#that's kind of how it goes with me and writing

[moonstruckme]

hi, i was wondering if for the new girl au you could write about reader going on a date? maybe the tinder thing worked and all the boys are fussing over her before she goes, and remus feels strangely protective of her but is too oblivious to know why? if not all good <333

Thank you for requesting angel!

cw: some french slander (mostly to fuck with Sirius)

Who’s That Girl AU

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

You want to go straight to your room upon entering the flat, but first you need a snack. This is somewhat of a calculated sacrifice, because your whole way to the kitchen your flatmates stare at you like a zoo animal let out of its enclosure. Sirius has muted their film. 

“So,” says James after a moment, drawing out the o, “how was it?” 

“Bad,” you reply shortly. 

He makes a sound so disappointed you actually feel bad for him. You pivot with a bag of crisps in your hand to find James fully turned around on the sofa with his chin resting on his fist, pouting. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” says Sirius. “Come, spill.” 

You sigh. “I’m tired.” 

“Too bad. You have to debrief with us, it’s in your lease agreement.” 

You give him a dry look. “Is it really.” 

Sirius mirrors you. “Read more carefully next time.” 

You heave another sigh, tearing open your crisps as you go to the end of the couch and curl up against the cushions. James immediately reaches into the bag for a handful. 

“Okay, so remind me,” Sirius says, taking a few from James’ hand, “which one was it that you were with?”  

You frown. “You make it sound like I have dozens of prospects. I’ve only been messaging with three guys.” 

“Malcolm, Tom, and Liam,” James rattles off. 

“Right.” Sirius waves his hand. “And which one of these dull names were you with tonight?” 

“Tom,” you say, crunching down vengefully on a crisp. 

“What was so awful about it?” asks Remus. 

“It was just—” You sigh helplessly. “Honestly, I sort of knew we weren’t going to get along. Even over text, he was dry, sort of boring. I had to ask all the questions. I only went because he’s French.” 

James lets out a startled sort of laughter. “Why?” 

“Because, you know.” You shrug. “It’s kind of a bucket list thing.” 

“Babe,” he laughs, “you can find French men all over London.”

“It’s no wonder he was a prick.” Remus is smirking now, too. 

“Hey!” Sirius objects as James nods his agreement. 

“If you’d told us you were going out with a French bloke,” he says, “we’d have told you not to bother.” 

“Every one of them is pompous, shallow, whiny—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius snaps, scowling when James curls an arm around his neck to ruffle his hair. Remus looks to be hiding a grin. 

“Are you French?” you ask, confused. 

Sirius looks over at you despite James’ loose chokehold, managing to arch a brow. “N’est-ce pas évident à cause de ma peau impeccable et de mon aura cultivée?”

“Goodness.” James blows out a breath, sitting back to fan himself. “I will take you to bed right now.” 

“That,” you clarify. “That is why French men are a bucket list item.” 

Sirius looks smug. “Did he at least like your outfit?” 

“Um,” you hesitate, “he didn’t say—”

“Can’t be that French, then. No taste.” 

“—but to be fair, I don’t think he was paying me much attention.” 

“Definitely no taste,” James seconds. “What do you mean, he wasn’t paying you attention?” 

“He just seemed a lot more interested in talking about himself.” You roll your eyes, gratified when Remus makes a judgemental humphing noise. “It was all about his job, how much money he makes, stuff about cars. He was a big car guy.” 

“Uh oh.” James is smiling again. His eyes slide over to Sirius, who looks already prepared for a fight. “Cars, eh? And are you quite certain your date wasn’t Sirius wearing a hat?” 

“Jar.” Sirius slams his fist down like a gavel. “I demand a contribution to the jar.” 

“Sorry,” says Remus drily, “no.” 

“I may like working on my bike, but I know better than to talk about it! I won’t accept car guy slander in relation to my good name.” 

“Did you or did you not,” says James, with the air of a lawyer in a courthouse drama, “spend twenty minutes telling me about your new muffler?” 

“You fucking liked it, you prat.” 

You hide a smile behind your hand. It does make you feel immensely better coming home to this place of laughter and teasing after the awkwardness of silence across a small table, looking over a full pint of beer that your date ordered for you and you didn’t want. 

“He did actually send me a picture of the inside of his car before we went out,” you say, taking out your phone to show them. 

Remus groans. 

“See?” Sirius spreads his hands. “That’s the difference between me and car guys. I would never do that.” 

“Hold on, let me find it…” You scroll through your messages—large text bubbles of attempted conversation starters on your end, single-word responses and the occasional unsolicited selfie on his—only to gasp and drop your phone when the screen changes without warning. “Oh my god.” 

“What?” James and Sirius ask at once. 

“He’s calling me.” 

“He—Tom?” James’ eyes round behind his glasses. “Tom is calling you?” 

“Yes!”

“Why?” 

“I don’t know!” You toss the phone to Sirius.

He tosses it back to you like a hot potato. “Well, fucking decline!”

“Don’t decline!” says James. “Answer it!” 

“I can’t answer it! Why would I answer it?” 

“Because what if he needs something?” 

“What could he possibly need from her?” Remus asks, frowning. 

“I don’t know—what if—he might want to apologize for how things went. Maybe he was just nervous and he wants to try again!” 

You shake your head. You admire James’ way of looking for the best in people, you really do, but you don’t ever want to see that man again. You’ve worked yourself up too much about it. “I’m not answering it.” 

“Then give it to me.” He reaches into your lap before you can stop him, plucking up your phone. 

“James,” you hiss, as Remus makes a strangled sound and Sirius reaches to snatch the phone from him, but you all turn to statues when James presses a button and says pleasantly, “Hello?” 

You hold your breath. 

“Oh, hi. Tom, is it? I’m her flatmate. What can I do for you?” 

He pauses, listening intently while you and Sirius trade panicky looks. 

“Her lip balm?” James raises his eyebrows at you. You pat your pocket, wincing when the familiar shape of a small tube is missing. “That was kind of you to grab it for her. Right…well, I don’t think all women are forgetful. I wouldn’t say that.” 

You look at your flatmates like see? Sirius’ face screws up in seeming abashment for their gender as a whole, while Remus remains impassive. His eyes lack the warmth you’ve become accustomed to even when he’s frowning. 

“Yeah, sure, you can bring it by—” You jolt, shaking your head vehemently, and James’ eyes widen. “Erm, actually, you can keep it.” A pause. “Yeah, well, it’s just that she’s not in a state to be seeing anyone right now. She’s, um. She’s very sick.” 

You bend over, putting your head in your hands. Sirius reaches over James to pat your back. 

“Yeah, no, rather sudden. What did you have tonight, by the way? It’s really—I mean, are you feeling alright? She’s had her head in the toilet from the moment she got back. Really awful.” 

You hear Remus murmur quietly, “Alright, wrap it up.” 

“No, um, I don’t think tomorrow would work either. For one thing, we don’t know how long the vomiting will last, and for another…she’s…moving?” 

You look up, incredulous. 

“Yes.” James nods, seeming almost as if he’s reassuring himself. “She’s moving. Back home. Just at the end of the week, actually, and you know, um, you can’t bring lip balm on an airplane. Really, you can keep it. I’m sure she’d want you to have it.” 

“Why is he making it sound like I’m dead?” you whisper to Sirius, who only shakes his head, resigned. 

“No, she had a really lovely time with you—she managed to tell us that, through all the vomitting—so she’d…want you to have something to remember her by. Yeah, alright. You too. Thanks, mate.” James ends the call, blowing out a breath. “You owe me so big for that.” 

“I owe you?” you ask, astonished. “How did all that end up with me owing you?” 

“I got him to leave you alone,” James points out. “And he thinks he was your great British love affair. Everyone’s happy.” 

You make a breathless sound, locking eyes with Remus, who grimaces sympathetically. Sirius, however, pats James on the back. 

“Yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Well done, Jamie. Tom’s going to make out with that lip balm for weeks to come.” 

[catiuskaa]

head touches pillow.

sum: after a long day without you, finally able to cuddle against you, when his head touches the pillow, Hyunjin can’t help but dream.

wc: 5.1k

cw: dreams and art and philosophy coded fluff, hyunjin talks (in detail) about a sex dream, handjob, blowjob(?), aftercare.

[★★{📕}★★]

Hyunjin is a dreamer.

A dreamer is a curious creature whose head often floats several inches —or miles— above the ground, tethered to reality only by the occasional text message, meal, or heartbreak. They are powered by equal parts hope, caffeine —chocolate, in this writer’s case—, and the kind of delusion that dares to believe love letters still are a thing, that strangers on trains might be soulmates, and that rainstorms were invented for dramatic monologues, and really, really wet kisses.

Hyunjin blames his imaginative mind for all the late assignments, failed exams and dull evenings he’s had. If it weren’t for his active little mind, in a constant need for dopamine and books that can make one curl in bed, kicking their legs as they giggle and read about romance they can only hope they get to live, maybe he would’ve payed more attention —on a general sense, that is. And on a particular one, maybe then he wouldn’t have lost the bus that day.

But that would mean he wouldn’t have met you.

When a dreamer falls for another dreamer, the universe experiences a brief but noticeable glitch—somewhere, a clock forgets how to tick, a soldier writes poetry, and a star goes slightly off course just to watch what happens next.

“Oh, Larry won’t open the door for you, so I wouldn’t run,” you chuckle. “Mean bus driver, the fella.”

And Hyunjin just blinks, watching the red bus turn smaller as it drives away.

Turning to face you, he swears, changed his brain chemistry. Not that he knows much about brains nor chemistry, but somehow, when his eyes meet yours for the first time, it was as if the air paused mid-breath, unsure whether to exhale or hold onto the moment forever. There was no thunderclap, no dramatic swell of music —just a quiet, electric recognition, like two secret worlds brushing against each other at the edges. In that glance, he saw not just a face, but an entire cosmos made out of late-night musings, unfinished poems, and stardust tucked behind eyelashes, shining in the colour of your eyes. 

It wasn’t love at first sight, not exactly —it was possibility at first glance.

He doesn’t believe it happens often. When an artist such as him —or that’s how he enjoys calling himself when the blinds are down and no one’s looking— somehow falls in love, it’s like those magical moments that movies can’t help but mention. Finding a muse —to him, only you— is the one thing artists hope for in secret, hiding the fire in their hearts between layers of paint and crumbled ink-stained pieces of paper, hoping to never mix love and whorship in the same person, for one cannot hug someone that stands so far away on a pedestal.

