, and a desperate need to be forgiven.

“I thought I had to carry everything alone,” he choked out. “But when I saw your face just now, when I realized I made you feel unwanted— God, Y/N, it broke something in me.”

You reached up slowly, brushing back his damp bangs. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. You just have to let me in.”

His lips trembled.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m scared if I take the mask off, there’ll be nothing underneath.”

“There’s everything underneath,” you whispered back. “So much warmth, so much love. So much you. You just forgot where it was buried.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as a single tear fell. “Then help me remember. Help me breathe again.”

You nodded. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” he echoed, barely above a breath.

You smiled gently. “Where you can rest. Where you can be Soonyoung. Not the leader. Not the performer. Just you. With me.”

He let out a long, shaky sigh, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. “Okay. Just Soonyoung.”

“And if you ever forget,” you said, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, “I’ll remind you. Over and over again.”

For the first time that night, his shoulders dropped.

The tiger stopped roaring.

And Soonyoung finally let himself rest.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv

[p0orbaby]

Leah accidentally hurting someone (like Alessia) in Training and getting really upset about that and feeling really guilty. So she has to be comforted by her in the end.

-

It happens on a Thursday. Not that Thursday means anything, but it feels like a Thursday. Overcast, petty, vaguely forgettable. You’re twenty-seven minutes into a small-sided drill at London Colney when Leah, in a committed attempt to intercept the ball, takes out Alessia’s left ankle like it owes her money. It’s not elegant. It’s not even a proper tackle. It’s a catastrophic tangle of limbs, studs, and a rogue water bottle that had no business being that close to the pitch.

Alessia goes down like a Victorian woman in a corset. Flat on her back. Moaning, dramatically. There’s a beat of silence. Someone yells, “Jesus Christ!” Someone else says, “She’ll walk it off.” Leah stands there, frozen, like she’s just accidentally kicked a child or reversed over a dog.

You’re watching from the sidelines, tying and untying your boot laces compulsively. You go through three double knots before someone throws a bib at your head and tells you to sub in.

Leah doesn’t move for another twenty seconds. When she finally does, it’s to jog—too fast—to Alessia’s side, crouch, and say something that sounds vaguely like, “Sorry, mate, didn’t see you.” Which is a lie, obviously. She sees everything. That’s part of her problem.

Two hours later, you find her sulking in the treatment room like a divorced dad in a B&Q lighting aisle.

“I think I’ve killed her,” she says.

“She’s literally walking. She walked into the ice bath herself.”

“Yeah, but she limped into it. Did you see that?”

You’re holding a protein bar that you don’t want, peeling it open just for something to do with your hands. It smells like synthetic peanut butter and bad decisions.

“She had a slight wobble. You didn’t cave her chest in.”

“She’s fragile,” Leah insists, eyes wide like she’s explaining nuclear disarmament to a toddler. “She cries at adverts. I once showed her a video of a duck crossing the road and she had to sit down.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this about the duck or your God complex?”

She glares at you like you’ve just asked her to give up defending forever and take up full-time knitting.

You sit on the edge of the physio table. “You’re not a monster, Lee. You’re just… very enthusiastic. In a terrifying, slightly manic way.”

She groans and flops backwards, arms flung out dramatically. “I need to send her something. Like flowers. Or a hamper. Do people still send hampers? What do you put in a hamper? Cheeses?”

“You could just apologise properly,” you say, picking a thread off your joggers. “With words. Like a person.”

“I did apologise. I said I didn’t see her.”

“That’s not an apology. That’s a legal defence.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Leah sighs like the weight of the entire Arsenal squad rests solely on her collarbone. You reach over, touch her knee. It twitches like it’s been electrocuted.

“You’re not a bad person,” you say, gently. “You’re just a bit shit at slowing down.”

She looks at you with this ridiculous expression—somewhere between grateful and guilty and still slightly convinced she’s committed second-degree murder.

“Do you think if I buy her one of those massive Toblerones, she’ll forgive me?”

“Depends. Are you going to throw it at her ankle?”

She glares. You grin.

And that’s the end of that. Until next Thursday.

Which will, inevitably, also feel like a Thursday.

[aleskie]

COULD YOU TELL WHERE MY HEAD WAS AT WHEN YOU FOUND ME? | Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Six months in and everythiing feels like it's new and fragile and safe all at the same time. Like it's right where they're meant to be. Just two people holding onto each other tight even when the world tries to pull them apart.

HELL & BACK MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER WARNINGS: None. I think this might hurt a little bit. Gets angsty at the end :)

Six months.

You’ve been his girlfriend for six months.

He’s kept you all to himself for six months.

And it’s been perfect.

Not the kind of perfect that’s loud and flashy, that demands to be seen or plastered across headlines. Your love is quieter than that. Softer. More gentle. A kind of perfect that breathes easy. A love he keeps close to his chest—not like a secret, but like a treasure. Something too precious to risk, too delicate to offer up to the noise.

You don’t exactly sneak around—Monaco’s privacy laws have done a lot of the heavy lifting—but you both keep things deliberately low-key. Moments spent tucked away in each other’s apartments, where the biggest decision is what to order for dinner and whether you can convince him to share.

He usually gets his meal plan—some overly calculated, protein-packed nonsense he pretends to enjoy—and you, of course, go for something that actually tastes good.

“You can have some, y’know?” you say, nudging your takeout container toward him with a grin.

“I gotta stay in shape,” he pouts. “Can’t be too heavy for the car.”

He bites his lip like he’s genuinely tempted, then dramatically digs back into what you’ve dubbed his ‘overly healthy disgusting athlete food’ after he let you try a bite that one time.

“Why is there no flavor?” you ask, nose scrunched like it personally offended you.

