#so i like to remember ones that i loved through a good part of the year

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 | 𝐛𝐨𝐛 𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬

Pairing Robert “Bob” Reynolds x Female Reader Summary On a slow morning, away from the pressures of the city, Bob helps quell your fears about the future [contains fluff, mild angst, the nickname ‘Robby��, cute superpower usage, wc 2.6k]  A/N I fell in love with Bob during Thunderbolts, and the events of this fic take place two years after the movie. A bit of maturing and healing have taken place—mentally and in terms of his powers. It’s my first time writing for him, so let me know what you think! 

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Sunlight, bedsheets, and skin. Reality itself dawned with the visage of a dream. With a lone fingertip, you trace the line of his spine from the space between his shoulder blades to where the soft linen pools at his hips. Tiny hairs rise on his bare skin as he shivers. Bob envisions your soft smile and slow-blinking eyes before he tips fully into wakefulness. When he does, your touch stills midway along his back as you venture upwards. 

Instead of car engines, birds sing outside. Rather than the sweeping windows of the Avengers tower, floral wallpaper and simple curtained panes allow the sun’s rays to paint the room. There’s no agenda, no meetings, no need to rush. This is the Catskills, and Manhattan is miles away. 

You were grateful the team granted you two the weekend away at one of Bucky’s old safe houses. It’s a secluded rural farmhouse surrounded by oak trees—a scene fit for the silver screen. 

“There you are,” you lilt. 

Bob huffs a shy chuckle. “Hi.”  He swallows when you comb your fingers through his hair. “Have you been up long?” 

“Ages.” He frowns at that. “I’m kidding.” 

A small smile breaks across his face. If you had been waiting long, he’d consider telling you that he’d had one of the best sleeps of his life. Then it’d make sense why he wanted to cling to it just a little longer. 

He’d almost lost track of all his luck since he met you. A part of him feared it was bound to fade away, but even then, he’d be alright with life having given him time with you at all. It’d been a year since you met, and he couldn’t remember goodness ever prevailing this long. As far as he knew, there was a crash after every high. 

But not all people were like vices he was once used to seeking: there one minute and gone the next. You’d stumbled into Bob’s life one chilly night on West 43rd and bonded over cheap slices. Sometime between then and him walking you home, you realized you liked having him around. Without so much as trying, he made you lean in closer, laugh too loud, lose track of time. 

When your fingers pass through his hair yet another gentle time, a small sound rises in his throat as your nails scratch against his scalp. 

“That feels good,” he sighs. 

For someone who’d never quite be able to break, you treated him as though the opposite were true. Every touch was so thoughtful and careful that even he began to believe it might be possible after all. Maybe you saw that he was a bunch of tiny pieces held together by a renewed will to live. Maybe you were the glue. 

“It’s getting so long.” You playfully rake some soft strands of hair into his face, and the feathery sensation makes him scrunch his nose. “You’re gonna disappear on me pretty soon.” 

Bob combs his hair back to see you again, chest filled with a warmth that refuses to stay in one place. 

“I promise I won’t.” The dual meaning of his words translates through his deep, blue eyes. “Gonna come find me if I do?” 

You pretend to think, as if you hadn’t already done your share of saving each other. 

“Maybe,” you say. 

When his lips twitch with the threat of a smile, you poke his ribcage a couple of times to coax it out. It works like a charm. Before you know it, he rolls onto his back and pulls you to lie on top of him. Your legs fall on either side of his body. 

“Robby, careful,” you chuckle in surprise.  

He likes the pressure, the proximity. After a few seconds, you finally relax on top of him, scooting down his body enough to rest your head against his chest. His skin is warm beneath your cheek, and you can feel the rise and fall of each steady breath. One of his hands slips beneath your shirt to draw shapes across the small of your back.  

Your eyes slip closed, and like a light switch, you’re transported back to the night you first met. Fluorescent lights shine above as the two of you sit across from each other near the front window of a pizza place. The steady buzz of chatter fills the air along with the rich scent of tomato sauce and oregano. Outside, pedestrians flutter by. 

It’s a memory. 

You can see your present selves too, standing over the shoulders of the yous forever bound to the past. You meet Bob’s gaze, taking in his boxers and muscled torso as his own eyes rove over you. 

That night, the team had let him leave without Bucky or John tagging along. The independence wouldn’t have been a big deal in another life, but it felt like a rite of passage. They were finally beginning to trust in his ability to control the multitudes he contained. He could’ve gone anywhere in Manhattan, somewhere more bustling and lively, but he’d decided to take a walk and grab a greasy bite.  

As Bob looks between your past selves, he can see the nerves in his gaze and the intrigue in yours. It was possible you had seen him on TV back when the city turned void. If you did happen to know who he was, you were sensitive enough not to mention that fateful day. 

The real reason you’d struck up a conversation with him was because he’d held the door for you when you first walked into the pizza place, two strangers crossing paths in the city that never sleeps. There was a certain allure you couldn’t quite pin down, a palpable energy. Something behind his eyes.

It was no secret that those who wandered at night were often looking to feel a little more alive. Perhaps you’d met for a reason written somewhere amid the invisible stars. 

Upon opening your eyes, you’re back in bed with him. You prop yourself up on his chest to study him.  

“You took us back,” you say. 

“Sorry,” Bob murmurs. “Wasn’t trying to.”  

Sometimes, when he feels safe and thinks about you, his mind will pull you two into a lifelike memory. It wasn’t a matter of control; he simply allowed it to happen without fighting against it.  

You run a light fingertip down his nose. “I don’t know if I believe you.” 

Bob takes your wrist and kisses the heel of your palm. “But you liked it.” 

“Says who?” 

“The smile on your face.” As soon as he says that, you purposely flatten your expression. A chuckle rumbles through him. “Guess I’ll stop if it’s so unbearable.” 

You could easily call his bluff, but the thought still stirs a small flicker of worry within you. Bob sees it in your eyes and squeezes you to quell it. There wasn’t a single part of him you hated. Not even the scarier, messier parts that often scared people away. It was their loss. It’d be hard to come across someone quite like him again.  

••• 

As the record player plays a jazzy instrumental, the sound of the spatula scraping against the bottom of the pan is a gentle accompaniment. Bob’s back muscles shift as he continues scrambling the eggs. It feels like you’re a koala bear with the way you’ve secured your arms around him, but he doesn’t mind. Not when it feels like this moment was handcrafted by tranquility itself. 

You didn’t get many moments like this in Manhattan. Now that you’re seeing what it’s like to have him all to yourself with no check-ins, you realize you wouldn’t mind having this forever. Except, forever seemed to stretch like an empty void waiting to be filled. And it was up to you to do the shaping. 

“Do you ever think about…” you trail off.  

Bob waits for you to continue, but you don’t. “About what?” he encourages. It almost hurts how patient he is with you. 

You tuck your nose into the space between his shoulder blades to inhale the scent of his shirt. “Thought you were a mind reader,” you accuse in a gentle attempt to deflect. “I want a refund.” 

Laughing, Bob turns off the stove and faces you. “It’s your mind we’re talking about.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he speaks. “Not even I can get a read on that thing.” What he means is that he’d never invade your thoughts. He never had. 

He tilts his head in that disarming, attentive way of his. “What were you gonna say?” His eyes remind you of the dark stare of a fawn, ever curious and searching. 

You redirect your attention to the floor. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

Bob lifts your chin back up with his index finger. “Like what?” It’s a painfully genuine question. “Like I value what you have to say?” 

When you remain quiet, his eyes darken, and bright ribbons of molten gold swirl through his irises. It’s beautiful in an intimidating way that makes your stomach flutter; an attempt at levity. A small smile plays on his lips as his gaze returns to normal. You bite back a reaction because you know he’d done it on purpose, knows you like it.  

“Tough crowd,” he playfully mumbles. “Talk to me, sweetheart, c’mon.” 

“After breakfast,” you say. “The food’s gonna get cold.” 

•••

Bob hums under his breath as he flips through a box of Bucky’s old vinyl. The house itself is even older, and the way the wooden floors creak tells the tale. He studies the cover art of the albums as you sit and watch from your place on the couch. You break your silence when you’ve had enough of the distance. 

“Hey, Robby?” He redirects his attention to you. “Maybe we can pause the music browsing for a sec.”

With how quickly he steps away from the box, you’re convinced he’d been waiting for you to say that. The cushions dip as he joins you on the plush sage couch. 

The entire living room is cozy. It reminds Bob of visits to his grandparents’ house as a boy. He remembers weekends and summers being dropped off when his parents claimed to need a break. It became a safe space that he never wanted to leave. 

With his grandparents, there was no constant clamoring, shouting matches, or phone calls from the electric company threatening to cut the lights off. He played outside in the sun with the older kids and came back inside to homemade lemonade and playful comments about him having worked up a good sweat. 

When he got older, and his grandparents passed away, his escape became the dingy basements of questionable acquaintances and back alleyways that never turned a lost soul away. 

Bob reaches over to squeeze your thigh. “I’m all ears whenever you're ready.”

“It feels kinda stupid now,” you admit. 

“Stupid and I go way back.” He’s sincere even as he jests. “Try me.” 

You play with your fingers and bite the inside of your cheek. It feels like you’re a scared kid standing on a diving board at the deep end of the pool. All attention is on you. It’s time to jump. 

“Do you ever think about the future? What it looks like?” you ask, pausing for a few seconds. “If people like us get a happily ever after?” 

You meet each other’s gaze. 

“People like us,” he repeats slowly. You can see the gears moving in his mind. 

“I’m me, and you’re… you,” you say. “There’s no such thing as normal.” 

Bob hums, not agreeing or disagreeing.

You exhale. “Everything’s starting to feel so perfect.” Bob waits for you to continue. “But it feels like I’m waiting for the rug to get ripped out from under me.” 

“I hear you,” he says, reaching out to interlock his fingers with yours. He's quiet for a few thoughtful beats. “I don’t know what’s down the road, but I know what’s in front of me right now,” he says. 

A silence stretches between you until he breaks it again. “Back when I tried the whole therapy thing, there was this idea called dress rehearsing tragedy,” he says. “It’s when you think of the worst so much that it gets hard for the good to shine through.” 

You nod as you soak in every measured word. 

“That was me every time things started to look up,” Bob admits reflectively. “I’m not saying that’s you right now—hell, you practically are the sun to me.” Your lips twitch upwards when he squeezes your hand. 

“What I’m saying is we get this whole weekend together.” Bob leans in closer. “So let’s just be here.” 

“And when the weekend ends?” you murmur, just to see what he says. 

“I promise I’m in this for the long haul,” he assures. “Whatever it takes.” 

Those last words linger in the air. Bob gives you his full attention when you shift as if you’re about to speak up. Instead, you brush your thumb over the back of his hand. His eyes never leave you. It’s a glimpse into what it must’ve felt like for him to be under your watchful gaze the night you met.  

“Whatever it takes,” you echo. 

So much in life seemed far away for you. Falling in love was for other people, marriage was for other people, buying a house and building a life was for other people. Not for you. 

Bob offers a solemn smile. “I used to be scared all the time.” He thinks for a moment. “Now I refuse to be. Out of spite mainly.” 

You huff a laugh, partly amused, partly in admiration. “I swear you’re not real sometimes. Like this is all just a dream.” 

Bob chuckles. “I swear I am.” He kisses your cheek to prove he’s real. “Need me to pinch you? ‘Cause I can do that too.” 

A small squeal escapes you as he reaches for your side, but he lets you push his hand away. You blink up at him in surprise when he stands and extends that hand to you. 

“Let’s go,” he says. 

You let him pull you to your feet, a spark of excitement stirring. “Go where?”

“The lake.”

•••

There’s a breeze that complements the warmth in the air. Grass crunches beneath your shoes as you follow Bob down to the shoreline. The still water shimmers in the light of the sun. Across the way, you can see somebody paddling in a canoe. There’s a bench beneath a cluster of birch trees, but Bob walks up to the water, and you stop by his side. Leaves rustle, birds chirp. 

He snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. You rest your head on your shoulder. It’s so still and quiet that your thoughts begin to settle. Bob was right. Neither of you knew the future. But in this moment, you at least know the feeling of standing beside someone you love. You know you’d be willing to fight for it. And maybe that was enough. 

Bob looks at you after a while, cataloguing your features like it’s the first time. He closes the distance between you just as you’re about to jokingly ask if he’s looking for something. A pleasant warmth spreads through your body as his lips find yours. He kisses you tenderly, hands settling on your waist as you reposition yourself in front of him. Your fingers find their way to the nape of his neck, where you gently tug his hair. 

Bob smiles into the kiss. Not for any particular reason, more like a culmination of things. 

You pull away. “What?” you whisper against his lips, beginning to smile. 

Bob’s cheeks warm as he shakes his head. “I’m just happy.” 

“Me too.” 

“We’re gonna be okay,” he promises. 

Your lips find each other’s again.

-

Thanks for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all! 

BOB MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

[uncle-fruity]

[Image ID: tags from Tumblr user strawberri-syrup that read: #how do u translate knowing u do this into actually fixing it #my lack of communication has killed all my friendships and idk where to start /End ID]

Hey, good question! It's one thing to know about what your behaviors are and another thing to know how to change them into new (hopefully helpful) behaviors. Idk if this will help you, but I'm going to bring up some strategies to help folks break free of their people pleasing habits.

Let's focus on you, first. Being a people pleaser requires you to objectify and dehumanize yourself in the process, so that is what you're working against. When you people please, there is a part of yourself that has decided your comfort and your needs are not as important or worthy as other people's comfort and needs. This isn't usually a conscious decision, but rather learned through past experiences and current insecurities. It's why a lot of people pleasers have a history of emotional abuse: the abuser requires you to shut down your emotional needs and predict their moods, and when you can't do that (no one can forever) they punish you. So you might very well have picked up the message that you are only as good as you are useful or only as good as you are patient/nice and that any amount of "negative emotion" (anger, sadness, disappointment, etc) will not be tolerated even by people you love.

That is a hard cycle to break out of. So, to start, I think it's good to take some time to reflect on what emotion or belief drives your need to people please and bottle yourself up. Working against feelings of insecurity, fear of abandonment, fear of ridicule, fear of conflict... that's the hardest part of this, but it's also the most important thing to practice. But there are things that will help you.

So let's say you've already figured out why you act like this. You know why you tend to people please and you're in the middle of processing your feelings about it. Good! That will be an ongoing process. But reflection and wanting to change aren't much without action behind them, and that is much harder than just thinking about things.

So! First really actionable thing you can do is set some boundaries! You don't have to do the scary telling your friends part yet, you just need to know what your boundaries are. A lot of people pleasers don't know what their boundaries are. They might have boundaries, but they let people walk over those boundaries because they don't recognize that they were boundaries to begin with. So, define those. Maybe you don't like being touched in certain ways. Maybe you get anxious and need to leave in certain situations. Maybe you need to have a dedicated time for just yourself without anyone contacting you... idk what your needs are; I'm not you. But you are you and you know what you need and want -- or at least have a better chance of figuring it out than I do.

Remember!! Boundaries are something *you* enforce for yourself. Obviously, a good friend will respect your boundaries, but if someone doesn't respect your boundaries, it is your job to respond to that. Let's say you have the boundary, "Don't yell at me/raise your voice in anger when we're having a disagreement." Well, you can't control someone who doesn't care about your feelings and will walk over your boundary even after you told them about it. What you can do is control your response. So, when you think of the boundaries you have, you should also consider what you will do in response to someone crossing that boundary. In our example, perhaps a good response would be to walk away, leave the conversation until the other person can talk to you with respect for your needs.

I've spent a long time on boundaries, but that's because it's one of the most important things for a people pleaser to understand about themselves. Think of people pleasing like muscle memory. If you do it enough, it will be your default mode of action. You won't have to think about it to do it. But breaking your current muscle memory and rebuilding that memory into something else will require intention and dedication. Boundaries help you focus your intentions and define your needs. Many smarter people than me have talked about boundaries before, so look into some resources about how to make and maintain boundaries if you want to learn more.

Next, setting expectations. This is about understanding where your limits are and having conversations with the people you love before it becomes an issue. Best example I have is one of my own experiences. I am very bad at responding to texts and messages when I'm overwhelmed or busy. I can go weeks without responding if the matter isn't urgent. But this can be a problem in my relationships if that behavior goes fully unaddressed. People start to feel like you're avoiding them or blowing them off. So I started setting expectations for folks -- I was open about the fact that my response times are bad. I was clear that it was not a personal thing when I didn't get back to people. And I made sure to reassure people that even if I'm not responding, I am *looking* at the messages soon after they're sent, and I *will* respond if there is an emergency or if there's a time sensitive question. I haven't had a problem with this since having open and honest conversations up front *before* it became a real problem.

All that to say, if you know you have preferences or behaviors that might conflict with your relationships, talk to your friends about it and make sure y'all are on the same page. A lot of times, people pleasers feel like they need to anticipate the needs of the people around them. That can be good and bad, depending on how you go about it. But it is much easier when you actually talk to them about their needs and expectations. This should be a two-way conversation. Everyone involved should state their needs and together you should define expectations within the relationship.

The communication part is really the key here. It isn't bad to want to care for your friends. It isn't even bad to occasionally put your own preferences aside in order to compromise. But if your friends don't know that something is upsetting you, they can't do anything about it. Which cycles around to the emotional abuse pattern of "mind reading." When you hide your anger or resentment, you are essentially making your friends read your emotions and anticipate your needs. It destabilizes the friendship. If your friends don't know what upsets you, how can they know that they're upsetting you if you don't speak up? Not only that, but if they're trying to figure out why you're upset, they might read it wrong and find solutions for problems you don't have while the original problem continues to churn inside you. That is ALSO a thing people pleasers do.

Another example. I have a people pleaser friend who has the history of emotional abuse etc etc. There was a time (years ago) when she'd get drunk and show me her tits and like. Yeah. I appreciated looking at tits. Love that stuff. But what she anticipated is that I would want to have sex with her. So she offered one day (she was sober, fwiw) and I said sure! But I always like to have a conversation about what people are into and all that. She dodged so many of my questions about what she liked, what she wanted, etc. Not only that, but I felt like she wasn't really listening to me when I was talking about what I liked and she didn't ask any questions to get to know my preferences better. So when we finally got to the sex part, I was stressed out. She sounded like she was faking her pleasure. She didn't want to touch me in any way that really felt good to me. She just expected me to use my strap and have my fun. It made me feel absolutely terrible about myself. Like, I didn't need to have sex with her. I didn't think that her showing me her boobs was naturally going to lead to sex. Looking back, this was a particularly rough time for our friendship, so we eventually had a conversation about it. It came out that she only had sex with me because she assumed that's what I not only wanted but expected from her. I honestly felt extremely hurt. I'd originally thought she *wanted* to have sex with me, and that was the only reason I agreed to do it. I felt ugly and undesirable when she didn't want to touch me. I felt like her fake pleasure sounds were condescending. Not to mention she tried to dirty talk in a way that supremely turned me off, which might have been avoided if she was actually engaged in our conversation talking about what we wanted/liked in bed.

The point of that story, though, is that it really damaged our friendship and was a blow to my (at the time) fragile self-esteem. These days, I'd be able to spot some of these red flags and choose not to have sex under those conditions, but at the time it was hard to recognize what was happening until it was over. I learned that she would not be forthright with her own needs and desires and whatnot, so I had to start checking in with her when she offered to do certain things. Questioning her like, "Do you really want that? Do you *know* what you want right now?" And being clear that she could not read my mind and that I didn't appreciate her trying to. That if I wanted something from her, I would ask directly and respectfully and that she was always allowed to say no if she didn't want to and I wouldn't get angry at her for refusing me. Years later, we are still friends. There are still rough spots we need to work out, but she has gone to therapy and is finally dating someone who doesn't treat her like an emotional support girlfriend. It has taken her years, but she is finally working to correct some of her people pleasing behaviors, and we have a better relationship for it. It took her awhile to believe me when I said I would tell her directly if I was upset and that she didn't need to worry about me dropping subtle hints at her.

Which, I think, finally brings me to my last point. So far, I've talked about defining your boundaries and setting expectations within your friendships. I've explained through example why the behavior can actually recreate patterns of abuse or cause harm. A lot of this stuff you can work on alone, but there is another thing you need to be able to work on changing your people pleasing ways: a good, trustworthy friend.

I started being able to talk about my emotions, my needs, my annoyances, my angers when I finally felt like I had someone who would listen to them without getting angry and flying off the handle. When I first started dating my current partner, I was in awe of how level headed our conversations were when there was conflict. They listened to me. They told me how they were feeling. We worked together to see where the issue was and what we could do to address the issue in the future. It was my partner who brought up problems they had, and it was those direct conversations that made me feel safe enough to speak up when I had a problem. It gave me a space to practice being vulnerable with someone I knew loved me and wanted the best for both of us. On the other side of this, I believe my friend that I mentioned above really started to make progress when she started therapy and when I showed her that I was serious about being open and honest with my emotions and that she wasn't obligated to fix my problems for me. It also helped that she got out of a cycle of dating toxic fuckheads who enabled/encouraged her people pleasing behaviors so they could take advantage of her.

The fear of abandonment, fear of ridicule... the stuff I talked about up front. Those are not illogical fears when most of your life you've been taught that you will be punished for your emotions. You need to surround yourself with people who will encourage you to speak up for yourself. You need a friend who will check in with you and make sure you're not just saying "yes" because you feel like you should. You need people who are clear about what they want and need from your friendship.

Standing up for yourself, expressing your emotions, stating your needs, setting boundaries -- you can only do so much alone. The hardest part is deciding to take that leap of faith in your friends and gritting your teeth hoping for a good outcome. Hopefully, you have decent friends who care about your feelings and who will make an effort to support you. But let me be clear: if your friends treat you badly because you've done the hard emotional work to start setting and maintaining boundaries, those are not good friends. I am a big believer in cutting toxic people out of your life when you can, because you *do* deserve better. And, thankfully, most people are not going to react badly to you having preferences and opinions and feelings. It's normal for someone to have their best interests in mind, and as long as they aren't hurting other people, it's okay to have hard emotions like anger, disappointment, sadness, etc. But it's okay for you to have standards for how you are treated in your friendships/relationships. It's not just okay, but it's absolutely essential for healthy relationships to thrive. And it is hard to trust when you've had a lifetime of feeling like you can't trust others to treat you with respect, but you still have to try. And you don't have to be emotionally invested in people who treat you like an object whose job it is to keep them happy. Even just having one friend that you feel safe to be vulnerable with can make a huge difference and give you a way to practice these things.

Tl;dr -- define your boundaries, have a plan for how to respond if someone crosses a boundary, have conversations with your friends to set expectations within the friendships even if there is no current conflict, and believe that you deserve to have a voice and that you are worthy of the full range of human emotion. Ultimately, you have to find a way to convince yourself that you are worth caring about, and you need to surround yourself with people who do care about you and who will help you learn healthier behavioral habits.

Sorry for the long post, but hopefully there's something you can take away from it. Perhaps others will have other strategies they'd like to add, but knowing your boundaries and learning to care about yourself are at the core no matter what.

You're not actually a better friend for not articulating and respecting your own needs, limits and boundaries. Your lack of communication and boundaries is not some impressive sacrifice. You're not doing anyone any favors by acting like you're okay with things you aren't okay with. You're just building burnout and resentment that will eventually damage the relationship in question. And when you eventually snap and walk away because you silently overburdened yourself to be a "good friend", it won't be the other persons fault

[reiding-writing]

can you write about cold!reader where the team finds out they're together? ahh i love them so much!

UNDENIABLY YOURS. /spencer reid/

you pick up the wrong phone.

late s10 cold!reader 2.6k fluff series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | love a good cliche :)

Spencer’s apartment is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels awkward or hollow, but the kind that settles over you like a warm blanket—a gentle hush made of ticking clocks, the occasional hum of traffic outside, and the soft shuffling sounds of a man who’s currently making tea in the kitchen.

You’re on his couch, half-curled under a throw blanket that doesn’t quite cover your feet. The place smells like old books and something herbal, likely the blend Spencer claims is “soothing to the parasympathetic nervous system.” You never asked what that meant. You suspect it’s just chamomile with a marketing degree.

The night stretched longer than you intended. Dinner turned into wine, which turned into a slow tour through his cluttered bookshelves, which turned into another round of debate over Kant’s categorical imperative versus utilitarian ethics.

You were only supposed to drop by after work. A quick visit, maybe an hour. But Spencer always pulls time out from under you like a magician with a tablecloth.

And you stay. Again.

You don’t touch much when you’re with him. Not like you could. He’s all soft eyes and hesitant hands. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t demand declarations or affection you’re not ready to give. And you? You’re good at compartmentalising. At keeping your feelings tucked into corners, neatly labeled and out of reach. It’s safer that way. Less chaotic.

But you always show up.

That counts for something, right?

“Tea,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with two mismatched mugs. He hands you the one with faded cartoon planets on it. You take it wordlessly.

“Still pretending this helps your parasympathetic system or whatever?” you murmur into the rim of the cup.

Spencer smiles. He always smiles when you needle him. Like he knows it’s your version of affection. Like he’s fluent in your brand of emotional repression.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, settling into the armchair across from you. “There are studies,”

“There are always studies,”

“You want me to send you the links?”

“No,”

“You’d like the one from 2009. It discusses—”

“Spencer,”

“Okay,” he says, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “No studies,”

You sip the tea. It’s hot and bitter and tastes like him. Not literally—he doesn’t taste like dried flowers—but something about the comfort of the moment, the soft warmth of the mug against your palm, the way he looks at you like you’re not a puzzle to solve but a story he’s enjoying watching unfold. It’s familiar. Steady.

Which is probably why you’re still here.

“You staying?” he asks after a few minutes, voice casual. Too casual. Like he didn’t spend the last half hour not asking.

You glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Late enough to make the excuse that you’re just tired and don’t want to drive. You’re already in the oversized hoodie he handed you—his hoodie, not yours—and your shoes are near the door, lined up next to his like it means something.

You should deflect. You always deflect.

Instead, you say, “Yeah,”

He doesn’t react much, just nods, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to examine.

He doesn’t ask for more. He never does.

It’s part of the deal.

Instead, he turns on some lo-fi instrumental playlist (he claims lyrics distract his brain when he’s trying to wind down), and you both migrate to his bedroom.

—

You don’t remember falling asleep. Just that at some point, your eyes fluttered shut, and for once, your thoughts didn’t keep you awake. No spiraling worst-case scenarios. No calculating emotional fallout. Just warmth, and the slow, steady rhythm of Spencer breathing beside you. The kind of peace you don’t admit you crave.

Until it’s shattered.

The phone rings—sharp, insistent—and you jolt awake in an instant, heart pounding with the abrupt transition. The room is pitch black, save for the glowing screen on the nightstand. Spencer groans softly beside you, but doesn’t move.

Still half-asleep, you fumble your hand over the nightstand. Spencer’s glasses, unfinished book, rectangle of impending doom. That’s the one.

“Unless there’s an active terrorist threat,” you snap, voice rough with sleep, “there is zero reason to be calling this late.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then, cautiously, “…Wait, who is this?”

You rub your face with your free hand, already annoyed. “Who do you think?”

Another pause—longer this time. And then, sharply suspicious, “…Not Spencer Reid?”

You blink, finally focusing on the phone’s lock screen. It’s not yours. Definitely not yours.

You sit up slightly, stomach dropping. Shit. “Uh—”

Spencer stirs beside you, blinking blearily. “Wha’s going on…?”

And that’s when it happens. A long, slow intake of breath through the receiver.

“Oooooooooooooooooh,”

You try to recover. “Garcia.”

“Oh my god,” she hisses, like she just found the holy grail. “I knew something was going on! Oh my god, I knew it!”

Spencer’s sitting up now, trying to make sense of the chaos. “Who is it?”

“Penelope,” you say flatly, glancing at the screen like it’s radioactive as you reluctantly put the call on speakerphone. “What do you want?”

“I need visual confirmation immediately,” Garcia is saying, way too awake for 2:07 AM. “Is he shirtless? Wait—are you? Never mind, don’t answer that. I respect boundaries. Mostly. Oh my god.”

“Garcia.” you say, trying for a tone of calm, rational authority, but it comes out more defensive than intended. ”What do you want?”