Still, he yearns for the words a writer may reach to in order to make sense to the myriad of feelings that simmer in his paint-soaked heart, unable to express them in a way that could suffice.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hyunjin blinks, lowering his head to face you. He can’t help but smile, his eyes wrinkling at the sides.

“You’d lose all your money, my pearl. I think too much.”

Cuddling more against him as you giggle soothes within the both of you the tension from a long week, days that have passed by without the joy of seeing each other most of the time. But alas, here’s the sweet sweet joy of a long-awaited Friday night.

“C’mon,” you snicker, your hands tracing mindless paterns on his shirtless torso. You make a note to thank the summer weather for that. “Oh, at least tell me about that dream you had a couple nights ago.”

“A… dream?” He frowns in ginger confusion.

“Yeah, remember? I called you… Tuesday morning. You said you had a dream you wanted to tell me,” you grin, resting your chin on his chest.

"Oh, that dream,” his expression turns a little more mischievous. His smile only grows as he watches your expectant eyes. “Fun dream, that was. I remember it alright," he snickers, his tone a little husky. "Every single detail."

You give him a cheeky look, fixing your position to lay down next to him, your head up to face him, resting on your palm. 

“Go on. I’m all ears.”

He can’t help but chuckle, his expression playful. "Oh, are you now?" he teases, his tone low. "You want to hear all the dirty little details?"

“You know I do,” you grin, your other hand cheekily fidgeting with his golden chain.

He takes a deep breath, and he can’t help but lick his lips as he remembers the dream in detail. "So, it was just the two of us," he starts, his voice lower than usual, his gaze flickering over your features. "And we were... well, let's say we were in a bed."

“What do you mean, let’s say?” You grin softly. “Where were we?”

He chuckles, a small, charming smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "I don’t really know. I mean… well... you were on top of me, to be specific," his gaze turning a little bit heated. "And I could feel your skin against mine, your hands resting on my chest. And your face was... so close, I could feel your breath on my skin." Pausing, his voice grows huskier. "You looked into my eyes... it was like you were hungry for me."

As your hand couldn’t help but follow a slow path down his chest, your eyes stayed locked to his. There was something dangerously poetic about them, like they’ve been dipped in paint and secrets, and looking into them feels less like making eye contact and more like falling, headfirst, —heart-first—, into a storm you don’t want to escape. He didn’t just look at you—he unravels you. With one glance, he strips away your composure, peels back every practiced word, and leaves you lying there, entirely too aware of how close his mouth is to yours. It almost isn’t fair, the way his gaze lingers—slow, deliberate, like a hand sliding over bare skin —your nails, long, leaving cheeky red streaks over his abs. You could drown in him. You want to. God help you, you want to forget your own name if it mean he’d keep looking at you like that—like you were something he’d dreamt of touching —not just this once, but for lifetimes—, and now that you are here, he has no intention of looking away.

"You leaned in even closer,” he lets out in a short breath, “your lips… against my skin,” he swallows, dry. “I could feel… the heat radiating off your body and... I felt your words as a soft whisper against my ear," he murmured, eyes dark. "You said..." his eyes lock onto yours. "You said, ‘I want you. Now.’” he mumbles, his tone intense.

You licked your lips. God, you could eat him alive. “Then what happened?”

"You started… trailing your lips down my neck, leaving soft, wet kisses. It felt... really, really good."

“Mhh, I like the sound of that,” you smile.

He chuckles softly, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Good. It gets better," he simpers, his voice a little deeper than before.

"You then… started making your way down my body, your fingers trailing slowly over my chest, my stomach... and you stopped at my waist and..." he paused, his voice growing quieter as he remembered the rest of the dream.

Your hand started cheekily playing with the waistband of his pijama pants. “And?”

He swallowed dry, his body growing heated as he continues. "And you started... touching me," he lets out, like a  whispered, breathless confession. "Your hands were roaming all over my body, and your touch was soft, but so... possessive." You watch him lick his lips as he stares at you, and it feels like pornography. "Your lips followed your hands. And... you started nibbling on a spot right... here..." he vaguely moves his hand, as if afraid that would crack the heat-tinted atmosphere, and points to a spot just below his collarbone.

Leaning against his neck feels like a meancing act againt his self-restraint, and his heart too. He wants you to do it again. With this newly-found information about himself, Hyunjin can’t wait for you to try and kill him. 

“Oh, this one?” You smirk, stroking it with your nose tantalizingly.

He lets out something quite like gasp, a shaky exhale that sounds like "yeah," he breathes out heavily, his voice tinged with a moan that he’s holding back. He’s already hard. "T-that spot."

Only a fool would miss a chance this exquisit, so you quickly start to work. 

“Keep talking,” you whisper with a smirk.

Hyunjin’s brain threatens to turn off as he closes his eyes, his breathing heavier as you press kisses on his neck. "T-then, um..." he sighs, trying to focus through the sensation of your lips against his skin. "You started... moving lower, your hands and mouth down my chest... and then my stomach..."

He lets out a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as your hand strokes his abs and your lips leave soft kisses on his neck, dusting his skin with pretty pinky marks. "Mmm, keep doing that," he murmured, his voice a little gruff. "It feels... really, really good."

“Keep talking about the dream, or I’ll stop,” you tease, smirking.

Fuck. Either he’s dreaming again, and today is only Thursday or he’s gotta be the luckiest man on Earth, he thinks, letting out a soft, breathy chuckle —a moan, if you squint your ears—, his eyes opening slightly. "Fine, fine... but keep going," he mumbles weakly, his tone laced with a hint of huskiness. "You were moving lower... and lower... and then... you reached my waist." His throat bobs, and you kiss it. He wants to cry. The thought of you stopping almost makes him, but he keeps talking, just like you asked. "You pulled my pants off, leaving me in my boxers," the dream seems almost tangible in the dark pools of his eyes. He can almost taste it, so he licks his lips again, one of his hand fisting the sheets, the other holding you close by your waist, his fingers quickly settling beneath your shirt where you hope he’ll always stay.

"I remember how… your fingers trailed over my thigh," he murmurs softly. "Gentle, but… firm…”

And so you press wet kisses down his chest, happily following the innocent little words that leave his lips —lips you hadn’t want to kiss this bad since, at least, last Friday, but you refrain just to keep listening to him— until you can reach his thigh with your hand. 

Your eyes move to his. Soft, wide, sly. “Like this?”

Yes. No. He’s going to blow in milliseconds. Scratch all that, you have to be a dream. Reality hasn’t felt this good since someone put butter in popcorn. Since he figured out color theory to some extent. He lets out a soft gasp, his breathing quickening. 

"Yes,” he almost moans, “exactly like that."

His hand grips the bedsheet like the poor thing could ever keep him tethered to how your mouth lingers on his collarbone. If this is a dream and he wakes up, he’s catching the first bus and knocking your door of its hinges with the only objective of doing very bad things to you. But when your kisses slow down in intensity, and your hands threaten to leave his blushed skin, he keeps talking. This is real, and if you stop, he’ll start begging. 

"You started kissing," he pants out, "kissing… down my thigh... and then you… started moving... higher."

He pauses, his breathing growing heavier as the next part of the dream unveils in his mind. Hyunjin needs you to keep touching him. "You were right between my legs, your lips just... barely against my skin,” his eyes flutter open, and he has the cutest blush all over his face. You’re going to eat him.

“T-then you… took me in your mouth," he gasps softly, his eyes closing again. "I remember how your tongue felt, how your lips felt-" He winces, because the memory and your touch alone are making him really hard.

He can’t do this. This feels too good. He’s not going to be able to let you go on Sunday afternoon. But then your hand travels down his chest and beneath his blue-striped pj’s, and he’s dead. 

“Keep talking, love,” you grin, kissing his chest as you start stroking him, moving your hand up and down.

He lets out a low moan, his body involuntarily bucking against your touch. "A-ah... I'm... trying..." he whines quietly, his voice growing huskier by the second. "Y-You were... um-" He trails off, now rendered unable to form a coherent thought, the sensation of your touch scrambling his brain.

"You... you were moving... up and down," Hyunjin tries to speak, but his words are cut off by a moan. His breathing is heavy and his chest rieses and falls rapidly. He can’t even look at you anymore; his eyes are shut tight, his head pressed against the pillow, blushing all over as he squirms underneath you.

"I... I don't...don't know how much...longer I can...can keep doing this," he admits in a low, ragged voice. "I... I need..." he attempts to say something, but the words just don’t come out. "Please, I… I need..." he pleads softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand slows down. You have the desperate need to fuck him senseless. Desperate, submissive Hyunjin is a rare sight, and you want to cover him up in pink hickeys. 

“The dream, love. Keep talking, mhh?”

He lets out a low, soft whine as your hand slows down, his eyes clenched shut. "Oh…a-ah, okay," he whispers, trying to regain his composure. The feeling of your touch is driving him crazy, but he knows he has to stay focused, because this feels too good to stop now. 

"You were... you were moving so... so slowly, and... and it was driving me insane." His eyes are like crescent moons, cheeky drops of sweat shining on his forehead, and on his pink-coloured chest. "I... I wanted more... but you were teasing me so much" he murmurs, his voice growing more desperate by the second. "I wanted to... grab you and... and just-" He groans in frustration, unable to find the words. "I wanted... I needed..." he chokes out, whimpering, struggling through the fog of pleasure. "God... it's so hard to think..."

Teasing him comes off naturally. Just looking at him makes you want to lean and bite his cheek. Instead you snicker, smirking. 

“Oh, poor baby. Feel so good, he can’t even think.”

Surely, you weren’t expecting the embarrassingly needy whine he lets out, his face flushed with pleasure. "Y-Yes," he murmurs softly, his arm moving to cover his eyes and how his blush turns deeper in colour, his voice heavy with desire. "A-and... and it's all your fault."

God. Your legs would give out if you were standing. His muscles flex as he tries to hide his face, kind of, and the fact that you know he’s far too gone to be consciously showing off only makes you hornier. Pleasure looks so good on Hyunjin, you can’t help but need more, as you start stroking him slightly faster. “That’s a pity,” you whisper with a smile. “Feels good, yeah?”

He groans, his hips instinctively bucking against your touch. "Y-Yeah," he breathes out weakly, his voice strained. "It feels... so good."