“Baby, I can’t have too much salt,” he says with a laugh.

“I’m begging you—save your tastebuds. I love you too much to let you keep eating this.”

His eyebrows lift, teasing. “Oh? You love me?”

Your cheeks flush immediately, giving you away. That’s all the answer he needs before leaning over and pressing a warm kiss to your temple, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

You take hikes together, too. Quiet mornings in the mountains, far from any cameras or curious eyes—where the only ones who know your names are the trees and the wind. Where the air is light and clean, and the sun kisses your skin just enough to leave you both golden by the time you come back down.

Other times, you take weekend trips to sleepy corners of France, little towns with cobblestone streets and no real plans. He walks beside you with his hand resting on the small of your back, stealing kisses like secrets whenever no one’s looking.

He gives you a paddock pass, of course. You go to races. You’re there, always there, just not seen. Tucked away in his driver’s room, tucked into him when the world is too loud. You stand in the back of the garage, behind tinted glass or shaded corners, watching it all unfold. You aren’t the first to congratulate him when he wins—but you are the last. The only one that really matters. The one whose arms he falls into when it’s all over.

And he thinks that’s enough.

He thinks this—what you have, what you’ve built together in this quiet little corner of the world—is everything he needs. 

But you both know. 

Love this good?

It never stays hidden for long.

It starts with a photo. Blurry. Shaken. Clearly taken in haste. But it’s enough to make out the shape of him, the shape of you—your hand resting lightly on his arm as you walk beside him down an empty street at night.

Gossip blogs latch onto it instantly, dissecting every pixel. Speculating who you are, what your relationship is, how long it's been going on.

A slip-up. An unfortunate one. But it passes quickly. Just a rumor. A whisper. Your name never even makes it into the captions. The world chalks it up to a fleeting thing—a casual fling. Temporary. 

To them, it's nothing.

To him, it’s everything. A relationship that saved him, kept him grounded.

The next week, another photo surfaces. You’re getting into his car outside of your office. It’s grainy, poorly lit, the building mercifully unconfirmed. But the implication is loud, even without words.

He sees the shift right away—the way eyes linger a little longer when you walk into a room, the way people start connecting dots, even when they shouldn’t be looking.

But it’s the third photo that breaks the illusion entirely.

You’re kissing.

It’s not staged. Not careful. Just a stolen moment—quiet, affectionate, real. A goodbye kiss, probably. But now it’s on every screen. Tweeted, reposted, captioned with headlines in bold: “Who is She?” “Lando Norris’ Mystery Girlfriend Finally Revealed?” “Romance Confirmed?”

The internet explodes. Instagram threads, tabloid articles, TikTok theories. Everything from any photo of him with a woman from the last year to your Instagram profile–put on private, thankfully—gets put under a microscope. People start watching too closely. Noticing too much. Dissecting every interaction you’ve ever had in public like it’s a clue in some twisted game.

Neither of you are surprised.

You’d known it was only a matter of time.

But that doesn’t make it easier.

Because after that, everything shifts. The way people talk. The way they stare. The pressure. The questions. The quiet between you two starts to stretch longer than usual. Not because anything’s broken—yet—but because, for the first time, your little world doesn’t feel untouched anymore.

“You’re acting weird,” you tell him over dinner one night.

Chicken and pasta—a meal you’d carefully put together, following his mid-season diet to the letter. Even used that healthy pasta you hate but never complain about, just so he wouldn’t have to eat alone.

You’re too good for him, he thinks. Too gentle. Too thoughtful. Too willing to accommodate a life you never asked for.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, too flat.

“It’s just…” You move around the kitchen, setting plates down with a soft clink. “You seem a little paranoid lately.”

His brows draw together, tension instantly forming between them like it always does when he’s overthinking again.

You walk over—quiet, cautious—and reach up to smooth the crease away with your thumb. It’s such a small thing, but it makes his throat tighten.

“We’re home,” you remind him, voice calm and steady. “We’re safe here.”

“I know…” he murmurs, leaning into you, letting his head rest against your chest like it’s the only place he can breathe right now. Your heartbeat is steady. Sure. Unlike him.

“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.

You hum in response, fingers running through his curls with that same quiet tenderness you always offer when you know he’s not ready to talk. And still, the guilt presses against his ribs like it’s trying to crack them open. He hates this. Hates that you’re caught up in a life that never asked for your consent. Hates that all you wanted was a nice, normal boyfriend—and he couldn’t even give you that.

“The food’s getting cold,” he says after a moment, pulling back.

“It’s alright,” you say, thumb grazing his cheek, trying to coax him back into ease. “We can always reheat it.”

But he shakes his head. Stands up, shoulders tense.

“It isn’t alright,” he snaps—not at you, never at you, but at the whole situation. “It’s not. I…” He sees the flash of confusion across your face, the slight recoil from his tone, and immediately softens. “You worked so hard on it. I don’t want it to go to waste.”

You furrow your brows, tilting your head. “Lando…I boiled pasta and baked a chicken with some lemon. It’s not like I made a feast.”

“It’s not about how hard it is,” he says, voice low. “It’s about the fact that you did it. For me.”

He bites his lip, the words struggling to form, but eventually they find their way out.

“You take such good care of me.” He swallows thickly. “You actually like me. As a person.”

You take a tentative step forward, heart aching at the way he sounds—small, uncertain.

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says again, more urgently now.

“But I’m not.”

“You could,” he insists, eyes wide, voice strained. “You’re already getting dragged online, people are making assumptions, twisting things, and it’s only gonna get worse. I know how this goes.”

“Lando,” you say carefully, “What exactly do you think is going to hurt me?”

He opens his mouth, searching for the right thing to say, but you don’t give him the space to spiral.