“We have an urgent case my dear lovebirds,” She’s practically vibrating through the phone. Hotch wants everyone in the office. Oh I can’t wait to see everyone’s reactions,”

“Garcia—”

“Nope! Too late! This is the best news I’ve gotten all year. JJ owes me twenty dollars, I knew I saw something in the way you looked at each other during the surveillance briefing last month. I have receipts.”

“We’ll be in the office soon,” Spencer mumbles, already resigned.

“Oh, you better be,” she says, like she’s the one running the FBI now. “Buckle up, lovebirds!”

The call ends with a cheerful “Byeeeeeee!” and a click.

You sit there in stunned silence, phone still in your hand, the screen now dark and judgmental. Spencer groans, collapsing backward into the pillows.

“She’s going to tell everyone,”

“She’s already telling everyone,” you correct, flopping back beside him.

“This is going to be so embarrassing,”

You glance over at him—hair tousled, face flushed, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s trying to hide from the world. It’s honestly… kind of adorable.

You smile, just a little. “Could be worse,”

—

The BAU's conference room is already buzzing when you and Spencer walk in—thirty minutes later, coffee in hand, trying very hard to pretend this is just a normal Thursday.

It is not a normal Thursday.

Everyone is already there. Everyone is already looking.

Garcia practically explodes with smug glee the second she sees you. She doesn’t say a word—she doesn’t have to. She’s vibrating with the restrained chaos of someone who knows they’ve set off a very satisfying chain reaction. Her eyes sparkle. Her smile is enormous. She’s won something, and she knows it.

Spencer, for his part, looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. He’s gone unusually quiet, hiding behind the rim of his coffee cup like it’s a shield. He keeps tugging at the sleeves of his sweater, hands jittery, face flushed, clearly regretting every decision that led to this moment. He won’t look at anyone.

And everyone else?

Well.

JJ’s eyebrows are in her hairline. Emily’s face is frozen somewhere between astonishment and visible mental recalibration. Morgan looks like he just got handed a particularly juicy tabloid headline. And Rossi—bless him—leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and gives you both the kind of slow, impressed once-over usually reserved for rare bourbon.

Nobody says anything.

The silence stretches.

Spencer makes a small noise like he’s about to speak—probably to stammer through some clumsy attempt at clarification—but you beat him to it.

You cross your arms, plant your feet, and deliver the line like a press briefing:

“Yes, we’re dating. No, we haven’t had sex. We’ve been together officially for three months. I will not answer any questions, so don’t ask them.”

It lands like a bomb.

The room goes absolutely silent.

For a few blessed seconds, no one dares to move.

Then, from the corner, Rossi lets out a low chuckle—more impressed than anything else. “Well. That’s one way to do it,”

Morgan whistles low under his breath, shaking his head with an admiring grin. “Damn, kid,” he says to Spencer, who is now actively hiding behind his coffee. “I knew you had game,”

Garcia looks like she’s about to start clapping. You shoot her a warning glare.

“I’m just happy for you!” she chirps, hands raised in innocence. “This is so good for team morale,”

You glance at Spencer—his face still red, lips pressed tight like he’s trying not to die on the spot—and sigh.

Hotch remains blissfully unaffected.

He’s sitting at the head of the conference table, scrawling something on a case file with his ever-present air of detached focus. His pen moves in slow, methodical strokes as if he’s entirely unaware that the team has just been thrown into chaos.

Everyone is staring at Hotch now, waiting for him to react, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t even look up from his paperwork.

Rossi, of course, is the first to break the silence. “You knew about this,”

Hotch finally looks up—barely. It’s almost as if he’s taking a mental note of your existence before giving his usual level of minimal acknowledgment.

“They informed me,” he says matter-of-factly. “HR protocols.”

The silence in the room grows exponentially. HR protocols?

Rossi looks betrayed. So does Emily. JJ blinks rapidly, trying to process the betrayal. Even Morgan stares at Hotch like he just said something deeply alien to their universe.

Garcia’s jaw drops in comically exaggerated shock. “Wait… you knew and didn’t tell us? Hotch!” She looks almost wounded by the injustice of it all.

Hotch, however, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen idly on the table. “I was informed of a change in personal relationships within the team,” he says, as if explaining why his coffee’s not hot enough. “Standard procedure.”

Derek’s mouth twitches with the effort to hold back laughter, clearly fighting the urge to burst into full-on chuckles. “That’s it? No ‘I’m happy for you’ or ‘This changes everything!’?”

Hotch doesn’t even flinch. “Congratulations,” he adds with minimal sincerity, glancing up briefly, before continuing, “but we have an urgent case to focus on.”

Everyone’s collective sense of betrayal is palpable. There’s a beat of stunned silence before Emily, trying to save face, says, “I… I guess we should focus on the case.” She says it with half a smile, but the effort is obvious. “But seriously, Hotch. No heads-up? Not even a hint?”

Hotch simply gives them his patented “this is serious business” look and straightens up. “Focus, everyone.” His voice brooks no argument. “We’re being briefed on a new case, and I need all of you focused. Now.”

And just like that, the air in the room shifts. The humor fades, the teasing subsides, and everyone reluctantly pulls their attention to the matter at hand.

—

The rest of the day passes in a haze of good-natured (and sometimes not so good-natured) teasing. Derek, as always, is the first to crack a joke.

“So, you two gonna make superhuman babies, or what?” he smirks, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he watches you and Spencer in the hallway.

Spencer nearly chokes on his coffee, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Morgan,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper, “can you not?”

Derek just grins wider. “Oh, I’m just getting started, loverboy,” He winks at you both and saunters off with the most obnoxious swagger imaginable.

Garcia, never one to be outdone, is already planning date ideas before you even step off the jet. “You two should so check out that new fancy restaurant that just opened up down the street,” She nods at you, holding up her phone like she’s already making the reservation.

You raise an eyebrow at Spencer, just to see his reaction. He’s still turning red, but you can’t help a small, satisfied smile at the sight of his discomfited expression.

“No, Garcia. We shouldn’t,”

“Oh come on,” She beams. “I would die to be taken there on a date,”

You tilt your head at her, “You really think we would enjoy a place like that? Really?”

“Well…”

Emily, for her part, is still trying to process what the hell just happened. She keeps glancing at you both, trying to act casual but clearly still in disbelief. “So soon—” She shakes her head. “I’m just—wow. Okay. Good for you, I guess? I’ve gotta go hide from Morgan now, completely unrelated—”

JJ just chuckles, arms crossed. “Congratulations, both of you. I’m really happy for you,”

You could almost thank the universe for the relief of normalcy. You don’t. The universe didn’t do shit. It was all you. And Spencer. Mainly Spencer. “Thank you,”

The day finally winds down, and it’s time to leave. Spencer walks you to your hotel room, still looking like he might burst into flames from sheer embarrassment. You’ve let him be teased by the others, of course, but nothing too much. He’s still wearing that sheepish, half-worried expression as you approach your car, and you can’t help but smirk.

“Well,” you say, glancing up at him as you lean against your car, “Now they know,”

Spencer groans. It’s low, and it carries all the weight of his supposed regret. “Yeah,”

You lean in just a little, close enough that your voices are quiet but not enough for anyone else to overhear. You keep your tone flat, but there’s something soft in your eyes when you speak.

“Could’ve been worse,” you remark, just barely meeting his gaze. A quiet reassurance, a little more tender than the rest of the day has been. It’s not the most romantic thing in the world, but it’s yours.

He’s helpless, standing there, still flustered. But the way he looks at you—fondness in his eyes and a soft laugh escaping his lips—makes everything feel more okay than it probably should.

You reach up a soft hand to brush over the side of Spencer’s face, a juxtaposition he’d never point out unless you asked, and he smiles against you as you kiss him goodnight.

“I love you,” You’re barely parted, foreheads pressed together and his declaration a whisper on your lips.

“Thank you,” you nod softly as you separate, “Goodnight, Spencer,”

“goodnight,”

[no-144444]

When are we getting more playing favourites? I’ve read it like 3 times now and can’t wait for more!

firsts- o.piastri

summary: your first season as an f1 driver doesn't start the best, and you quickly realise McLaren doesn't like women very much. On top of that, your race engineer is as smug as the rest of them, and you have to deal with him all the time.

pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader

warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries, smut! (in this chapter) 18+

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve more to come...

Your hotel room was quiet. Eerily so. 

“We’ll get through it,” he shook his head, pacing the room. “We have to.”

“Oscar,” your voice broke, arms wrapping around your legs as you sat at the top of the bed. His head snapped to you, eyes wide with panic. “We can’t fight them.”

He crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you, smoothing down your hair. “We have to,” he whispered. “We will.” 

“And what can we even fight them on?” you whispered, a tear falling. “Unlawful termination? That’s not going to get you a contract with them again. I need to start fighting my contract. I need to get to Aston Martin-”

“You can’t win a championship with Aston-”

“Why would I ever want to win another championship without you?” You questioned, a confused look on your face. He stopped for a moment. Did you really mean that? You’d give up a championship for him. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut and hugged at the same time, and he didn’t know what to do other than kiss you. You kissed him back, just as desperate, as if you were searching for an answer to your impossible situation. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “So much,” and he kissed you again. Oscar was acutely aware you’d never said you loved him back, but he felt it. He felt it in the way you stuck to him like glue. How you always took time to make him a hot chocolate when you made your coffee. How you listened to him talk and talk, all the fucking time. How you spoke to and spent time with his family. How you kissed him. How you’d give up a championship for him. 

A thousand thoughts at once ran through your mind, you’d both been teetering on the edge of this for months. Those heated kisses and borderline explicit touches, and yet you’d never done anything really. You wanted the first time to be special, and I guess it doesn’t get much more special than realising you’ll have to either fight a lawsuit or work out of different garages. You pulled at his hoodie, signalling that you wanted it off and he pulled back, eyes wide. “Are you-?”

“Are you okay with-?” 

You both stared for a beat, then chuckled. “You go first,” you offered, heat crawling up your cheeks as you watched him blush. 

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked, sitting back. “And if you do, just remember we can pull the plug anytime, right?”

You nodded, biting your lips. Why did this feel humiliating? “I’m sure,” you looked down, then back up at him. “Are you sure you want this?” 

He could barely hide his smile, though he did try, and it just made you laugh. “I’m pretty fucking sure,” he nodded, and pulled off his hoodie. It always shocked you how fit Oscar was. Like obviously, he’s hot, you have eyes. And you two always work out together, so you know he’s strong, it just doesn’t register in your head that Oscar would be so built. You smoothed a hand down his chest, letting your eyes explore as he watched you, an amused smirk on his lips. “Like what you see?” he teased, throwing his hoodie off the bed as you chuckled. 

He leaned over and kissed you again, his hands venturing under your hoodie and holding your hips with a kind of care you’d never felt before. You froze. He noticed and pulled back immediately. He didn’t want to fuck this up. He didn’t want to make this awful for you. He wanted this to be one of the only ‘firsts’ in your life that wasn’t tainted by something bad happening, not after your first win. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ve never… done this before,” you admitted. “I’m kind of… scared.” 

He shrugged. “That’s alright,” he smiled. “We can take it slow,” he offered. “Or not at all.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I want to do it. Maybe, just slow, if that’s alright?”

He nodded and reached out a hand to take yours. “We’ll take everything at your pace, yeah?”

You smiled at him and nodded, lunging up to kiss him again. You loved kissing Oscar. It was so simple, but so lovely. Something so intimate about it too. 

His hands reached the bottom of your hoodie and he pulled back for a brief second. “I’m going to take this off, is that alright?” 

You nodded quicker than you thought you were, and held your arms up for him. Now you were in a bra and a pair of his boxers as sleep shorts. You could feel the slight chill from the open window, but felt the heat radiating off of Oscar even more. You shivered as he kissed you again. 

“Is this alright?” he asked through kisses, his left hand gently making its way into your underwear. His voice was deep, deeper than you’d ever heard it. It was hot. He was hot. You nodded, pulling him down by his hair so you could kiss his neck. The second his fingers made contact with your clit, your brain short-circuited. You let out a moan as he started with soft circles, gently touching you, testing the waters. If the way you were writhing beneath him was any indication, he was doing a good job. “Feels good?”

“Yes,” you whined, closing your eyes as he sped up his movements. You tried to continue with your assault on his neck, but your body was just so focused on what was happening between your legs. “So good.”

He slowly pushed a finger into your cunt, and you gasped. He chuckled lightly. “You’ve never played with yourself?” he questioned, his voice low, like it was a dirty secret. You shook your head, looking up at him as you gripped at the back of his neck, grinding onto his hand. “Fuck,” he groaned, biting his lip. “You’re so beautiful.”

You involuntarily whined at his words, making him chuckle yet again. You looked away, embarrassed, but he used his other hand to pull your face back. He kissed you gently, a smile on his lips. “You’re doing great, baby,” he whispered. “You just focus on how you feel.”

You nodded, following his instructions, feeling everything he was doing to you. It was maddening, the soft circles, the way he spread you out for himself, his voice, everything. Slowly, pressure began to build in your stomach and your grip tightened. He noticed, because of course he did. His fingers moved faster. “Close, pretty girl?” He didn’t need an answer to know he had guessed correctly when you tightened your grip again, and moaned straight into his ear, the noise going straight to his cock. “Alright?”

“Holy shit,” you whined, your hands cupping his cheeks. “I’ve been missing out,” you joked, and he laughed, dropping his head against your chest. 

“Yeah, you have,” he chuckled. “But we’re here now. Are you alright to keep going?”

Though you were tired, you nodded, not wanting this to end. He slowly took his hand out of your pants, you hissed at the loss of contact and he genuinely didn’t know how long he would last if you kept making those noises the way you were, and how your nails had been digging into his back. He’d never guessed he’d be into being scratched, but it felt good. Anything with you felt good. “Okay, I’m going to take these off now then, is that alright?” He asked, his hand at the edge of his your boxers. 

You nodded. This was the moment. This was it. “Yes.”

He slowly pulled them down your legs. You sat up (to his surprise) and his mouth actually watered as you pulled off your bra. Fuck. How was he going to get through this without cumming in his pants? He quickly pulled off his shorts and underwear and grabbed one of the complimentary condoms the hotel had in every room (he’d chuckled at it originally, mentally joking about how he’d never use it, how wrong he was). He caught a glimpse of your face, your jaw was dropped. 

“What?” he questioned, panic in his voice. 

“You’re huge,” you admitted, not even realising what you were saying, just staring at his dick and wondering how the fuck he was supposed to fit. He smirked. Ego = boosted.  

“It’s kind of average, no?” he questioned, trying to hide his smirk as he blushed. Granted, he knew he was above average, but not by much- anyway, he moved on to the important thing. “I’m going to push in slow, alright?” he told you, and you nodded. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I am, are you?” you asked, taking his hand. He liked this. The gentleness. The softness. 

He smiled. “Better than alright.” 

And he slowly pushed in. He was huge, filling you so much so you thought you could feel it in your lungs for a moment, after a moment to get used to the stretch, he started moving, and god, it was euphoria. Why had you never had sex before? Why had you never fucked Oscar before? He was so sweet, so perfect, so… him. 

“You doing alright?” he checked, slowly moving in and out of your dripping pussy. Your breath stuttered with every thrust, and he could see the way your eyes glossed over as you focused only on the sensation he was providing. It gave him more motivation to not cum. He had to make you feel good. 

“Perfect,” you said, breathless, right before a particularly hard thrust pulled another moan out of you. His lips lowered to your neck as his thumb started gently rubbing over your clit, making you writhe beneath him. 

“Gotta stay a bit more still baby,” he grunted, placing his hand on your stomach, holding you down. Your hands went to run up and down his back, moaning into his shoulder as the sensation built, hot and heavy in your stomach for the second time that night. “Let go whenever you’re ready, I want you to cum for me.” 

Fuck he was hot. Like, really hot. He changed the angle, somehow getting deeper than before, and you almost screamed. He chuckled, kissing you again. “Osc, I-I’m going to cum-”

“Cum for me, please baby, cum all over my cock,” he had a filthy mouth. As he picked up the pace, so did his grunts and small whines, they were music to your ears, making you tighten around him. “Come on baby, all over my cock.” 

And you did. “Fuck! I love you,” you rushed out as your body spasmed, cumming on his cock. His jaw dropped and he started moving quicker, racing to get to his own high. 

He did. “I love you,” from his lips like a mantra. He stilled inside you, pushing in as far as he could and cumming in the condom, your name on his lips. 

You stayed like that for a moment, your eyes closed as your pussy contracted around him, him on top of you, closer than you’d ever been. “Fuck,” he breathed out, pulling out of you as you hissed at the overstimulation. “Are you alright?” he asked, sitting up beside you, disposing of the condom in the bin beside the bed. 

You were exhausted, but more than happy. You nodded. “Better than alright,” you cracked a smile, turning to him. You weren’t nervous, being naked in front of him. You weren’t scared of what he’d say. You trusted him, utterly and completely. 

“You said you love me,” he chuckled, emotion building in his throat and behind his eyes. “Did you mean that?”

You reached up and cupped his cheek, pulling him down to kiss you again. “I love you,” you whispered. He nodded. 

“I love you too,” he smiled. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and taking your hand in his. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smiled. “And we’ll fix this.”

playing favourites masterlist

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[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── EVEN WHEN IT'S HARD... ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the one where even when it's hard...sim jaeyun will always choose you.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 1.1k ⌗ angst angst ANGST, reader is a lil self-sabotaging, jakey gets v v sad :(, but then comfort, reassurance, & fluff<3

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hello pls don't be mad at me for this one,,,decided to throw another angsty one into the mix because once again─i really wanna make this series realistic and i totally see yn still getting into her own head every now & then. and it's totally normal & realistic for couples to have lil moments of miscommunication and i feel like this is how jake would handle it :') bc at the end of the day, he will always choose yn...

You don’t even know how you got here.

It probably started small.

Something barely noticeable—something as small as a mere thought in the back of your head. A flicker of doubt—the kind that’s been fading, slowly but surely, over time.

But still lingers.

Like a crack in glass you don’t notice until the whole thing shatters.

Maybe it was a comment.

A look.

Maybe the restaurant you recommended but it ended up being mediocre.

The too-long silence during the drive back home from dinner.

And now here you are.

Standing in the middle of your living room, your bag still half-slung off your shoulder, while Jake stands from across the space—watching you with his arms limp at his side, a pout on his lips, confused and concerned, like he doesn’t know what’s happening.

And you don’t even remember what you said.

Only the way Jake’s face fell.

The way his shoulders sank immediately, like something slipped through his fingers and he didn’t even realize he was holding it.

The way he blinked, slow and stunned—like he felt the crack before he could make sense of it.

“I just think—” you sigh, sharper than you mean to be, your arms folding across yourself, “I don’t know—maybe you shouldn’t assume things about how I feel.”

Jake’s brows knit together, his voice low but steady, “I’m not assuming anything, Y/N. I’m asking. You won’t talk to me, and I’m—I just…I’m trying to figure out where your head’s at.”

You turn away.

Try to blink it back—the tightness rising in your chest. The frustration.

You don’t even know why you’re upset.

At him? At yourself?

“Well maybe my head’s a mess right now,” you say, a bubble rising to your throat. “And I don’t need you trying to fix it.”

There’s a pause.

A shift in the air.

Jake lets out a soft breath. Barely audible.

But you hear it.

And you see it, too—the subtle way his expression drops.

And god, it hurts.

“Okay.” He nods slowly, his voice suddenly quieter, barely above a whisper. “So what do you need, then?”

You hesitate.

Because that’s just the thing. You don’t know.

Because it’s not him. Never him.

It’s not the quiet car ride home. Or the under-cooked steak at the restaurant. Or the stupid thing he said about maybe meeting his parents next month.

It’s you.

It’s everything else.

The pressure. The doubt. The sinking feeling in your chest that you don’t deserve something this good. Something as good as him.

“I think…” you start, your eyes meeting his, swallowing hard. “I think I need space.”

And it’s like you ripped the floor out from right under him.

You watch the words hit him.

Watch how he stumbles without even moving.

His eyes flick to yours like he misheard. His breath catches like you knocked the wind out of him.

His fingers tremble at his sides, helpless and twitching, like he doesn’t know what to hold on to anymore.

He exhales a shaky breath and—

“No.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m not giving you space.” His voice cracks. Barely holding it together. “Not like this. Not when I don’t even know what I did—”

“You didn’t do anything, Jake—”

“Then I’m staying.”

His voice breaks again. And when you look at him again—his eyes are glassy. His voice trembles in a way that shatters your heart more than you’ve ever known before.

And before you know it—

Jake crosses the living room and closes the distance between you two—like he’s trying to reach the part of you that’s slipping through his fingers.

And when he’s right in front of you, he stops.

Just looks at you.

Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like he’s begging you to see him too.

“Let me stay,” his voice unsteady, more desperate now. “Please.”

Your throat closes.

“You’re shutting me out again and I can feel it and I know I’m not perfect, but—God, Y/N—I love you.”

A breath. A blink. A beat.

“I’m trying. I’m here,” Jake continues, his eyes pleading. Breaking. “Please don’t push me away when I’m trying to stay.”

You stare at him.

And you hate it.

You hate how much he means it.

How sincere he sounds—how shattered he looks.

How his hands are clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you, like he’s not sure he can.

And you hate that you’re the one making him feel that way.

Like love has limits.

Like maybe even he isn’t allowed to cross the invisible line you drew without even realizing it.

Because deep down—

You’re terrified.

Terrified that one day he’ll just say okay and walk out.

That he’ll stop trying. Stop fighting.

That your worst fear will come true: that you are too much. That you’re not worth all this effort.

“Jake…I’m scared,” you whisper—and it breaks.

The dam. The silence. You.

“I’m scared you’ll realize I’m not worth this,” you choke, your own vision blurring. “That I’m just—too much. Or not enough. Or both.”

Jake’s face crumbles.

Completely.

“Y/N.”

You shake your head, blinking fast—it’s all spilling now, messy and unfiltered and real.

“You could have anyone. You could find someone easier. Someone who doesn’t blow up over nothing or pull away every time it gets hard or—”

“Don’t.”

The sudden edge in his voice stops you—not sharp, but urgent.

Urgent, wrecked, and aching.

“Don’t you dare try to write me out of this story when I already know how it ends. Like I haven’t already chosen you.”

He takes a step forward.

“I don’t want easy. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Another step.

“Even when it’s messy. Even when you’re mad. Even when it’s hard.”

And before you can stop him, Jake’s hands cup your face—gentle, steady—like you’re something fragile and priceless at the same time.

“This is still you,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his forehead against your own. “And I still love you.”

Your lip quivers.

He brushes his thumb along your cheek—and only then do you realize you’re crying.

A broken breath escapes your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you choke out, the tears falling out faster now—completely open and raw.

Jake lets out a small, breathy, almost sad laugh.

“Me too.”

And god.

You think that might’ve been the moment you fell completely, absolutely, irreversibly in love with him.

In a way you can’t describe.

In a way that sits in your chest and says this is it—even if you don’t know how to say it out loud yet.

So for now—

“Please stay.”

Jake smiles. It’s small. But so full of relief.

“Always, pretty.”

And he does.

Jake stays through the silence. Through the ache.

Through the heavy nights and the mornings when it’s better.

Because real love doesn’t run.

It reaches. And it stays.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

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[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ GUILTY AS SIN? | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x wolff!reader

genre. angst; some fluff

synopsis. days after you showed up in the paddock wearing charles' shirt, toto wolff is still not talking to you. it tears at you, him, and your relationship with charles. tired of living life scared you'll disappoint toto, you show up to the paddock holding charles' hand.

warnings. none; guest appearances from carlos and george

word count. 3.1k

note. this is the second part to ‘but daddy i love him’. this makes sense if you haven't read that, but reading the first part provides context for a lot of the things happening in this part. i want to write drabbles set in this universe, so if you have requests/ideas, please send them <3

MASTERLIST ; part one ; requests open

LOVE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE EASY; loving Charles had—since the beginning of your relationship—been as easy as breathing. Until reality eventually caught up. The love you held for Charles had not become more difficult since that fateful moment when you walked onto the paddock draped in Charles’ jacket; everything around it had become more complicated—more difficult—ever since then.

Toto’s voice still rang in your ears; his voice lingered in your mind like an echo you couldn’t get rid of—“Can someone explain why my daughter is wearing Leclerc’s Ferrari jacket?”. You remembered freezing in your tracks, glancing over at Charles—who looked just as much a deer in headlights as you; then Toto’s narrowed eyes. The events which followed passed by in a blur; silence; you opening your mouth to explain; disappointment radiating off Toto; his silent—sharp—”I don’t want to hear it.”. That had been the end of it; Toto had stridden past you and disappeared into the Mercedes garage; Charles had gently placed a hand on your lower back and led you to the Ferrari motorhome, where he left you with a kiss to your forehead and a promise that everything would be okay.

George passed by—he stopped to chat for a few minutes before realising he was late to a strategy meeting and had to sprint across the paddock. Then Carlos walked by, he pulled out a chair opposite you—his navy Williams t-shirt contrasting against the bright red of the Ferrari motorhome—and sat down; he handed you snacks stolen from the Williams motorhome wrapped in a napkin—they were slid over the table as if they were contraband. 

“You know there’s snacks here, right?” You laughed, even though the laugh didn’t reach your eyes; Carlos noticed, he tilted his head, smiling at you.

“Yes, but they’re not as good, no?”

The former Ferrari, now Williams, driver nodded towards the snacks wrapped in a napkin sitting on the table in front of you, encouraging you to unwrap the snacks and eat one—you did. Inside the napkin was an assortment of grapes, chocolate, and cookies; you muttered a thank you to Carlos which he waved off, telling you that it was nothing. He sat there for a while, telling jokes; you tried to laugh at them, but the laughter never reached your eyes; it was all an act and Carlos could clearly tell.

“It’s going to be okay, you know. Toto might be pissed now, but we all know how much he adores you; he’ll accept it eventually.” Carlos’ voice was soft—comforting—as it reached your ears. You pressed your lips together, nodding solemnly.

“What if he doesn’t?” You didn’t want to admit it outloud, but the thought had pierced through every corner of your brain ever since that morning—ever since Toto had stormed off to the Mercedes garage with a “I don’t want to hear it”. Carlos stood up from his chair—he had to go to a meeting which was far less important than you—still, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Then maybe he is not who you thought he was.” 

That had been days ago. You hadn’t spoken to Toto since; it was strange not speaking to him. You had gone back to Vienna after the race; you’d walked by the café you’d gone to with Toto for years ever since you were old enough to ask the barista for a hot chocolate—”Ich hätte gern eine heiße Schokolade, bitte”. A peculiar feeling—longing, perhaps—coursed through your veins, settled deep in the very marrow of your bones, at the sight of the table you and Toto used to occupy being empty. Usually when you walked through this part of Vienna, it was to meet Toto at this café; he would always sit and wait when you walked in—books clutched in your arms—he’d meet you with a smile and a comment about how the books made you forget about life again—that was true sometimes, other times it was because Charles distracted you, made you forget that there was a world outside the bubble which only contained you and him. You never told Toto this; you’d smile at him and tell him that ja, papa, it was the books again. The memory felt faint; the more you tried to reach for it, the fainter it became until it was like a sun faded cassette tape someone had left out in the sun for too long.

You hadn’t seen Charles since the end of the race weekend. You went with Charles to celebrate Oscar’s Grand Prix win with the rest of the grid; your heart hammering in your chest—joy encapsulating you—as Charles wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you to him, kissing you in front of everyone in the middle of the dance floor; he had stuck close to you the entire evening, just as you had stuck close to him––now you were in two different countries, miles separating you. You missed Charles’ presence—his laugh, his small touches. He suggested you come with him to Monaco after the race; you declined, worried that you would inevitably run into Toto there—���Chérie, you can come stay with me in Monaco.” he’d pleaded, almost begged, looking at you; you shook your head, watching as his eyes filled with tears, as his bottom lip wobbled. Walking through the Viennese streets, you regretted every action you had taken, every word spoken, during that exchange. You had spoken to Charles occasionally and briefly ever since; it was as though a chasm had opened between you—one that neither of you knew how to close. The last exchange you had was Charles asking if you were going to the next race—Monza—you’d told him no, claiming that you were buried under schoolwork—that had been a lie; you weren’t buried under schoolwork, you just didn’t want to go to the paddock; didn’t want to face the disappointment Toto’s entire being would exude the moment he laid eyes on you. If you went, you would—for the first time—go as a guest of Ferrari and not Mercedes; there was something bittersweet over it.