“Wonderful,” you grin, eyes so dark Hyunjin believes they might’ve just turned black. “Keep talking, then, love. What happened next?”

His body dares to tremble with pleasure as you continue, his breathing ragged and uneven. "You..." he trails off, trying to find the words to speak. "You... moved your mo.. a-ah, mouth away... but you... oh, God, y-you replaced it with..." he lets out a moan, his breath hitching as you continue your slow ministrations, “you replaced it with your hand... and..." He swallows hard, trying to find the words through the pleasure, "a-and you were... slow... and gentle..." he manages to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Just like this?” you whisper too.

The feeling of your touch is driving him wild. 

"Yes," he whimpers, almost sheepishly. "Just... just like that."

He’s struggling to keep his mind clear, the pleasure almost overwhelming him. "Please..." he whines, his voice hoarse and needy. "I need... I need..."

Your eyes look into his, but you only find dark tones of brown that scream at you to keep going. “Focus, love,” you smile. “The dream, mhh?”

He struggles to speak, already feeling like it’s hard to think straight. "Y-You... you started to... speed up..." he whispers, his voice raw with desire. "And... and it felt so... so good,” he breathes heavily, “a-and then, you… ” He groans softly, his whole body trembling as he envisions the scene play out in his mind once more. "Y-You... you lowered yourself onto me..." he blinks slowly, his eyes locking onto yours, his voice heavy with lust. "And... and it felt... so good... so perfect..."

He inhales sharply, his heart feeling like it might just leap out of his chest. "You... you started... moving slowly... and... and I-" He lets out a low, guttural moan, his body arching towards your touch instinctively. "God... it feels... so good... so good... I can't think straight... I-I need you... I need you, flower... please…”

You kiss his thigh, to which he lets out a soft moan at the feel of your kiss, his body trembling with need. You’re going to cave, you know you will, but watching him like this is an addiction you don’t want to let go off just yet. “Does the dream keep going too long?”

"N-Not much longer," he sighs weakly, his voice strained with desire. "I am... I w-was so close... I-" He pants, the memory of the dream playing out in his mind. "I was so... I was so close to..." he confesses, his voice thick with lust. "But just before I could... you... you stopped."

And almost cheekily, your hand stopped, teasing. “I… edged you?”

Hyunjin is pretty sure he’s dead at this point. His body trembles, pliant and undone, eyes glassy with surrender as he floats deeper into that delicious haze —where time blurs and sensation reigns. Every word from you felt like silk and command wrapped in fire, and he clings to it like a lifeline, like prayer. His voice is barely a whisper now, rough with need, as he chokes out, "N-no… please, flower." Not out of pride, but desperation —because in this state, he isn’t thinking, only feeling, and everything he feels is you. Every nerve begs to be touched, praised, claimed—each second without your hands, your voice, your rhythm, feels like air slipping through his lungs. He’s gone, truly gone, and the only thing tethering him to reality is the gravity of your control and the aching, raw hunger to please keep going.

You coo at him, leaning against him to kissing his cheek, “You’re doing so good, love. Keep going, for me?” He nods softly, and you smile, softly pressing your lips against his. 

“And then?” You smile, resuming your slow pace with your hand.

His body responds immediately, his back arching as he let out a low moan. "Y-You..." he fails to speak, his words lost in a pool of desire. "You... you kept going... and... and it was so... s’good... but it was... frustrating... to be so... close... but not... not quite there yet..."

His body is shaking with need, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggles to speak. "Please," he begs softly, his voice a mix between a whine and a whisper. "Please... I need you… please… make me-"

Your tongue against his length weakens him in ways he never thought possible before, and when he finds your eyes glued to his, he’s sure his eyes tear up in pleasure. 

“Keep talking, love.”

He lets out a strangled moan. "Oh... oh god..." he moans again, his voice broken by pleasure. "T-too good... I… it's so... hard to... to keep… speaking..."

“C’mon, love,” you smirk. “You want me to keep going, don’t you? You just have to keep talking about the dream.”

He’s wrecked—gasping, trembling, eyes glazed as he blinks down at you like he can’t remember how to exist without your touch. "Yes... yes... please... don't stop..." he mumbles, his voice strained with need. "The dream, I'll... I'll keep talking..."

Hyunjin takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose himself as so to keep on talking. "So...  you k-kept going... and... and I was so close... so close... but it wasn't enough..." He sweats and blushes with need, his mind blurry as he struggles to focus on the words. "I was… I couldn't... couldn't handle it any longer...”

His toned body arches against you as he feels himself nearing the edge. "Please... please... I need you, flower... I need you so badly..." he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please... please, I can't take it anymore..."

You’re caving. You want to see him come. “How did the dream end, love?”

He lets out a strangled moan as you start kissing him, the touch of your lips sending sparks of pleasure through his body. "I... I don't...I don't remember..." he whines, his voice thick. "It all gets... it gets too hazy... I just remember feeling too... too pent up... too needy..."

“And then you woke up?”

He nods, a low, shaky laugh escaping his lips. "Yeah... I woke up... and I was so... so frustrated," he pants, his voice heavy with the echo of unfulfilled desire.

You blink. The smirk that takes over your lips makes Hyunjin shiver. “Love, did you… relieve yourself… thinking about me that morning?” 

His cheeks grow hotter, his expression turning more sheepish. "Yes... I… I did," he confesses in a hushed tone. "I couldn't help it... you were all I could think about." The memory of that morning is still vivid in his mind. "I was thinking about you... your touch... your voice... your body..." he murmurs, his voice growing huskier with every word.

“And you were touching yourself, just like this?”

He can’t help but moan at your words, his body responding instinctively to the mention of what he has done. He feels like he has been caught, and the way you’re looking at him threatens to send him over the edge. "Yes... just like this..." he nods, gulping. "I was... imagining your hands on me... just like this… and I... I couldn't stop thinking about you... thinking about what you would do to me..." he admits, his voice reeling in desire, almost rolling off his tongue. 

Mesmerized, you speed up, watching him squirm and gasp, his body arching towardsyour touch as the pleasure intensifies. "Oh... oh god... yes, yes..." he moans, his eyes closing tightly as he feels himself getting closer and closer. "Don't…” He groans softly, his hand gripping the bedsheets again. "Please... please, I can't... I can't hold back any longer..." he pleads, his voice sunken in sheer pleasure. 

“Tell me, love. Where you thinking about that when you called me that day?”

He swallows hard, his breath coming in short gasps as he remembered the memory. "Y-Yes," he managed to say, his voice ragged with desire. "I... I couldn't help it... you... your voice… it brought e-everything back... a-and I... I tried to keep my composure... but I couldn't... I couldn't keep it together..."

“What did you want to do to me, mhh?”

His body almost dares to tremble with need as he remembered the thoughts he had. Hyunjin is shaking, flushed and helpless, lost so deep in the haze he barely knows his own name —just yours. His fingers curl like he’s trying to hold onto reality, but all that comes out from his lips isa desperate, wrecked, tone, as he follows your command. "I... I wanted to touch you... to hold you... to feel you against me... to hear you moan..." he whines, his voice rough with need. "I wanted you so badly... so badly, it was driving me insane."

His breathing turns erratic. He’s going to come, but he wants to make you happy. He wants to hear you allow him. 

"I couldn't... couldn't get you out of my head... I just wanted to... to do things to you..." he gasps, his words fading into the air as he loses himself in the memories. "I wanted to... to feel you... to taste you... to hear you moan my name..."

His lips part around a soft, broken sound, eyes barely open, glazed with need and devotion. He’s trembling under your hands, breath shallow, voice cracked as he whispers, "I wanted... I wanted you so bad... I couldn't focus on anything else... I could only think about you... about your touch... about how good it felt when you-" He gasped, cutting himself off as the memory flared back up, leaving him breathless. "God... I could barely... barely concentrate on anything else... though I was… going crazy..."

He lets out a low, shaky moan, his body trembling uncontrollably as the waves of pleasure consume him. "That's... that's why it was so hard... so hard..." he whimpers, his words interrupted by soft gasps as he felt himself teetering on the edge. "It was so hard to... to talk... to talk to you... and not... not think about... a-about…!”

His whole body tenses beneath you, a helpless shudder rolling through him as the pressure builds past the point of return. His fingers twist in the sheets —desperate, frantic—, trying to hold onto something solid while the rest of him falls apart. Then he lets out a moan, deep and broken, the kind that seems to rise straight from his soul, and you take him into your mouth fully, slowly, as if savoring the moment just as much as he is unraveling in it. And when he finally comes —spilling over with a cry that sounds half like your name, half like prayer— you don’t flinch. You stay, mouth warm, accepting, steady, anchoring him as he shakes and gasps and loses himself entirely in you. You feel the way he melts, undone and wrecked and utterly yours, and you don’t let go until his body stops trembling, until he’s all quiet panting and reverent touch, eyes dazed, still somewhere between the high and the afterglow.

His mind goes blank for a moment as the intensity of the sensation overwhelms him. As he slowly comes back down to Earth, he looks down at you with a dazed expression on his face, his breathing ragged and labored. "Y-You..." he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Y-You're... God, flower, I missed you.."

You merely swallow, licking your lips and smile. “I missed you too, love.”

His body still trembles with the aftermath of his climax. You cuddle against him, fixing his hair, kissing his temple with a smile. 

“Want me to fetch a damp towel, love?” you whisper. “I know you don’t like sleeping all sweaty.”

Watching him nod, soft and dazed, like his whole body has finally let go, you smile and brush a hand over his cheek. He lets out a big, shuddering sigh —the kind that seemed to empty every last bit of tension from his chest— and his eyes flutter shut, peaceful in that quiet, golden moment. You move and lean down to kiss him —slow, lingering. He kisses you back with a hum, too blissed-out to speak, but full of everything he wants to say. With one last stroke of your thumb across his jaw, you slip away for a moment, careful not to wake him from the soft place he’s landed in.

When you come back with the damp towel, he’s still lying there, loose-limbed and beautiful, the rise and fall of his chest steady, calm. You lean beside him, murmuring something gentle as you began to clean him up, slow and careful, like a ritual. He barely moves—just lets you care for him, eyes fluttering open now and then to meet mine with that same look he always gives you in these moments: trust, tenderness, and something so deep you’re not quite sure it has a name. not in any language you know, at least. 

We speak of the experience of an encounter as that which can appear before us without our expecting it. It can change our course, it can transform us. It is the novelty that happens to us and then inhabits us. Two paths that cross. Two people that miss the bus at the same time.