“I knew what I was getting into when we started dating. I knew the risks—the lack of privacy, the noise, the blurry camera phone photos, the comments from people who think they know us. I’m not saying I like it, but I knew. And I still chose this.”

He looks at you like he’s still trying to believe that could be true. That someone would willingly walk into the chaos and stay.

“Why?” he asks, barely above a whisper, “Why choose it at all? Why stay?”

You reach out, your hand finding his, warm and sure.

“Because you’re worth it.”

He wants to believe it. He really does.

Wants to take your words and wrap them around himself like armor. Wants to trust that you see something in him worth holding onto.

But deep down, there’s that whisper again—the one that says you deserve better, that he’ll ruin this too, that he’s not enough.

Still, the selfish part of him—the part that aches for you, that clings to your warmth and your steady heart—takes over.

So he slides his arms around your waist and presses his forehead to your shoulder. Holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

He doesn't say anything, just breathes you in and hopes it’s enough. Hopes that maybe, if he holds you close enough, long enough, the doubt will fade. That maybe trying to believe is the first step to actually believing.

It has to be.

Because he can’t lose you. 

Not now. 

Not when you’ve become the safest thing he’s ever known.

“You get used to it.”

He overhears Lily tell you during the next race weekend you attend—your first public one since the world found out about the two of you.

“I think it’s just one of those things you have to compartmentalize,” she continues, her voice calm, matter-of-fact, like she’s said it a dozen times before. “They don’t know you, so why let them ruin your life?”

She’s younger than him, around Oscar’s age, but she speaks with the kind of hard-earned clarity that only comes from living through the noise. From surviving it. From choosing love, over and over again, despite everything.

And he watches you listen—really listen—the way you always do, your brows pinched slightly in thought, the corner of your lip tucked under your teeth the way it always is when you’re taking in something serious.

Lily offers you a small smile before turning her attention back to her phone, and it’s quiet again, save for the distant hum of the paddock.

He lingers just a moment longer, then turns away before either of you can see him watching.

But he thinks about it all day.

He thinks about how right Lily is—how relationships like this force you to grow up fast, to develop skin thick enough to shield love from the storm that tries to swallow it.

He thinks that maybe that’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time—you start to take on pieces of each other, whether you mean to or not. A glance. A phrase. A way of looking at the world that’s softer, braver, more certain.

And he likes to believe it’s already happening with you, like it’s confirmation that he’s learning how to love with his whole chest, honest and without flinching.

He hopes that he’s taking in bits of your quiet strength, the way you stay soft even when the world tries to harden you, the way you notice the little things, like how he always taps twice on his door before leaving for a race weekend or how he craves the specific sandwich from the team’s hospitality on the long stretches away from the track.

He hopes he’s absorbing some of that calm steadiness, that warmth that makes people feel safe just being near you. He hopes he’s learning to carry himself with the same grace you do, even when you’re being watched, even when you’re being picked apart.

Maybe he’s learning how to be a little more patient. A little more open. A little more seen.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re taking in pieces of him too.

The win feels surreal. Even hours later, champagne still drying in his hair, his race suit half-zipped and tied around his waist, it hasn’t quite sunk in. He won.

And you were there. Right next to his mechanics and engineers, dressed in the number he got you, beaming with pride like you’d been holding your breath the entire final lap. He spotted you instantly, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on yours—and then, just like that, everything else faded.

He kissed you. Quickly, but sweetly. Right in front of everyone, in front of cameras and fans and anyone who had something to say about it. He hadn’t known how liberating it would feel to love you in public—to choose you out loud. There’s still a little fear, some anxiety coiled deep in his chest, but it’s outweighed by one simple truth: you were there. And despite the roar of the crowd and the sea of people, the moment felt like it belonged only to the both of you.

He finds you later on—after the podium, after the media duties and debriefs have wrapped up—in the back halls of the paddock, away from the commotion, from the flashes and microphones and celebration chaos.

And you smile at him like he’s the only thing that matters in the world.

Maybe that’s what he loves most about you. That no matter how loud everything gets, you’re always the calm. The center. The grounding.

“You did it,” you whisper, barely able to contain your excitement. You don’t run to him, don’t throw yourself into his arms like it’s some cheesy movie montage. You just open your arms, patient and sure, and it’s more than enough. He melts into you like it’s instinct, forehead pressing into your shoulder, your hand finding its place against his back, tracing gentle circles that anchor him in place.

“I did it,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, like he’s still convincing himself it’s real.

“You earned it.”

You pull back just enough to press a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual. He tastes salt—sweat and champagne, maybe tears—but also the faint sweetness of your lip balm, and something else. Something like home.

“I’m so proud of you,” you breathe.

He wants to stay here forever. Just like this. Wrapped up in you, the scent of your perfume, the rhythm of your breathing, the feeling of being known and loved and seen.

Because for all the glory and the cameras and the celebrations, this—you—is the part that means the most.

And then his phone buzzes.

Again.

And again.

He feels it in his hand like a warning bell—sharp and vibrating against his skin, a caution to ignore. But he doesn’t need to check it. He already knows.

Someone snapped a photo. Probably several. The two of you in the garage—his arms around your waist, your hands in his hair, the kiss you left on his cheek like a promise. The way he looked at you like you hung the stars and he was lucky enough to live under them.

It’s already made the rounds on social media. He knows how it goes: every good moment weaponized, every soft thing twisted into scandal. People dissecting who you are, if you deserve him, if he deserves you. If he’s distracted. If this somehow makes the win less about racing and more about gossip.

You notice the shift in him immediately—the way his jaw tenses, the subtle retreat behind his eyes.

“Hey.” Your voice is quiet, steady. You reach up and smooth the frown from his face with your thumb. “What’s in your head?”