Charles waited outside your flat when you arrived back home; he gently pried the bags you were carrying from your hands—warmth bloomed where his fingertips made contact with your skin. He smiled softly at you, muttering a quick “hi”, which you returned; he shuffled into the flat after you, closing and locking the door behind him. His presence in your flat felt familiar—welcome. During the months of your (secret) relationship, Charles spent many days in this flat; playing the pianoforte you never knew why you had—you couldn’t play piano—putting away groceries; laughing; smiling; kissing you whenever he could. Before you could say anything, Charles had slipped out of his shoes; his humming fluttered through the air as he put the groceries away.

“Charles? What are you doing here?” At the sound of your voice, Charles looked up from the grocery bag he was digging through—one hand cradling a bag of flour. He paused, his eyes searching yours. He turned, opening the cabinet you kept your flour in before turning back to you and sighing; his hands flattening against the countertop.

“I wanted to see you. We’ve barely talked since the race and when we have talked, it has been brief. Mon ange, tell me what’s going on; we’re in this together.” Charles’ voice had grown steadily quieter as he spoke; you could only stare at him, blood coursing through your veins, your heart hammering in your chest. Charles took a step towards you, then another, then his arms wrapped around you—his scent surrounding you—one hand placed on your back, the other on the back of your head; pulling you into him. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. The tears flowed slowly at first; Charles didn’t speak, he just held you, waiting for you to speak, even though the feeling of your tears wetting his skin broke his heart—tugged painfully at strings attached to it. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy.

“It’s papa. I love you, I do. I just feel like I’ve disappointed him.” You stumbled through the sentence, unsure of how to express your feelings, how to word them in a coherent—understandable—way. Charles understood; he knew you better than anyone—he would always understand what you were trying to tell him, even though it was veiled, slurred, or incomprehensible.

“You can’t live your entire life scared that you’ll disappoint him. He talks about you all the time when you’re not present; he’s so proud of you, of everything you’ve achieved. This—our relationship—shocked him, but he’ll come around eventually. He’s not unreasonable. I think the way he found out was jarring for him, unexpected. He’ll come around, chérie, I promise.” Echoes of Carlos’ words rang through your mind as you listened to Charles speak. You didn’t want him to be right, but he was—you couldn’t live life scared of disappointing Toto. Charles cupped your cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears—his touch was soft, gentle, as it always was. You wanted desperately to believe him; your mind screamed at you to forget every worry you had bottled up since you started dating Charles. You nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth—gnawing at it. The more you thought about it, the clearer it became that Charles was right; Toto would accept it eventually. He had no other choice.

“Where are you going?” Your voice was still shaky—raw—from crying. You vaguely gestured to the bags Charles had left in your entry. Charles, for a moment, glanced from you at his bags; his hands still cupped your cheeks, your bodies still pressed impossibly close together.

“The race. I just had to see you first, since you’re not coming.” Charles’ voice was tinged with hope—hope that you may change your mind and attend the race with him; there was no one he wanted there more than you. He often joked—as you laid beside him, his fingers drawing patterns on your skin—that you were his lucky charm; he insisted that he performed better whenever you were in the paddock. You weren’t sure you believed that claim. 

“Is it too late to go with you?” Charles’ eyes lit up, his lips widening into a smile as he shook his head, rambling in French—various combinations of “non, mon ange”, “il n'est pas trop tard”, and “j'adorerais t'avoir là”.

If anyone had asked you later what thoughts coursed through your mind as you agreed to go to the race with Charles, you wouldn’t have been able to give them an answer—the spur of the moment decision was inexplicable even to you; perhaps it had been the hope in Charles’ eyes, in his voice; or maybe it had been something else entirely—you were not sure. Charles pressed his lips against yours, pulling you closer. You led Charles down the same hallway he had walked through time and time again, pulling him into your bedroom. He stood by your bed—which he had been in more times than you could remember—putting items of clothing into your open suitcase as you handed it to him.

Standing outside the paddock gates, Charles entwined your fingers. This time—unlike the last—you wore your own clothes. Your heart hammered in your chest; Charles squeezed your hand, smiling softly at you. Whatever happened beyond the paddock gates, you would face together. The entire paddock stilled as you walked through the gates; Carlos smiled at you as he walked by; Charles pulled you closer to him as you made your way across the paddock.

Toto paused as he saw you and Charles walking hand-in-hand through the paddock, smiles plastered on both your faces; he sighed, his hand coming up to rub his temples. He pulled his lips into a thin line, greeting both you and Charles when he walked by you. You stopped, opening your mouth to say something; when no words formed, you closed it; your lips pulled up into a tight smile—Toto would recognise that smile anywhere, it was the same tight smile he wore when he had to be polite. He watched—from the Mercedes motorhome—as Charles kissed you— your forehead, your cheeks, your lips—before running off to a meeting. The day was littered with small, affectionate touches between you and Charles and conversations which left you beaming—smiling so brightly and so much that your muscles hurt.

“This went well?” You looked up at Charles, who had sat down beside you on the couch; he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“It did.” Doubt still gnawed at you; crawling up your throat, clenching around your heart. Toto’s greeting had been brief, but it had been more than you’d talked to him in a week. He looked tired; bags had appeared under his eyes; he looked older than he did the last time you saw him—this was clearly taking a toll on Toto too. Charles pulled you closer to him, slinging his arm around your shoulder; brushing a lock of hair away from your face—you smiled at him, kissing his cheek. You couldn’t help but look over at the Mercedes motorhome—Toto was nowhere to be seen. Charles noticed the glances you would—periodically—throw in that direction; he nudged you gently, his eyes filled with a softness he only held for you.

“What’s on your mind, mon amour?”

“I think I want to go talk to papa.” You gnawed at your bottom lip, your gaze fixed on the motorhome across the paddock.

“Go.” Charles gently urged you. He could see—he had seen, this past week—how much this argument—which wasn’t really an argument—tore at you, threatening to rip you apart. You and Toto had always been close—Charles had discovered this on numerous occasions, from how you talked about your childhood with Toto to how you told him you couldn’t go on a date with him once because you had your monthly coffee date with Toto.

You left the Ferrari motorhome headed for the Mercedes motorhome. Stepping through the sliding doors, you saw George sitting in the cafeteria alone; he looked up as the doors slid open. A smile spread across his lips at the sight of you.

“Welcome back, you here to see Toto?” You swallowed thickly, nodding. George smiled, pointing in the general direction of Toto’s office, “Last I saw him, he was in his office. Good luck!” You shook your head, scoffing at him, muttering something about how you didn’t need luck to speak to Toto; that was a lie—you needed all the luck you could get.

Toto’s head shot up when the door to his office opened; the last person he expected to see stood on the other side of it—one hand clutched the door handle, only letting go when Toto gestured for you to come inside. He closed his computer, folding his hands on top of it.

“Schatz.”

“Hi, papa.” You sank down in a chair opposite Toto’s desk, his eyes followed your every move. On your way over, you had planned exactly what you wanted to say, but as you sat in Toto’s office—Toto sitting opposite you—your mouth dried, every word you had prepared disappearing into thin air; you had never felt like this with Toto—you had always been able to tell him whatever was on your mind. It was a strange feeling; one you didn’t revel in. Toto patiently waited for you to speak—he had a meeting, but you were far more important than the meeting; the meeting could be rescheduled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Charles; I just didn’t know how to. I should’ve told you. I’ve thought a bit since then, and it wasn’t fair to you to find out the way you did.” Toto listened intently to every word pouring from your lips, “I love Charles, I’m not going to apologise for that. Charles is one of the nicest, kindest, people I’ve met and he treats me so well. You don’t have to like it, I’m not asking you to, you just have to accept it and stop being upset with me for, what, falling in love?” Your heart hammered in your chest, sweat beading on your forehead, your hands grew clammy; you tried to wipe them on your jeans, but it did nothing. Toto sighed softly.

“I’m not mad at you for falling in love; I’m upset you didn’t trust me enough to tell me, schatz. I’m upset I had to find out from you walking into the paddock in Leclerc’s shirt.” He looked at you for a moment, before glancing out the window; the Ferrari motorhome was clearly visible from where he was sitting, “I see how happy he makes you; how happy you are when you are with him. He’s one of the better drivers you could have chosen.” He laughed softly, his mouth quirking up into a smile, his crows feet appearing around his eyes. At the sound of Toto’s laughter, you couldn’t help the giggle that burst from your lips. You stood from your chair at the same moment Toto did; he pulled you into a hug.

“I’m sorry, papa.” You mumbled into the white button-up he always wore to race weekends.

“It’s okay. Tell that Leclerc kid that if he hurts you, he’ll have to deal with me.”

It was with much lighter steps that you walked back to the Ferrari motorhome. You found Charles exactly where you had left him—sitting on the couch—only this time, he was playing some game on his phone. He looked up when he heard steps; a smile etched itself across his face, his eyes filling with joy, at the sight of you; he—immediately—noticed a lightness in your steps, one that he had dearly missed. He stood up to meet you halfway—in full view of the Mercedes motorhome—you wrapped your arms around him; Charles had to take a step back to stop from stumbling from the force with which you hugged him.

“How did it go?” He could feel your smile—the smile which he loved so much; which he would do anything to see—break out across your face.

“It went well. I apologised and he said he was never upset at the idea of us dating; he was just upset because of how he found out.” You had to stop, a giggle forced its way up your throat, “he said that if you ever hurt me, you’d have to deal with him.”

Charles groaned, dropping his face in the crook of your neck. You threw your head back, laughter bursting from you at Charles’ ticklish kisses pressed to your neck.

“Good thing I’m not planning on hurting you, then.”

[chanandlersstuff]

Sunshine and Loverboy

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Reader.

Summary: The timeline of how Hayden gradually fell in love with her until he was madly in love, to the point of no returning.

Word count: 8.639

Warnings: Not much actually, age-gap and emotions and lots of feelings.

Author’s note: Hiii, thanks a lot for the love I've been reciving for the series and the nice messages.

It's been a while, but not that long, time it to perfection to be a month.

I hope this is what you wanted to read after the last part, after the rough path between them. And I want to say that I would gladly made them suffer more, but I didn't want you all to hate me so I fast forward right to the part we all wanted.

With that being said, enjoy, there's more to come about those two and I hope you enjoy it. Lots of love, ME.

gif credit @hayden-christensen

← Previous part

May 2022. This is what you came for.

Months had passed. Quiet ones. Months of polite distance, of sterile texts. A "Happy Holidays" here, a “Congrats on the trailer drop” there. Nothing like what it used to be. Nothing close to warmth.

They’d both thought the time apart might heal things. Soften the edges. Drown the ache. Maybe time would do what neither of them could, make it easier to let go.

But the second they saw each other again, it all came crashing back. The longing, the weight of everything unsaid, the quiet ache blooming behind their ribs like something alive.

For Hayden, it was like the sun had finally broken through months of grey skies, like something inside him, something starved, was finally warm again, like something in his chest uncoiled all at once, then immediately twisted again, tighter than before.

For her, it was like remembering how to breathe and hating herself for how much she missed it. Her heart slammed against her chest like it wanted to break free, like it wanted to jump out her chest and run to the person who it belonged to.

They saw each other across a sea of people. Publicists, fans, cameras, executives, handlers, stylists, all of them blurring into white noise.

Hayden stood still, rooted to the floor in his black tailored jacket, hands stopped mid air, eyes only on her. Like the room had tilted. Like the lights and sounds and flashes had vanished and the noise disappeared.

It was just her.

She walked slowly, trying not to rush. She had no right to, not after the silence, not after that night. But her body betrayed her, it always did around him. Her smile faltered for the first time that day.

God, he looks good.

Hair swept back, eyes lit from within, the curve of a smile he was trying hard to hide. Not perfect. Just…Hayden.

People moved between them. Camera crews. Assistants. Disney PR. She gave a practiced smile. He nodded to someone saying his name. 

But they were walking towards the other, slowly, tentatively. One moment there they were, the other they were close. Too close.

She looked up, timid and unsure, the way she had the very first time they met in person, like she was bracing for impact, and Hayden’s body was moving before his brain could catch up. Stepping forward and hugging her.

Not a staged hug. Not a half-press of bodies for the sake of polite industry affection. No, his arms wrapped around her like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it again.

She froze for a second, caught off guard. Her breath hitched, but then her body remembered too. Quickly easing in his arms, inhaling deeply so he could invade all her senses, her hands gently curled at his back softly.

But the hug was over far too fast, ripped away by reality. By flashes. By movement. By all the eyes watching. 

They stepped back and it was like it never happened. But it did. It so fucking did.

His heart was still racing. Her perfume clung to the fabric of his jacket.

She looked at him, blinking the daze out of her eyes, a hand still hovering like it didn’t know where to fall.

Hayden found his voice first. Croaky. Thin. Meaning every word.

“You look good.”

God, you look incredible.

She smiled, small, timid, but he knew it was a real one. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “So do you.”

Because he never didn’t look good.

She wanted to say more and he wanted to hold her again, but then a handler’s voice cut through the moment. He was needed for a press stop while she was needed for photos, which put a slight look on her face, which was quickly gone, but he noticed. 

And just like that, they were being pulled apart again. Looking over their shoulders briefly before they were gone. 

Back into the crowd, back into orbit, apart, once again, and God, it hurt more than before.

Because even after all this time, touching her still felt like home and letting her go still felt like hell.

Along the day, they were ushered here and there, photo lines, interviews, press booths. They barely had time to breathe, let alone talk and maybe that was a mercy because they wouldn't have known where to start.

They kept looking just past the other, like they were pretending, like it didn’t ache. But the tension grew. Every time she caught a glimpse of him, her pulse skipped. Every time he heard her laugh from across the room, he looked without meaning to.

They were orbiting again. Two moons caught in the same gravity, doomed to circle without ever colliding. Close, but never quite touching. 

When she found a second to breathe, a moment of peace, she slipped into the panel crowd, as if she was just another fan. Because before she was a director, she was a fan.

She texted Ewan as she found a spot at the side of the crowd, watching as the room swelled with anticipation.

Just bumped into the cutest looking boy dressed as you Might’ve found my favorite Obi-Wan

You’re in the panel?

Yeah

Don’t get lost in the crowd We need you

You’re going to do fine You’re more used to the reflector than me

I'll be fine Your lover boy on the other hand…

He's going to be fine too The people love him He just has to believe it

You love him too?

You’re about to be presented Good luck

You didn’t answer, so I’m taking that as a yes

She didn’t reply, just stared at the stage as the lights dimmed and the host’s voice boomed through the space, echoes of excitement curling in the air.

Minutes after, with a great song in the background, the pair walked in sync to the big couch in the middle of the stage and, as the fan girl she was, she cheered and applauded for them. It took five solid minutes for the crowd to stop making noise, encouraged by the older of the pair of course while he looked around.

She watched Hayden in all his glory. The shy smile on his lips, how he waved to the crowd with that unsure, sweet energy that only made them scream louder, the way he manspread with those legs long, one hand casually on his knee, his hair was swept behind his ears. He was mesmerising to her eyes, he always had been and always will be. The black suited him perfectly. 

Hayden was trying not to look nervous, but she knew him. Too well.

The typical questions were asked, how it felt to come back, how it was feeling to be back, how excited they were to be there. Normal, routine questions. The interviewer asked him a question, but he praised the crowd, making them go wild again. While the crowd died down he looked among the ground, her cheer was the one that was heard, and she almost passed out from embarrassment, but it was like they had some kind of pull towards the other because the second she opened her eyes big, he found her and an immense smile plastered across his face, unfiltered, real.

They called his name but he kept watching her way.  He couldn’t look away, didn’t want to, not for a second. Even in a room full of adoration, it was her he looked for. Her he wanted to impress. Her approval he still needed like oxygen.

The flashbulbs didn’t bother him. Only her silence did numbers on him.

He was seated in the middle of the stage, people calling his name, but he could feel her. A whole sea of people between them, and he felt her. Always.

It took a little nudge from his friend and the interviewer calling his name again to take him back to the present. “I’m sorry what?” Hayden said with a smile.

The crowd and the interview laughed and his friend took the chance to lean in and whispered something to his ear. “I take by the look on your face that you found her, lover boy.” Ewan leant back on his seat and enjoyed how his friend rolled his eyes but a blushed appeared in his cheeks.

The interview went back to normal, back and forth with question and answers and the crowd shouting how much they loved them, they laughed and smiled the whole time. While he wasn’t answering questions, and Ewan was, Hayden kept glancing to where she was and then looked around, to not be too obvious, like he was afraid he might get caught wanting her.

“You know, I had to bridge a gap between my last work as Obi-Wan and then Alec Guinness in the New Hope and we just sort of brainstormed what we thought about it. The film was going to be a movie at one point and it turned into a series. Thank God Miss Director became our director because she's splendid.” The people cheered and she smiled, not only at the nickname but at the kind words. “My god she's so good, she's so talented and because she directed all of the episodes it's got her singular vision throughout.” The praise of Ewan, an actor with so much experience in his career, someone who she admired, made her blushed and smile like crazy. “And yeah, you'll see where he's at,” he finished with a cheeky smile.

“And Hayden, how about you?” The interviewer looked at him. “I mean obviously you are, you were, playing Anakin and now you're kind of playing Vader and so, how are we seeing these changes happen? What are we seeing from Anakin now or are we seeing Vader?” They all were excited for the answer.

Hayden sat straight and smiled. “That's what makes this character so compelling, that duality, that inner conflict of self-identity.” The crowd cheered. “It's just been such a thrill to get to come back and continue my journey with the character and to get to explore Darth Vader at this point in the timeline has been huge.” They applauded. “But more than that, it’s been a gift to do it under the guidance of someone so capable.” He paused and looked her way again, but this time, he didn’t look away. “Ewan said, Miss Director, as we like to call her…” His smile softened, sincerity bleeding into every word. “She’s incredibly, the best out there. She’s so intelligent and cool and creative.” 

Hearing those words from his lips made her blushed like a teenage girl all over again. 

“She did an amazing job showing these characters at their best. For the fans. For all of us.” The people cheered again and he nodded. “Let’s get an applause for her, she’s amazing,” Hayden said. 

And before anyone could react, he started clapping. Loud. First. Proud. Ewan joined in, then the rest of the stage, then the room, making her freeze in her stop. 

A sea of people cheering, clapping, and yet, he was watching her. And she was watching him too, because she always did.

The press photos were chaos in slow motion, shouts from photographers layered over one another like crashing waves.

“This way, Ewan!” “Hayden, eyes to your left!” “Miss Director, chin up, beautiful!”

Flash. 

Flash. 

Flash.

They were all lined up, grinning like professionals, rotating in and out of different formations, cast group shots, duo shots, solo poses. Everyone playing their part in the well-oiled, red-carpet machine.

And she? She was luminous in the storm, blinding. To the point Hayden could barely breathe. Staring like a young boy, breath snagging behind his ribs.

How is her face not plastered across every screen in the world? How are there not statues built in her image? How has the world not fallen in love with her already?

She looked like she belonged in another dimension entirely. Her suit was plum-purple, almost like the stains she had on her lips on new years, that kissed every curve like it was made just for her. Her heels gave her just enough height to command the space as she moved with subtle confidence, and her silver jewelry sparkled each time she moved under the lights. She was elegant and slightly fidgety in a way only he would notice. She looked like a star who didn’t know she was one. Like something that shouldn’t be real, and yet… here she was.

And the scent. That jasmine warmth that he had memorized since meeting her. It hit him again as she walked past, brushing just close enough that he could feel the hem of her suit against his leg.

God, she was mesmerizing.

Hayden watched her from the opposite end of the lineup, his own face calm and composed for the cameras, but his eyes kept drifting. Even when it wasn’t his turn, even when he should’ve been adjusting his stance, he looked at her.

She looked like a goddess and she didn’t even know it.

And now everyone else would see it too. Everyone else would know what he’d always known. She was splendid. She was brilliant.

Maybe that was how it should be. Maybe he should’ve always been just a witness to her becoming. Still, he missed being part of it.

She laughed, genuine and sudden, and his eyes snapped to her without thinking. Ewan had said something to her. He didn’t know what, he couldn’t hear it over the noise and shutter clicks, but her head tipped back with laughter, hand instinctively brushing Ewan’s arm as she leaned in, her face lit up.

His chest clenched, not with jealousy, but with envy, sharp and cold and familiar. Because once, it would’ve been him.

It should have been me.

Once, he would’ve been the reason she laughed through her nerves. Once, she would’ve leaned into his space like that. Once, she would’ve nudged his side with her elbow. Once, she would’ve looked to him for safety in the chaos. Once, it would’ve been his name that calmed her heart.

But now? Now he just kept stealing glances and swallowing the ache down. Now she stood three people away, and every inch felt like an entire universe. But God, he missed being the one she looked at when she laughed.

How on God’s green Earth you let the center of your universe slip just far enough that you couldn’t reach her?

“Can we get one of Hayden and Miss Director together, please?” a photographer called out, cutting through the noise.

The whole world paused and his stomach twisted.

He would’ve declined, gently, if she hesitated, if she so much as flinched. But she didn’t, instead a smile appeared on her lips. That small, tired, quiet smile, the one she gave when she’d already felt too much that day and was still standing.

She walked toward him, unhurried. Graceful. Controlled and he met her halfway. When their eyes met in the middle, everything went still. 

The lights, the cameras, the shouting voices, all of it dissolved into a low hum in the back of his mind, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. Everything in him leaned toward her without moving. Every cell of his body reached.

As soon as her hand found his back, gently, his lungs stopped working, his body stilled, like even breathing might ruin it. Just by a simple touch, steadying, familiar, touch.

For months, he’d only remembered the feel of her touch in memories. Ghosts of her touch. The phantom sensation of her closeness. Now, here she was. Real. Near. And he could barely take it. His body shuddered with restraint.

Her touch seared right through the fabric, right into his skin, right into the ache he’d been carrying since the last time he hugged her, all the way back to September.

He had to physically stop himself from looking at her the whole time, from turning into her the way he used to, like a planet caught in her pull. He looked forward, like he was supposed to, pose, smile, look composed professional and separate, but his jaw was tight from the effort, molars hurting.

Every part of him wanted to turn into her, to lean in, to surrender at her mercy, and the flesh was weak, so he looked at her. Because he couldn’t not and it wrecked him.

The makeup was soft and flattering, but it was her eyes that did the most damage, sparkling, alive, present. And, God those lips. Parted ever so slightly, the corner twitching with nerves or humor or both. They were the kind of soft that invited sin. The kind that made him forget every vow of distance, every plan to hold back. Hayden almost crumbled at her feets. 

His body screamed to lean in and kiss her. To close the space that never should have existed between them.

God, he wanted to kiss her. He needed to kiss her. Because this, she, was gravity and he’d been floating, lost, for far too long.

He wanted to bury his hands in her hair and taste every month he’d spent without her. He wanted to tell her that every reason he’d had in July, every wall he’d built, felt just a little less solid now.

But he didn’t have the right.

He could have kissed her then. But he didn’t. He could have chosen her. But he pulled away.   He could have kept choosing her. But he was a coward.

Even if he still believed it was the right choice, believed it had protected her, protected them both. Standing next to her, her hand on his back, his name being shouted by strangers, he wasn’t so sure anymore. All reasoning shook, it shook hard. And in its place, in its cracks, bloomed something else: Regret. Bone-deep, breath-stealing, regret. Because he still ached in every place she had once loved him and he still loved her in every place that could not speak it aloud.

Then he noticed it, the tiny tells of her anxiety.

The way her fingers curled slightly against his blazer. The way her shoulders looked perfect to everyone else but were just a little too tight. The way she held her smile like it was painted on.

So he leaned in, subtly, and his hand lifted slowly, gently, brushing across her back in a barely-there caress, meant only for her.

His voice was low, only for her ears. “Just breathe and smile,” he said, tenderly, every syllable feather-soft. “You’re a natural. Everyone here loves you.”

She looked at him, just a flick of her gaze, but it was enough.

“You got this, Bubble,” he reassured her.

The nickname fell from his lips like it had been waiting there the whole time. Like it had been sitting just behind his teeth for months, desperate for permission to breathe.

It was effortless. Natural. Home. A real one. And she smiled, looking at him and Hayden did too, making the cameras click for a few seconds before they looked up to the front.

He was almost certain it was the only photo from the entire day where his smile touched his eyes. Born from her touch. Her warmth. Her nearness.

Because of her. Always because of her.

And as the flashbulbs went off, as they stepped away with professionalism still wrapped around them like armor, he wondered if she could feel it too—that unspoken thing lingering in the space between their hands.

That thing that still lived. That never stopped living.

Backstage was a hive of movement, headsets crackling, clipboards flipping, assistants whispering frantic directions, stage lights flickered behind curtains, the final checks were happening. The crowd outside was already thunderous, laughter, cheers, the sound of anticipation about to break, the bass from the stage thumping low against the concrete beneath their feet.

She stood near the back wall, near the emergency exit light, which she was about to use to escape, hidden from the bustle, just far enough from everyone to look like she needed space. Not close enough for anyone to really see her.

But he saw her.

Hayden had been looking over his shoulder every few seconds, completely ignoring what one of the cast was saying, eyes glue to her.

Because he knew.

Knew from the way her hand gripped her own arm like a lifeline, from the way her eyes stared out at nothing, from the way she bit down on her bottom lip, too hard, too long. Panic. The familiar threat of it. Coursing under her skin like a storm waiting to break.

He didn’t think, nor ask and just walked up, quiet and slow, and stopped a breath away.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

He stepped in a little closer, cautious, like approaching a skittish bird. “You with me?”

She gave the smallest nod, fragile, like it took everything she had.

“I can’t breathe,” she admitted. The whisper of it cracked something in his chest. “I can’t—I don’t think I can do this.”

His chest ached. “Okay,” he said, voice a thread. “Okay. Just look at me, alright?”

He didn’t say “you’ll be fine” or “you always pull through”, because this wasn’t about reassurance. It was about holding her there, right in that breath, and keeping her grounded.

So he stepped closer and her eyes lifted, wide and shiny, fragile. And he stood in front of her, not blocking, but shielding. Like a wall. Like a harbor. Like a man who would keep the rest of the world at bay if it meant she could breathe.

With his 6’0” frame towering over her, broad shoulders cutting her off from the crowd behind them, he dipped his head until they were eye level. Until the world shrank to just the two of them.

And reached for her hands without hesitation, took them in his like they belonged there. His thumbs brushed gently over her knuckles.

“Just here,” he whispered. “Just me and you. Nothing else.”

Her icy fingers tightened around his warm ones. It was too soft, too much, but it was also all she had.

She blinked up at him then, eyes glassy with panic, lips parted in the way they always were when she was trying not to cry.

“Hey,” he said again, softer this time. “Just breathe, alright? Just with me.”

She inhaled, shaky. Then again.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “I don’t—I’m not—”

He knew the words before she said them, because he knew the script. Impostor syndrome was a familiar ghost. But it had no place in her.

So he brought one hand up to her cheek, warm hand to her cold skin, and tilted her face gently upward, brushing the edge of her jaw with his thumb, just enough to catch her eyes. His other brought her trembling hand to his chest, right over his heart, and pressed it there, warm and solid beneath her palm, grounding her.

“Don’t do that,” he said, and his voice cracked, just a little. “Don’t say you’re not supposed to be here. You made this. All of this.”

She looked like she might break, so he stepped in closer, closer than he should have. Close enough that her forehead could rest against his chest if she leaned forward even an inch.

His heartbeat was so steady, grounding, strong enough to borrow, and her forehead slowly leaned forward and rested her forehead just below his collarbone, eyes fluttering closed.

And he couldn’t not hold her, so he did. She hadn’t realized how close she was to falling apart until he wrapped one strong arm around her, pulling her gently against him, securely. As if he’d done it a thousand times, because he had, because this was muscle memory. Because this was them and she let herself be folded into him like a breath finding its place again.

He tucked her gently beneath his chin, letting her rest against the warmth of him, his taller frame folding around her protectively. Hayden pressed her into him with just the right amount of pressure, not too tight, not too loose. Just right. Just enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone.

She melted into his hold, like her body knew exactly where it belonged. Her breath started to even out. The noise outside faded into background static. Her heart beat slower. His scent calmed every frantic nerve.