What happens when we fall in love? Is it simply a matter of wanting what we don't have, or of wanting it because it seems forbidden? We consider it more interesting to think of it as a set of forces united in a singularity that challenges us, that summons us. One of those things that make us fall in love with someone. In Hyunjin’s case, the colour of your eyes could haunt him in his sleep, and he would forever be grateful for it. Or your smile, and how it lights up the room.

A smile is something that happens between two people. It is a gesture that begins and ends in the gaze of the other, of the person who may feel trapped, invoked, questioned, stolen by that smile. It does not belong to someone. It does not belong to its owner, but is a ‘between’ the two. It takes place in a relationship of one with the other. There is something in that smile that unites, in the same group, everything that has to do with us. Like in that moment when one is frightened and sees one's life flash before one's eyes, only in this case, one sees the life we would have with the person in front of us, reflected in the brightness of their irises.

Who are we afterwards? Are we the same? What happens inside us when we encounter forces, affinities, nuances, tones, and colours that we never expected, but which become everything we desire? It is a question of thinking about the displacement that occurs. When love crosses us, there is a swaying from side to side, a foreshadowing of the transformation to come when these two people collide. This love is only possible because of the tension that makes it unsolvable: a tension between who we are and who we are not, between presence and absence. An encounter from which we emerge changed.

Or not. Maybe the world still spins as usual —but for Hyunjin, with you by his side, it hums in a different key. One composed entirely of music, comfort, and dreams he no longer has to imagine alone.

And as his head touches the pillow —the cold side, after flipping it around—, he passes his arm over your waist and pulls you closer.  

Tomorrow, Saturday morning, he will make sure to pay you back, but right now, Hyunjin is sure.

He loves Friday nights.

[★★{📕}★★]

~kats, who’s new vocal stim is from sade’s kiss of life, “there must’ve been an angel by my side.” (and yes, I am aware that today isn't Friday. sue me)

catiuskaa, june 2025 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung

[trashytracktales]

PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls

Same time yesterday | MV³³

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

*can’t be read as a standalone.

✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.

✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader

✦ rating ──── explicit

✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

✦ word count ──── 8.5k

✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025

✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨

MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.

In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.

He did not expect her to leave.

Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this thime, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.

When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.

Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.

She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.

After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.

It got worse when doubts started creeping in.

What if he’d ruined something good once again?

What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?

He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.

The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.

His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.

It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.

That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.

And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.

Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.

And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.

Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…

He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.

IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.

He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.

Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.

Or talk.

Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.

It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.

“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.

Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”

They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.

“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.

There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.

“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”

She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”

Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “And everything else.”

They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.

His fingers twitch around the cans.

She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.

“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.

She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.

And still, neither of them moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.

Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”

She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”

He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn���t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”

They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.

Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”

His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”

He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”

She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”

He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.

The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.

The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.

THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.

The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.

Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.

She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.

Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.

The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.

Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.

For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.

Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”

She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.

“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”

Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”

He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.

The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.

Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”

Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.

“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.

Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.

The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.

“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.

But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.

Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.

“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.

He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.

Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.

“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”

Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”

“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.

She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.

He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.

“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”

This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.

She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.

“I missed you,” he says again.

She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.

She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.

But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.

Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.

She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.

“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.

She nods. “Yes.”

Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.

“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”

He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.

“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”

Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.

“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”

Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”

She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”

With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”

Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.

His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.

She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.

Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”

The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.

He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.

She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.

“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.

The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.

She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.

“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”

She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.

As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.

At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.

“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.

Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.

“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.

“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.

Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.

“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.

Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.

He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.

“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”

He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”

Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”

The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.

His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.

“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?

It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.

She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.

But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.

“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.

Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”

She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”

He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.

“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”

Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.

The first thrust feels like coming home.

The second thrust brings all the memories back.

The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.

Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.

It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.

Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.

“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.

He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.

“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.

Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.

He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”

Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.

Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”

She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”

Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.

Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.

“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”

The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.

“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”

He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.

“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”

She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.

Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.

His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.

Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.

“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”

She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.

“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”

His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.

Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”

He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He does. He always did.

With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.

“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.

His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.

The sight nearly makes him come again.

Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.

Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.

“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”

When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.

“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

“What did you do with the ring?”

Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.

But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.

“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”

“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.

Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.

A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.

Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[cinnonym]

putting my own tags here because they inspired me to write a fic and it doesn't make sense without them (i think). anyway, here goes:

After the Idea comes the silence, a heavy, horrible thing in the stillness of the office. It yawns and stretches, then settles like a beast for the night, unperturbed by anything but their breaths: Regina’s, slow and pronounced from where she perches on the desk, and Emma’s own, stumbling with the effort to not be suspicious. To not be afraid and wet and wanting in light of the Idea.

The call has ended; Regina ended it. The Idea has affected her as well, even if she is breathing slowly now, Emma is sure: when the Idea was uttered, Regina’s finger twitched. Emma saw it. It was the last thing she saw, before her heart started hammering and her gaze slipped and scrambled for cover, before her brain caught up with the mentioning of the Idea and all its implications. In the space between hearing and understanding, she saw. She saw Regina’s index finger spasm once, curling inwards into a sudden, protective claw, before it relaxed again and ended the call. Then she stopped moving altogether.

Emma wishes, abruptly and with surprising ferocity, that she had never developed the habit of watching Regina so closely. The motion of a single finger – what kind of a creep does one have to be to even notice that, let alone be able to interpret it? The hitch of Regina’s breath, too, the rigidity of her posture, the oppressive, unnatural, ever-extending silence –

But of course, Emma isn’t actually mad at her observation skills, or at knowing Regina Mills well enough to read every line of her body. She’s just mad at the Idea. At how, having been spoken into existence, it is bearing down on them like a weight, like a sharp-edged, monstrous weight that has been dropped on the tightrope that is their relationship, shocking it into oscillation. And where before they could be content in their balance, a reaction to the Idea is now inevitable. Underneath the silence lies a growing need:

They must talk about it.

The problem with the Idea is that it’s not new; it has made a home of Emma’s mind long ago. She means this not in a crude, disrespectful manner, quite the opposite: the Idea, to her, is a soft thing, a want so heartfelt that she cannot but lock it away, for fear it may be harmed in its exposure to the world. Her Idea, that is, her idea of the Idea, her wish for it, is unspeakable, and thereby unfeasible.

Now, however, it has been spoken. It has been heard, which is even worse, for in hearing it, the Idea now exists in Regina’s mind as well. It has spread, it has breached Emma’s carefully constructed containment, and here they are, sitting in silence, both of them thinking about it, which means they must talk about it.

While Emma is still wrestling with that conclusion, the silence around her becomes brittle and breaks as Regina finally emerges out of her petrification and slips off the desk. Her heel hits the floor with a clack; she exhales.

“Well,” she says then. “That’s Cruella for you. She doesn’t mince her words any more than she would her beloved furs.”

Emma swallows. She still doesn’t dare to meet Regina’s eyes for fear of what she might find in them. It seemed so clear to her that they cannot simply move on from this, that the speaking of the Idea must have consequences, yet Regina’s voice is business-like as ever, unperturbed except for the slightest waver in it towards the end, and that may just have been disapproval for Cruella’s fashion choices.

She decides to venture a chuckle. “Right…”

Another silence ensues, and Emma wants to scream. She can feel Regina’s gaze on her, but cannot read it without looking up. Concern, disapproval, anger… Regina could feel anything towards her now, and Emma would be none the wiser. It’s terrifying to be so in the dark about what is going on inside Regina, terrifying and unfamiliar and almost uncomfortable enough to make Emma give in and chance a glance at her. But she doesn’t, because the only thing worse than the not knowing is her fear of the knowing.

After another minute or so, Regina sighs. “Don’t listen to her,” she says quietly. “She only lashes out like this because she’s been in love with Ursula for years and is too afraid to do something about it.”

“What?” That gets Emma to look up, she can’t help it. Blood rushes in her ears and she’s aware that her eyes are too wide, too tell-tale, but she simply must know what Regina’s face looks like, in the aftermath of having said that. If it’s flushed as hers is, or tight with anger and repulsion, indignant about the indecency of the Idea that is desiring your best friend.

But as Emma turns towards Regina, Regina turns away, and her face remains unreadable. Only her breath can give any indication of her state of mind, and it is as slow and conscious as before. Inhale. Exhale. Then: “It’s true. Everybody can see it, except for Ursula herself.”

A thought occurs to Emma, a convoluted thing of metaphor and displacement, a theory so hopeful and yet so improbable that she only knows to voice it in cipher. “How,” she says, “does Ursula feel about Cruella?”

If Regina freezes, it’s only for a second; then she finally looks Emma in the eye. Her gaze is heavy and meaningful. “I don’t know. I have never asked her.”

“I think,” Emma says carefully, “communication could help in many such cases.”

Regina inclines her head, just barely.

“I also think,” Emma continues, “that sometimes a little nudge from someone else can help. In such cases.”

There’s a loaded pause, an opposite silence to the one from before. That was a divided silence, a tense, uncomfortable thing. This one is so mutually charged, it sparks.

Regina is again the one to break it; she smiles. “An inappropriate phone call should do it.”

And Emma nods. “I know exactly what to say…”

[justevelynnnn]

Utterly perverted Mark headcannons :P

Warnings: Mdni🔞, mark being kinda gross & a freak, reader is afab, mentions of piv, mentions of mark being stalkerish, sneaking pictures of you and stealing your underwear

A/N: it took me forever but when I asked about writing something filthy abt Mark this is what I meant 💀💀 anyways I have another fic I started first before this except I still have to edit it but it shouldn’t be long before that comes out too

- Perverted!Mark who ever since he met you was weirdly obsessed and in love with you. He just hid it very well.

- He started by getting know literally everything about you. Stalking you and your family’s social medias and taking notes on things you like to do or wear or who you hang out with.

- He loves male manipulator music. His favorite band is freaking Weezer.

- Perverted!Mark loves to steal your panties when he comes over too. Specifically, used ones. He’s likes them so much because they smell like you :)

- It’s also as close as he can get to your pussy..for now at least.

- He’s so disgusting but he just can’t help jerking off with them… he’ll wrap it around and just rub one out, cum in them and letting it dry on the soft fabric. Then he’ll sneak them into your drawer and prays you wear them without noticing.