“You know what.” He leans into your touch, needing the warmth of it like oxygen. “They saw.”

“Let them see,” you tell him, calm and collected. Direct. “Let them make stories in their heads and judge and post and twist it all. We know the truth.”

His gaze flickers to yours—guarded, hesitant, like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

“Don’t let them take this away from you,” you continue, softer now. “You won today. You gave a beautiful performance. You drove your heart out—made it look easy. That’s all you. That’s who you are.” You lace your fingers through his. “Let them talk, yeah?. We don’t owe them anything.”

He exhales, long and slow, as if the weight of the world loosened just a little from his shoulders.

And then—

He smiles.

Soft. Full. The kind of smile he only ever saves for you.

“Come with me,” he says, standing a little taller, tugging gently on your hand.

“To where?” you ask, matching his grin.

“Anywhere.” He tilts his head. “Somewhere with cake.”

A beat. 

“Or alcohol.”

You laugh—really laugh—and just like that, the rest of the noise fades.

For now, it’s just you and him again.

Just love.

Everything comes to a head on a random afternoon.

The kind of afternoon that starts slow, lazy, golden. The kind meant for thumbing through the pages of a book with soft music playing in the background, the sun casting gentle rays through the windows. The kind meant for lounging around in socks and oversized shirts, for dancing in the kitchen when no one’s looking. The kind where he stands behind you, arms draped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as you half-heartedly try to cook.

“I’m trying to focus,” you protest with a laugh, elbows nudging him away, but not really.

“You’re doing amazing,” he mumbles into your neck, not letting go. “Very professional. Extremely precise stirring technique.”

He’s warm and drowsy with contentment, and he would’ve liked nothing more than for the day to stretch out just like that—lazy and uninterrupted. But, of course, it doesn’t.

Your phone rings. Twice. Then dings with a new email. And then again.

You sigh as you check the screen, posture already shifting into something stiffer.

“Shit.”

“What is it?”

“One of our team members went AWOL and I’m next in line to clean up the mess.” 

 “On your off day?” he frowns.

 “Yeah.”

He doesn’t like it. Not even a little. But he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t ask you to put it away or remind you it’s supposed to be your break. He just watches you sigh again and mutter something about needing caffeine before you settle on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees.

So he makes it his mission to be as close to you as humanly possible while you work. He brings you water. Makes coffee. Adjusts your blanket. Scrolls quietly through his own phone while stealing glances at you every other minute. You’re focused, brow furrowed in that way he finds maddeningly attractive. You chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re deep in thought. You mumble phrases under your breath when you type too fast and lose your place.

And even though he knows he shouldn’t—because you’re busy and clearly stressed—he can’t help but press a soft kiss to your temple when you let out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.

You sigh again, leaning into his touch just a little. “I’m trying.”

After a moment, you look around like you’re searching for something.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get my phone for me? I need to contact someone. I think I left it charging in the kitchen.”

“‘Course,” he says immediately, already standing up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You give him a tired smile. “Not planning to.”

And as he walks off to grab your phone, he feels it again—that tiny little ache in his chest.

The need to protect your peace.

To make all this easier.

To keep the world quiet just for you.

When he comes back, you’re typing fast, eyes glued to the screen, lips pursed in concentration. Your coffee sits forgotten on the table, half-full and growing cold. He figures you’ve probably pushed aside your contacts and messages for later, choosing to lock in and power through the work in one sitting.

He doesn’t bother you. Just settles in beside you, thigh pressed against yours, and reaches for your phone where it’s now resting on the arm of the couch. If he can’t have your attention, he might as well amuse himself.

Every now and then, he takes over your Instagram for fun. It started as a joke—one random post captioned “she’s in a meeting so I’m the boss now” that had your friends in stitches—and somehow became a bit of a tradition. Your close friends list is basically a fan club for his antics now, and while it was a little shocking for everyone involved the first time, it’s now just expected that he’ll hijack your socials from time to time.

He flicks open the camera and starts filming himself dramatically sighing, pouting, and flopping back against the cushions.

“She hates me now, actually,” he writes across one story in bold text. “She doesn’t want to cuddle anymore. Pray for me.”

He adds another clip where he zooms in on your focused expression.

“She used to look at me like that,” he writes underneath, adding a crying emoji for dramatic effect.

Within seconds, your best friend replies:

“Deserved, really.”

He snorts, already halfway through typing a sarcastic reply—something about being emotionally neglected, maybe tossing in a meme or two—when a new notification pops up.

It’s from your message requests.

His thumb hovers. He knows he shouldn’t. You’ve both always had an open-door policy with each other’s phones—no secrets, no locked messages—but still, this feels different. A quiet line he shouldn't cross. But something about the way the name looks, the small preview of the message beneath it—long, too long for a normal DM—makes his stomach twist.

He hesitates. Then, against his better judgement, taps the message open.

And instantly wishes he hadn’t.

“Why don’t you just stop pretending like you’re not with him for the clout and money and end it already?”

That was just the first line.

His chest tightens. A strange, acidic kind of anger burns in his stomach as he scrolls down, eyes locked on the words. He reads through the entire message—every insult, every cruel assumption about you. They dig at your work, your background, your family, your worth. Each line more venomous than the last.

And then he sees it.

“Just go and kill yourself already. You don’t deserve him.”

He stops. Stares at the sentence like it might change if he blinks enough times. Like maybe he read it wrong. But it’s still there, clear as day, etched into a DM from someone who didn’t even have the decency to use their real name or face.

His throat is dry. The room suddenly feels smaller, tighter. Was this… what you were going through behind his back? And for how long?

His fingers scroll shakily to the rest of your requests. They’re all the same. Cruel messages. Graphic insults. Threats to your life. The occasional guy sending disgusting messages and unsolicited photos like they had any right to your attention.