Leaning down just enough to the point his lips brushed against her temple, his hand came up, slowly, reverently, to stroke through her hair, soft and steady. The way you touch something sacred.

“Remember what I told you the first time we met in person?” he asked, voice a whisper only she could hear, wrapped in warmth and memory.

She shook her head against his chest.

He smiled, barely. “I told you… If they chose you to be here, it’s because you’re the best.”

Hayden pulled back just enough to look at her, his hand now on the side of her neck, thumb brushing lightly under her jaw. His eyes cathing how her lower lip quivered, her eyes glossy.

“It’s true,” he said again, firmer this time. “So don’t let your head play games with you.”

Her chin dropped as she nodded, and a single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

And Hayden, God, he wanted to wipe it away with his hands, to brush it aside with his lips, with his soul, with every part of himself he’d been keeping quiet for months. He wanted to hold her face, kiss the panic out of her skin, give her peace in a way only he ever could.

But he didn’t and instead just held her closer, anchored her there to him.

“Just breathe with me,” he murmured, low and gentle. A prayer. “Just me and you. Nothing else.”

And so they did.

Inhale. Exhale.   Together.

Her forehead rested against his chest for the briefest second, her hand still over his heart, his arm still anchoring in place. Their chests rising and falling in sync. The rest of the world kept moving, but they didn’t. They stayed.

It was torture and home at the same time.

“You’re not alone,”  he whispered into the space between them, just for her. “Not tonight.”

Not ever.

She smiled, barely. Broken but grateful. “You always say the right thing,” she said, the words catching in her throat.

“I don’t.” His lips curved, eyes lowering, heavy with everything he never said. “Not usually.”  Not with you. “But I know you and that helps.”

She let out a soft breath of a laugh, shaky but real. Because yes, he did. Better than anyone ever had.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Eyes searching every inch of her face like it was the last time he’d be allowed to memorize her.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But the right words still lived somewhere between his throat and his chest, and neither would give them up. So they stayed there, stuck and heavy.

A call came from the stage crew, they were about to be introduced and the curtain was about to be lifted.

She pulled back gently, smoothing her jacket with a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

And he nodded, jaw tight. “Anytime you need me.”

Then she gave him a small smile, tight, brave, and walked past him, her perfume trailing behind like the memory of a dream he never got to finish and he stared after her, fists clenched at his sides.

They couldn’t keep doing this. They wouldn’t. Not after tonight.

They still hadn’t really spoken, but it wasn’t necessary because their silence had learned to carry volumes.

All day they had been pushed and pulled, spun like planets around a dying star, and still, the second they laid eyes on each other again, they remembered everything. Every laugh. Every almost. Every smile. The goodbyes.  And it was still too much.

And the tension? The ache? It hadn’t faded with time, it had evolved, becoming something deeper, quieter, unshakable.

The road was quiet, almost eerily so after the storm of energy that had been the convention. The soft hum of the highway filled the silence around him, headlights stretching into the dark as Anaheim faded behind him. 

His shirt had the first couple of buttons undone, sleeves folded almost to his elbows, suit jacket thrown in the passenger seat, and one arm resting on the door. 

The adrenaline started to wear off, leaving only the low ache of exhaustion mixed with the buzz from earlier in his bones. His mind was elsewhere, like usually lately, and a constant hum in his chest that had started since he saw her again.

His phone rang once, a smile appeared on his lips as soon as he saw the name of the caller and pressed the button on the dash. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Daddy!” Her voice was bright and sweet, like it always was.

It always made something in him settle, no matter how loud his world got. No matter how heavy.

“Did you talk about the show today?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “We had a big panel. Lots of people. A lot.”

“Did you wear that dark shirt you look cool in?”

“I did,” he laughed. “You always know what I’m wearing, huh?”

“Because I know you,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. “And I saw the panel on Youtube.”

“Did you now?”

She hummed. “They were so loud, when you and Ewan walked out” she commented. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, despite the fact that she couldn't see him.

“And they screamed and clapped so loud when you talked about Bubble too,” she sounded happy. 

He smiled, chest aching in the best way.

“You looked like a total nerd in love, daddy.”

Hayden’s hand tightened on the wheel. “Did I now?”

“You did.” She giggled. “Everyone in the comments said you were ‘down bad.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I do now.”

He grinned. “I’m gonna have to talk to your mom about your internet access.”

“Too late.” She said it like a challenge, then softened. “Did she look pretty?”

His smile softened too. “More than pretty.”

“Did you say that?”

“No,” he admitted, voice small now. “Not with those words.”

“Why not?”

And there it was, that tiny dagger of truth.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I guess I got scared.”

“Of what?”

He blinked. “It’s not that simple, bug.”

“Why not?” Her voice tilted up. “Do you love her?”

The words hit harder than expected, not because they were new, but because they were true.

He exhaled. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I do.”

There was a long pause on the other end. He could hear her thinking.

“Like…movie love?” she asked, and he could hear her climbing into bed on the other side of the phone. “Like when the boy looks at the girl and knows he wants to be in her movie forever?”

He smiled, painfully. “Yeah. Just like that.”

There was a rustling of sheets.

Then, soft and serious: “Then why haven’t you told her yet?”

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain fear and timing and guilt and almosts.

“I think you should tell her,” Briar said firmly. “Because if you love her like that, and you don’t say it, then… she won’t know she’s in your story.”

He blinked up at the ceiling.

“And I was watching Anastasia again today,” she added, her voice dreamy now, “and remember how Dimitri gave her the music box and said he didn't know he was in love with her until he wasn’t with her anymore?”

He smiled, heart squeezing. “I remember.”

“And he almost let her go,” she whispered, “but then he didn’t.”

Hayden swallowed hard.

“You’re my brave Daddy, right?”

He cleared his throat. “Right.”

“Then don’t be like the boys who are scared. Be like Dimitri. Say it. Or else you’re gonna be sad. And I don’t want that.”

He sat in silence for a moment, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want that either,” he said.

“You love her,” she said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “So go tell her.”

And suddenly, everything settled.

It was a truth settled into him like a stone finding its place at the bottom of a lake. Because she was right.

Not that he didn’t know he loved her, because he had known it for a long time. But hearing it out loud, from the voice that mattered most in his world… it struck him differently. 

It solidified the truth. 

Now it was clear. Solid. Unshakeable.

He loved her. Loved her and he had to tell her with honesty, with himself, with every truth he’d held back since July. He had to tell her, not next time, not if it comes up. 

Hayde you have to tell her now. 

Because she deserved to know she was his story, she’d always been. And maybe… maybe it wasn’t too late.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay what?” she asked sleepily.

“I’ll tell her.”

A pause.

Then her quiet little voice again, already half-asleep: “Good. You always sound happier when she’s around.”

It’s been a long time coming. 

The street was quiet. That kind of quiet that only lived between midnight and dawn, where even the wind seemed to whisper.

Hayden parked outside her house, headlights dimmed. The dashboard lights glowed soft orange, casting shadows across his face. The dash clock blinked back at him, the numbers meaningless, his breath fogging faint against the window. He sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor him.

His chest was tight. Breath shallow. A wild, restless energy alive in every inch of him.

What are you doing, Hayden?

He stared at the house. At her house. Lights still on inside, a flicker of warmth behind the curtains. Her world. Her quiet. It looked warm inside, safe. It looked like her.

He closed his eyes. Briar’s voice still echoed in his chest like gospel. “You love her, so go tell her.” 

He could have waited for the “right time”, but having her in his arms again at the convention had opened the floodgates, and he couldn’t live behind the dam anymore.

He couldn’t go another night pretending he was fine, because holding it in hurt more than the fear of being turned away. He’d already wasted enough time.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, shoving the door open.

The night air hit him like a wave, cold, honest as he walked up the front steps, heart hammering like it wanted to tear through his ribs. Like if he didn’t knock right now, he’d stay lost in the almost.

He knocked. Once. Twice. And then the door opened.

She stood there, hair down, wrapped in a worn hoodie, barefoot on the wooden floor, glasses sliding down her nose. And still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Hi,” he breathed.

Her brows furrowed, surprised. “Hayden?”

His name in her mouth was soft. Questioning. A little stunned.

“I know,” he said quickly, hands up like he might stop her from closing the door. “I know. It’s late. I’m sorry, I just—”

He looked at her, really looked at her. Her tired eyes. The way she held the door with one hand, like she wasn’t sure if she should let him in.

So he stood in the glow of her porch light and let it spill.

“I was an idiot,” he said, voice thick. “I’ve been an idiot. Since July. Maybe longer. I’ve been walking around pretending I’m okay, that I made the right call. But I didn’t. I’ve been so, madly, in love with you, and I didn’t say it. I let you walk away from me with a broken heart.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just breathed.

He kept going.

“I meant what I said back then. About the risk. About wanting to protect you. But I should’ve told you the rest. The part where I—” he swallowed, rough and sharp, “—I wake up thinking about you. All the time.”

His voice dropped, like he was afraid of how big the truth felt, but he ached with it.

“Where your laugh is one of my favorite sounds. Where every time I see jasmines I think of you. Where I want to know what you think about my outfits because you are one of the most stylish person I know.”

Her eyes softened, just a little. And it kept pouring out.

“Where breakfast with you is one of my favorite moments and I want them with you, every day. Where I want to stay up until four in the morning watching musicals with you, even though I’ll complain and secretly love every minute. I want to kiss you in the morning, and fight over what coffee brand to buy. I want all of it. I want everything with you.”

He stepped closer, just enough for the light from inside to touch his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything. For being a coward. For hurting you. For not choosing you when I should’ve.”

A pause. A breath.

He let his hands fall to his sides, itching to touch her, completely open, completely bare.

“I didn’t plan this,” he admitted. “I didn’t expect you. But I can’t pretend I don’t feel it anymore.”

He looked at her, eyes burning, and stepped forward. One more inch. One more heartbeat closer.

“I think about you. Constantly.”

A moment of silence. Then he breathed, like it might be his last chance.

“Maybe it’s late. Maybe I missed my moment. But I’m here now. I’m not afraid. I’m just—”

He gave a quiet, broken laugh. Shook his head.

“I’m just a man, standing in front of the woman he loves, asking if there’s still a chance.” His voice came out all raw and wrecked.

She stared at him and he thought maybe his heart would stop from the weight of it all.

Her lips parted. Her chest rose. But no words came.

“I know I hurt you,” Hayden whispered, every word cracking under the weight of it. “I know I did. But I had to say it, because if I loved you less… I might be able to talk about it more.”

Her eyes shimmered in the porchlight. The night bent around them like the first verse of a love song that had taken too long to write. There he stood, on her porch, his heart in her hands, chest crack open, waiting, hoping

And she… folded her arms, leaning in the doorway, she tilted her head, full of grace. The quiet stretched between them, tight as thread.

“Can I talk now?”

Hayden’s chest nearly caved in. “Yeah,” he breathed, almost afraid to move.

And that was all she needed to let it bleed.

Not a scream, not anger, just truth, cutting, clean, honest. The kind of truth that struck like lightning and still tasted like honey.

“You broke my heart, Hayden,” she said, her voice trembling but steady. “You shattered it. And not all at once. Not loudly. You did it slowly. Quietly. With every look you didn’t give me, with every word you didn’t say, with every time you chose fear over me, with every time you said half the truth and left the rest buried in your chest.”

His throat tightened, but he didn’t speak because she needed to say this. He needed her to say it.

“But the worst part?” she said, taking a step closer, voice trembling with the kind of love that never left even when it should have. “I kept being in love with you, through all of it, even when it hurt. I kept being in love with you when you left. I kept being in love with you in the quiet. I was still in love with you even when I hated myself for it, even when I told myself to move on.”

Every word from her lips hit him like scripture. Like prophecy. Like truth. He took them in like they were breath and his lungs were on fire.

“I waited and waited, smiling through it.” Her voice cracked, barely. “Telling myself it didn’t matter. That the series was enough. That my work would be enough. But it wasn’t. You were supposed to be enough too.”

He tried to speak, she raised a finger, silencing him like a queen.

“And don’t you dare show up here, in the house, in the place you look like you belong in, just to tell me all the things I begged to hear months ago. Don’t you dare to say all that if you’re not ready to stay.”

A tear fell, glowing silver on her cheek.

“But,” she breathed, voice faltering, just a note, then rising again like a crescendo, “if you mean it, if you’re here, not to borrow me but to choose me, then yes. There’s a chance.”

Her arms dropped and stepped forward then. Just one step. But it was everything.

“I still want it all. The breakfasts. The arguments about which movie to watch. The inside jokes. The midnights watching storms. The faint cigarette smoke on my clothes. The laughing until I can’t breathe. The way your hand finds mine without looking. I want all of it, mundane and the extraordinary.”

Another tiny step closer, her hand founding the front of his shirt.

“But I’m not giving you pieces of me this time, Hayden,” she said, looking straight into him. “It’s everything. Or it’s nothing at all.”

“Everything,” he breathed out, somehow. 

She nodded and grabbed his collar, pulling him down into her like gravity was a myth. 

And the kiss?

God.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collapse, a wildfire. The moment when the orchestra explodes and everything the story has been building toward finally hits.

It was messy and wild and impossibly right. It was months of longing and regret and aching hope, poured into mouths that had waited too long.

Her hands tangled in his curls, pulling, grounding, owning him. His hands were everywhere, her waist, her back, the curve of her jaw, like he was trying to memorize every inch he'd lost, like she might vanish again if he wasn’t careful.

She tasted like tears and relief and forever.

And he kissed her like he was dying and she was breath. Like he knew every second they’d been apart and wasn’t wasting a single one more. Like he had been dead, hollow, since July and a kiss, not any kiss, her kiss, brought him back to life. Like she restarted his heart and somehow, she did.

Their bodies molded, their hearts crashed. It was too much and still not enough.

She clung to him like he was the anchor and the storm, arms wrapped around his middle, fists curling into his shirt, anchoring herself like she belonged there, because she did. And he held her like she was the place all the compasses had been pointing to, gripping her like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

When they broke apart, barely, breathing heavy, foreheads pressed together like a prayer, she whispered:

“Don’t leave again.”

And he didn’t even hesitate.

His voice was steady, full of wonder and worship and the kind of love you only admit once you’ve nearly lost it all.

“Not unless it’s with you.”

And right then, under the porchlight, they stopped being an almost and became the always.

The morning light spilled like melted gold across her bedroom, stretching over linen sheets, dipping into the soft curve of her neck where her head rested on his chest.

Hayden lay still, one arm around her back, the other resting loosely on her thigh where her leg tangled with his, her bare foot resting against his calf. Her breath rose and fell against him in even rhythms, like the tide. 

Familiar. Soothing. Home.

He wasn’t sure what woke him first, her warmth or the way his heart felt like it had finally stopped holding its breath.

He tilted his head, slowly, carefully, and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. His fingers were gentle, reverent. She looked like something out of a dream he never wanted to wake from. He could’ve stayed there forever, watching the sunlight kiss her cheeks, memorizing the softness of her lips, the flutter of her lashes.

He could have, but he had a better idea.

Pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head, he whispered, “Back soon,” though she was too deep in sleep to hear.

And then he slipped quietly out of bed.

When she woke, the scent of him still clinging to the pillow beside her, on her skin, in the room, and a smile appeared on her lips. But she didn’t feel him and her sleep-heavy brain whispered that she’d imagined it, that last night had been a dream, one of the ones she never dared to hope for.

But then, she opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the warm light, and reached to the other side of the bed and it was still warm and the sound of soft clinks and muffled humming drifted in from the kitchen.

She sat up slowly, blinking sleep from her eyes, hair wild from the night, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Barefoot, she padded toward the kitchen, the cool floor grounding her as she rounded the corner.

And then she saw him.

Hayden. Barefoot too, in the hoodie that was his but she never gave back, sleeves pushed up as he stood at the stove, humming lowly to himself while he scrambled eggs and coffee brewing while toast popping.

Sunlight poured across the floor like it was showing off for him. As if it was leading her to him.

Her knees buckled a little and a smile stretched wide across her face, slow and stunned.

She walked toward him, slow and light, and slipped her hands under his hoodie from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist, cheek pressed to the warm curve of his back.

“Morning,” she murmured.

He hissed softly at the cold of her fingers. “Jesus,” he laughed, hand instinctively finding hers, warm and steady. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Whatcha doing?” she asked, peeking around his arm.

“Breakfast,” he hummed, as if it were obvious, as if it weren’t the single most romantic thing she’d ever witnessed at 7AM.

Giving him a light kiss on his back, she climbed onto the counter, legs swinging lightly as she watched him move, comfortable and easy like they’d always been this way.

He turned back to the eggs, but her presence kept tugging at his attention. She looked too cute there, hair messy, hoodie swallowing her whole, eyes sleepy and still full of love. So damn dreamlike that in between buttering toast, he leaned in and almost stole a kiss.

But before his lips could meet hers, her eyes flew wide and she jerked her head back. “No!”

He blinked, stunned. “What—?”

“I didn’t brush my teeth!” she cried, already hopping down from the counter like a woman on a mission.

And with that, she bolted down the hall, bare feet thumping against the floor, disappearing toward the bathroom.

Hayden laughed, really laughed, head back, shaking his head like she’d just told the best joke of his life. He couldn’t have given a bigger damn about morning breath or bed hair. She was her. She was his. And that was all that mattered.

A few minutes later, she padded back into the kitchen, lips freshly minty, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands and hair tied in a half bun.

She tried to walk past him on her way back to the counter, but his hand found the back of her neck as she passed, warm and firm.

He tugged gently. “Now give me my kiss,” he said, voice husky with sleep and something deeper. Something that made stars appear in her eyes and her knees falter a little. “Please,” he added, caressing her nose with the tip of his.

She leaned in and he met her halfway.

This time, it was slow. Sure. Devastating.

He kissed her like a man who had every intention of doing this every morning for the rest of his life. His hands cradled her face, guiding her, owning the moment, and she gave in gladly, letting him lead, letting herself fall.

When they broke apart, barely, she tilted her chin up, fingers weaving into his curls like they belonged there. With a breathless smile, she pulled him into a kiss, not urgent, not hungry, but slow and reverent. A kiss laced in sunlight, a kiss that was a promise.

She sighed into his mouth, the softest moan slipping from her lips, something so small and yet it lit every nerve ending in his body on fire. His free hand slid down, steady and sure, wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against him like the only place she was ever meant to be was right there.

They didn’t part when the kiss ended, not truly. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the space between them. Her arms stayed looped around his neck, caressing the hairs at the nape of his neck and his hands held her like she was something he’d dreamed into reality.

She was looking up at him, not just with affection, but with awe too, like he was something celestial, like she couldn’t believe he was real.

He exhaled slowly and lifted one hand to her face, and with a kind of touch that could only be born from deep, aching love, he traced her features.

The soft arc of her brow, the curve of her nose, the swell of her lips, still pink from him, and she let him, totally entranced.

Her face rested in the cradle of his hands, her eyes sparkled, lips curved into the faintest smile as if the joy inside her was too big to stay hidden but too sacred to shout and he couldn’t stop smiling too

“What?” he whispered, like anything louder might shatter the spell.

Her lashes fluttered. “I’m mentally recording this moment.”

His chest stuttered. His heart roared.

“Are you…” he swallowed, breath catching, “utterly, incandescently happy?”

She just nodded, slowly, surely, and smiled so impossibly wide that it made the corners of her eyes scrunch, made his knees go weak, made every regret he'd ever known disappear like morning mist.

“Good,” he breathed, voice catching in his throat. “Me too.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her again, softly and sweetly. Like a prayer answered. Like they had all the time in the world and he would spend every second kissing her just like that.

When they parted, their foreheads still touched, she leaned into his palm. Her eyes closed, feeling peaceful and full.

And he could not stop looking at her, and didn't want to stop either. He let his eyes memorize her all over again.

The way the morning light kissed her skin. The baby hairs that curled against her temple. The way her breath caught when he brushed his thumb beneath her eye. The way her lips curved, still tingling from his. The way she looked, so radiant, so his, in the quiet haven of their morning.

He memorized every single detail all over again, because he knew that after losing her once, he’d never survive it again, he was never letting go again. And more to his satisfaction, she didn’t want to let go either, she was happy right where she was, in his arms.

Next Part →

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[inseobts]

Pretty please could I request a scenario/imagine with Ace where the reader is from Drum Island and lost someone or something during Blackbeards raid and the reader swore vengeance vengeance on the guy.

So when she's tracking Blackbeard down, she keeps running into Ace and it grows into a friendly rivalry to see who's gonna get Blackbeard first and they compare notes and information

How this all ends on Banaro id leave up to you, I'm not pressed on a happy or angsty ending and I'd like to see your spin on this! I like your writing a lot.

Chasing Fire and Shadows

portgas d. ace x fem!reader

a/n: the islands I name are random tho lmao loved writing this so much btw

words count: 4.6k

tags: slow burn, enemies to allies, shared revenge, adventure, angst/drama, light humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Snow falls hard on Drum Island the night Blackbeard attacks.

You remember the fire, the screams, and the way the cold didn’t matter because rage kept you warm. Blackbeard’s crew swept through the town like wolves through a sheep pen, lighting homes, laughing through gunfire. No mercy. No reason.

Your brother had gone to help put out the flames. He never came back.

All they found was part of his coat. Burnt at the edge. Blood at the seam.

That night, in the silent wreckage of your village, you dug your hands into the snow and swore two things:

You would find Marshall D. Teach.

You would kill him yourself.

After all that.

“Vengeance won’t keep you alive.”

That’s what Dr. Kureha says the morning you tell her your plan.

You stand in the snow, fists clenched, scarf whipping in the wind “Then I’ll make sure strength does.”

Kureha narrows her eyes “Strength without control is just chaos. What are you gonna do? Run around with a kitchen knife screaming his name?”

“No,” you say “I’m going to train.”

And you do train, for months, you fight your own limits. Early mornings. Weighted runs in deep snow. Hand-to-hand combat with heavy gloves. You work under the mountain monks for endurance, under ex-hunters for reflex, and under Wapol’s leftovers for grit.

One of the monks, old and blind, says something you never forget “Pain will make you sharper, girl. But only love will keep you human.”

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Six months into your training, you find something in the wreckage of a smuggler's den near the coast. A Devil Fruit. Rotating, pale silver with jagged navy streaks, looking like a storm frozen mid-sky. You remember your breath catching, your hands shaking.

You don’t know its name. No one does.

But you eat it anyway.

It tastes like battery acid and regret.

Three days later, lightning shoots from your fingertips during a sparring match. You black out. Nearly burn down a hut. But you feel the power, deep and electric, coiled in your blood like a storm waiting for a trigger.

They start calling you the Thunderborn after that.

You learn to control it, piece by piece:

Charging your body to move faster than the eye.

Electrocuting your punches for impact.

Using static fields to sense motion behind you.

Eventually, you learn to “blink” short-range lightning jumps.

Now — Alabasta

You walk into the Nanohana bar in a sand-stained cloak, hair still carrying bits of static.

And there he is again.

Portgas D. Ace.

At the counter. Shirt open, freckles out, drinking like he owns the damn place.

He doesn’t see you at first, but you don’t say anything.

You just sit beside him and order something cheap.

Then he turns “Well, well, if it isn’t Drum Island’s sparkplug.”

You smirk “If you call me that again, I’ll fry your eyebrows off.”

Ace laughs “You’ve gotten funnier. And sparky. Did I hear lightning outside earlier?”

You sip your drink “Might’ve been me.”

“Figured. You light up when you’re mad.”

You glance sideways “Why are you always ahead of me?”

“Because I don’t stop to make dramatic entrances.”

“Jerk.”

“Aw, come on. You missed me.”

You roll your eyes “Only thing I miss is good intel. Got any?”

Ace shrugs “He’s headed west. Some say Jaya. Others say farther.”

You slam your notebook on the counter.

He lifts a brow “Still writing everything down?”

You flip through pages of hand-drawn maps, bounties, and coded rumors “Unlike you, I don’t rely on luck.”

Ace grins “I rely on fire.”

“You rely on being reckless.”

“You rely on overthinking.”

The two of you stare at each other. Then both laugh just a little.

There’s something about him you can’t hate, no matter how frustrating he is.

He taps your notebook “We should compare notes.”

You raise an eyebrow “Are we teaming up now?”

He smirks “Nah. Just wanna beat you to him fair and square.”

You lean in “Then good luck keeping up, Hothead. I’m faster now.”

Ace tilts his head “I like a challenge.”

He finishes his drink, drops some coins, and walks away, but then he pauses at the door.

“I’ll see you at the next dead end, Lightning Bug.”

“Say that again and I’ll roast you.”

He laughs and disappears into the heat.

You stare after him, heart thudding like thunder in your chest.

You're not here to cause trouble. You're just passing through Scorpio Island, a busy port with cheap food and a decent information network.

It’s humid. Loud. Smells like salted fish and sweet rice. You’ve just finished questioning a dockworker who “might’ve seen a man with a weird black beard” which isn’t helpful at all.

Then the air shifts.

You pause mid-step. Hair lifts slightly from your skin. Not from your powers but from instinct.

You’re being watched.

When you look up, Marines start stepping out from the alleys. One, two, six, then ten. Boots clinking. Guns half-drawn.

You blink.

“What…?”

The nearest officer, a man with a square jaw and too many medals, steps forward.

“Y/N, right?” he says like he already knows “You’re coming with us.”

You take a step back, palms up “I don’t want any trouble. I’m not a pirate or anything—”

He tosses something at you.

A bounty poster.

It floats through the air and lands at your feet, face-up.

Your face. Your name. Wanted: 82,000,000 Berries. Alive or dead.

“What the—?” You crouch to pick it up. Your fingers spark from the shock of touching your own damn bounty “This has to be a mistake. I didn’t do anything.”

“You took down the Captain of the Blackjaw Pirates in Loguetown. Witnesses saw lightning. Saw you.”

Your jaw drops “I wasn’t—! That was self-defense! He tried to rob a ship I was on!”

“You blew a hole in the harbor.”

You groan “He exploded first! I exploded back! It wasn’t like I was trying to—!”

“Doesn’t matter. You attacked a pirate with a bounty. You fought on public ground. That makes you a threat.”

You clench your fists. Static dances around your knuckles.

“I don’t want to fight you,” you say again, slower, sharper “I’m not your enemy.”

But they don’t listen.

They raise rifles. They step forward.

And you flinch, not from fear, but from frustration.

“DAMN it,” you mutter “Why is everyone so STUPID—”

Suddenly, there’s a gust of hot wind and a blur of orange and freckles.

“Oi” says a voice you recognize, just before your feet leave the ground.

“What the—!”

You're lifted off the street in a flash of fire, bridal style, and the world tilts.

Portgas D. Ace is grinning, even as flames flicker at his shoulders.

“She said she doesn’t want a fight,” he calls to the stunned Marines, like he’s announcing a party “So back off.”

And then he’s like flying. No, blasting forward in a burst of flame, carrying you over rooftops, streets, and screaming civilians until the port becomes a blur beneath you.

After making sure you got far enough, he sets you down gently. Too gently.

You slap his arm.

“What the hell, Ace?”

“Ow.”

“You could’ve dropped me!”

“Sure, but then I’d have to carry you again. This way saves time.”

You glare. Sparks flicker from your hands “I had that under control!”

“Yeah, I saw,” he says, flopping onto a patch of dry grass like this was a walk in the park “Totally calm. Not shouting at all.”

You kick a rock “They’re saying I’m some kind of threat now. I didn’t even mean to take that guy down! He attacked me!”

Ace lifts a brow “Big guy, metal jaw, kinda ugly?”

“That’s the one.”

“You melted his sword.”

“It was instinct!”

Ace whistles low “That’s why your bounty’s that high. Not many people take down a guy like that without trying.”

You fold your arms, seething “This is so stupid.”

Ace looks at you for a long moment “You okay?”

You sit beside him “No. I’m not. I’m not even close.”

“...You’re not gonna cry, are you?”

You shove his shoulder “I will electrocute you.”

He laughs “There she is.”

You look out toward the ocean, your anger slowly cracking “I didn’t sign up for all this. I just wanted to find Blackbeard.”

Ace’s smile fades “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t say anything for a while. The wind brushes past, carrying sand and silence.

Finally, you ask, “So. What now?”

Ace stretches his arms behind his head “We keep chasing. And maybe next time, I’ll let you save me for a change.”