- He loves when you wear tanks too ughhhh your cleavage is so hot. He always has to limit how long he’ll look or he’ll start sporting a boner. Sometimes it happens anyways

- It also happens of you lean on him or if he has a good view of your ass somehow. Bonus points if he can see your pussy print.

- He also goes through your journals and diaries. All personal things. That’s how he learned you were secretly crushing on him (and also very confused about some of his behaviors but he ignored that)

- He started to do nice things for you a lot more. Like sometimes he’d give you water bottles when you got thirsty (and he’d lick where your mouth was when you weren’t looking)

- Perverted!Mark let you cuddle with him more often too (just be careful of his hard on or he’d accidentally cum or something)

- If you fell asleep he’s totally taking a picture of your boobs too. And your lips.

- When you finally asked him to be your boyfriend he was estatic! He knew you’d ask him.

- Perverted!Mark made excuses when one week in you went through his phone and just saw multiple photos of you in them. He said it was because he loved you! And you’re just so pretty and it’s not like he was sharing them!

- He made it up to you by peppering your face with kisses and you just couldn’t stay mad at him after that

- And when you finally started letting him be intimate with you? Oh, he was in heaven. He got to do things with you that he thought were things he could do in his dreams

- He loved to give you creampies and sometimes he’d pretend you weren’t on birth control so he could act like he was getting you knocked up.

-He has multiple pictures on his grimy phone of his cum is oozing out of you, pussy full and all glistening like that who wouldn’t take a picture or two or 50?

- And this boy loves to spit in your mouth. In bed, he was crazy

- Even though you guys we’re together he’d still love to try and sneak peeks of you when you’re changing or in the shower

- This boy was obsessed with you through and through and maybe you started to notice he was being a little weird sometimes he was still kind and seemed loyal enough

[jadore-f1]

Don’t make me wait | IH6

Synopsis ♡ Your relationship with Isack is going extremely well and you're ready to take it to the next level. 4.5k words

A/N ♡ can’t believe that after 10 years in fandom culture, i'm posting my very own fanfic. The writing isn't great, the dialogue is eh and the smut is rushed but i WROTE this. I'm so proud of myself.

Warnings ♡ SMUT! 18+ mdni!!! Fem!reader, Strong language, google translated french, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, switch!Isack (sorta), he has a filthy mouth, p in v, protected sex (pls do this!), grammatical errors, this is barely proofread tbh, probably other things idk

You and Isack had been officially dating for just over a month now, though the two of you had been dancing around your feelings for much longer than that. It all started at the preseason “Meet the Grid” dinner. He was the promising new rookie and you, a wide-eyed media intern just trying to stay out of the way and do your job.

You didn’t even speak to him that night. Just watched from across the room, quietly taking in the way he seemed to slot in so easily with the senior drivers. He was charming, warm, and effortlessly magnetic. It was hard to look away. When he eventually caught you staring, his smile shifted, softening into something less media-trained and more… curious. You turned away quickly, heart pounding, trying to mask the flush crawling up your neck and ignore the flutter low in your stomach.

Yeah. You were immediately smitten.

It continued like that for a while, lingering looks across the paddock, stumbling through interview questions because he’d say something that could’ve been considered flirting if you thought about it long enough. (you didn’t though or at least tried not to, no way he would be flirting with you)

For a few weeks things never went any further than that. You figured he was too busy finding his footing as a rookie to even think about dating, and he was convinced you were either completely oblivious to his flirting or just too kind to turn him down outright.

When the Melbourne grand prix incident occured you felt your heart sink for him. You’d fought with yourself the entire day before finally just deciding to bite the bullet and reach out to him on instagram that night.

@youruser: Hi, I’m not sure if you know me but I work in the paddock

@isackhadjar: yes __ hi! we’ve met before, what’s up?

@youruser: I saw what happened today so i just wanted to check in, you know if you need a friend or a place to vent completely unbiased i’m available!

@youruser: …Not saying you don’t have people, just figured an outside perspective might help. Plus, I’m a pretty good listener

@isackhadjar: lol don’t worry i did not take it that way

@isackhadjar: how about coffee tomorrow morning?

@youruser: sure! Does 8:30 work for you?

@isasckhadjar: perfect, it's a date :)

And the rest was history. He'd asked you out officially somewhere in between the Bahrain and Saudi Arabia races and you’d been basically attached at the hip ever since.

Because the relationship is still so new, there are things you're both still discovering about each other. Little details, unspoken boundaries, milestones you haven't quite reached yet.

The most obvious one is the physical side of your relationship. So far, it's been limited to quick good luck kisses before quali or races, and soft, grounding hugs when the weekend doesn’t go his way. That’s it. And you’re okay with that. You're more than happy to follow his pace. You understand how complicated things can get when you're constantly under a microscope, with cameras everywhere and millions of fans analyzing your every move.

But still… as time goes on, it's hard not to want more.

You're willing to wait—of course you are. You’d wait as long as he needed. In the meantime, you make do with your imagination and the handful of photos tucked away in a private folder on your phone. No complaints. No pressure. Just quiet longing, and the hope that when he’s ready, you’ll be right there.

Then Monaco happens.

You’re waiting in his drivers room like you do after every race, drivers get a 10-15 minute break after each race before they have to enter the media pen so you and Isack use this time to catch up in private otherwise you’d have to wait until the end of the day just for a moment alone. He steps into the room and you’re on him the second the door closes.

“P6 Zack! P6 in Monaco! Baby I can't believe you pulled that off!” you say in between little pecks all over his face, he’s still sweaty but you don’t care at all, too hyped up on adrenaline and something else you don’t want to name yet.

“I know! I can hardly believe it either!” He laughs but he sounds exhausted, hell he looks exhausted, face flushed red and the imprint from his earbuds still visible on his cheeks yet the grin never leaves his face.

When you try to step back to give him breathing room he just makes a small sound of disapproval and pulls you closer, hands tightening around your waist until you're pressed fully against the warmth of him. He lays his forehead gently against your own and just takes a deep breath, like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. You stay like that for a minute reveling in the silence because you know any moment now you're going to have to leave and return to the chaotic world outside your bubble. Eventually you pull back a little just to look at him again.

“I'm so so proud of you Isack” you push his sweat slicked hair back from his eyes and hope he can tell how much you mean it. He leans into you again like he can't bear the small distance you've created.

“Merci mon ange” he whispers before pressing a searing kiss to your lips. It's hot, wet and nothing like any of the kisses you've had before.

One of his hands travels from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair while his thumb rests on the hinge of your jaw moving your head exactly where he wants it.

His tongue presses against the seam of your mouth and you open up immediately—there's no point in denying it, not when you've been dying to kiss him like this. It makes your brain all fuzzy around the edges.

Your hands move to explore as well, one immediately gripping onto his bicep bulging through that skin tight fireproof shirt that has definitely made a few appearances in your dreams. The other lightly scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to shiver and let out a breathy little noise. Fuck. you want to hear that again.

You pull away from his lips and theres a string of saliva still connecting you together, you wipe your thumb against his bottom lip to remove it and he presses a gentle kiss to the pad it, his hand coming to cover yours and he continues to press kisses up, up your arm until he reaches your neck. He nips and licks up and down your neck and until he finds the spot that makes you arch into him, then he bites down.

“Haah- is-isack no fair I can't do the same to you” you manage with a keen.

“Sure you can, just gotta be somewhere discrete bébé” you can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He sounds so smug you can't help but tease him a bit, moving your leg so it's in between his. you press upwards grazing him with just enough pressure.

“Oh putain” he hisses out, hands tightening on your hips, he thrusts forward seeking out the friction again but you remove your leg before he can get it.

“Ok! Baby i'm sorry just please do something please” he whines out, his hips thrust up again chasing any type of pleasure he can get. He looks so good like this, all desperate just from a bit of teasing.

“Oh poor Isack, you get this hard just from kissing?” you pout at him sarcastically. The power you feel right now is unfathomable, you could get used to this. If only he knew how soaked you are between your thighs.

“Since you did so well today I guess I can't be too mean, what do you want? My mouth or my hands?”

“Your mouth please i-” someone bangs on the door of the trailer and you both jump a mile in the air.

“Hadjar! You're late for post race interviews let's go!” his PR manager yells from outside.

You sigh empathetically. He sighs as well tilting his head back against the door like he can’t believe his luck.

“Can't believe I have to talk about my best race finish with blue balls.” he mutters, adjusting himself so it's not as noticeable. You can't help but giggle. He glares at you with a look that says ‘this isn't over’ and heads out the door.

“We’ll finish this later ok!” you yell after him with another laugh.

Later doesn't come that night (and neither do you) or the rest of that weekend for that matter.

That’s the thing about triple headers. It’s three weeks of non-stop chaos, travel, and work. Between back-to-back races and packed schedules, finding even a single quiet moment alone feels impossible.

The tension from Monaco still lingers though. Looks across the paddock are now charged with something heavy, good luck kisses are a little longer, deeper, hungrier. It feels like you’re a balloon seconds away from bursting.

Things finally settled down after the race in Spain. Isack scored points again, and it was amazing to watch. He was steady, focused, like he was really starting to find his rhythm.

To celebrate, the two of you went out for dinner at a cozy, authentic Spanish restaurant Carlos had personally recommended. The food was incredible, the atmosphere relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like you could both finally breathe.

Now, back in the quiet of your hotel room, you're winding down for the night, full, content, and maybe just a little bit tipsy on red wine and the heated glances shared over the candlelit table.

Technically it’s Isack’s hotel room, you have your own on another floor with the rest of the media team but what your supervisor doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

You’re freshly showered and in one of his shirts and some boy shorts just scrolling on social media waiting for him to finish up in the bathroom so you guys can cuddle and start a movie.

The bathroom door swings open, and without looking up from your phone you call out

“Zack, I swear if they don’t give you Rookie of the Year, I’m burning the FIA to the ground.”

He laughs, voice warm and easy. “Love the energy, bébé, but then we’d both be out of a job.”

You glance up to respond, but the words catch in your throat.

You’ve seen Isack shirtless before on the occasional social media post—but never like this. He’s standing by the dresser, back to you, rummaging for something, muscles shifting under damp skin. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to make your mind go blank. His curls are still wet from the shower, starting to dry into that soft, messy wave you adore.

And it hits you.

That’s your boyfriend.

This sweet, ridiculously good-looking, insanely talented man is yours.

How the hell did you get so lucky?

“You’re staring mon ange.” he says softly and you don’t even have it in you to pretend to be embarrassed because now he’s facing you while leaning against the dresser and you can see everything.