Some of them are already opened.

Which means…you saw them. You read them. And you never told him.

He swallows hard. There's a sting behind his eyes that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. You shouldn’t have had to carry this alone. And yet, you chose to protect him from this?

He would’ve done something—spoken out, pushed back, made statements, anything. But what could he have done that wouldn’t have made it worse? What would his team have let him do? But does any of that matter when it comes to you? When it's you being hurt like this?

He grips the phone tightly, heart pounding.

You're still working just a few feet away, your head tilted in focus, earbuds in, completely unaware.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time again—not just as the person he loves, but as someone who's quietly fought battles for him that he never even knew existed.

And suddenly, that soft, ordinary afternoon doesn’t feel so ordinary anymore.

He waits until you’re done with work to bring it up. Part of him is grateful it takes a little longer—it gives him time to process, to calm down, to figure out how to say what needs to be said.

Except, when the time finally comes, he still doesn’t really know.

You’re so calm, always. Grounded in a way he admires and clings to. So he assumes you’ve got it under control. No—knows you do.

But those messages… they weren’t just mean. They were vile.

Anger bubbles in him all over again when he thinks of the words strangers used against you.

Why would anyone treat you like that? You, who has only ever been kind, soft, patient. Who’s taken care of him when he’s been at his worst. Who’s stayed—despite the pressure, despite the headlines, despite everything.

And that’s when the guilt creeps in.

Because this? This is on him.

It’s his name. His spotlight. His fans. His world.

It’s his career that dragged you into this storm. That opened the door for people to hurt you just because you love him.

So he retreats for a while. Puts on his headphones and doom-scrolls in the bedroom, letting the noise of the internet distract him from the noise in his head.

A couple hours later, you appear at the doorway, arms crossed lightly over your chest.

“What happened to my clingy boyfriend?” you tease gently, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I thought he didn’t want to be apart from me for more than five minutes.”

He looks up.

You’re tired—he can see it in the slight slump of your shoulders, the faint exhaustion under your eyes—but you’re still the most radiant thing he’s ever seen.

“Join me for dinner so I can prove I don’t hate you,” you say, laughing softly.

Okay.

So…you saw the stories he posted from your account.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Actually,” he says, patting the bed beside him, “C’mere for a sec?”

You cross the room and settle next to him, legs folded beneath you.

He shifts to face you, expression unreadable.

“I wanted to bring something up,” he says, slowly, carefully. “It’s not really about you, but it kind of…is.”

You tilt your head, confused.

“Lando, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

He nods too quickly. “Yeah—well, no. Not really.”

He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “Earlier, when I was messing around on your Instagram…I, uh…I looked through your message requests.”

Your expression falters. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, guilt creeping into his voice. “I know we share passwords and all, but it still felt wrong. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear. There was a notification and I just—”

He hesitates, his voice softer now. “I saw what people have been sending you.”

Silence.

Your gaze drops to the blanket between you. He watches the subtle way your jaw tenses, how your fingers curl just slightly in your lap.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“It’s not your fault.” You take his hand again, gently, tracing circles into his skin like you always do when you’re trying to soothe him. “People can be mean, is all.”

“Mean?” His voice catches, sharp. He pulls away, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tense. “Did we read the same messages? Those weren’t just mean, they—”

“I know what they are,” you say, a little firmer now. “They were written for me.”

You lean forward, propping your chin on your palm, your eyes soft but resolute. “I just mean they don’t mean anything.”

He falls silent. Not because he agrees, but because he’s fuming—quietly, the way he does when he’s trying not to spiral.

Because how can you sit there and act like this isn’t a big deal?

“Lando, they’re strangers,” you say. “What have they ever done to me?”

“Y/N,” he says, almost incredulous. “They’re telling you to go and die! How is that nothing?”

“It’s nothing because they’re words, and—”

“Words can hurt too!” he snaps, voice breaking just slightly. “I would know!”

Silence.

It’s heavy. Stretched.

You look at him then—really look at him. The tension in his shoulders, the tremble in his fingers. His eyes, wide and red at the corners. You see it all. And suddenly, you understand.

“What are you really so upset about?” you ask quietly. “Because I know it’s not just the messages.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you want a list?”

You nod once. “Try me.”

He throws his hands up, not in anger but in frustration, like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

“Where do I begin? Maybe at the fact that this is happening to you? That I had to read those things and imagine you seeing them and just…dealing with it alone?”

He shakes his head, breath catching. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t tell me at all? Like I’m not supposed to care?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” you argue, “These things happen all the time—for us, for people watching you guys on the sidelines. Ask Kika, or Lily, or Alex—”

“That’s my point!” he says, eyes bright with emotion. “It’s bad that it’s happening to any of you!”

“But it’s not like we can stop them!” you say, your voice starting to rise now, not in anger, but in desperation. “Why can’t we just ignore them? Why can’t we just let them be?”

“Because I did this to you!” he bursts out.

The words land heavy in the air between you.

You blink. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

“Land—”

“This is my fault,” he cuts in, voice cracking around the edges. “If you never loved me, if we never got together, if I never approached you at that party, then—then you wouldn’t have to go through this. You wouldn’t be dragged through the mud, humiliated, harassed—hated, just for being with me.”

You blink, stunned. “Lando, I…”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, backing up like he can put space between himself and the mess he feels he's made. “You don’t get it. You keep saying you’re fine, and maybe you think you are, but I’m not. I’m not okay. And I can’t just sit here and pretend like you should be.”

“I already said I was fine, Lando!” your voice rises, not from anger, but from frustration, from exhaustion. “Why are you trying to insist that I’m not?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to be!” he yells, louder than he intends. “You shouldn’t have to be fine with this. With people sending you that shit, with people twisting everything we do, with strangers threatening you just because you love me.”