You side-eye him “...You just want to get carried.”

“I’m just saying it’s only fair.”

It’s late afternoon on Mira Island, a laid-back little place known for its wind chimes, lazy bars, and fishermen who talk too much.

You’ve been here two hours and already heard five versions of “a pirate with a black beard stole someone’s boat.”

Typical.

You’re sitting outside a bar near the water, boots up on the railing, pretending to enjoy a bland cocktail. The sun hits the sea just right, and for a second, you forget the bounty, the chase, the Marines...

"Nice poster, Sparkplug."

You freeze mid-sip. That voice again.

You lower the glass slowly and turn.

Ace stands there, grinning like always, flipping something between his fingers.

He slaps it down on your table.

Your new bounty poster.

It’s the same damn thing from Scorpio Island… but worse.

Now it says:

WANTED — Y/N Dead or Alive — 142,000,000 Berries

And the picture?

You groan “Where the hell did they even get this photo?”

Ace leans on the table, chin on hand “Looks like a surveillance shot. Pretty high quality for Marines, honestly.”

You glare “I look good in it. That’s suspicious.”

He snorts “Right? I mean, hair’s all dramatic in the wind, eyes glowing. You look like you're about to declare war on God.”

You squint at him “Did you come here to bully me?”

“Nah,” he says “Came here to drink. Saw your face first thing at the port. Figured I’d come ruin your day.”

You grab your glass “Too late, it was already ruined.”

Ace sits across from you and signals the bartender “Then let’s make it worse.”

Two drinks later you're both laughing. You’ve moved on to shots.

It turned into a challenge somewhere between the third insult and the first real smile.

You’re trying not to slur. He’s trying not to fall off his stool.

“This island’s too quiet” you mutter, pouring another.

“You’re just mad it doesn’t have Marines to shock.”

“You’re mad I can outdrink you.”

Ace points at you “That’s not true. You’re just shortcircuiting, so the alcohol hits faster.”

You gasp “Did you just insult me?”

He nods “Twice, actually. You missed the first one.”

You slam your glass down “One more round.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

You roll your eyes “Fine. One more round… idiot.”

He grins “There it is.”

Later on, you're both quieter. Buzzed, but not spinning.

You stare out at the sea, feeling the calm before the next storm. Because there’s always another storm.

You speak first “You know… maybe we should just make it official.”

Ace lifts a brow “What?”

You look at him, serious now “An alliance. You and me. Find Blackbeard together.”

He pauses.

Then he shakes his head, just once “Can’t.”

You frown “Why not?”

“He’s dangerous.”

You sit up straighter “You think I don’t know that?”

“He killed someone I cared about.”

Your breath catches “...Same.”

Ace doesn’t look at you when he says, “I can’t risk someone else.”

You stare at him, heart suddenly heavier “So what, all this time… you were just playing nice?”

He blinks “No.”

“Then were you feeding me fake info? Sending me in the wrong direction to keep me out of it?”

His expression hardens “I don’t do that.”

You cross your arms “Really? Because it kinda feels like I’m chasing a shadow and you’re chasing the real thing.”

“I gave you everything I had. Every rumor, every tip. That’s my style. I don’t lie to people I respect.”

You scoff “Respect?”

Ace leans in a little, face calm but serious “Yeah. You’re strong. Smart. Brave. You deserve better than chasing a monster into hell.”

You meet his eyes.

“I’m already in hell beacuse of him” you say.

Ace doesn’t respond. Just looks at you for a long time.

The silence between you is sharp. Electric.

And then he says, “...I’ll see you around, Sparkplug.”

He leaves before you can say anything else.

You sit there, staring at the table, fingers twitching.

The poster flutters in the wind, your own face looking back at you.

Wanted. Alone. Again.

It’s too damn hot.

You're holed up in an abandoned fishing shack on Gulliver Island, nursing a half-broken fan and peeling off your jacket like it’s trying to kill you.

Outside, the jungle hums with heat and insects. Inside, it’s just you, a damp rag, and one tall, shirtless idiot leaning against the doorway.

“Thought you’d be gone by now” you mutter.

Ace smirks. He’s barefoot, towel slung over his shoulder, sunburnt collarbone on full display.

“I was,” he says, stepping in like he owns the floor “But then I heard about a lightning girl terrorizing a squad of Marines a few miles up the coast.”

“I didn’t terrorize them,” you snap “They cornered me. Again.”

He raises both hands “Hey, I believe you. I just figured you might need a break.”

You glare “So you brought yourself?”

He grins “Thought you’d enjoy the view.”

Your eyes flick over his bare chest before you can stop yourself “Please.”

“Caught that.”

You toss your rag at his head. He catches it with one hand and chuckles.

Later, you sit across from each other at a short wooden table. There's barely enough space for two people, and your knees touch every time one of you shifts. You blame the heat for the sweat on your neck, not the way Ace’s eyes linger too long when you lean forward.

He slides something across the table.

Your bounty poster. Again.

You groan.

“They upped it,” he says casually “You’re at 170 mil now. Guess the lightning show made an impression.”

You snatch the paper “Why do they keep using this photo?”

“You look too good in it. Makes you more dangerous.”

You shoot him a look “I’m already dangerous.”

“Oh, I know.”

His tone is low. Too low. You feel it in your spine.

You set the poster down.

“So,” he says after a beat “What now?”

You shrug “Still chasing him. Still alone.”

Ace’s fingers tap the table. His knee bumps yours again and doesn’t move.

You meet his gaze. It’s hot in here, and not just because of the island.

“You ever get tired of being on your own?” you ask, voice soft.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I’ve got reasons” he says eventually.

“I know. You told me.” You lean in a little “Doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

Ace watches you for a long moment. There’s tension now, real and pulsing. It builds between you like a charge in the air, like your own devil fruit is reacting to something deeper.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt” he says, quietly.

You look down, then back up at him “I don’t want to see you die chasing him alone.”

Your foot brushes against his under the table. Neither of you moves this time.

You could lean in. He could close the gap.

But neither of you does.

Instead, he stands, too quickly. His hand runs through his hair, like he’s shaking off whatever just passed between you.

“I’m sleeping on the roof,” he says “Too hot in here.”

You watch him leave, jaw tight, pulse racing.

The door creaks shut behind him.

You're left alone with the heat… and a storm you’re not sure you can keep holding back.

Weeks later.

The storm rolls in fast.

One second you're arguing with a stubborn trader about a Blackbeard sighting, the next you're sprinting through sheets of rain, your jacket clinging to your skin like a second, colder version of yourself.

Lightning flashes above. Loud. Familiar. Yours, or maybe not.

You duck under a hanging sign and shake out your soaked sleeves. Behind you, heavy footsteps squish through the mud.

“I told you to wait” Ace says, breathless.

You turn, rain dripping from your hair “I told you to keep up.”

His freckles are speckled with raindrops. His hair’s a mess. He looks unfairly good for someone drenched head to toe.

“Nice weather” you mutter.

“I swear, you summon this stuff on purpose.”

You smirk “Oh? Fireboy scared of a little water?”

He gives you a look “I’m not scared. I just respect the enemy.”

“What's that even supposed to mean.”

Thunder cracks above. You flinch slightly, but Ace notices. He steps closer, that infuriating grin back on his lips.

“Shouldn’t you be used to this?”

“Not when I’m stuck in it with you.”

He gestures to a shed nearby, half-hidden behind a fruit stand “There. Shelter.”

You glance at it. Small. Barely big enough for one of you.

“Great” you deadpan.

Inside the shelter it’s even worse than expected.

Dark, creaky, barely more than a shack. But it’s dry. Mostly. Except the roof drips in two places.

You stand awkwardly close. Too close. The space smells like rain and sweat and wood. His arm brushes yours when he adjusts his belt. You try not to react, but your skin’s already warm from the charge of the lightning earlier.

“You’re shivering” he says quietly.

“No, I’m not.”

He looks at you. Long. Serious.

“Come here.”

You stare “What?”

“I’m warm,” he says, and yeah, his Devil Fruit does give him an advantage here...

You hesitate. Just a second.

Then you sigh and step closer. He pulls you in gently, an arm around your waist, casual like it means nothing. But it does.

His skin radiates heat. His breath brushes your temple. You stand there, half-mad from how close his mouth is to your ear.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, voice low “Yeah. It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You feel his smile before you see it.

Then, softer “You know… I wasn’t trying to push you away. Lat time we met.”

You glance up.

“We’re not allies” you say.

“We’re more than that,” he answers “Aren’t we?”

The silence grows thick. Your heart pounds so loud it nearly drowns out the rain.

You tilt your head “You always this forward when you’re wet?”

He chuckles, low and slow “Only when I like the person I’m stuck with.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are inches apart.

And still… neither of you moves.

Not yet.

But the storm isn’t the only thing building.

The rain pounds the roof, wild and heavy. The wind howls through the cracks in the walls, but inside the shack it’s still.

Your breath hitches.

Ace hasn’t moved and neither have you.

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. He’s too warm. Too close. Too good at looking at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Say something” you whisper.

His voice is rough “You want honesty?”

You nod.

“I think about you too much.”

You blink “That wasn’t the kind of honesty I was expecting.”

He grins but it's softer than usual “Then maybe you should stop expecting the worst from me.”

You don’t have a smart reply this time.

You tilt your face up. You’re done pretending the heat between you is just because of your devil fruits, or the jungle, or the shared goal of revenge.

This is different. And it’s real.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. His lips brush yours like a question.

Then it deepens.

Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb grazing your skin in a way that sends a sharp bolt of need straight through you.

You shift, pressing closer... hips brushing, mouths moving. The shack feels smaller. The air tighter.

You gasp when his teeth graze your lower lip.

He pulls back just enough to speak, voice hoarse.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first island we met at.”

“You’re late” you murmur, tugging him back down.

This time, the kiss is rougher. More desperate. His hands on your waist now, yours sliding up under his shirt, fingers trailing over warm skin. He swears under his breath when you do.

You only break apart when a roll of thunder shakes the shack.

Your foreheads stay pressed together.

You’re both breathing hard.

Still wrapped around each other.

“Storm’s not letting up” he says.

“Guess we’re stuck.”

A small smile “Yeah. Real shame.”

Time pass and you’re curled up beside him, his jacket draped over you both like a blanket.

You trace a small burn scar on his shoulder lazily with one finger.

“You still want to find Blackbeard alone?”

Ace’s jaw tightens for a second.

Then he exhales “I don’t know anymore.”

You nod. You understand.

But for now, in this moment, neither of you are alone.

Weeks pass.

You and Ace keep crossing paths. At first, by accident. Now? You’re not so sure.

You bicker like rivals. Fight like friends. Flirt like something more.

“Lightning for brains” he mutters when you zap open a locked door instead of picking it.

“Matches-for-hands” you snap back, shoving past him.

But you don’t go separate ways this time.

It’s hot again. The island of Kota is all red dust and thick air. You’re sitting outside a half-crumbled tavern, nursing something too bitter to drink, when a kid, skinny, sunburned, eyes too sharp for his age, runs up to your table.

“You’re the lightning girl, right?”

You pause “Who’s asking?”

He glances around, then whispers, “I got news. About the man you’re hunting.”

That gets your full attention.

Ace looks up from his drink across the table. His whole body shifts, not much, but you feel it. Tension behind the ease. He’s worried, and trying to hide it.

“What kind of news?” you ask the boy.

“Blackbeard passed through Southshore two days ago. They say he’s headed to the mountains on Harka Isle. Big crew. Real big.”

The kid slips a folded paper into your hand and bolts before you can ask more.

You stare down at the message. Your pulse picks up. The handwriting is frantic. Names you recognize. Places that weren’t supposed to exist anymore.

“Let me see.” Ace says, reaching for it.

You snatch it away “No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know if it’s real—”

“I’ll decide that.”

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight “You’re not thinking straight.”

You stand “And you’re not listening.”

The fight doesn't end when the sun sets.

You’re pacing your rented room above the tavern, lightning buzzing faintly under your skin.

Ace leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re acting like you’ve already decided to die.”

You spin “And you’re acting like I don’t have a reason!”

He walks toward you “I never said that.”

“But you think it.”

Silence.

His voice drops “I think you’re carrying something too heavy. Alone.”

You look at him.

And something breaks open.

“You want to know exactly why I’m doing all this? Fine.”

You walk to him close, but not touching.

“He killed my brother,” you say “During the raid on Drum Island. Not with his own hands... Blackbeard’s a coward. But it was his chaos. His madness. My brother bled out in the snow, calling for me, and I was too far to reach him.”

Ace’s eyes darken. He doesn’t move.

“I don’t care what it costs,” you whisper “I don’t care if I burn out, or if I die with him. As long as I take that bastard down into hell with me.”

He exhales slowly, like your words hit something deep.

And then he steps forward.

“I hate this,” he says quietly “Because I get it.”

You don't say anything else.

You just reach for him.

Later on, the sheets are twisted. Your skin still hums, but not from lightning. You’re pressed against Ace, legs tangled, his hand stroking slow circles on your spine.

Neither of you says much.

You don't need to.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. Not this time.

It was everything unsaid, poured out in touches and breath and the way he looked at you like you were more than vengeance.

You break the silence.

“You really think I can’t do it?”

“I think you can,” he says softly “I just don’t want you to lose yourself doing it.”

You stare at the ceiling.

Too late for that. But you don’t say it.

You just stay there, in the dark, skin on skin.

Storms can wait. But not forever.

The sun is cruel when it wakes you.

You turn over, reaching across the bed.

Cold, empty sheets.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up, frowning “Ace?”

No answer.

You scan the room. His shirt is gone. So are his boots. His dagger. His hat.

You rush downstairs barefoot, wild with sleep and fear “Ace?!”

The barkeep doesn’t even look up “Left before sunrise. Didn’t say much.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears “Left where?”

No answer.

You push out into the sun-drenched street. A headache builds behind your eyes “Damn it. Damn it, Ace—”

“Hey” a voice says. It’s the kid from yesterday, standing near the edge of the alley. Same nervous energy. Same sharp stare “He left you something.”

You rush over “Where is he?!”

The boy just hands you a folded piece of paper.

You open it with shaking hands.

I had to go ahead. I know you’ll try to follow me. I hope you don’t. If I can end this, maybe you won’t have to. Don’t hate me for this. I’m not trying to leave you. I’m trying to save you.

You reread the words five times.

They don't sink in.

You press the page to your chest, breath shaking. But your mind grabs onto one thing.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t say he wouldn’t come back.

You chase every whisper. Every rumor.

Lightning burns under your skin as you cross sea after sea.

Someone saw smoke on Banaro Island.

Two men, one made of fire, one of darkness.

You go there.

You go to Banaro.

The island is scorched, like lightning and death danced a waltz across its surface.

Ash coats the wind. Trees splintered, rocks cracked down the middle.

Your stomach twists but your hope is louder.

“Ace won,” you whisper to yourself “He had to.”

There’s no body.

No blood.

You search until your knees ache. You find his hat, not burned, just buried under some rubble. You hold it to your chest and close your eyes.

Maybe he left it on purpose.

Maybe he’s coming back for it.

You smile.

You believe that.

You have to.

Three Days Later

You're in a small port town, hair damp from rain, scarf pulled tight as you sit in a dusty inn with a cup of bitter coffee.

There’s a newspaper crumpled on the table beside you. You’re not even looking at it.

Until you see the name.

“Portgas D. Ace: Captured. Now held in Impel Down.”

Your chest goes cold.

The mug slips from your fingers and shatters.

People glance over, but you don’t notice.

You just stare.

Captured.

Alive.

But for how long?

The newspaper says nothing about the fight. Nothing about what’s coming next.

But you know.

The World Government has him.

They’re going to make an example out of him.

You press your palms to your face and sit still for a long time.

Hope is still in your chest... But now it’s shaped more like panic.

You have to get to him.

You have to do something.

You will.

Because you can't be too late this time.

But you might be, if you don’t move... now.

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

Good things are hard to come by in the desert, but surprisingly, not drugs. Alliances are forged over questionable motivations. A real romance takes root. 

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [10]

11 * Sucker Punch [9k]

"My, my, my what a position:

The love of my life smokin' crack in the kitchen,

Lovely long nails and a nasty half grin:

"It's a livin'," she shrugs."

Some Kind Of Disaster Relief - The Taxpayers

        "Hey." You turn on your side away from the noise. "Hey." Louder. "Goddamn it," your cot was jostled under your form, "wake up shithead." 

        You peel open an eye to find Tracksuit leaned over the bed. The sun pierced through the porthole. Everyone else had gone searching, leaving him on babysitting duty. His life had been threatened approximately five times that very morning and hearing you hiss, "What?" Made you particularly unlikable in the moment.

        He stopped jostling the bed. Considered leaving you to get fucked but remembered- this was like being a producer. Nudge things the right way and the desired outcome should occur. His was mild entertainment and not the group eating itself alive so he said, "They sent me after you two last night." 

        Now you were sitting upright, bug eyed. "What-"

        "I heard you two mashing pissers-" 

        "Excuse me?" You shot out of bed, standing unsteadily.

        "-And I turned around and told 'em you were yelling at Omni Boy or whatever. I covered for you asses for like, twenty minutes. Do you know how many times I had to stop those guys from going after you? Too many. Almost beat the shit outta me and there I go thinking' you'll be smart and not super obvious. You come back, go right to sleep like you just got hit with the best dick of your life- like are you kidding?" His hands tangle in his hair. "Oooh, you're so lucky we're not full blooded dude. They would'a been able to smell that."

        "We didn't-"

        "I know fuckin' when I hear it, toots, don't even." His hand came to your face to shut you up, pressing to your lips, other arm securing you in place, "What I'm sayin' is, if they say shit to you about it at the fire tonight, you were laying into him but not laying him, ya hear? Cuz they ain't stupid, they know somethin' went down between you two and if I get caught lying- I'm fucked cuz I don't want those stupid assholes fighting and collapsing the caves- you know our only fucking source of water so sue me-" He stops himself from going on a tangent while you're effectively muted. 

        Your eyes narrow. Hands come to his wrist to peel his hand off your mouth to tell him to die. He holds firm, but not enough to hurt. 

        "Relax! I'm not a snitch and I don't fuckin' care. I just wanted to warn you that the next time you go romping around- be fuckin' careful, dude. If any of those guys went instead of me? They would'a intervened- we wouldn't be runnin' outta jerky, ya kno' what I mean. Nod if you get it." You nod. "Okay, alright, cool, I'm gonna take my hand away now and you're not gonna freak your shit on me."

        His palm, calloused and slightly sweaty unlatches from your cheeks. The arm that held your waist in place fell away. You step back. Your head swivels left, right. Double-checking you were alone. "You heard us?" 

        Under the mask his brows peak. "I'm shocked nobody else did, dude. You were like," his voice pitches, hands go to his knocking knees and chest puffing perversely, "Uhhhhnggg, fuck me Markus."

        "Shut up." He went ridged, quiet. Looks like your powers had returned for the day. You weren't foolish enough to make him hurt himself. He'd get back up and do you worse. Being found alone with his neck snapped on the cave floor also wasn't a good plan.

        He broke free about ten second later, shaking himself off like your control was slime on his skin. "Eugh, that feels like ass."

        "Don't make me do it again." You stand, stretch, feel your back crack. Find your dried underclothes neatly folded on Omni's side of the cot.        

        Tracksuit follows your gaze. "He's also not hiding it, awesome. I'd say it was nice knowing you assholes but- it hasn't really been."

        You pick up the clothes. "This doesn't mean anything."

        "That he folds your clothes like some house husband? I couldn't imagine doing that even for some bitch who gave my the messiest sloppy of my life. That's like, love, dude." 

        Your stomach curdles. "It's not." You check the multiple openings in the cave walls, where anyone could be returning at any time. "Keep your voice down."

        "I'm not being anywhere loud as you." He snickers. "Marrrrkusss, unngggnhh!"

        "Shut up, turn around."

        He did. You quickly took off the top of the armor and slapped on the tank top. You were pulling off the solider pants, back to Tracksuit when the control snapped. "You gotta- whoa! Whoa! No! I don't care how nice your ass is, I'm not getting killed over mediocre pussy!"

        You leap into the shorts. "You were supposed to stay turned around." You grab the pants and boots off the ground, slipping them back on. "And please, don't flatter yourself."

        Though your ass was hidden under tighty-whiteys, he still watched it. "I mean, you flattered him, who is also me, plenty last night."

        "Want to find out how hard you can hit yourself?" You toss the empty threat.

        He caught it. "Kind of, but I don't wanna end up lookin' like Seven. Lensless, you called 'im?" He sat pressed against the wall. "Crazy son of a bitch." Out of his pocket came that pack of alien cigarettes. Nine down to six he smoked in secret so nobody would ask for a hit. He caught your eye, "You don't plan on going out today, do you? Anywhere you could go they've already mapped beyond it like, a hundred times." He pulled the curtain from his face and tucked it to his left ear. Revealing the low of his face- Mark's. "Dunno how nobody's found shit yet."

        ***

        Sand. Lots and lots and lots of sand was shoved into every unused crevice. Mushy mold and mildew that he helped the bugs propagate, just to use as wall padding. Their super hearing was nowhere near full-blooded Viltrumite level, but he couldn't risk the others finding his personal paradise to share with you.

        It'd be ready soon, if all went to plan. Just you, him, bugs, and the dark.

        ***

        You knew you were near useless in this survival situation. They were aliens, nearly God-like. You were a doll to throw around. You yearned for normal people, to play with them the way the Marks played with you. To be in some sort of control.

        You consider leaving, knowing Tracksuit would be obligated to follow. But you also consider the more you moved, the more they'd feed you of Emperor at the campfire tonight. You could barely stomach what you'd already eaten. Puking was a constant, round the corner threat.

        The blue-wrapped cigarette was placed between his lips. A blur passed over his face and it was lit, glowing green at the end. He takes a drag, relaxing fully against the stone. A pillar of smoke forced out between his teeth, light gray, and smelling of coriander. He catches you staring and holds up the side of his hand, "Don't need a lighter when ya got friction." 

        You point at the thing. "Give me a hit."

        He leaned forward, held the cigarette out to you, glowing end first. You take it in two fingers and place it into your mouth. The pale filter still damp with his spit. (You hadn't smoked in a long time / You'd never smoked) and were nervous to see how this would go. If alien tobacco would kill you or not. You don't think, feel the hold loosening, so you suck it down.

        Lemongrass and rotten laundry had a baby that shit acid down your throat- that's what it felt like. You jerked, folding forward, hacking up wispy clouds of smoke and spittle. The control breaks and the cigarette is snatched away. Your hands are propped on your knees. You could only see his boots as tears stung the corners of your eyes.

        "I'd whoop your ass for that," the cigarette is placed back where it belonged between his lips, "but you're kinda doin' that for me."

        You'd curse him if you could.

        "Dude, this shit kills like, most alien species. Didn't you look at the warning on the box?" He points at a struck-through red circle with alien looking lungs in the middle. "No baby-shit lungs can touch this shit."

        "Obviously," you hack out the syllables one by one, trying hard not to puke on your shoes, "I didn't."

        "No dip." It pissed you off how easily he breathed the acrid air in. 

        You straighten up, pounding your chest, "What's in that?"

        "Uhhhh," he flipped the box in his hand, squinting behind the lenses, "a hundred percent pure Loethicainian root. Huh, thought it was laced with something else."

        "You didn't even know what was in it before you started smoking it?" Your voice cracks. Throat feeling like an uncleaned chimney after one puff.

        "You didn't either." The box disappeared into his pocket. His palm outstretched in front of you, "Alright, now give it."

        "What?"

        "You took a hit'a my shit, I'ma take a hit'a yours." His fingers flexed, "Hand it over."

        You flinched back, hands going defensively to your pockets. "No way."

        "I could just take it, but I'm being nice and asking."

        That was true. You preferred to have some dignity, so you pulled out a bottle. "Just don't over-"

        The lid was crushed off the top, thrown aside. He knocked his head back, thumb punching a hole in the bottle bottom. Cigarette held off to the side in his spare hand. The bottle was shotgunned before you could blink.

        "-dose."

        He groaned, threw the bottle to the floor. "Tastes like shit."

        "So does that." You watch him chase the bitter cough syrup taste with a pull off the cigarette. Man had taste buds of steel.

        He shrugged, "Ya get used to it. When's it supposed to kick?" He sat himself on the closest cot. Gray's. He'd definitely notice things shifted about but Tracksuit couldn't care less.

        "Uhm, I thought you've done codeine before?" 

        "Nah, buddy Rex did, though. Guy did everything he got his hands on." He sighed, hands going behind his head, now sprawled on Gray's cot. "Miss 'im."

        You stand by the cot edge, watching him smoke. Feeling no difference beside the burning in your throat. Maybe one hit wasn't bad. "That Guardians of The Globe dickhead?"

        Tracksuit smiled around the cigarette. "He made it to The Guardians in your world? Good for him."

        You sit, pulling the last bottle of codeine out of your pants. "Should be a half hour before that kicks in. You sure you'll be fine? That's way more than most people can take. I don't feel like eating you." Though there was enough of Emperor left to last you all a week at this rate. Hell, all of him hadn't been smoked yet. Apparently without green plants to burn there was less smoke, the process took days longer. What hadn't been cooked yet started to rot. Gray set aside the first cooked, stalest, safest jerky for you to eat. You hadn't today, though you should.

        "I'm an alien." He laughs, "I'm smoking the cheapest, but deadliest smokes in the galaxy. I'll be cool." 

        You tell yourself you don't care, that you're just killing time but you still ask. "So Rex Splode." You'd never met the guy but there was news here and there. People he saved said he was a douche, reckless, almost got them killed while saving them. 

        "We slummed it together awhile." He blew smoke past your shoulder to the ceiling. "Roommates while my parents were figuring out their relationship shit. Cuz like, Dad sprung all that crazy alien-invasion shit on mom and she was like 'what the fuck?' And who would want to live with those assholes anyway? Like rabbits those two, then they'd get on my ass for bein' loud. So, Rex 'n I got ourselves this piece 'a shit place in Queens. Roaches all over the place, you should'a seen it." He talked plenty but not normally this much, not so openly. Whatever hundred percent pure Loethicainian root was chilled him the hell out.

        "I lived in New York," you crack the bottle, "I know." You knock your head back. Feel the sour syrup slide cross your tongue. Your body goes slack, like all your problems have been solved when it hits your throat. You flop onto the cot beside him. 

        "Crazy how I never met you." He says, and you can feel his eyes on you. "And everyone else but that one dude is all over you. Makes me wonder."

         You tilt the bottle forward, cut yourself off before you really wanted to. High soon to go feather-light in your dome. "If you're gonna get all misty-eyed on me I'm fucking off." 

        "'M not." He says, "Just wonder how it didn't happen." He keeps out the part he'd been wondering about lately. That maybe, if he'd had you, things wouldn't have gotten so messy. Rex wouldn't be dead. That Eve bitch wouldn't be alive with the resistance. His Dad would've never called the Viltrum Empire to Earth. Things would've been normal and he could've lived his life doing fuck-all-bullshit till he died in a million years. Dad made sure things didn't dice out that way. 

        He could hardly see how you'd change a thing. Why you and Mark Grayson seemed to be so inter-dimensionally intertwined. Was it just cuz he was biologically wired to think your ass was nice?

        "Tell me about your Rex." He said instead. 

        You did, as much as you remembered from the papers. You mostly avoided supes, bad for business if you were caught. Worse for you if they wound up being psychic and didn't listen. Tracksuit listened aptly, smoking the cigarette down to the filter. 

        The high began to wax. Your brain felt fat in your head, skull gone, cheeks like jelly, everything easy. You'd missed being high. Angsted that the only reason you were was because of Mark. Always because of Mark. 

        You're looking down at Tracksuit, elbow on knee when you say, "I really hate him, you know."

        "The other me?"

        "Yeah." You can't get over how good he looks with a septum, even though you can't see his whole face. You wonder if there are any more piercings, any scars to further differentiate him. "Yeah, that dickhead." The words spill out, stupid, slow. "Ruined my life, that..." What's the word? "Dickhead." Yeah, exactly.

        Tracksuit flicked ashes onto the ground and dusted them away. Gray would notice later anyway. He couldn't care, these details were juicy. "What'd he do?"