Your eyes zero in on the sweatpants again, they’re so low you can see his v-line and the trail of dark hairs leading down beneath the waistband.

You let your eyes trail upwards over the naked skin of his torso, still glistening from the shower practically begging you to lick the droplets of water up yourself.

But honestly it’s the chain around his neck that does you in. It’s shining against his skin and it makes you want to wrap your fingers around it and tug him closer to you like a leash, makes you want to watch it dangle in front of your face, makes want the feel the cool metal pressed against your own heated skin while he poun-

“Ehem” he raises his brows in amusement and your face does heat up this time.

“You just look really good right now” He preens under the compliment, standing straighter and flexing under your gaze.

“Oh? is that why you’re looking at me like you want to eat me?” he steps closer to the bed.

“Amongst other things.” you give a sly smile, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

When he reaches you, you stand up on your knees so you two are face to face. his hands find their place on your waist and yours around the back of his neck. You go to lean in for a kiss but before your lips meet you feel him, solid and warm against your leg.

It’s your turn to raise your brows in amusement now and he scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it, bébé—you’re in my shirt and barely anything else, telling me how much you want me.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, though the curve of your mouth betrays you. “I didn’t realize stating facts was such a crime.”

He steps closer, eyes flicking down for the briefest second before settling back on yours, smoldering. “It is when you say them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice is low, thick with the weight of restrained desire.

You bite your lip, a slow smile forming. “Maybe I do.”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, hands rubbing soft circles on the skin of your waist with maddening ease. “Then don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

“I’ve been ready since Monaco,” you murmur, fingernails lightly raking down his chest. “And I always finish what I start.”

He lets out a stuttered gasp—your turn to make him breathless.

You tilt your head up and your lips meet in a passionate kiss, all teeth, tongue and weeks of build up.

Isack kisses you like a drowning man gasping for his first breath of air. It's desperate, consuming. Like he’s trying to burrow his way into your very soul. And you’d let him. You’d let him claw through your ribcage and settle into the space you’ve always kept open just for him.

Your lips part ways and you fall back onto the bed, slowly scooting up toward the headboard. He follows without hesitation, crawling over you until he’s hovering above. For a moment, you both pause, eyes locked. There’s no awkwardness, no uncertainty you might expect from a first time, just a quiet heavy knowing that every heated moment before now has been leading to this.

“__ are you sure?” he asks softly. You want to tell him that you’ve never been more certain about anything in your life. That there's nowhere else you'd rather be than right here, taking in every detail of his face, the way the city lights cast golden shadows across his features. But the words catch in your throat, too full, too much.

So instead, you just nod and reach for that damn chain, pulling him back to you once more.

your lips meet the skin where his jaw and neck connect, nipping and sucking there lightly just enough to leave a faint mark.

“I still owe you from Monaco, yeah?” you breathe into his skin.

“No you don’t have too.” he denies but you just scoff playfully and switch your positions so he’s lying on his back and you're on top, legs straddling his hips.

“Gotta finish what I started.” you grin and peck his lips before making your descent down his body. you pause at his chest tugging one of his nipples between your teeth softly just to hear that pretty little whine again before kissing your way down to the edge of his sweats.

The imprint of him is hard to miss and you can’t help but run your hand over the bulge and squeeze. his body jolts like he’s been electrocuted.

“Oh mon Dieu bébé, s'il te plaît, ne me taquine pas!” you don't know exactly what he's saying but the impatience of his tone gives you a clue. Oh my God baby please don't tease me

“Relax baby, I'm gonna give you what you want.” your fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats and you pause there, looking up into his eyes again with a silent question. He nods supportingly, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and his hips raise towards you. His sweats and boxers come down together.

Holy shit.

He’s not overly large, very proportional to his body but the thickness of him takes you aback. He has the kind of width that you know you'll be feeling for the next couple days. The tip is flushed red dripping in precum, your fingers wrap around the base and start kitten licking at his leaking head.

“mph-oh fuck” he makes a sound like the air has been punched from his lungs and your thighs clench together in response. His head falls back into the pillows. He’s so sensitive it’s driving you insane. Normally giving head is your least favorite part of sex but his reactions have you retracting that mindset.

You open your mouth and fully take him in going as far as you can, using both hands to cover whatever you can’t reach. his hips twitch up subconsciously and you gag.

“Putain, je suis désolé mon ange, feels so good” he rasps out. you just moan in response and the vibrations pull another breathless whine from him. Fuck, i’m sorry angel

you pull off of him with a subtle pop, hands continuing to work him over while you catch your breath.

“Do you want to cum like this Zack?” you ask and receive no reply.

He’s too blissed out, eyes closed, thrusting up into your fists.

you stop moving your hands and he cries out pathetically. his upper body bows towards you and when you meet his glistening eyes you almost feel bad for ripping away his impending orgasm. almost.

“I asked you a question.” it takes him a moment to find his senses and respond.

“I want it to be inside.” His voice is several notches deeper and the darkness in his gaze sets fire to your veins. His hands slide up your thigh, under the edges of your (his) shirt.

“Take this off cherie.” tugging it up with his assistance, you're completely bare with the exception of your little sleep shorts.

“C’mere.” he mutters softly, pulling you up to him again. Your lips connect, softer than your previous kiss but just as passionate. Your upper body presses up against his and the coolness of his chain makes you shiver in delight, giving you goosebumps.

You sigh deeply, body sinking into him further in contentment. He groans in response, hands tightening around your hips as he uses his bodyweight to flip your positions so he's on top. He presses up onto his palms beside your head. His biceps are on display like this and you can't help but lean up and bite one of them.

“Eh? What was that for?” he asks with a shocked laugh. You shrug with absolutely no shame.

“I've always wanted to do that.” he laughs again while you just gaze at him lovingly. When he catches your stare he bites his lip and the soft moment heats up again.

“Can I feel you now, cherie?” he asks softly, you nod and he's tugging off your shorts immediately, tossing them somewhere behind him. When you're completely bare for him he sits back on his haunches with a look of awe. You try to close your legs together under his unwavering stare but his hands grasp your thighs firmly keeping them apart.

“Ange, tu es tellement mouillée que ça dégouline sur les draps.” he says, thumbs rubbing warm circles on the underside of your thighs, it's nice but if he doesn't touch you properly soon you might explode. Angel, you're so wet it’s dripping onto the sheets

“Please Isack don't tease” you whine out. He smirk’s fingers lightly grazing over your center.

“It's no fun being teased, is it bebe?” he grins cheekily, “You had such a mouth on you earlier. Use it and tell me what you want.”

“Fuc- I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” his thumb presses into that bundle of nerves rubbing light circles but you’re too worked up, it’s not enough.

“Ah Zack please!” you cry out grabbing his forearm in an attempt to drag his fingers where you really want them.

“Mmm ne pleure pas bébé, tu sais que je te donnerai toujours ce que tu veux.” his fingers slip into you and your vision whites out. Don’t cry baby, you know i’ll always give you what you want

“Oh shit- yes!” you moan, back arching off the bed, hands gripping the sheets. God his fingers are so nice, thick and callused from years of driving.

“Feels good baby? Putain, tu ne sais pas depuis combien de temps j'ai rêvé de ça.” Isack leans down on the arm not between your legs, brushing the sweaty hair from your eyes and laying his forehead against yours. Fuck, you don’t know how long i've dreamt of this

“Look at me, yeah? Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers.” you want to break away from his intense gaze but the hand grasping your hair keeps you right where he wants you. You’re practically drooling while his fingers abuse that sweet spot inside you.

When you feel yourself getting closer you try to warn him but all that comes out is “a-ah Zack i’m comi-ah!” before your eyes roll back and you claw your hands down his shoulders.

“Yeahhh fuck bébé that’s it.” he works you through your orgasm slowing his fingers down when you stop spasming around him. you feel him placing little kisses on your face and chest while you struggle to catch your breath.

You pull him in for a soft appreciative kiss and he melts into you. He slots himself in between your legs and you feel him warm and sticky against your inner thigh. You look down between your bodies and catch a glimpse of him, rock hard and tip fire engine red from lack of attention.

“You know, tonight was supposed to be about you.” you reach down to stroke him, he lets out a sharp hiss and grabs your hand to pin it beside your head.

“Continue comme ça et cette nuit se terminera tôt pour nous deux, making you feel good makes me feel good too don’t be silly.” he chastises you lightly. Keep it up and this night will end early for us both

Your legs raise higher up to his hips, opening yourself up to him more and he positions himself against your core, sliding between your folds covering his cock in your slickness before stopping at your entrance. He reaches over to the nightstand for his wallet for a condom, quickly tearing the wrapper and rolling it into himself.

“Can you give me one more?” you nod quickly and he grins “That’s my girl” The slow press of him into you has your breath catching in preparation of the thickness of him. He immediately clocks your hesitation and links his hand with yours, little pecks placed onto your lips in hopes of distraction.

“I got you mon ange, relax.” you do as he says letting out a deep sigh and he pushes in slow and steady until he bottoms out completely.

“You’re so pretty like this.” he nuzzles his nose against yours lovingly.

“Isack!” you groan out, hips grinding against his own with need “Oh God please move!”

“I know baby I know- just need a second.” he grits out, whole body shaking in barely contained restraint. He pulls his hips back until just the tip is there and then slides all the way in again. His pace speeds up and you’re losing your mind.

All you can focus on is Isack, the look of him all sweaty, lip between his teeth and his abs flexing as he pumps himself inside you again and again. You can’t even tell him how good he’s making you feel, the only thing coming out of your mouth is little ‘ah-ah-ahs!’ and broken intervals of his name.

Isack seems to be having the opposite effect though, his mouth won’t stop running.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long, since that fucking dinner party.” The hand not still linked in yours slides down onto your stomach and presses down just below your belly button and you scream.

“Fuuuck yeah bébé” he lifts one of your legs over your shoulder, cock reaching into you so impossibly deep.

“Wanted you so bad in Monaco too, would’ve told my manager to piss off just so I could bend you over that sofa in my drivers room.” he grunts out voice rough from exertion.

“And you’d let me too huh pretty girl, let m-oh fuck let me take you in that tiny room where everyone could hear how good I make you feel.” you clench around him hard at the thought. “mph-yes yes Zack please don’t stop!”