You flinch slightly at the force of his words, and he immediately regrets the volume. He lowers his voice, but the intensity stays.

“I know you. I see you. And I see you act like it doesn’t matter. I see you smile through it like it doesn’t hurt. But I saw those messages.” He runs a trembling hand through his curls, tugging slightly like he needs the sting to stay grounded. “I fucking saw them. And I know you saw them too—and you’re just holding it all in because you think if you can pretend it’s fine, then I won’t feel guilty. But I do, Y/N.” His voice wavers. “God, I feel sick.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, protective, instinctual. Like you’re trying to hold all your pieces together. The words are there, caught in your throat, but nothing comes out.

“You know, I’m not dumb. People think I am—think I just smile and drive and don’t notice anything. But I do. I know exactly how easily I could lose you.” His voice drops, ragged. “How easy it would be for you to just look at everything you’ve had to go through just to be with me and think—‘It’s not worth it.’ That no matter how much you feel for me, no matter how much we love each other, it’s not enough to put up with all this shit.”

He laughs, low and hollow—completely devoid of joy. “And the worst part? I couldn’t even blame you. Because let’s be honest, what am I actually giving you? What do you even get from this?”

You open your mouth, voice barely a whisper, soft and shaking like it’s made of glass. “You. You’re giving me you.”

He flinches like the words hurt. And maybe they do. Because he doesn’t believe he’s enough. Not really.

“Is that really enough?” he asks again, quieter now. Like he already knows the answer.

You reach for him, slow and careful, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean in, doesn’t close the gap. He just watches you—eyes glossy, guarded, like he’s already lost you and is trying to memorize the way you look while he still can.

“You’re not being fair, Lando.” Your voice wavers, but it holds. “Because, yes—you’re right. It wasn’t easy. And no, it wasn’t fun being picked apart or threatened or turned into some fucking headline. But I knew what I was getting into. I chose this. I chose you. I choose you every day.”

He shakes his head—not to argue, not to deny—but like the words are too heavy to hold. Like he wants so badly to believe them but doesn’t know how.

“I love you.” You say it like a prayer, like a promise. “I love you. That doesn’t change just because the world outside is loud and cruel and fucking relentless.” You blink back the burn in your eyes, swallowing hard. “So tell me—please—why are you so scared of me choosing you? Why do you keep preparing for me to walk away when I’m standing right here?”

He looks at you—really looks at you—like the breath’s been knocked out of him. His eyes are wide, glassy with tears, chest rising and falling too quickly, like he’s drowning in the weight of it all and trying not to break apart.

And then, finally, quietly—like it hurts to say but it would hurt more to keep it in—he whispers:

“You’re real,” he says. “And I’m scared.”

Your breath hitches. There it is. The pure, honest reason. The vulnerability beneath all of it.

Then—

“And I wish I never met you.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and the silence that follows is suffocating.

“What?” you ask, gentle. But he hears it—the crack in your voice, the way you barely manage to get the word out. God, he’s going to break you. But maybe it’s better this way. Better for you to break now because of him than to keep breaking later because of everything else.

“I just—Y/N, god—” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then drags them down his face like it might ground him. “I don’t know how to fix this. I love you. I love you so much I feel it in every bone in my body. But I don’t know how to protect you. I can’t stop what’s happening. I can’t stop them from doing this to you. I want to save us, but I can’t.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you say, voice firmer now, though still soft. “I never asked you to.”

“I know. I know you didn’t. But I want to. I need to. And yet all I can do is watch you smile through it like it doesn’t hurt. Pretend like you’re fine. I hate that. I hate knowing you’re holding it in for me. Just so I won’t fall apart.”

“And it’s alright if you are,” you start, trying to reach for him, “Just—”

He lets out a bitter, breathy laugh. “You’re right. I am. I’m spiraling and tearing myself apart and I’m dragging you down with me whether you want to admit it or not.”

“You’re not.”

“I am, Y/N.” His voice rises, breaks. “Don’t try to convince me otherwise. Because I know—I know you would’ve gone farther without me. You would’ve been so much greater, so much happier, if you never met me. But I pulled you into something you never should’ve been a part of.”

You stare at him, throat tight, lungs burning. “So what? What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to save you.” His voice is a whisper now. Raw. Defeated. “I’m trying to let you go.”

Your lips part like you want to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. Because somewhere, deep down, you feel it too. The shift. The weight. The ache.

There’s a pause. A hollow silence where you swear you can hear the exact moment your heart begins to crack—splintering quietly, almost politely, like it’s trying not to make a scene.

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.” You step toward him, voice trembling but steady enough. “Don’t run from this. From me. I’m right here, so don’t run away.”

His hand lifts—fingers twitching like they want to reach for you, to hold on—but it falls back to his side. Useless. Empty. His eyes lock onto yours like he’s trying to memorize them. Like he already knows this is the last time he’ll see them this close.

“I love you,” he says. Like an apology. Like a confession carved from grief. “But I’m going to ruin you—I’ve already ruined you.”

“You haven’t.” Your voice breaks on the edges. “And if you have…let me choose that. Don’t take away my choice to choose you just because you’re scared. Let me decide.”

“I already have.”

And just like that, something shifts. Something final.

He moves slowly. Like his body’s heavier than it was moments ago. Like each step costs him something. He picks up his keys from the dresser with a quiet finality.

Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t let himself. Because he knows—if he does, he’ll stay.

And you don’t follow. You just stand there. In the middle of the room you built together. In the middle of everything that used to feel safe and whole.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And then it’s quiet.

So painfully, achingly quiet.