        "He-" You look up to the porthole. Watch sand specs idly floating in the sun. Then you are there in the sunbeam. Naked, glowing, floating.

        You fall hard next to Tracksuit. He jumps up, watching you twitch. "Shit!" He'd forgotten you'd taken a hit of his cigarette. That you probably had minutes left to live at best. "Shit! Hey!" He shakes your shoulders but your eyes, rolled back to your skull, don't fix. You are stiff, then twitching, stiff, then twitching. 

        Then you're upright like a bolt cracking your skull against his, "What?" 

        He is unaffected, head like a cinder block. "I thought you were like, seizing." 

       "Me too." You rub your pulsing forehead, the only part of your head you could feel. 

        His breathing, that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, hitched, began to even. "Scarred the piss outta me." 

        "Me too." 

        "Sure you're not still seizing or whatever?"

        Your muscles contract tight, tighter, then let go. "Think I'm just..." Your fingers find your eyes, push into the lids. Thinking slow. "I'm just stressed and that Loethicainian shit is making me tic." Better than being dead.

        "I mean yeah, you almost starved to death and now you've got like," he counts on his fingers, "seven super crazy boyfriends. No, six, and husband guy."

        "I'm not dating a guy who killed a different version of me in literally any timeline." You looked around for any broken hearted faces but find none. 

        "I don't think all of 'em did." He says.

        "A concerning amount of them have." 

        His arms go out to his sides, defensive, "We've all killed people. It's not that big a deal. You're still alive."

        "Not my Mark." You leave out the 'not on purpose' part. The Chicago disaster part. "He didn't kill people." You don't know why you feel the need to go to bat for him.

        "Good for him I guess, but he's a giant pussy."

        Your lips thin, defense came up your throat just to be swallowed because Tracksuit was right. "His girlfriend got hurt when you guys came," you start, unable to look at him and his stupid Mark face, "he wouldn't leave her. She was unconscious and probably would've told him to go help, but he wouldn't. Refused to fight you guys. I know he could've taken more of you out but he just-" You shrug, hands slapping against you thighs, "He was just a giant pussy."

        You lick at the codeine bottle edge just for the taste. You recap it before you lapse into shotgunning the whole thing and dying on the cave floor. 

        "Wow. That's insane." Tracksuit didn't care much for humanity or anyone in his life these days, but he couldn't imagine not fighting. Deciding one person was worth the effort to ignore everything else. 

        "Right?" You felt vindicated. You needed him to know, "I've killed more people on purpose than he has. He won't even kill people that he knows will bust outta prison. Just, lets 'em go and-" You laughed, shaking your head, like it was no big deal, like your sad, angry little life didn't revolve around him. Who cares about Mark when you're getting high with a different Mark? Mark would've never touched a cigarette let alone shotgun codeine just to try it.

        "He broke up with me." Words come out in a hot puke spray. Tracksuit's head snaps to you. Surprised you'd share anything about yourself with him of all people- seemed like you only shared to hurt the others' feelings. "It ruined my life."

        He's quiet a moment before saying, "Dick that good?"

        "No. I just-" Your fingers press to your eyes, head light, spinning. You knew you shouldn't tell anybody but keeping it in felt so bad. And you just wanted to feel good again, enjoy the high the same way you enjoyed Omni's fingers. Purge. "I did something for us, and it went so bad, and I just- God. He didn't want me or the baggage I came with." You felt like you were about to cry so you unscrewed the codeine for one more sip. Wouldn't kick in for awhile but you couldn't stand feeling like this. 

        "I'm not a snitch if you wanna spill." He offered. You accepted. Reluctantly at first, voice low so if anyone came back they wouldn't overhear. It was bad enough telling Mark Grayson how Mark Grayson ruined your life. It'd be worse if the Mark Grayson who murdered you and was still very much in love with you, overheard. They'd never let you live it down and you'd really end up killing them all, then you'd starve to death out here. 

        By the end, you were so high you didn't care that a few tears slipped here and there. You couldn't care much for anything at all, but at least Tracksuit was good company. 

        "That's majorly fucked up." He'd said when you finished. Among much more colorful commentary during your story. Calling you stupid for being head over heels for the first guy you fucked. For not finishing school. For falling for him of all people. "But, hey, we ever get back to that shithole? I'll help you whoop his pussy ass." It was the good nurtured chiding old friends did, that kind strangers do when they get high together. You knew it didn't mean anything, and you would never get to go home, but you smiled.

        "I'll introduce you to Rex." You say because you don't know Rex is dead. Tracksuit doesn't either. The thought is nice, as it is impossible.

        "How's that high treating you?" You ask.

        "Got nothin'." Tracksuit fidgets with his pocket, thinks of pulling out another cigarette but decides against it. "Pretty sure most Earth shit won't do anythin' to me so what's the harm in tryin'? You?"

        "I think." You don't think, lost a moment as your body tensed and untensed, "Whatever you gave me isn't agreeing with me but it's okay." What wasn't okay was how bored you were. Always sitting around or walking or eating dead guy meat. Lame. 

        You want to play, be entertained. You pull out your phone and try to find some meaningless game. Tracksuit leaned over your shoulder, watching you click through apps, a smile on his face.

        "You got any tunes downloaded on that thing?"

        You did, and he helped you pull them up. He had no clue what any of the words were. Who was singing. But that was okay. You lay together on Gray's cot, letting the music bounce off the ceiling and trash down onto your bodies. You were almost asleep when an angel came down, a shadow in the sunbeam.

        "I thought I heard something." You lifted your heavy head. 

        Baldie stood over the cot. Hairless brow raised at the scene. Fabric scraps in hand.

        "It's not what it looks like." Tracksuit raised his hands in mock defense. On high alert but not looking like it. "We're just hanging out, man."

        "Uh, I can tell?" He would've been suspect if any other variant had been laying with you. Not Tracksuit. He was stupid and inconsequential, but friendly enough. 

        You sat up to talk but stop. The light frames his muscle thick form like a halo's hug. Mark's expression on his face but not Mark's face, not with all the scars. He is him but so other and so beautiful like this and the music is so nice and you are absolutely fucking blasted.

        Your body tenses again. "Are you okay?" Baldie asks.

        You stand up shakily, body swaying slightly.

         "Hey, are you alright?" His hands go to the sides of your arms to steady you but you aren't seizing, you're dancing. Terribly. You're not happy, just high, and having recently cum. You're relaxed. Listening to music you intend to enjoy because fuck the misery. 

        "No." You say, "But dancing is better than just laying there while the universe dies." 

        "Hey!" Tracksuit said from the comfort of his back. 

        Baldie pauses. "You're... dancing?" He was unsure. Partly thought the movement a mild seizure. 

        "Guess I am."

        He's taken back. Four years ago, days before the fight with Dad. He had no idea what was coming. He could feel the anxiety coming off Mom in waves, it made him edgy. But he got to your apartment, floated out the window and found you dancing with a hungry dog you'd found in the street six months ago. Skin and bones now muscle and smooth fur. You held its front paws, going back and forth in little steps while the dog's tail wagged. The other rescues crowded around your ankles. 

        He landed next to you with a smile. Problems off in the wind. You traded paws for his hands and you dance together slow in the studio apartment kitchenette to the same music you played now. 

        He smiles, nostalgic for a past you didn't know, and takes your limp hand. Opens it gently with the press of a thumb. You let it happen, staring stupidly as his marred hand slipped into yours. He pulls you in, hand set at the small of your back. Then leads you to insanely unfitting music in a waltz he could barely remember the bones of. It was more like spinning in circles while holding your bodies together but you couldn't tell. You were high and in a sun beam and he was smiling at you and the music was so nice. 

        Tracksuit watches. Thinking good for you, get some more dick. And then thinking, Jesus I'm gonna have to run interference for this horny bitch till we all die out here.

        You're across the room now. Stepping on Baldie's feet because you're so high you can't coordinate your movements well. He thinks you're still half asleep and teases you. You laugh at something Baldie says, it's quick and you immediately try to hide the joy, but Baldie hears it and glows. Because for once, the laugh wasn't a nasty sound, but genuine.

        "Hey." Maskless is knelt beside Tracksuit's head, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. "Walk with me a sec."

        "Uh? Sure." He sat up.

        Maskless led him out of the cave, into the desert sun and miles away while you danced on. He landed in a skid, turning hot on Tracksuit when he came down.

        "You need to back off." He says.

        Tracksuit paused his landing trot, "What?"

        "Those guys ruined their lives for the chance to see her again. Don't get any stupid ideas that'll cost you." His finger found home in Tracksuit's chest. Honestly, Maskless didn't give two shits who you liked and didn't. He cared about keeping the peace. He cared about how he'd feel if he had William here and some douche who didn't know him was drooling to get in his pants. It was one thing for the other guys to want their ex, a whole insult for him not to even know you in his world. He wouldn't take sides, wouldn't tattle, but he'd watch and make sure Tracksuit's tracksuit stayed on for the good of the camp.

        "Whoa! You've got the wrong idea." He says it, but it's not entirely true. Tracksuit had been starting to appreciate your appearance a tad more these last few days. You were a whole helluva lot nicer when you were high and not starving to death. You were also probably a decent fuck and he really needed to cum, but that wasn't here nor there. "We're on the same side here. I'm not gonna do nothin' stupid just cuz she's hot, man."

        That was as earnest as Tracksuit got, but to Maskless it sounded like fuck boy bullshit. "You're going to get yourself and her killed if you keep acting all buddy-buddy. You can't lay on the same cot as her and ogle, they're not stupid."

        "Dude, were you watching us? That's super fuckin' creepy!" 

        Maskless's jaw hardened. "I wouldn't be surprised if another one of us was watching too. You weren't subtle. I didn't watch for very long, but it was long enough to see you staring at her ass."

        Tracksuit wasn't an unreasonable man, but a shortsighted one. A man who thought fists would tell the truth. "Then that's long enough to see I didn't tap it!" A fist was aimed straight for Maskless's chin. Sent him into the air. He spun, stopped the spiral a hundred feet up, face hard. Absolutely sure Tracksuit had a thing for you and absolutely sure he needed to kick common sense right up his ass. 

        ***

        The music died with your phone. After days of being used for flashlight navigation, it was bound to die. But did it really have to die at the best part of the song? You could mope but you didn't. Sleepily happy as Baldie guided you round and round. 

        Phantom watched from the dark. He'd picked up heat signatures from Maskless's body on the outskirts of the cave minutes ago. Knew he'd likely interfere somehow, Maskless wasn't stupid. He knew any blooming romances were a danger. Maskless should've broken you and Baldie up but instead he took Tracksuit outside. Allowed this to continue.        

        Phantom tells himself it's fine. You are happy. With someone else who is him, but not him. 

        He tries telling himself Baldie is a temporary creature of comfort. Like Omni clearly had been to you last night. None of this meant a thing.

        ***

        "Hey." Behind him. Lensless turned. Lost again a few minutes into exploring these stupid caves. Maskless had drawn him a mini map but Lensless was never one for directionality. 

        Scars was there, cloaked in the dark. Wearing that same old smile. 

        "Hi?" Lensless was perfectly friendly back, but his body was tense. Come on, a lone meeting in the dark was a prime murder locale. He'd done it himself enough times to know. 

        "I think we can help each other get what we want." Scars didn't have to say it was about (Y/n). He was just as obsessed with you, the new you, as Lensless was. That was why he'd gotten so lost in the first place, he just couldn't stop thinking about you using your powers on him. 

        Lensless was the perfect partner for the job. Slower than Scars in every aspect. Feared and discomforting in your eyes. And he wanted you to use your powers just as much as Scars did.

        ***

        You were floating on a euphoric cloud because you were dancing with Mark Grayson (and peaking on a codeine high). He smiles down at you, holding you. Dancing with you like he did when he came to your place after homecoming. You had been on the stoop crying with the night sky overhead, trying to keep the tears off your thrifted outfit. He'd missed the whole thing and you were majorly pissed, but he danced with you right there on the apartment stoop in his wrinkled suit. Apologies whispered into your ear, compliments as his hands ran over the clothes you'd picked for him.

        His excuse was terrible, pissed you off more, but you ended up forgiving him. You always ended up forgiving him. He was your first serious boyfriend, how could you not? You took him inside. Things escalated. You didn't feel different the next morning, though you told yourself they did. That being each other's firsts meant you'd be together forever.

        And now, five years down the line, you were in the same man's arms, but not really. Having just spilled your guts to also the same guy because the other guys who were also the same guy couldn't be trusted with that information. You were too high to think about it. That's what you liked about being high. Not forgetting things, but not quite being smart enough to remember.

        You don't know what does it. The sun shining through his black lenses, letting you see a sliver of eye through the material. Soft, drooped with scarring but looking at you so sweetly. Or was it the gentle touch you hadn't felt in so long? Calming and grounding, but not wanting, content with the moment. His lips, twisted as they were with old wounds, smiling for you, of all the rotten people in the world- for you.

        You kiss him without thought. Standing on your toes to get the angle right. His lips are opened, a question on the tongue that is soon forgotten. When he kisses back it's tentative, hesitant. Close mouthed and chaste. He wouldn't let himself taste too much of you. He knows he'll go mad if he doses on too much of your sweet belladonna. But you smile, kiss him again, and he can't resist pulling you closer.          

        Four years since he'd kissed you. The last one a quick goodbye peck, excited for a date the next day. He never got to see you again. Not the you he knew. You were warped and scarred compared to her, a mirror held up to himself. You were and weren't her. You understood him. 

        He let himself be poisoned with a kiss. Lips parting to let in your tongue.

        ***

        Hearing you tell Tracksuit about your Mark stung. Phantom wished you could've confined in him, but he understood. He wasn't a big talker. You needed someone to bounce off of. He could do that. He just preferred it to be just you and him when he did so. But no opportunities shone through, someone was always around. Listening and watching.

        But that was a bee sting compared to the gutting that was you kissing that marred thing with his name. It was a good thing, he told himself as he watched, you were still attracted to Mark Grayson as a concept. That's all this was, a proof of concept. But you just kept going and going and going. Kissing and kissing after obviously fucking Omni last night. Stabbing him in the heart as many times as you pleased. Did you even know how this made him feel?

        Fine. It was fine, really. He had to think as he took deep breaths through his nose. 

        It was fine because Baldie couldn't be in the caves longer than a few hours without growing agitated. He kept saying he heard things but Phantom's enhanced suit didn't catch them. Baldie was cracking up. Baldie was clearly your favorite and had to go. Which was fine, because Phantom knew just where to put him.

        ***

        He pulled away, flushed. "I'm sorry." He said, though he doesn't let you go. "Is this okay?"

        You'd had a taste for blood. Were in for more, voice low and wanting "More than okay."        

        He leans back in and stops himself. He knew you were acting strange from the get go, but let himself ignore it because you seemed happy and that's all he wanted. He saw it now, your constricted pupils, they way you relied on him to hold your weight. He had thought you were finally trusting him but he was wrong. "Are you-?"

        "High?" You finish for him. "A little." It's a lie.

        He feels the kiss was a lie. Illegitimate. He wanted you plenty but not out of your head. He wanted you steady and sure. Something to even out the roaring between his ears. His touch fell away. Your body followed after him but he avoids your advance.

        "I shouldn't." He knows but seeing you chase after him, eyes searching and lips parted, made him want you more. Which means he really, really shouldn't. "I'm sorry I didn't notice I-" 

        His teeth clack together when the fists come down on the back of his head. Body hammered feet down into the rock. You don't get to see it, already hundreds of feet above the porthole. Held by the middle where your body went slack against the arms caging you in. The pressing g-force ceased. You were far above the horizon. Above where anyone could hear you scream.

        You can see his legs, coated black, going into blue boots. Feel his body pressed to your back, grip tight around your middle. Fingerless gloved hands raking across the bare skin between your tank top and pants.

        "Hey," Lensless says against your ear.

        "Lan-" His hand didn't just press to your lips, no, he forced his fingers into your mouth. Dusty skin lathed across your tongue, forced to the back of your throat where you gagged, much to his enjoyment.

        "Much as I want you to, we're not doing that. Not yet." 

        He uses his hand in your mouth to puppeteer your neck. Makes you watch the fight below as it erupts into the desert. Baldie is pissed, but smart enough to know anymore underground thrashing could collapse the cave system- kill you all without access to water. 

        Scars is a yellowjacket blaze under the afternoon sun. Back for a surprise round two with the added stressor of you being held hostage in the sky. Baldie's distracted, keeps trying to pull from Scars to get to you and Lensless, but that's what Scars had been betting on. What they'd both been betting on. 

        Lensless doesn't let you go as he drops like an anvil directly into Baldie's flight path. His heels crack something in Baldie's back while Scars fist nearly punches a hole in his belly. When the impact is done, Baldie falls to the sand. Shirt torn, bruises already blooming under his skin. Blood pooling out the side of his mouth where some of his teeth had been knocked loose. 

        You screamed against Lensless's hand. Thrash in his hold as he climbs higher in the sky. Followed by Scars sporting a fully busted lens and a purple shiner. They matched in eyelessness, cruelty, and how much you wanted to kill them. 

        Lensless propped his head on your shoulder, observing your fit hopefully. "Are you gonna cry?"

        Scars laughs but says, "Your little boyfriend will be fine." That gets your attention on him. So full of hatred and intent to kill. Just like his (Y/n) before it drained out between his legs. He doesn't know if things will end the same and that's why he's here with Lensless. To change you, make you stronger by sheer force. "Just couldn't have him interrupting. He wouldn't get it."

        You bite Lensless's fingers hard as your jaw would allow, a growl vibrating through your body.

        "So weak," Lensless says but he's shivering in delight at the attempt. "But you should quit while you're ahead. If I get too excited, I think I'll crush you." He laughs at the idea. You wet and red and all over him, makes his cock twitch.

        Much as you hate listening, you do. "Good job." Lensless bumps the top of his head against your jaw. "I knew you'd listen." 

        "Don't praise her." Scars victorious smile melts as he stares you down. "You've been bad."

        You'd ask him what he meant if you weren't murderous and gagged.

        "You don't seem to get it. Those other guys, they're weak, useless. Couldn't take a bomb to the head like I can. They don't deserve you." He hovers closer, reaches between him and Lensless and holds up your chin. Fingers pressing hard to flesh. 

        Lensless pulls you back, out of his grip. A gesture that says 'it's not your turn with my toy, yet.' "Hey bud, you forget I'm also one of those guys?"

        Annoyance flashed across Scars exposed eye. "You're smart enough to work with me." He leaves it at that, no promises of trust or friendship. Lensless grip tightens, makes your bones ache, but he doesn't pull you back when Scars reaches out. Thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "But you. You've been letting them pass you around. I get it, you're sad, you're lonely, you're looking to fill the void. And you can do that! You're your own person. I just need you to remember at the end of the day- you belong to me. Everytime you lend your lips or cunt out them?" His pointer and thumb squeeze your lip, pinching it plump and buzzing. "I see it. I feel it. I keep a tally of everytime you let them touch you, everytime you betray me. Do you know what that tally's at?" His head tilts, waiting, though you literally can't reply.

        "Come on, answer him." Lensless jostles your rear with his knee. 

        Your hands, pressed to your sides by Lensless's arms, twitch. Scars notices, looks at them smiling. Up comes a single finger. Counting off your fuck with Omni or kiss with Baldie- he can't tell. Because it's your middle finger and he's laughing at you for daring to defy him.

        "I'll take that as an 'I don't know'." He sighs, "Everytime that number goes up, know that I'm waiting for them to leave you alone or with someone weak. And they will because they all are. So I'll find you vulnerable and alone," he leaned in, pinching your lip so hard drool started to seep onto his gloves, "and make you understand how bad I feel when you're with them. And if you're not strong enough to take it, you die." He's close enough to bite your lip. For you to feel the heat of his stale breath. Then he removes himself from your personal space all at once. Skin-crawling touch gone. 

        "Ready?" Scars asked.

        Lensless grins against your neck. "Oh hell yeah."

        The flesh gag was gone, but so was the arm around your torso. You hurdled to the dunes, softer than your human body but you'd splat like it was concrete on impact. You can only see the sky, the men falling either side of you, looking bored with terminal velocity. You snap, "Catch me!" 

        They both hurdle toward you, two sets of arms under your back. Stopping the decent slowly, not too sudden. When you're finally stopped, your heart is hammering in your chest, you're still far above the ground but no longer falling. Not safe because the men you controlled were no longer held under your will. They grin down at you. Satisfied before both sets of their arms fall away again.

        It's catch and release. They let you fall, scream a command with blood pouring out of your nose. They mock praise as they drag you back up high into the sky. By the third round, you've calmed enough to know what to do when Lensless catches you before Scars. You turn to him, grinning under the perpetual summer sun and say with a finger pointed at Scars, "Kill him."

        You are dropped because in Lensless's head, he can't kill Scars while holding you. The logic and semantics work against you. And again you fall screaming, "Catch me, catch me!" But he's too fast, too far away in the atmosphere with a fist poised for Scar's throat.

        ***

        Phantom watched the exchange. Let Baldie fall without help. Because he understood and agreed with what Lensless and Scars were doing. You did need to be stronger, needed to hold your own if you were to choose one of them. Work out that muscle of power because you'd let it go so slack in the desert. 

        He knew it'd happen sooner or later. You forcing them to attack each other, forgetting that morality and gravity don't mix. Scars tries to save you, he didn't want you to die even though he acted like it. Scars wanted you to suffer the slow creep of his corruption and not wilt, but thrive under it. Phantom understood this, didn't fault him for it. They were all creatures of some desire.

        Scars could not dodge around Lensless long enough to catch you. Your hold had been getting better once you'd started eating again. There was no telling how long Lensless would attack. Scars was ruthless, trying to kill him but just couldn't. The fact was, Lensless was the faster of the two.

        When you neared the ground, Phantom was there. Shot out of the porthole as a silent shadow, slowing you down then bringing you to a stop. Your unconscious body limp in his arms, stirring after a few seconds, as your body figured out it was still alive and not falling.

        You look up at him, shaking, nose bleeding, sun in your eyes. So beautiful, weak, alive. Your hand clinging to his chest enough to bandage the wounds you'd left him. 

        ***

        They lay beside one another in the sand. Skin burst open by sheer force. Sun beating down on their bodies.

        "You get it now, asshole?" Tracksuit tried not to sound winded, but he was. That gay little fucker could move.

        There was no reply. Tracksuit heaved up onto his elbows, thinking the other dead and more jerky was on the way.

        A few of his ribs were bruised but he breathed on. "You could've just talked to me instead of hitting me." Maskless said. 

        "I tried that, 'member?" Tracksuit flopped back into the sand.

        "Yeah, well, you're not very good with words." Maskless said with no bite.

        Tracksuit slapped him across the chest, earning a groan. "Nah, but I'm pretty good with a fist."

        Maskless smacked the hand away. "Don't flatter yourself." He sat up, sand falling off his shoulders. Insides pounding. "We should get back. If the others see them together, they'll lose it."

        Tracksuit ran a hand through his hair. All the gel he'd slopped through it before coming to your Earth gone clumpy and stale. "I just don't get it, man. Why can't they leave her alone? They're pushing her away by being freaks."

        "Because we're us." Maskless stood, "We can't leave these things alone. You wanted something bad enough to make a deal with Angstrom Levy, so you're no different from the rest of us."

        Tracksuit chuffed because the guy had a point. "I can. She's just some human." 

        "Would you be saying that if she was Rex Sloan?" 

        That name from that mouth made Tracksuit go stiff. "You creepy little fucker."

        "I know if she were William, I'd be acting just as crazy." Out came Maskless's hand, offered with no smile. "If not more than some of them are."

        Tracksuit considers slapping the offer away but takes the hand, pulling himself up off an aching tailbone. "I ain't you know, man."

        "I know," Maskless says, though he doesn't believe it. He and Rex had a thing years back before it all went bad. There was bound to be another one of him who had the hots for that idiot. Still, he tacked on, "I see how you look at her, I get the picture." 

        "No, no, I mean I don't..." Tracksuit let go of his hand soon as possible. 

        Maskless held himself with a seriousness he didn't feel. He told himself the same thing a long, long time ago. "You'll figure it out." He hovered above the sand, "We going or what?"

        ***

        The fireside is chaos. 

        You are drained dry of power and want to kill despite how your body is shaking from the adrenaline and codeine come down. Baldie wants them dead more than you do. Omni more than he. Omni held you when he heard, hand cradling your head as you tried not to lean into it. You were almost glad for the distraction Scars and Lensless brought to the group, because he was being obvious, and if someone asked you were sure he wouldn't deny it.

        Tracksuit watched on, achy all over. Back to treating your personal drama like his TV after a long day. Maskless nearby considers swiping one of Tracksuit's cigarettes. Sneaking out and smoking while this fizzled out, but he had to stay. Make sure if the peace snapped that the cave didn't collapse.

        Scars and Lensless revel in the jeering and suggestions of exile from Gray. The threats of death from Omni. Regrettably, they lived through your control. Scars suit was frayed, cape torn at all the edges but he was fine. Lensless's chest was exposed, skin gone purple with bruising. 

        After Phantom caught you, the two had played it relatively smart. Avoiding camp until nightfall, where Baldie told everyone what they'd done while licking his wounds. Only when he was proclaiming his hate for the yellowjacket and his minion did they make an entrance. Leading to the current hellscape of things.

        Despite all the talk, it was Mohawk who was the first to lunge for Scars, waiting for the fight with open arms. Phantom jumped between them, just barely able to keep them off each other.

        "Stop." He says.

        "He could've fucking killed her." Spit flies off Mohawk's lip onto his mask. 

        "Please, she was fine. Aren't you, sweet thing?" The second Scars eyes land on you, Mohawk reaches around Phantom and cracks Scars in the temple. Scars cackles as he hits the ground. "You'll thank me for it later." Mohawk lunges.

        Phantom grabs his ankle and throws Mohawk across the room. "Listen to me."

        Listen, Mohawk does not. He flies for Scars. "I'm tired of your face!"

        "We have the same face!"

        The screech tears through the room. Bounces off the walls. Reverberates through your bones. Mohawk's flight waivers, he crashes in a heap, clutching his ears. The rest of them are in similar positions, groaning, hands on head. 

        Phantom does not apologize, he is not sorry. "I was hoping you wouldn't make me use this." He says cool through the modulator. During the second day of the ravaging of Earth he'd caught out one of the re-animen. Taken the speaker from its chest, a tiny thing that he hid in the pockets of his utility belt. Down to the core, he wanted to curl into a ball and scream, but the noise-canceling tech in his suit's ears helped curb the urge. It also helped that he knew it was coming, that he controlled the noise.

        "Turn it off!" Mohawk snaps. 

        "Not until you listen." He says, louder, more confident than he'd felt in his entire life. Mohawk does not protest again. "You can exile them, kill them even, but it will not fix the problem. We all want her to ourselves, but we can't fracture into factions, We'll just end up killing each other and her. The best thing for her, for all of us, is to work together."

        "Fuck that." Mohawk spat, the only one able to speak over the noise.

        "You don't have to like it, but if you don't want her to die in the crossfire, you'll do it." Phantom is right. Feels the truth sink into the bones of everyone around him. Yet he leaves the frequency playing, "You don't want her to die again, do you?"

        Mohawk doesn't. None of them do. 

        He turns it off when he senses no more fight in the room. He waits for Mohawk to lunge at Scars. He thinks about it, Phantom can see it in his spring-loaded muscles but he doesn't. 

        Scars rises to his feet, hiding the stagger Mohawk punched into him. "We'll be back." He says it as he floats towards the exit, "Remeber, I keep a tally." His eyes are on you.

        Lensless went to follow, their partnership officially cemented, "See you guys this time tomorrow, cool?"

        They were gone. You took a shuddering breath.

        Baldie shot up to follow them. But stopped when you said, "Wait."

        "Don't you want them to die for what they did to you?" He tries to keep the anger out of his voice, the accusation he wants to level at you, at the others for letting this continue. 

        Your head was pounding. You were well into come down. Regretting and not regretting the dancing from earlier that killed your only flashlight. Regretting and not regretting the kiss. "I do, but if anyone's killing them, I am."

        Baldie shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know if you could.

        "I-" His lip twisted. How could you want those two alive even a second longer? Why? Did you favor them? Like the harassment? Is that what he should be doing instead of being soft and kind? Would you like him without drugs then? The anger chewing at his insides is surprising and sharp. 