“Mon dieu look at you.” he’s babbling more to himself now, getting closer and closer to his peak. “Comment je suis censé penser à autre chose maintenant ? Je pourrais vivre dans ta chatte.” How am I supposed to think about anything else now? I could live in your pussy

His hips switch into a deep grind, pelvic bone brushing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars.

Your orgasm hits you so quickly you don’t even have time to think let alone warn him. Your cunt spasming around him pushes him to his climax soon after and he wails out hotly against your throat.

“Holy shit.” he whispers before collapsing on top of you, sweaty and spent. He rolls over to toss the condom in the bin before immediately pulling your back into his chest.

It’s silent for a while, you two just basking in the afterglow before he presses soft kisses onto the back of your shoulders and neck.

“That was worth the wait, no?” you have no idea how he can sound so smug so soon after but you can’t help but agree.

“Of course, just never make me wait that long again.” you joke, turning in his arms to face him. Hands tracing over those beauty marks you love so much.

“We can go again if you want.” he says, wriggling his brows with a cheeky smile.

“Isack!” you laugh pushing his head away.

Ending was shit but thank you sm for reading! hope you enjoyed! 🫶🏾

[deadprince05]

hiii👋

Can you pls wrt about cute habits of Isagi 😩😩😩🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏?!

Cute Relationship Habits. Blue Lock

Cute habits of characters towards you.

Characters: Isagi Yoichi, Meguru Bachira, Sae Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Ryusei Shido, Michael Kaiser, Rin Itoshi

Isagi Yoichi

• After walks, he always tries to walk you all the way to the door to make sure you're okay and safe.

• On your way home, you stop at a small convenience store where you buy cat food and feed the street cats.

• Instead of "You're beautiful," he'll say: "You're like a perfect pass—always hitting straight to the heart." And if you cook something delicious for him, he'll declare: "Better than scoring in the finals."

Meguru Bachira

• He always wakes up before you to write nice wishes and compliments on pieces of paper, and then throws them in different places: in your bag, in your clothes pocket, or discreetly puts them on the table.

• Bachira loves touch, he is very tactile. He often holds your hand or hugs you. When you're sitting on the couch, he can just come over and lie on your lap.

• Bachira loves copying everything you do. Cross your arms? He'll mirror you instantly. Yawn? He'll fake a dramatic yawn too... Then burst into that signature bubbly laughter: "See? We're totally in sync!"

Sae Itoshi

• Sae is not an obvious romantic, but many of his actions towards you are imbued with concern. When you go to bed, he covers you with a blanket, and then hugs you from behind, stroking you until you fall asleep.

• He doesn’t really like to show affection in public, but he always accompanies you to various events and tells you in interviews how wonderful you are.

• Sae hates when people invade his personal space, but you're the exception. You can fix his hair - "Are you done?" he'll ask... (but he won't pull away.) Sometimes he'll even lean down so you can reach him better. If you take his hand, he'll pretend not to notice at first but then slowly intertwine his fingers with yours.

Seishiro Nagi

• He gets along well with animals, so he often plays with street kittens, and then takes pictures of them and sends them to you with a caption stating that you look at these kittens in some way.

• Nagi hates unnecessary movements, but you are the exception. He'll lazily wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you close when you sit together—as if you're his personal support. His fingers might idly play with the hem of your clothes or a strand of your hair while he watches TV or dozes off.

• Nagi speaks to you without words: - tugs your hand when he wants to lead you somewhere - nods toward his backpack when he wants you to get his water - closes his eyes when you fix his hair, as if saying: "Keep going".

You've learned to understand his silence — and he's learned to *open up* only for you.

Reo Mikage

• Very frequent gifts. Every time Reo goes to meet you, he always brings something with him. It can be either a white chocolate bar or a gold necklace.

• Gives you various cute nicknames

• Physical touch is his love language. He'll hold your pinky when walking together if he can't hug you properly, tuck your hair behind your ear when strands fall in your face, then press a kiss to your forehead after. He'll cradle your cold hands in his to warm them - even when his own fingers are freezing.

Ryusei Shido

• He's very tall and uses it to tease you. He takes something from you and waits for you to start trying to take it away. When you reach for the stolen item, he kisses you on the lips.

• He's much more affectionate next to you, like some kind of cat you don't know what to expect from.

• Likes to bite your cheeks, or unexpectedly lick your neck.

Michael Kaiser

• His backhanded compliments sound like insults, but you've learned to decode them: "You're less annoying today" = "You look beautiful" "At least someone can tolerate me" = "I'm happy you're here" "Go to sleep or you'll look like a zombie" = "I like how you look and want you well-rested"

• Jealous... but won't admit it. He'll never say it outright, but his reactions give him away completely, If someone flirts with you, he appears right at that moment and "accidentally" positions himself between you.

• His care stings like an injection without anesthesia: sharp but effective. "You'll only have yourself to blame if you freeze" he grumbles, draping his jacket over you. If you get sick, he'll drag over medicine but growl "Don't you dare be ill before the match" (even when the match is a month away). When you're exhausted, he might permit you to sleep on his shoulder - but only if "nobody's watching."

Rin Itoshi

• Rin won't initiate hugs or hold hands first, but if you do it—his fingers will tighten slightly in response, and the faintest hint of a smile will flicker at the corner of his mouth.

• He doesn’t give flowers or cards, but if he notices you need something—it’ll magically appear in your bag or on your desk. New headphones because yours broke? Done. That book you casually mentioned weeks ago? There it is. He’ll make it happen—but never admit it.

• Rin isn't the type to openly confess his affection, but you might notice his gaze lingering on you in a crowd. If you catch him, he'll immediately look away — as if he was just studying something on the horizon.

[therayofsonshine]

answering for my own gg dr (as that’s the dr i’m most into atm hehe!):

1. my headphones, my lip balm and any form of sunscreen or setting spray. i like to listen to music pretty much all the time n feel good, so i need these items on me regardless of where i’m going lol

2. any ethel cain song. alike this reality, i’m a big daughter of cain in my dr too, and my fans are VERY aware of this fact haha. but in my gg dr i’m strangely - or, not so strangely cuz i go on about it and play it every live - associated with artificial love by exo! bro even non-fans know me from this song LMFAO

3. i love love to write! whether it’s lyrics for any upcoming songs or drafts for potential songs for other artists, it’s writing stories or journaling. fun fact, writing was actually the reason i’m an idol n in my current situation as a gg member. i went over for lessons after i finished school in england, and ended up in auditions lolllll. i also crochet and paint!

4. hmm.. i don’t really have any favourites. but my members n i visited busan one summer when we all had a week off. best trip ever. it was heaven and the weather didn’t disappoint either. we ate good food and rested - so i’d say even though it wasn’t a holiday, it comes very close to the ideal example for me.

5. i’m an idol!!! so i sing and dance and entertain and get to do it all with my girls. there are five of us, four born in 2001 (including me) and our maknae was born a month - though in another year - after the second youngest in 2002. i really enjoy it - sometimes it’s hard and i defo have moments of questioning my life choices, but i wouldn’t give it up for the world.

6. my youngie. ateez’s wooyoung. most of my friends are idols too - we don’t have much choice LOL, we’re so busy we don’t often see ppl outside of our work environment - but i consider woo as my closest ride-or-die friend. it helps we’re in the same company so we ALWAYS end up passing each other in the hallways or i just see him in general. i love that man he’s super funny n loves crazy hard, like wears his heart on his sleeve kind of crazy. but i would die for him end of

7. defo a night person. bro those days when schedules r SUPER early fucking SUUUCK. we’re up for like 4am - sometimes earlier - but you bet i will be in our car falling asleep. but do i wake up before we get to the shooting site??? yes i do. baddie shit. but no i am awful in the mornings gah DAMN 😭😭😭

8. i’m very similar in this reality, but i LOVE cats. hence why my entire group is literally based around the concept of felines. theyre so cute and the purring????? take me to HEAVEN! we have a few cats in our dorm room (which are cared for btw…) but you wouldn’t believe how hard i had to work to get these higher up mfs to allow us that privilege. lost A LOT of my dignity but was it worth it? 100%. love my furry friends!!

9. now. look. i have my days which i’m both, and i have my days i’m one or the other. but according to the 16 personalities quiz they had me take to put on my k profile, i’m apparently an enfj-t. so do with that what you will 🩷 . but around my crush???? ho i’m an introvert. sorry, i meant INTROVERT. i am like a little mouse i let him do all the talking LOLLLL

10. yes! i have one little sister called naciri. she was born in 2012 and surprisingly her and wooyoung’s little brother kyungmin get along well, despite their age differences. i dunno when that happened or HOW it happened… but i’m not complaining.

11. uh… i actually cannot describe this one. my fashion sense depends on the day n the mood. usually i tend to lean for baggier clothes, especially on days when it’s more humid. but honestly it’s a mix n match of many different styles and whatever feels best to me when i wake up HAH

12. hmm. i don’t know if i have one. maybe just any nostalgic childhood films? i dunno yo 😭

13. oh lawwwd. here she goes. so… yes i do have a crush. bro this is so EMBARRASSING. ok so basically when i came to korea to start training, the trainees would eventually bump into the ateez boys as the building is not as big as fuckin hybe and obviously the boys want to meet new people joining the company. but whatever. so i met yunho and bro he’s so FINEEEEEE. i literally had to bite my tongue to stop myself from blushing - he was so tall and sweet and bubbly. so i… kinda… fell for him.

we never interacted tho really. he was super busy with comebacks and schedules / tour so when i did see him i was internally like oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god. LMFAO. i genuinely love that man. but will i ever confess?? idk. wooyoung knows tho so no doubt he’ll find out eventually. pls pray for me the day that happens…

14. i’m a virgo!! earth signs on tawwp

15. any savoury korean snack. they’re super yummy and light to just settle cravings. food in korea is so sweet 😭😭😭 even the savoury food like bread is sweet. so whenever you come across something savoury… bro you savour that shit no pun intended

16. ON GOD YES. we’re always in a damn car or plane or any transportation device depending on where we’re going. for mvs we tend to travel overseas for shooting, so we became very familiar with the airport hahaha. but i scripted that earth is safe / healthy and public transport doesn’t affect the planet in anyway… so i can actually enjoy travelling. but yes, we travel a LOT.

17. i can play the piano and a little guitar. i mainly use the computer / mixing, so i haven’t had much practice but trust 🤞🏼 i will get better.