Like the aftermath of a storm you didn’t realize would be the last.

tags: @natashaklein @freyathehuntress

[pangur-and-grim]

This is a genuine question! As a person who is into cat breeding and cares about animal wellness, I trust your nuanced opinion a little more than biased articles I keep seeing.

The short/blunt whiskers that Devon Rexes or other curly breeds are known to have: I've read some articles that say the cats don't notice/aren't bothered, while others talk about how a stunted sensory organ is detrimental to their health. I want to know what is more "correct" or true. I know the answer will be beyond a binary, so there's no real question other than; do you have more information about the general well being of cats with short/blunt whiskers.

I wanted to ask someone who is more attuned to the ethics of cat breeding! You were who I thought of first.

(If you don't want to answer this publicly, feel free to answer privately!)

it's not detrimental to their health for a cat to have blunted whiskers, but it's also not ideal.

you've actually asked a very interesting question! different people draw the line at how detrimental a trait can be before they consider it unethical, and I suppose blunted whiskers are within the hand-wiggling realm of 'not the best, but not the worst either' for me.

as another example, sphynx, peterbald and donskoy cats are in that hand-wiggling category, but they're a bit too close to the line for me. cats spend so much of their time grooming, and rely on fur for thermoregulation, so I wouldn't be comfortable purchasing a hairless breed. but other people view it differently, and still more people might have that same level of discomfort with breeds that have fragile whiskers like the Devon Rex!

for this reason, rather than splitting hairs (haha, get it?) on the hand-wiggly breeds, I'd rather keep my crusade targeted against breeds that are unquestionably unethical, like Scottish Folds (which have cartilage deformation that leads to painful arthritis) and Exotic Shorthairs (which have neurological problems due to their small brain cases, and also just.... can't breath).

I'm also being selfish here, as my allergies to animals have gotten worse over the years, and the rexed fur mutation that gives Devon Rexes their name reduces how much they shed into the atmosphere. that (plus their tendency to produce less of an allergy-inducing protein in their saliva) will help me live a lot more comfortably with my Boy!

[cmdrfupa]

After Hours

Far too cold and clinical for a place that stocks fresh fruit and warm bread.

There are only a handful of other shoppers left: one woman comparing labels on oat milk, a man in a wrinkled shirt wandering aimlessly near the cereal aisle. No one looks up when Nanami walks in. He prefers it that way.

He pulls a folded shopping list from his coat pocket. The handwriting is neat, concise. He keeps it on paper out of habit, not necessity.

-Eggs. -Yogurt. -Soba noodles. - Bread. -Baby spinach. -Lemons. -Coffee (whole bean). -Toothpaste. -Something sweet (optional).

The front shopping cart wheel squeaks on his first turn. He considers swapping it, but doesn’t. There’s no one around to be bothered by the sound, and he won’t be here long.

The aisles are orderly enough, though a few things are out of place. He eyes a lone box of instant curry nestled among the pasta sauces, a child’s mitten abandoned beside a stack of tangerines. Nanami notes them absently. He doesn’t fix them. It isn’t his job.

At the produce section, he inspects the spinach like he’s weighing an argument. Some of the small bunches were too far gone to try and salvage. Some just slightly wilted on the leaves edge. Still salvageable. It goes into a reusable bag, not the flimsy plastic ones provided. He’s not sentimental, but he is particular.

The bakery counter is closed, lights dimmed and display case empty. But on the clearance rack near the end of the aisle, a three pack of kouign-amann sits in a plastic container. He shifted his weight, looking at the tips of his shoes before looking at the price sticker on the container.

30% marked down due to “damage”. He hesitates. And not because of the state of the sweets.

He told himself no sweets this week. But rules, like hours, sometimes bend.

He places it in the cart without looking directly at it, as if doing so would make it harder to justify.

When he reaches the coffee aisle, he takes longer. He runs his fingers along the bags of beans like one might trace the spines of books in a quiet library. Dark roast, low acidity, ethically sourced. He’s memorized the labels by now. Still, he reads each one again.

A soft announcement plays overhead, reminding shoppers that the store will close in fifteen minutes. He glances at his watch. He’ll be out in ten.

The self-checkout machines were mostly empty, save for one humming stubbornly at the far end, flashing a red light while a teenager in an apron tapped at its screen with visible boredom.

Nanami chose the furthest terminal, not out of preference, but habit.

He wheeled his basket to the terminal carefully. Each item was scanned with practiced precision, placed in the repurposed paper bag according to weight and fragility. Lemons on the bottom. Bread on top. coffee slid in sideways, tucked just so between two containers of plain yogurt. Not because he particularly enjoyed yogurt—but it helped him with hitting protein and calcium, was healthy, predictable in flavor, kept well, and helped regulate his bowel movements.

‘I’ll buy some peaches from the fresh market this weekend to pair with it.’

He went to grab the soba noodles. As he swept them across the scanner, it misread the barcode. He didn’t sigh. He simply tried again, adjusting the angle, then again—until it beeped with compliance. He moved on.

"Please place the item in the bagging area," the machine chirped.

He had.

A brief pause. Then: "Unexpected item in the bagging area."

Nanami stared at the screen for a beat longer than usual.

It wasn’t anger. He didn’t feel anger. Just… the cumulative weight of small inefficiencies.

A store attendant noticed and began to approach, but Nanami waved a hand along side a nod—a duo’d, understated motion that communicated I’ve handled it without so much as a glance. He adjusted the placement of the baked good. The error disappeared. He continued scanning.

When the machine asked if he had any coupons, he pressed No without hesitation. He typed in his cellphone number so the digital coupons could automatically deduct from his purchase instead.

His total came to less than expected even with the baked good. He paid in exact change, a relic of preference rather than necessity, and folded the receipt once before slipping it into his coat.

He did not take a bag. His own was already full, the shape of it well-balanced as he lifted it into the crook of his arm.