        He shot into the caves to angst alone in the quiet, familiar enclosure of darkness. Even though he knew it'd make him worse. 

        You try to rise to your feet before falling back down wobbly. Head falling to your hands. Gray quietly brings the basin of freshly boiled water to your side for you to drink. He and Omni hover within reach but say nothing. 

        Phantom disappeared into the caves behind Baldie not long after. Nobody noticed. All so fretful over you, minds racing with options. But if they really cared, they'd be doing what he was doing. Approaching Baldie from behind.

[hearts4hughes]

Hello!! Could you write about rafe and reader break up and rafe sees old videos/photos of them and he does everything he can to get her back like they didn't end things on good terms yk I hope this makes sense! And It would be great if it the ending was a cute happy ending but it's up to you however you wanna end it!! Love your work btw ❤❤

note: i’m sorry the ending sucks😭 please send me another request if you want me to make one with more detail of him fighting for her back

the memories haunted him just as much as the breakup itself. everywhere he looked in his house was graced with your presence. from the wilting bouquets that decorated every table, to your heels in his mud room that he hasn’t had the heart to return.

even his phone is a graveyard of your love. his lockscreen, a picture of you with a flower tucked behind your ear, taunted him every time he dared to answer a text or send an email.

in the morning it was easy to ignore. he would busy himself with work, stay at the office until the cleaning crew kicked him out. he would go out to lunch with topper and drink his emotions out of his body. but at night, it wasn’t dismissible.

he lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling, counting how many times the frogs croak in one hour. this feeling was foreign to him. rafe cameron never has his heartbroken, no, he was the heartbreaker! but the unmistakable feeling of a weight on his heart wouldn’t go away.

after the tenth time of repositioning himself, flipping his pillow over, and focusing on his breathing, he gave up. he props himself on his elbows, blinking away whatever sleep was stuck in his eyes. the phone on his night stand torments him. like a siren in open waters, singing so beautifully. and rafe was the captivated sailor who was changing course to go towards it.

he grabs the phone, the screen lighting up the room in a harsh glow. your face greets him immediately, eyes squinted, blush lips parted in a laugh, the flower nestled behind your ear. seeing the picture at night always hurts more.

he clicks to his camera roll, swiping through your love story. blurry concert selfies, lazy sunday mornings wrapped in his sheets, your smile stretched wide as he took pictures of you from the driver’s seat while you whined for him to stop. it’s all there, frozen in pixels, a slideshow of everything he’d managed to destroy.

he hesitates over a video from last summer. the two of you on his boat, your tan skin glowing in the golden hour light, laughter carried away by the wind as you lean into him, pressing a kiss to his jaw before whispering something that makes his grin spread wide, proud and boyish. he plays it, the sound of your laugh filling his room, vibrating throughout his chest.

“god,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could somehow make it hurt less. his jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck tight and taut. he can’t keep living like this, haunted by your ghost in every corner of his life.

he sets his phone down, breath coming in shallow pulls. he lays his head down, hand reaching out for you in his sheets. it’s almost as if his brain makes out your silhouette next to him. a thousand thoughts race through his mind, each one more desperate than the last. he needs to fix this. he needs you.

the next morning, he’s parked outside your apartment before he even realizes he’s driven there. the sight of your building makes his stomach flip, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles bleach white.

he almost turns back. almost convinces himself to pull away and let you have your peace. but then he remembers the way you looked at him in that boat video, like he hung the stars themselves, and it’s all the courage he needs.

he doesn’t bother to text, instead, he takes the stairs two at a time. when he reaches your door, he forces himself to pause, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs.

and then he knocks.

you answer, bleary-eyed and wrapped in one of his old sweatshirts, the one you never gave back. his heart stutters, and for a moment, he forgets why he came.

“rafe?” your voice is soft, uncertain. your eyes are swollen and bloodshot, tears stain your perfectly rosy cheeks. your hair is tousled, like it’s been in that messy ponytail for a few days. but to rafe, you look like an angel.

he swallows, words fumbling in his mind, but he forces them out. “i messed up,” he says, voice rough, laced with something dangerously close to a whine. “and i know i don’t deserve a second chance, but i’m here begging for one anyway. because i can’t…i can’t keep doing this without you.”

your eyes search his, the walls you’d so carefully built around your heart cracking, falling under the weight of his gaze.

“rafe, i—”

“just… let me in?” his voice wavers, the vulnerability raw, unfamiliar on his tongue. “let me try to fix this.”

“i don’t know,” your voice trails off.

“please, i can’t sleep without you, i can’t eat without you, i can’t live without you.” he would’ve gotten on his knees and begged if you had asked him.

you want to say no, want to close the door right there, and give yourself the satisfaction of breaking him the same way he broke you. yet, you open your door an inch wider, inviting him in.

and for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @xoxosblogsblog @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles

[moondustbaby]

As Long As You Want

blue collar!Rafe x gf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

cw: soft smut, nothing too explicit, loss of virginity

summary: You’ve never done anything like this before but with Rafe, it finally feels right. He’s soft, slow, and so in love with you it hurts. A tender, emotional first time with the most patient blue collar man alive.

⸻

You don’t mean to bring it up.

It’s late, and Rafe’s shoulder is warm beneath your cheek as the hum of the TV rolls through the living room. You’ve kissed before—made out for hours on end, melted against him on this exact couch more than once—but that’s as far as it’s gone. He’s never pushed. Never even hinted. Not since that first night you told him the truth in a whisper.

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” you’d admitted, voice barely audible. “I mean… not with anyone.”

You still remember the way he softened when you said it. The way he just nodded, cupped your jaw, and told you it didn’t matter. That he’d wait as long as you needed.

But tonight, curled up under one of his old contractor sweatshirts, something compels you to say it again. To give him a little more.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” you say quietly.

Rafe tenses beneath you just slightly—not like he’s nervous, more like he wants to make sure he’s heard you right.

“About what, baby?”

You sit up, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie. “About… you know. Sex. Us.”

He pauses the TV and turns to you fully. “Okay,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”

You bite your lip. “I just—I know I haven’t been ready. And I guess I always felt like that made me kind of… immature?”

His brow furrows immediately. “Wait, what? No, baby. No.” He takes your hands and squeezes them, grounding you instantly. “You’re not immature. At all.”

“But I’m almost twenty-two and I’ve never—”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he cuts in gently. “You’ve got nothin’ to prove. Not to me, not to anyone. I don’t care how long it takes. I’d wait forever if I had to.”

Your heart flutters.

He says it so casually, so easily, like he means it without hesitation. And you believe him. You really do. That’s what makes you brave enough to whisper, “I think I’m ready.”

His thumb pauses on your knuckle.

“Tonight?” he asks, cautious. “You don’t have to say yes. Not for me.”

You nod, then glance up at him. “I’m serious. I want to try. If you’ll go slow.”

Rafe looks at you like you just handed him the whole world. “Baby,” he breathes, cupping your cheek. “Of course. You know I’m fine with not doing anything, right?”

You nod again, firmer this time. “But I want to.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Okay. But you have to promise you’ll tell me if anything feels wrong.”

“I will.”

His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together. “Then let’s go slow.”

⸻

You end up in his bedroom, the lights dimmed to a low amber glow. He doesn’t rush. Not even a little. He kisses you slow—hands warm against your jaw, your waist, the small of your back—until you’re pliant beneath him, nerves melting into something softer.

“You’re sure?” he whispers as his hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt.

“I’m sure.”

He nods, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Let’s get you comfortable, yeah?”

He undresses you like you’re made of silk, tugging off your top, then your sleep shorts, checking in after every little shift. And when you’re laid back against his pillows, your legs parted just slightly and your chest rising with nervous breaths, he settles next to you—still fully clothed—and just holds your hand.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Your cheeks burn when he asks, “Can I touch you down here?” but you nod anyway, heart hammering.

His fingers trail over your hips, then dip slowly between your thighs, feather-light as he explores you, learning how you breathe and shift. He whispers praises with every soft pass of his fingers—how warm you are, how beautiful, how perfect.

And when he finally presses a finger inside, you tense, gasping a little.

“Hey,” he soothes immediately. “Breathe. Look at me, baby.”

You do, eyes locking with his. He kisses your temple. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just… slower.”

“Okay.” He smiles, the corners of his mouth warm and sweet. “I’ll go slow.”

And he does. He takes his time, easing you open, whispering soft encouragements as you adjust around him. When you whimper, he holds your hand tighter. When you tilt your hips or shiver or breathe his name, he’s right there, grounding you with kisses and quiet reminders.

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re so good for me.”

“God, I love how you feel.”

When he finally lines himself up, he kisses you again, deeper this time. “One more time, baby. You sure?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Just… hold my hand?”

He smiles like he’s about to fall apart. “Always.”

The stretch makes your breath catch, but he hushes you gently, forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Just a little more.”

You nod, clinging to his hand as he eases in inch by inch, stopping anytime you so much as twitch.

He doesn’t move once he’s fully inside you, just strokes your cheek, kisses your nose, waits for your breathing to even out.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby,” he whispers. “So, so good.”

When you nod and say, “Okay,” he finally begins to move—barely pulling back, slow and careful, rocking into you with the gentlest rhythm he can manage.

It still burns a little. Still aches. But his voice keeps you grounded, tethered.

“Breathe, baby.”

“You’re okay.”

“Tell me what you need.”

And when it’s too much, he stops. Lets you cling to him, lets you adjust, kisses you until you’re ready again. The whole time, he never lets go of your hand.

By the time he finishes, you’re breathless beneath him, overwhelmed but safe. He pulls out slow, careful not to hurt you, and curls around you immediately.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “Was that okay?”

You nod, clinging to his shirt. “More than okay.”

He brushes your hair back. “You were amazing. So brave.”

You snort a little, half embarrassed. “I didn’t feel very brave.”

“You were.” His lips find your forehead. “You still are.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: rafe “i’ll wait forever” cameron is the blueprint for soft, patient, emotionally intelligent first-time smut. this is for the girlies who want hand-holding, forehead kisses, and a man who treats your virginity like a sacred trust. no rush. no pressure. just love, praise, and the slowest, gentlest first time ever. if you cried and then got turned on… same

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@lolabunnyworldss @superlegend216 @bonjourjiminie @rafesbabygirlx

[bearyfast]

The Envelope - LN4

Partnering: Lando Norris x impliedfem!reader

(There is no reader in this story but he talks about reader, no name is stated and reader never actually appears)

Type: Angst

Summary: Lando finally opens up at a therapy appointment and then goes home to deal with his grief- over whose death? The love of his life's, who happened to leave him a mysterious envelope.

Warnings: mentions of drugs, death, grieving, overdose, pregnancy, therapy, and suicide. (Let me know if I've missed any and I'll add them!)

F1 Masterlist

“It's been two months since our last appointment. How do you feel after the break?” The voice broke through Lando’s thoughts, making him realise that he hadn’t been paying attention since he sat down on the stiff couch.

“Fine,” Lando spoke as he looked up to the woman’s eyes slowly, seeing the look in her eyes that let him know that she didn’t believe him. “I’m fine.”

“Lando, this is a very difficult process to go through and understand, someone who was a constant in your life for years, someone who you loved-”

“I know what I lost, thanks. No need to remind me” Lando’s cold voice interrupted her as he looked to the ground again.

Dr. Maryes looked at him with sympathy- something he was sick and tired of seeing in people’s eyes when they looked at him recently. The woman, Dr. Maryes, was a therapist that his team had gotten for him; something about “needing to handle his grief better” or some stupid spiel like that.

He understood why he was there, he just didn’t want to be there. Lando didn’t need some therapist who understood nothing about you and his deep love surrounding everything to do with you to tell him how to deal with his feelings.

“I’ll never know what that felt like Lando, to lose what mattered most to you in the blink of an eye, while you couldn’t do anything; all the way across the globe.” Dr. Maryes told him softly.

Over the last few sessions with her, it had been a constant battle with Lando. He didn’t want to accept her help, feeling as though he was betraying your memory by moving on- like he was forgetting you by allowing himself to live.

“But you have to remember that she would want you to live. Isn’t that what you said in our last session? That she always wanted you to put yourself first, putting her own career on hold to follow you around the world for Formula One. She would want you to be happy instead of wasting away” Dr. Maryes always avoided using your name, knowing that it would just set Lando back even further than he already was.

As he just stared at the carpeted floor of the therapist’s office, Lando gave a small nod. That was you, always the one to sacrifice your own happiness so that you could see Lando flourish and thrive. 

You cared so much about him that even if you were sure when you were younger that you would never get married, Lando now constantly fiddled with your engagement ring that was on a necklace around his neck after the police gave it back to him. It was only a gold band with a few small but nice diamonds, just the way you wanted it, so he could wear it while racing.

“She was always the best part of me” Lando mumbled, reaching up with one hand to hold your ring in his fingers tightly.

“Sometimes closure can come from having something from the person to remember them by,” Dr. Maryes spoke after a moment of silence. “That ring on your necklace, can you tell me about it?”

Lando swallowed as a single tear was in his eyes, quickly wiping it away before speaking again.

“When we were kids, she used to say that she would never get married. So when we started dating I remembered that, but after three years she just started… hinting at engagement rings-” Lando’s voice cracked slightly as he talked about you more and more.

“It’s okay, talking about it is good. Is there anything else you have of hers?” She asked.

“Yeah. She had a locket that I got her on our first anniversary, it has a little- a little- a picture inside,” Lando stumbled over his words as he thought about you more. “With… us. Together. On our first date, when we had our first kiss.”

“Why don’t you wear that as well? Along with the engagement ring” Dr. Maryes asked as she leaned forward slightly; this was the most she had gotten out of Lando the entire time he had been talking with her.

“I just- everytime I look at the picture, her smiling face, her innocent features-” A sob broke out but he continued speaking. “I don’t know, it gets me thinking about things I know I shouldn’t.”

“What things, Lando?”

“Maybe if I forced her to come with me, if I had noticed earlier, if- if I would have been better then maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did. I mean- I spent the most time with her, I should have noticed the behaviours-”

“Lando, it’s not your fault-”

“But it is. There were signs. I ignored them because I thought she was getting better, I thought she was getting over it, over the addiction. But I was wrong, and she died because of it”

That was the first time that Lando had actually opened up about his feelings towards what happened to you. Yes, his friends had speculated amongst themselves that he felt guilt about your death since he knew about the addiction but he thought that you were getting better.

You had been seeing your own therapist about your own… issues. Lando himself had seen an improvement in your behaviour- hell, you had even brought up having children without any hinting from Lando.

It brought  him to tears even thinking about the fact that you were so far gone when you said that to the point of definitely having no idea what you were saying. Maybe it was all the drugs, making you happier, making you want children after years of not thinking about it, and that’s what hurt Lando the most in the days after he found out how you died. 

How the Coroner's Office said that the orderdose had been building up for weeks, months even, in small doses.

How he will never know how much of the last few months you spent together making Lando think you were getting better, making Lando think that you wanted children, making Lando think that everything would be okay. He’ll never know how much of that time you knew you would be overdosing on purpose a few months later, leaving him alone.

Clearly you had known, that much was clear not even just from what the Coroner’s Office said; a note had been left on the kitchen counter addressed to him, though Lando hadn’t brought himself to read it yet. He knew that it would just bring him right back to the start of his grieving.

Dr. Maryes must have kept talking since the end of the session came quickly, but Lando didn’t pay attention at all, too much into his thoughts to even think about listening to others.

“That’s all the time we have today, Lando. What I want you to take away from this session is that grief morphs the feelings of love and pain into one, you might spend the rest of your life trying to make sense of a decision she made in silence, but she wouldn’t want that” Dr. Maryes finished, getting up and leaving the room- knowing Lando might take a moment to leave on his own.

After an hour, Lando finally made it through his own front door.

It didn’t take an hour to get to his home- no, not a home, it was now just a house. Just an empty shell of a house without your blooming presence. Without the smell of your constant baking in the kitchen, the flowers that used to be everywhere in the apartment- which were now all dying due to Lando not taking care of them. You lingered but you weren’t there.

Instead of coming straight home, he took the long way that had barely any people on the street- the paparazzi and people in general were looking at him like they were waiting for him to fall apart on the sidewalk every since the news of your death spread (which they somehow found before Lando even told his team).

As he walked through the empty apartment, Lando kept his eyes on the ground. All around the apartment were photos of you two together, photos of you with your nieces and nephews, and just little touches that reminded him of you everywhere he looked that he couldn’t bring himself to put in a box but couldn’t bear to look at either.

“Goddamn it, Max” Lando groaned once he saw containers of food on his kitchen counter which was now clean instead of being filled with old plates and probably moldy food that he hadn't been bothered to clean up. 

Giving Max the spare key to the apartment was obviously a mistake, seeing as Lando hadn’t left in weeks he had the ability to turn Max’s food away at the door, but since he was out at the therapy appointment Max must’ve come in by himself.

Max also left the letter from you on the table, leading to Lando frantically checking the seal to make sure it hadn’t been opened. Obviously he knew that Max would never open it without his permission but he couldn’t help but check, seeing as the aging, months-old seal had become a comfort for Lando.

Though when he picked it up to turn it over, for the first time he touched the centre of the envelope instead of just the edges.

One would think this wouldn’t make a difference but Lando realised that what laid inside the envelope was in fact not a letter, or not just a letter. Instead inside the envelope was something like a… stick. He always assumed the reason the envelope was thick was because she wrote a thick letter, maybe a lot of pages, not this.

“No, don’t do this to me, love” Lando whispered like a broken man at a sudden thought about what could be in the envelope, choking out another sob as his heart somehow shattered for what felt like the thousandth time since your death.

As curiosity got the better of him, he slowly opened that seal with precision not even seen on the race track, his shaky hands looking away before he could even see what was inside.

Lando moved to grab his phone out of his back pocket- as much as he wanted to seal the envelope up again and cry whenever he saw it, he knew that he needed support from the one person who knew him best, but who he kept pushing away.

“Lando?” Max’s voice came through the speaker as Lando’s hands gripped the edge of the counter-top to the point of his knuckles turning white.

“I just- fuck, I don’t know what to do, Max” Lando’s voice got shakier as he spoke more, his eyes burning down at the opened envelope without looking at its contents.

“Talk to me, Lando. Tell me what’s wrong, let me help you” Max frantically said in a calm way, not knowing if Lando would just hang up on him if he took too long to answer.

“You know how before everything happened I told you that she brought up children?” Lando asked rhetorically before gulping and speaking again. “I- I touched the envelope today, and- I think there’s a- a- a you know… inside”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words, afraid of making it come true.

“Oh. Well, she clearly wanted you to know, and I think you should open it. I’ll stay on here the entire time, you can hang up if it gets too much, but we both know not knowing will kill you inside”

Max is right. It would kill him inside. Maybe not just inside but all together.

Why would she leave it for him if she didn’t want him to know?

But what if it’s positive? What if she killed herself knowing that she was pregnant with his child? Would that make him see her differently?

But what if it was negative? Would it make every little worry go away? Or would he be even further broken knowing that he never had a chance of having children with her? Giving him the negative test just to rub it in?

“Okay.” Lando spoke after minutes of silence and just thinking. “I’m going to open it, please just- I can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not doing this alone, I’m with you the whole way, Lando. I’m here” Max reassured him, bringing a comforting presence to Lando’s cold apartment.

Slowly reaching for the envelope, memories flash past his eyes; your first kiss, when you first started hinting at engagement rings, him proposing, you being there at his first Formula One Grand Prix win, your first time at a race, him at your university graduation- you bringing up children.

“What do you think about children?” She asked Lando, leaning over the barrier at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.

“Children? What- you want them?” Lando asked her, leaning closer to her as well with a smile once she nodded slightly. “Really? With me?”

“Of course with you, Lan. Who else?” She teased, kissing him softly with a giggle.

“God, you make me so happy, love. If anything happened to you I don’t know what I’d do” Lando grinned before kissing her cheek and rushing away to his team.

Lando should have noticed the happy glint in your eyes fading at the mention of him losing you, he should have told your therapist about what he was seeing at home, but he wanted to believe that you were getting better.

The stick dropped from the envelope and landed upside down, the side that Lando actually wanted to see facing the counter.

With the drop and then silence, Max spoke again. “Everything alright? What does it say?”

“It’s fucking upside down mate.” Lando whispered. Any other person would just flip it around, maybe ask ‘why can’t you just flip it over, answer all your questions?’. “I can’t do it.”

“What? Do you need me to come over?”

“No, I- I just- I can’t do it. What if the results ruin the image that I have of her forever? She’s- she’s fucking perfect and if this is a result that I don’t like I don’t want to know, Max”

Even if he doesn’t know which result he would prefer, Lando knows that whatever the outcome is- it will change his view on your memory forever, and that’s something that he can’t just ignore to look past it onto all the good ones. Lando can look past the drugs and the overdose and the lying- he’d seen what it did to you, how it changed you and how you genuinely were trying to get better at some point; that it had just gotten to be too much.

But either you knew you were pregnant when you overdosed or you were almost taunting him with the fact that you weren’t pregnant and you had brought up children? That was something Lando could not bear to think about, let alone look past.

“Shit- I’m coming over, Lando. Don’t move and don’t leave the apartment, okay? I’ll be there in a minute, it will be alright” Max’s panicked voice came through the speaker as Lando could hear him walking, almost running, to his car.

Even with Max coming to help him through it, Lando still couldn’t do it. Maybe it was for the best, it might make it easier to move on.

With one final breath, shaky hands, and more tears running down his face than ever but somehow time moved slower than ever. Picking up the pregnancy test, he placed it back into the envelope and sealed it again, leaving it back in the place where he found it.

A mystery envelope for another day, maybe when he was on his deathbed,  maybe next week, maybe in ten years- who knows. But for when he was better and it wouldn’t change how he saw the beautiful, kind, amazing woman he used to know and now only see’s in his dreams and in his mind.

It might kill him to not open the envelope, but it would kill him even more to know.

[studioeisa]

back to heaven 🎤 junhui x reader.

he doesn’t reach for you. he wouldn’t dare. but the thought is there, a dangerous wish forming teeth. ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 demonyo, juan karlos

word count: 2k · includes: romance, angst-ish; fallen angel!junhui, angel!reader, sprinkle of religious imagery, love at first sight adjacent

The elevator groans before it moves.

Always, there’s that damn pause. That held breath before descent. The low flicker of red light overhead, casting everything in that blood-warm hue. Jun likes it. Or rather, he’s grown used to it—like how some people learn to love the sound of rain dripping through a cracked ceiling. 

Jun has been here long enough to know which buttons stick, which ones bite back. He presses B6 with his thumb and waits for the shuddering sigh of motion, for the world to dip beneath him.

It’s not glamorous, Hell’s elevator. Brass railings dulled with use, floor littered with lost feathers, the scent of ash and old roses baked into the walls. The mirrors are warped and unforgiving. They stretch you out in cruel ways, elongate shadows, catch secrets in the corner of your eye. 

Jun runs a hand through his hair and watches his reflection anyway. The wings at his back aren’t much to look at anymore. Charred at the tips, molting in slow defiance. He doesn’t bother hiding them. 

Everyone here already knows what he is. There’s nothing left to disguise.

There are days when Jun tries to remember what it was like before. Not Heaven, not exactly. Instead, the softness of morning light through cathedral glass. The way his name used to sound when spoken without fear. But those are old thoughts. Dangerous ones. He shakes them off like cobwebs.

The elevator lurches. Then stops.

Not on B6.

Jun blinks. The light stutters. The air inside shifts, thinner now. Like the breath before prayer.

The doors groan open.

You step in.

New wings. Untouched. Light still clinging to your skin like dew, like some god kissed you into being just this morning. Jun feels it before he even sees you—the sudden absence of Hell’s weight in the room, like something holy cracked the air in two. 

Your presence is a disruption, an error in the pattern. And yet, here you are, wide-eyed and blinking in the red glow. You look up, startled. “Oh,” you say, your voice as steady as a Psalm. “I—I think I’m lost.”

Jun stares. For a moment, he forgets how to speak. His mouth opens, closes. “Clearly,” he manages dryly, thumbing the emergency stop. “Unless you’re planning to start a revolution.”

You blink at him, then smile. That’s worse. That’s so much worse.

You say, “You’re not what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine? Horns? Pitchfork?”

“Something less sad.”

Jun’s laugh scrapes low in his throat. It surprises even him. He leans against the railing, wings rustling faintly behind him. “Well. You caught me on an off-century.”

You take a tentative step closer, studying the buttons on the panel as if one of them might explain all this. You don’t belong here. It’s written in the clean lines of your face, in the way your halo is still faintly humming, as if unsure whether to stay lit.

A pause. Then, you ask, “Are you taking me back?”

He studies you. Not just the eyes, though they’re luminous in the flickering light—but the way your fingers worry at the hem of your robe. The way you tilt toward the doorway, as if part of you still thinks you might flee. You haven’t decided if you trust him yet. He wouldn’t either.

Jun could lie. He’s good at that. But he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he says. “This isn’t your stop, angel.” 

Another silence, this one thicker. Charged with something unspoken.

“But you do?”

He almost smiles. Almost.

“I earned it.”

You look like you want to ask how, but you don’t. Maybe that’s why he likes you already.

Jun exhales. “Alright. Let’s find your way out. Just… try not to touch anything. Hell’s funny about what it keeps.”

You nod. You glance back once, toward the threshold, but you don’t step away. Your feet are planted here now. In this strange liminal space with him.

Somewhere above, the elevator begins to rise. Slowly. Like it, too, has to decide if you deserve to leave. The lift creaks upward, slow as breath between confessions.

Jun watches the floor numbers flicker above the door, though they mean nothing here. He gave up measuring time in digits centuries ago. In the in-betweens, seconds and hours blur like paint left out in the rain. The ride could take minutes. It could take years.

He shifts his weight, one wing dragging lightly against the railing. You’re perched across from him, legs tucked under you like you’re used to comfort. As if Hell’s elevator is just another library stairwell or sun-warmed rooftop. 

You are so criminally out of place, it’s laughable. That truth pulses in the air between you—brighter than your halo, louder than your laugh. Which, at the moment, is echoing off the metal walls.

Jun winces. “Do you always laugh that loud?”

“Only when things are funny,” you say, grinning like this place isn’t trying to unmake you. “You make a lot of faces, you know. All sorts of frowns and sighs.”

“That’s just my face.”

“It’s a very dramatic one.”

He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. You’ve been talking since the doors closed. Questions, mostly. What do the buttons do? What floor were you going to? What does it mean to earn Hell? 

He’s answered none of them. You don’t seem deterred.

Now you’re leaning forward, hands wrapped around the brass railing. “Do you remember what Heaven feels like?”

“No,” comes Jun’s too-fast answer. 

You tilt your head. “Liar.”

He hates that you say it softly, without accusation. Just curiosity. As if peeling back the layers of his silence is a game, not a risk. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” he murmurs.

“Maybe I do want the answers,” you muse. “Maybe I just want to know you.”

That strikes something in him. A note too tender to name. He looks away, watches the red numbers crawl. “No one wants to know me. They want to fix me, or punish me. Or worse, they want to save me,” he grumbles.

You frown. “I never said you need saving.”

Jun turns his head. Your eyes are steady. Too steady. He finds himself saying, quietly, “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“And you don’t know who I am,” you reply. “But I’m still here.”

The silence between you grows legs, starts to pace. Jun grips the railing tighter. The elevator hums like it might never stop.

Love. He hasn’t thought of that word in years.

It feels out of place in his mouth, like trying to speak in a language he used to dream in. But it lingers now, curled in the back of his mind like smoke. You with your warm voice and louder laugh, your endless questions and luminous skin.

Jun speaks before he means to. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You shrug, so painfully blind in your faith that Jun remembers why he gave it all up in the first place. “Maybe I should be,” you concede. “But I think you're more afraid of yourself than I ever could be.”

The elevator ticks upward, slower now. Jun wonders if it senses the shift in the air.

He watches you in the flickering light, halo casting soft circles on the mirror. He doesn’t reach for you. He wouldn’t dare. But the thought is there, a dangerous wish forming teeth.

Love. Not as salvation. Not as forgiveness.

Just as this: wanting to be near you a little longer.

Jun closes his eyes. The elevator rises, and rises, and rises. 

And then it slows.

Jun feels it before the lights shift. That delicate decrescendo of motion. The hum quiets, settles into something almost mournful. The numbers overhead stall and stutter then disappear entirely. The walls exhale heat like a breath held too long.

Jun’s hand drops from the control panel, fingers brushing absently over the brass rail. He doesn't look at you right away. Instead, he presses his palm flat to the panel again, like maybe it’ll wake. 

But the buttons are dull now, lifeless. This is the end of his reach. The elevator has given him all it can. Beyond this point, the doors don’t just separate spaces. They separate fates.

“Purgatory,” he says softly, more to the elevator than to you. “Transfer stop.”

You glance around, puzzled. Your nose wrinkles. “This doesn’t look like anything.”

“That’s the point,” Jun replies curtly, eyes still on the grey haze spilling in through the doors. “Purgatory doesn’t choose sides. It waits. It watches. It doesn’t offer much, just space to decide what you are, or what you aren’t.”

The doors open with a sigh, as if they, too, are reluctant.

It’s gray beyond you. Not cold, not warm. Air that doesn’t carry a scent. Light that doesn’t cast shadows. The kind of nothing that makes your thoughts echo too loudly, like hearing your heartbeat in a sealed room. The kind of place that feels like memory without shape.

Jun steps back, not quite into the light. “I can’t go further than this.”

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Why not?”

His hand curls loosely at his side, wings twitching with some restless instinct. “Because I’m not allowed where you’re going,” he says, and it feels a lot like the confessions a long-gone version of him used to make. “I haven’t been in a very long time.” 

You wait. You don’t ask what he did. You don’t ask if he regrets it. You just look at him, that same steady look that has followed him up each floor, as if you knew something he didn’t. The silence that follows is gentle. Not awkward. Just ache.

You study him, and he hates how your gaze makes him feel seen. No one has looked at him like that in centuries. Not with pity, not with fear, but with something quieter. Recognition.

“What do I do now?” you ask, voice delicate, as though you already sense how far he’s receding.

Jun gestures beyond the threshold. “Walk straight until you find a staircase. Keep walking. Don’t stop for anyone who asks your name. Don’t follow voices that sound like mine. The next elevator will find you.”

You nod, but your feet don’t move. Your hands fidget at your sides. You glance behind you, at the depths you rose from, then forward into that featureless mist.

You say, too quietly, “Will I ever see you again?”

Jun’s jaw clenches.

He wants to say yes. He wants to say wait. He wants to take one step forward and say everything he’s never said to anyone since the fall. That he used to play harps and hold stardust in his hands. That his wings used to glow brighter than your halo. That once, a long time ago, he stood where you are now and felt nothing but peace.

Instead, he says, “I hope not.”

You flinch like he struck you. And still, you nod. Because you’re good. Because you understand. Because that’s what makes you whole where he is broken.

You step through the doors.

You don’t look back. Not right away. You walk slow, like you want to give the moment a chance to change its mind. But just as you start to vanish into the grey, you turn. Your halo tilts slightly, the light soft on your brow, shadowless. You’re smiling, smiling in a way that Jun hasn’t deserved in millennia. And you say it like a benediction or a curse, or maybe both:

“Goodbye, angel.”

You’re gone before the word is out of your mouth. But it’s there, it’s spoken, and Jun freezes as it echoes in his elevator like a stone dropped in a still pond. Angel.

Once, maybe. Before the war, before the fall, before he chose wrath over wonder. But now the title burns in his chest.

He exhales. The ache is sharp and sudden, sharper than the fire that once ate through his wings. This fall, this moment—this is the one that hurts. Not the punishment, not the exile, but the goodbye.

Purgatory hums quietly outside. Soft and still and endless. And Jun, for the first time in centuries, feels like he’s been left behind. Not cast out. Not condemned.

Just… left.

He lets the moment pass over him. Then, he leans forward and clicks B6. 🎼

[sahrberrii]

MEET gym rats (real not fake)

from 𓍯𓂃 A LITTLE WHITE LIE, h. iwaizumi

⏦ﾟextra scribbles

˒ iwaizumi ⋮ yn’s childhood best friend who’s been in love with her ever since he can remember. he’s currently doing his sophomore year abroad in cali and is a few weeks from coming back to japan. when yn told him she started dating atsumu he lowkey hated himself a little for not asking her out before but the distance made it a bit hard anyway. before moving to cali for his year abroad, he was roommates with oikawa. he forcibly got added to this group chat but thought it would be a good way of implementing what he’s been studying anyway so why not? for one of his birthdays, he got gifted a matching keychain w yn and finally put it to use when he travelled to cali, and it never leaves his bag now but she doesn’t know. he got yn a ton of gifts though he’s not sure if he’s gonna give them to her because he’s scared. HES SO DOWN BAD if that wasn’t already clear.

˒ atsumu ⋮ the sole reason for iwa being in that gc, he did not leave iwa alone till he got his number (he forgot he could ask yn for iwa’s number). he lowkey thought iwa looked so cool exercising and like he owned the place and wanted advice from him!! after knowing that iwa is the same guy yn has been gushing over and seeing how he acts around her, he decided that he’ll torment iwa by pissing him off and using the fact that he’s dated yn to annoy him. devil��s advocate dare i say. got to know oikawa through the vb team!!

˒ oikawa ⋮ shared a dorm with iwa before he left for his year abroad and now mostly hangs in shobokukags dorm. he knows of iwaizumi’s feelings and has tried to push him a multitude of times to confess but to no avail (iwaizuimi is very stubborn and very scared). he feels like throwing up after every yniwa interaction he witnesses because they’re so blindly in love with one another but so blindly oblivious. oh and he was friends w yn before she left so they were a trio. he’s a part of the uni vb team.

˒ kags ⋮ shares a dorm with bokuto and hinata and can’t tell if he likes it or not (the only good thing is that these 2 are willing to go practice at 4am). plays in the uni’s vb team and hates that he has to study in order to play but maybe it’s all worth it. met yn a few times as well and they talk every now and then. he, too, thinks it’s stupid how iwa and yn have not dated till now because even a person as romantically oblivious and uninvolved as him can see that they’re made for each other.

˒ shoyo ⋮ he thinks being in a dorm with kags and bokuto is the best decision of his life. plays for the uni volleyball team as well and is often at yn’s dorm bc noya invites him.

˒ bokuto ⋮ the second sole reason for iwaizumi being in the gc. iwaizumi thinks he has so much potential but sometimes is so annoying (just too loud). again met yn a multitude of times because of akaashi sharing a dorm w her. he plays on the vb team as well!!

taglist (open, comment to be added) ⨾

@kameyyy @ayatakanosstuff @megumismyhusband @mayyhaps

@biancaackerman @binkibuns @ihsoti @megapteraurelia

@silkloom @nanasrkives @cupidsblonde @whoevenisjessica

[bebe-writes-stuff]

Title: You drew me?

Pairing: Mikey x Reader

Summary: “You left your diary at my house. And I read those pages, do you really love me, baby?”

(Fluff) (No warnings)

————————————————————————

Y/N had been friends with Emma for as long as she could remember. The two were inseparable, and Emma’s house had always been her second home. It wasn’t unusual for Y/N to spend most of her afternoons there, lounging on the couch, talking about everything under the sun. But there was one problem that always seemed to linger in the back of Y/N’s mind—the presence of Mikey.

Mikey wasn’t your typical guy. He was charismatic, carefree, and always had that smirk that made you feel like he knew something you didn’t. But Y/N, She was quiet, reserved, never the type to make her feelings obvious. And Mikey? Well, he noticed.

Y/N always tried to be discreet, glancing at Mikey when she thought he wasn’t looking, stealing the occasional peek when Emma and Mikey would argue, or when he was deep in thought. There was something about him—something about that air of mystery—that intrigued her, but she never said it aloud.

And Mikey? He was more than aware. He noticed the way her eyes would dart away whenever his gaze met hers, the way her cheeks would redden just a bit when he caught her staring a little too long. It was almost cute, really. And honestly? He liked the attention.

One day, randomly, Mikey had been rifling through a pile of papers on the kitchen counter when his hand brushed against something—a notebook, your notebook, thick with pages. Curiosity got the better of him, and before he knew it, he was flipping through it, his smirk growing wider.

It was a collection of sketches—drawings of him. Different angles, different expressions—capturing everything from his lazy grin to the sharpness in his eyes. His fingers traced over the edges of the pages. So she was keeping these secret little portraits of him, huh?

He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. He should’ve known.

A few days later, Emma and Y/N were hanging out again, lounging in Emma’s room, talking about the usual: school, friends, life. It was a typical afternoon until Mikey casually appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, Emma,” Mikey said, flashing his signature smirk. “Can you go grab me some dorayaki? Or, you know, a drink from the store around the corner? I’ll owe you one.”

She blinked, confused. “Uh… sure, I guess. Why now?”

Mikey shrugged nonchalantly, stepping closer. “Because, why not? Y/N stay here and help me out with some stuff.” He shot her a wink as she tilted her head in confusion, raising an eyebrow.

“Wait, what do you need me to do?” Y/N asked, but Mikey was already motioning for her to follow him.

Emma, not one to argue with Mikey. “Alright, Fine. I’ll be back soon, Y/N,” she said, brushing past Mikey.

Mikey grabbed Y/N by the wrist, pulling her out of the room before she could protest.

“Wait, Mikey, what’s going on?” Y/N asked, her confusion obvious as Mikey led her down the hall to a quieter part of the house.

Mikey gave her a sideways glance, his smirk widening. “Just trust me, Y/N. You’ll want to see this.”

He led you into one of the empty room, shutting the sliding door behind him with a quiet click. Your pulse quickened, but you tried to keep your cool.

“Mikey, seriously. What’s this about?”

He turned toward you, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then he reached behind one of the couch cushions and pulled out your sketchbook.

Your breath caught. “Wait—what the hell, where did you get that?”

“You left it on the counter the other day,” he said, flipping it open lazily. “At first, I thought it was just random drawings, but… imagine my surprise.”

He tilted the book toward you, revealing a sketch of him—leaning on the couch, that lazy look in his eyes perfectly captured in pencil. “They’re good. Like, really good.”

Y/N lunged forward to grab the notebook, but Mikey was faster—his arm shot up, raising it just out of her reach.

“Give it back!”

she slammed into him full force chest-first, knocking him completely off balance. The two of them tumbled to the floor with a loud thud.

Y/N blinked, heart hammering, realizing she was now sprawled on top of him, her face mere inches from his. Mikey’s laugh echoed in the quiet room, low and amused.

“Well damn,” he grinned up at her, his hands moving instinctively to her waist. “You could at least take me out to dinner first before tackling me like that.”

Her eyes widened in horror, and she scrambled off him so fast it made her dizzy, sitting up with her knees pulled close to her chest, cheeks burning.

“You’re such a jerk,” she muttered, trying to regulate her breathing while avoiding his gaze.

“Relax,” he said, grinning.

You crossed your arms, trying to mask your embarrassment. “It wasn’t meant for anyone to see.”

“Oh, I figured,” he said, stepping closer. “But it’s kind of flattering, you know. You’ve been watching me pretty closely to get all these angles right.”

His words made your stomach twist. He was teasing you, sure—but there was something else behind his tone. Something quieter.

“I wasn’t trying to be creepy,” you muttered. “I just… I like drawing people. You were around. That’s all.”

Mikey quirked an eyebrow. “So if I looked in another sketchbook, I’d see Draken, or Emma, or random classmates?”

You looked away. Silence was its own answer.

Mikey’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something gentler. He held the notebook out to you.

“Y/N,” he said, and his voice lost that usual lazy drawl. “I’m not mad. Honestly, I think it’s kinda cool. I just wanted to know why me.”

Y/N swallowed. “I… don’t know. You’re just… always around. And you’re hard to ignore.”

Mikey arched an eyebrow. “So you like me.”

Y/N opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her face betrayed her, heat rising to her cheeks. She turned away.

Mikey was quiet for a beat. Then he let out a soft laugh, “You’re weird,” he said, but there was no malice in it. “But, like… a good kind of weird. You’re cute. Real quiet, but funny when you get mad. And those drawings? You see me better than anyone.”

For the first time, she saw something different in his expression—something sincere.

Mikey stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “So how about this: next time you want to draw me, just ask. I’ll pose for you.”

Y/N blinked up at him, stunned. “You’d actually let me draw you? Like… on purpose?”

Mikey plopped down beside her again, resting his arms over his knees. “Why not? I’m a great subject.”

She snorted. “You’re a terrible subject. You move too much.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll stay still this time. Come on, prove you’re not just creeping on me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but reached for her sketchbook anyway, flipping to a blank page. “Fine. Don’t talk. Don’t smirk. Just—sit still.”

He obeyed, crossing his legs and straightening his back, trying to mimic a stoic model. Y/N settled across from him, pencil in hand, trying to focus. But the longer she looked at him, the harder it became to concentrate. His gaze never left her.

She tilted her head, frowning slightly, then leaned forward. “There’s… a shadow on your jaw I can’t quite get right—hold on.”

Without thinking, her hand reached out, fingertips brushing gently along the line of his jaw. Mikey didn’t flinch. In fact, he tilted his head slightly, letting her touch him, watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.

“Y’know,” he said softly, “you don’t hide it very well.”

Her hand froze. “Hide what?”

“The way you look at me. Like I’m something worth staring at.”

She pulled her hand back quickly, face flushing. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“You do,” he interrupted, leaning in just slightly. “It’s not a bad thing.”

There was a long, weighted pause. The room felt too quiet now.

Mikey shifted forward, now only inches from her. “You ever think about kissing me?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What?”

He smirked, but it was softer now, teasing without the edge. “I think about it sometimes. Especially when you’re this close.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest. He was looking right at her—eyes half-lidded, voice low, tone teasing but heavy with something else.

For a second, she swore he was going to close the gap.

But then—

He leaned back with a satisfied smirk, hands behind his head. “But hey, maybe next time. You still haven’t taken me to dinner.”

Y/N stared at him, wide-eyed, cheeks burning. “You’re seriously the worst.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, grinning.

She tossed a pillow at him.

He caught it with one hand, still grinning, but then he paused, voice quieter now. “People usually look at me like I’m some reckless idiot. Like I’m gonna fall apart any second.”

She didn’t say anything. Just watched him.

“But you…” he looked over at her, expression unusually sincere. “You look at me like I’m worth understanding.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She wasn’t expecting that.

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Makes it hard not to like you back.”

The words hung in the air between them, soft and heavy and just real enough to make her heart ache.

Y/N didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded, biting back a smile.

Mikey grinned. “Now finish that sketch before I get wrinkles from staying this still.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping her pencil upright again, but couldn’t fight the way her hands trembled slightly—because everything had just changed.

Y/N was still trying to steady her hand when the sliding door abruptly creaked open.

“Hey, I’m back!” Emma’s voice rang out, followed by the soft crinkle of a plastic bag. “Mikey, they were out of your stupid dorayaki so I—” She paused mid-step, taking in the scene.

Y/N sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook in hand. Mikey seated across from her, much too close, far too relaxed. Her eyes narrowed slowly as the realization clicked into place.

Y/N stiffened like she’d been caught doing something illegal.

Mikey just smirked. “Took you long enough.”

Emma’s gaze ping-ponged between the two of them, then dropped to the faint pink still lingering on Y/N’s cheeks. “Okay… what did I miss?”

“Nothing.” Y/N blurted, way too fast. She slammed her sketchbook shut and stood up like the floor had burned her.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Right. And I’m a goldfish.”

Mikey stood too, stretching casually as if nothing had happened. “She’s drawing me. That’s all.”

Emma blinked. “Wait, seriously? You let someone draw you? You barely let people take photos.”

Mikey shrugged, tossing a lazy grin toward Y/N. “She asked nicely.”

Y/N scoffed. “I did not.”

Emma looked between them again—Mikey grinning like a cat who’d found his favorite toy, and Y/N, visibly trying not to implode. Her lips twitched.

Emma grinned. “I’m just saying, if you guys are gonna have weird flirty floor moments, at least tell me so I don’t walk into a live drama scene.”

“We weren’t flirting!” Y/N said, but even she didn’t sound convinced.

Mikey sipped from the drink Emma gave him and looked over at her with a smirk. “You kinda were.”

Y/N shot him a look. “Mikey.”

He just shrugged and leaned against the wall, that same lazy look in his eyes. “What? I like being your muse.”

Emma blinked. “Okay, what the hell happened while I was gone?”

Y/N shook her head, defeated. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Emma, satisfied that something had definitely happened, grabbed her phone. “Good. Carry on. I’m gonna pretend I’m not here.”

Mikey looked at Y/N again, this time his smile a little softer. “You still owe me that sketch, y’know.”

Y/N sighed, sitting down again with her sketchbook. “Fine. But if you move this time, I’m giving you a mustache.”

“Worth it,” he murmured, eyes on her instead of the page.

————————————————————————

[yoursaltyqueen]

You’re enough for me - Part 2

It had been three weeks.

Twenty-one days of waking up and remembering he was gone.

Of crying until your chest physically hurt, until you felt hollow and small and stupid for still loving someone who left you so easily.

You’d barely eaten. Barely slept.

Every mirror you passed made you flinch — like you didn’t recognize yourself anymore.

And now here you were, standing in Sam Wilson’s backyard, wearing a sundress that felt too bright for how heavy your heart was, pretending to sip the glass of cheap white wine in your hand.

Pretending you weren’t watching him.

Bucky Barnes.

Laughing with someone near the grill, head tipped back, sunlight catching on his dark hair.

Playing with Sam’s nephews like he wasn’t the same man who tore your heart in half three weeks ago.

Smiling like he hadn’t left you sobbing on the floor of your apartment, begging him to stay.

Your throat burned as you swallowed back the lump rising there.

It hurt.

God, it hurt watching him look happy.

Like leaving you had lifted some invisible weight off his shoulders.

Like breaking you was what finally gave him peace.

Your fingers tightened around the wine glass until your knuckles went white.

You looked away, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.

Sam appeared beside you then, holding a beer, eyes already narrowed at you like he could see straight through your fake smile.

“You’ve been starin’ at him for twenty minutes,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear over the summer music and laughter.

“Not real subtle, kid.”

You huffed out a humorless breath and tipped your glass back, wincing as the too-sweet wine burned on the way down.

“I’m not staring,” you mumbled.

“Just… observing.”

Sam gave you a long look.

The kind that made your skin itch because he didn’t buy your bullshit for a second.

“You okay?” he asked finally, voice softer.

It was the first time anyone had asked you that and actually meant it in weeks.

Your throat closed up.

You laughed — sharp, bitter.

“Do I look okay?”

Sam’s face didn’t change.

Didn’t flinch when your voice wobbled.

Didn’t look away when your eyes got glassy again.

“You look like hell,” he said bluntly.

“Like someone wrung you out and left you in the sun to dry.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Sam took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes flicking back toward Bucky — still grinning at the kids, like he was the goddamn poster boy for summer fun.

Then Sam looked at you again.

“You been cryin’ every night since it happened?” he asked, voice too calm.

Your chest went tight.

You looked away, swallowing hard.

“Every night,” you whispered.

“Sometimes during the day, too. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what I did wrong. About why I wasn’t enough.”

Your voice cracked.

Sam cursed under his breath and reached out, squeezing your shoulder.

His hand was solid and warm, grounding you for a second when you felt like you might shatter all over again.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and firm.

“You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. That man—”

His jaw clenched.

“He’s got a brain full of demons that tell him he can’t have good things. That he’s safer alone. That if he lets himself be happy, he’s just waitin’ for it to get ripped away.”

Sam’s eyes softened, but his voice stayed steady.

“And it ain’t your job to fix that. It never was.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, tears burning again.

“Then why does it feel like I broke?” you whispered.

“Why does it feel like he got better and I’m the one who can’t breathe anymore?”

Sam’s face twisted, sympathy clear there even though he tried to play it cool.

“Because you loved him,” he said simply.

“Loved him so hard you forgot to leave some love for yourself.”

That broke something inside you again.

Your shoulders sagged, and you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to keep your mascara from smudging worse than it already had.

Sam’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder.

“You’re here,” he said.

“You showed up. You’re still standin’. That counts for somethin’, kid.”

Your breath shuddered out.

You nodded, even though your heart still felt like it was in pieces.

Your eyes flicked back toward Bucky — who was now leaning down, laughing as he let one of Sam’s nieces braid a little flower crown into his hair.

He looked soft. Gentle.

Happy.

And it made your chest ache all over again.

Because you’d seen that version of him, once.

In the dark, in your bed, whispering things against your skin like you were the only peace he’d ever known.

But now, watching him from across the yard, you wondered why he could give that smile to everyone else — but not to you.

Why loving you had been the thing that made him run.

Sam followed your gaze and sighed.

“You want me to kick him out?” he muttered.

“Say the word. I’ll make up somethin’ about him disrespecting the grill code or whatever.”

A broken little laugh escaped you.

You shook your head, tears still stinging but your lips twitching upward just a little.

“No. He looks… happy.”

Your voice cracked.

“Let him be happy.”

Sam’s jaw clenched again, but he nodded.

“Alright. But you come sit with me and Sarah. And you eat somethin’ before you pass out in this heat. Deal?”

You nodded, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

“Deal.”

Sam squeezed your shoulder one more time before steering you toward the picnic table.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t help but glance back one last time—

At Bucky.

At the man who still held your heart, even if he never wanted it again.

|

|

|

You sat stiffly at the picnic table while Sarah Wilson handed you a plate.

A burger, some salad, a scoop of potato something — all of it bright and summery, the opposite of how you felt inside.

Your stomach turned at the sight.

But Sam’s words echoed in your head.

“You eat somethin’ before you pass out in this heat. Deal?”

So you picked at the food.

Small bites. Swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Just enough to stop your hands from shaking.

Sarah slid onto the bench beside you, her presence warm and solid.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just sat there, letting the summer sounds and laughter fill the silence between you.

Finally, she spoke, voice soft but firm.

“You don’t gotta pretend with me, honey.”

Your throat closed up.

You blinked hard at your plate, your fork trembling a little as you stabbed at the salad.

“I’m fine,” you muttered automatically.

A lie so thin it almost made you laugh.

Sarah snorted.

“Yeah. And I’m the queen of Wakanda.”

You huffed out a weak, watery laugh, and your shoulders slumped.

The tears threatened again, but you swallowed them back.

Barely.

Sarah’s hand settled on your back, warm and steady.

“You loved that man,” she said gently.

“And he broke you clean in two. Ain’t no shame in hurtin’ from that.”

Your breath hitched.

The truth of it cracked something loose again.

Your jaw trembled as you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop hurting.”

Sarah rubbed a slow, soothing circle between your shoulder blades.

“You will. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you’ll look at him and it won’t feel like you’re bleeding out.”

Her voice softened even more.

“And until then, you keep eatin’. You keep showin’ up. And you lean on people who got you. Like me. Like Sam.”

Your eyes stung again, but you nodded.

Took another bite of food.

It didn’t taste like much, but at least it stayed down.

And that, you figured, was progress.

****

Across the yard, Bucky stood near the grill, arms crossed tight over his chest.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Sam noticed.

Of course he did.

Sam always noticed.

He stepped in close, voice low.

“Alright. Spit it out.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“Nothing to spit out.”

Sam gave him a look like he wanted to smack him upside the head.

“You think I can’t see you starin’ at her every five seconds? Man, you’re about as subtle as a car crash.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“She’s not… supposed to be here,” he muttered.

Voice rough.

“She’s supposed to hate me.”

Sam let out a humorless laugh.

“Oh, she does. Believe me. But hate don’t cancel out heartbreak, Barnes. You left her in pieces, and now you’re both out here pretendin’ like you ain’t dyin’ inside.”

Bucky flinched.

His eyes flicked toward you — still sitting at the table, head bowed, Sarah rubbing your back like you might fall apart any second.

The sight made his chest ache.

Sam followed his gaze, his voice dropping lower.

“You look happy right now. Playin’ with my nephews, smilin’ like life’s all sunshine. But I know better. I see you, man. You ain’t slept right in weeks. You’ve lost weight. And you sure as hell ain’t happy.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened until the muscle there twitched.

His voice cracked when he finally said,

“I thought leaving her would make it easier. Safer.”

Sam’s eyes went sharp.

“For who? You? Or her?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Sam shook his head, disgusted.

“You broke her heart, man. And you broke your own right along with it. So what now? You just gonna keep standin’ here watchin’ her fall apart while you pretend you’re fine?”

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the ground, his throat working as he struggled to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

He felt like he was suffocating.

Like every part of him wanted to run to you — to fix what he broke — but the fear kept his feet glued to the spot.

Sam’s voice softened, but the edge stayed sharp.

“You want this to get better? Then stop lyin’ to yourself. And stop starin’ at her like you’re mournin’ your own damn funeral.”

Bucky’s head snapped up at that, pain flashing in his blue eyes.

Sam just stared him down, unrelenting.

Because someone had to say it.

And Bucky—

For the first time since he walked away—

Looked like he might finally crack.

****

The sky was bleeding out in colors — amber, pink, deep purple — as you sat at the edge of the pier behind Sam’s house.

Barefoot. Knees hugged to your chest.

Your summer dress fluttered lightly in the warm breeze, but you hardly noticed.

Your wine buzz had faded hours ago, leaving behind a dull headache and that hollow ache in your chest that had been your constant companion these past three weeks.

You didn’t want to go back inside.

Not yet.

Because you knew he was still in there.

Bucky.

The man who had looked you in the eye and said it was better this way while you begged him not to go.

The man who was now here, sharing the same roof because this stupid BBQ had been planned before he tore your heart in two.

You closed your eyes and let the salty air sting them.

It was quieter out here. Safer.

Footsteps behind you made your whole body stiffen.

Heavy. Familiar.

You knew it was him before he even spoke.

“…You’ve been out here a while.”

Your shoulders tensed, but you didn’t turn around.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your face — the hurt written all over it.

He cleared his throat.

“I just—”

A pause.

“I wanted to say… I’m staying on the couch tonight. So you can have the room. I’ll keep my distance.”

Your jaw clenched.

Your nails dug into the soft skin of your thigh as you muttered, “How considerate of you.”

His breath hitched, just enough for you to catch it.

“I didn’t mean for—”

You shot to your feet so fast it startled him.

Turning to face him, your chest heaved, and your vision blurred with angry tears.

“You didn’t mean for what, Bucky?” you spat.

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care.

“You didn’t mean to completely destroy me? To rip my heart out and act like it was for my own good?”

His face twisted, pained.

“I thought—”

“No. No, you don’t get to ‘thought’ me right now,” you snapped, stepping closer.

Your finger jabbed into his chest, hard enough that he flinched.

“You thought breaking me into pieces was better? You thought leaving me after everything we built would somehow protect me?!”

Bucky’s hands fisted at his sides.

His jaw clenched.

His breathing grew ragged.

“I’m dangerous—”

“Oh, save it,” you snarled.

The tears spilled over now, hot and furious as they tracked down your cheeks.

“I was willing to take every piece of danger if it meant I got to keep you! I loved you, Bucky! I still—”

Your voice cracked so hard it stole the air from your lungs.

“I still love you and I hate myself for it.”

That did it.

His face broke.

All that stoic coldness cracked wide open — guilt, grief, regret written in every line of him.

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he shouted back, voice raw now.

His chest heaved, his blue eyes wild.

“I thought if I walked away, you’d be safe—”

“From what?!” you sobbed.

“From the man who held me when I couldn’t breathe? Who made me feel like maybe I was worth loving? You think that man is a threat to me?!”

His hands raked through his hair, pacing now like a caged animal.

“I’m not good for you—”

“Bullshit!” you screamed, voice shaking with fury and heartbreak.

“You’re terrified! That’s all this is! You got scared of being loved so you destroyed it before it could destroy you!”

The silence after your words was deafening.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a marathon.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

And that—

That broke something in you completely.

You let out a bitter, wet laugh, wiping angrily at your tears.

“God. I can’t even look at you right now.”

You turned, your feet moving before your mind could catch up.

Stumbling back up the pier, heart pounding so loud you thought it might crack open right there in your chest.

“Wait—” Bucky called after you, his voice hoarse and desperate.

But you didn’t stop.

Didn’t turn around.

You just kept walking, back toward the house, toward the only place you could hide.

Away from him.

Because if you stayed out there one second longer, you knew you’d fall apart in front of him all over again.

And this time, you didn’t have the strength to beg.

Not again.

PART 3