Behind him, the machine chirped a cheerful Thank you for shopping with us!

He didn’t respond.

Outside, the air is cooler. A breeze lifts the hem of his coat. The bag digs into the crook of his arm, heavier on one side from the loose lemons and toothpaste multipack.

---

The drive home is short. Eight minutes, if the lights favor him. Eleven, if they don't.

Tonight, they're indifferent. Two reds, one green. A flicker of yellow he chooses not to test. He waits. The engine idles with a low hum, headlights carving out a hollow path on empty streets.

His hands rest on the wheel at ten and two. Always. Not out of fear as he was a good driver, cautious without being hesitant—but because order has always helped him think.

He doesn’t listen to much music. Doesn’t need the noise. He once tried jazz, then ambient piano. They made him feel as though he should be feeling something, and that expectation was more exhausting than the silence. So he settled for NPR. Monotone voices and up to date topics. Acceptable car noise.

At a left turn, he signals even though there’s no one behind him. It’s not for anyone else. It’s just the rule.

He parks in his usual spot, parallel to the curb in front of his building. The streetlight above flickers once. He watches it, then grabs his grocery bag, evenly balancing it as he walks to the front door.

His apartment is clean. Not sterile. but intentionally minimal.

Shoes off at the door. Coat on the hook. Keys in the ceramic dish on the entry table.

He unpacks the groceries in silence:

Lemons in the hanging fruit hammock. Spinach into the fridge. The crisper drawer, right side. Eggs beside the butter. Yogurt on the top shelf to the left next to his milk alternatives. Soba in the dry goods pantry. Coffee beans next to his coffee grinder on the far corner of the counter. Toothpaste in the bathroom drawer, beneath the extras. Everything has a place.

The kouign-amann sat alone on the counter, its plastic container a soft crinkle in the quiet.

He stares at it for a moment.

‘You didn’t need them.’

The thought isn’t harsh. Just… matter-of-fact. Like reading a label.

But there’s another voice, quieter, less disciplined. One that sounds suspiciously like a colleague he never sees anymore. ‘You also don’t need a glass of whiskey yet you aren’t matter of fact on that. What’s the point of working yourself to death if you don’t enjoy the little things?’

He opens the container. The pastry is imperfect. Slightly smushed on one side, the caramelized sugar clinging to the ridges unevenly. Still, he can tell it’ll be good. Flaky. Rich. Brief. A sweet treat.

He puts it on a plate. Doesn’t warm it up. He’ll have it with a glass of cold milk, the way he did as a child, before his father taught him that indulgence should be discreet, if not rare.

And after his mother taught him that indulgences are mini celebrations for making through a tough day.

‘It has been a tough day.’

He doesn’t sit. Just leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely as he takes the first bite.

The sugar sticks to his teeth. The butter melts on his tongue.

He chews slowly.

You didn’t need it, he thinks again.

But he swallows, takes another bite, sighing at the small hint of delight it brought him.

“You needed it. You’ll survive, Kento.” He breaks his own silence with his low voice.

He taps his toes on the granite floor as he takes the last bite of his kouign-amann, washing it down with the bit of milk he had left before dusting crumbs off the counter and into the waiting trash receptacle at the edge of his island.

-----

He washed the plate and glass immediately.

No dishes left in the sink. No excuses in the morning. The water runs warm over his hands. He dries them on the cloth towel hanging by the sink and folds it back neatly.

The bathroom light is soft, almost golden. A small luxury: warm bulbs. The mirror reflects him in half-shadow as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves before he prepped for his shower.

Mildly scented soap, a balm for immediately after to avoid dry skin, blonde specific shampoo to help with the hair dullness he’s noticed the last few months.

‘At least its working. Makes the grays blend better.’

A plain, navy sleep shirt and gray sweatpants awaited him. No logos. No fuss.

He starts with flossing, then rinsing with mouthwash, and ended off with brushing his teeth with practiced, exact strokes.

Skincare is quick, unsentimental. Foam cleanser, glycolic acid, alcohol free tonger, hyaluronic acid, then a thin film of moisturizer rubbed in with his ring fingers after it has all absorbed into his skin. He wasn’t one for vanity. But he was one for maintenance. Like oiling a blade.

The bedroom smells faintly of clean linen and the faint citrus of whatever detergent he buys in bulk. The bed is already turned down. He does it in the morning, One less step between him and rest.

He sets his alarm to six am though he rarely needs it to wake up.

Then he reaches for his book: Red Rising by Pierce Brown. 30 minutes to read.

He’s too into the plot and that almost went out the window.

His phone is placed face-down on the nightstand. No doomscrolling. No headlines. No excuses. But tonight, he lets his thumb hover just a moment longer before locking the screen. Making sure to have his phone on do not disturb.

A notification glows softly. Its from you:

Goodnight Kento! can’t wait for our date tomorrow. Sent just now.

He reads it twice. Not because he didn’t understand the first time, but because it’s rare. The feeling of anticipation, without the dread. Company, without exhaustion.

His thumb taps out a reply, short but sincere.

Kento: Rest well. I’m looking forward to it, too. See you tomorrow.

He watches the screen dim and turns his phone down on the nightstand.

The room is quiet.

But his thoughts, just this once, are quieter than usual. Still present. Still layered.

Things he didn’t say. Things he saw today that he’ll pretend not to remember tomorrow. But softened by something else.

The idea that tomorrow around this same time, he’ll be out at a late night movie on a rooftop rather than being tucked in.

‘It’s a good change. A great one.’

Not hope, exactly. Something older. Quieter. Like the memory of warmth, long after the fire’s gone out.

He lies back, pulling the blanket over himself in a single motion. And when he closes his eyes, sleep finds him a little faster.