18. i have a few. obviously my members - but they’re more like family to me than friends, so i don’t really count them as they’re bordering sisters than a friendship (we passed that years agoooo). but my wooyoung is #1. that’s my soulmate. i’m super close with yeonjun of txt and theo of p1h, but chanty of lapillus and nvee of black swan too. i’m super picky with friends so it’s just a random combo of ppl 😭

19. i scripted i’m not a picky eater, so there’s nothing really i won’t eat. i’m just not particularly a fan of seafood. love meat, but seafood… doesn’t do it for me i’m afraid.

20. my name is navara lee. i was born and raised in england and ‘lee’ is a pretty popular name (both first n last) here. just so happens to be a korean last name as well… which made things a lot easier regarding pronunciation :)

21. i have less of a sweet tooth in korea than i do when i’m back home. everything in korea is sweet as fuck so i often don’t find myself wanting anything sweet - but when i’m back home???? i’m in the chocolate aisle ALL THE TIME. dude, english chocolate is just… goated

22. hmm.. vara is the main one. hence why it’s my stage name and the name i go by now. when someone calls me navara i’m like… am i in trouble? what did i do? but i do find it endearing when ppl call me my full name i wont lie :’) navi is a big one too. dunno how that’s spelt but that’s how they say it so

23. when ppl assume things without the facts to back up their claim. like? god forbid ppl make eye contact with someone else and suddenly there are dating rumours flying around?? the amount of dating scandals i’ve been in because i’m social and a yapper is INSANE. i’ve been in them with the ateez boys too. but they’re never yunho… like youse r doing after the wrong guy!!!!!

24. we have cats in our dorm but they’re not really mine. my members n i all collectively own them n picked them out together so. i dont know where to stand with that one

25. honestly… both. i’m difficult i know, i’m sorry! i just love to party but i also love to sit in and watch a film. again, depends on my mood. i’ve walked out of parties before to go home, but i’ve also walked out of my dorm to go partying. it be your own state of mind 🤷🏻‍♀️

hope u enjoyed reading!

QUESTIONS TO ANSWER AS YOUR 𝒟R 𝒮ELF ✸

ib this post from @zaddizu & heavily ib premiumbitch ★

#1. what are 3 items you can’t live without?

#2. favorite song?

#3. what are your hobbies?

#4. favorite holiday?

#5. what do you do for a living?

#6. who is someone you always hangout with?

#7. are you a night person or a morning person?

#8. favorite animal?

#9. introvert or extrovert?

#10. do you have siblings?

#11. how do you dress?

#12. favorite movie / tv show?

#13. do you have a crush / significant other?

#14. what’s your zodiac sign?

#15. what’s your favorite snack?

#16. do you travel a lot?

#17. do you play instruments?

#18. who is your best friend?

#19. least favorite food?

#20. what’s your name?

#21. do you have a sweet tooth?

#22. nicknames your family or friends call you?

#23. what is something that annoys you?

#24. do you have a pet?

#25. do you prefer going out or staying at home?

[kierongillen]

On Writing Team Books

A friend asks me about writing about team books, which reminds me I wrote an essay to a friend about it a while back, and put it in my newsletter. I figure I could put it on the tumblr for easier access. If you like this, I do stuff like this fairly often in the newsletter so sub.

I get the occasional mail from creator friends, asking me for advice on a topic. Last week, Alex Paknadel (he outed himself on twitter) asked me about writing team books, and I downloaded my brief thoughts to him. None of my thoughts are brief. Here’s an edited and slightly tidied version…

Right!

After I got the mail I wrote a list of five topics off the top of my head. I’m now going to go in and fill in some details beneath them. Fear the download.

1) Killing artists.

More than any other kind of book, the chance of breaking an artist on a team book is highest. You have a bunch of characters, which often do some stuff together. So you’re writing a 6 person team? That’s 6 people together. They’re in a fight? Maybe another 6 people against them.

So call your shots carefully when they’re together. Don’t call for shots of everyone in the same panel, unless you’re really giving it the space to land for the reader and you absolutely need it.

Worth noting sometimes you do: at least part of the team book is folks want to see a team doing the thing. That said, there’s exceptions to that…

2) Black Hole/Bad company . Probably Authority.

I usually say I learned to write team books by a teenage exposure to ABC WARRIORS: THE BLACK HOLE and BAD COMPANY VOL 2: THE BEWILDERNESS. This is classic 2000AD hypercompression - both explicit team books told in 5-6 page chunks. How did they do it?

ABC Warriors primarily does it by having a team member be the narrator in each episode, and then rotating the narrator between episodes. So you are both introduced to each character, and also (because the narrators are so different) introduced to the perspective of the character who is speaking., This also means this constant reintroduction isn’t in any way boring, because the characters are all so individually warped. You want to know what a sadistic fuck like Blackblood makes about everyone, right?

BAD COMPANY goes the other way, and has a strong single narrator in the form of Danny Franks, and uses them as the perspective we explore the rest of the cast. Some stuff is almost explicitly Franks interviewing team members.

Both speak to an underlying truth – a big chunk of team books are about moving the pieces around in new combinations, and seeing what they do.

I mention Authority, but the first run dose some key basic things of modern team story books – this almost procedural mode was especially popular in the 00s, and is something of a break of the Classic American Superteam approach. Speaking broadly, it does very cleanly some things superteams have always done - you can see where it moves from separating the group (so all team members gets a chance to do cool shit) and then bringing them together (so you get to do the big team book money shots).

But also note that when they’re together in a non-violent scene, someone - usually Jenny - takes lead, and almost everyone else shuts up. You may view this as the Authority becoming a solo book with a supporting cast rather than a true team book when the story demands - that speaks to it being a plot-first book. There’s not really much for the team to debate about - they all know what they’re going to do (kick people in the head, save the world).

TL;DR: Go breakdown some of your faves. How do their stories work?

3) Spotlight time.

That’s the main thing, and what all the above do, in various ways. If it’s a team book, characters need to be able to be on panel and do their thing. That it’s being sold as a team book implies that’s the promise to some degree. When planning an issue ensuring everyone gets to do their cool thing for a moment is not a bad perspective to take.

(This is pretty close to running an RPG group, btw. If someone’s not done something for a while, it’s probably time to give them a chance to do something.)

The alternative - especially in a one off - is to make the issue explicitly about an individual. Like the Black Hole, maybe this is just a single character in the team, and about how they work in the team. Of course, the effects do overlap - like in Bad Company, having the story be from an individual’s perspective you get to show how the other people are viewed by them, and so how cool their cool thing may be.

4) Team book vs ensemble cast.

That links to the above - like, what is the book, really?

There’s team books which aren’t really teams - they’re actually ensemble casts. WicDiv was one of them. DIE is much more of a team book - it’s a literal party (with Ash as the main narrator, ala BAD company). Watchmen has one scene when there’s a team, and they’re not called The Watchmen – it is absolutely an ensemble cast. Hickman’s X-men isn’t a team - it’s an ensemble cast (to the level where I think it’s more of a permanent event, or even a social novel). My Journey into Mystery is abstractly a solo book, but at times it became an ensemble book - and even a SERIES of team books, because Loki was always having to put teams together to do stuff. My Uncanny X-men run was primarily an Authority-mode procedural team book, with Cyclops taking the Jenny position and everyone having lots of focus time to do their cool thing (though see later on the exceptions).

The core difference between Ensemble books and Team books is that in a team book “I want to see the people together doing their thing” is part of the promise.

5) Split the Party.

You ever seen Dan Harmon write about Community? Clearly the story circle, but there’s also the sense that most episodes are about dividing the cast into smaller pairs and threes, and exploring that dynamic. This is in a lot of sitcoms, and an approach that 100% crosses over into team books.

5-9 people in a team normally means 7 of them standing around in a blob, with 1 person taking the leader role, and maybe one other takes the person to argue against the leader. Who is arguing likely varies, but it’s normally who feels most strongly about a situation. I suddenly find myself thinking like a team book is a zoom call, and most people are just standing and listening.

So you need to split that up.

Split up a 6 team into two groups of three, and you’ve got proper potential for actual drama. Each scene can be about those people, and by changing up the people you group together, you get to show different aspects of the characters. The Uncanny Run had a core team of nine, which is ludicrous… and when the book isn’t doing the widescreen mode, you’ll see I split the team into 3 groups of 3, and I get to play with all kinds of dynamics.

This is what team books do best, I think – in that you’ve got no single element which “needs” to be there (As in if opposed to you having a group cast around a a daredevil or a batman, readers are still broadly pissed off when you don’t see anything of the lead character). You get to see what emerges from all these different combinations, and then being able to bring them together to do the core TEAM beat when you need that.

Think about the subtext of “Avengers Assemble”. It implies that the Avengers were apart.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Could you write a headcannon or Drabble about Smoke receiving from Annie in her shack? Something detailed and giving a vibe of how that goes? Maybe they aren’t married maybe he’s just falling for her? He can’t stay away?

Sorry I know you must be busy with other WIP! But I’ve been wanting to send this to you because I know you’ll do it justice!

Xoxo!

Just Before Midnight

Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore had started falling for a conjure woman on the outskirts of the Delta, and it was becoming a quiet kind of madness…

She lived just past the last stretch of sugarcane, in a weathered little shack that smelled of camphor and coals, where the trees hung low and the air always felt thick with something watching. Her name was Annie. Folks called her a rootworker, a healer. Some called her dangerous. Smoke didn’t give a damn what they called her—all he knew was, he couldn’t stop coming back.

He told himself it was the tobacco blend she made for him. A dark, earthy twist she rolled up with dried cherry bark, mugwort, and a pinch of low country marijuana she claimed helped calm his nerves. Said it soothed bad dreams, stilled the shaking in his hands. He told himself that’s what brought him out tonight, just before midnight.

But he still had a full pouch in his coat pocket. He didn’t need more.

He just needed her.

The shack was dim when he arrived, smoke curling from the chimney, moonlight bleeding through the moss. He knocked twice, slow. She opened the door barefoot, her skirt clinging to the curve of her hips, a scarf wrapped carelessly over her head. Her eyes scanned him like she already knew.

“You ain’t low on nothin’ but lies,” Annie murmured, leaning on the doorframe. “What you really come here for, Elijah Moore? You gon’ tell me the truth, gangster?”

He chuckled low, flashing teeth, not something he normally did, running a hand down the front of his cotton work shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm. He wore slacks and suspenders slung loose, his collar open to the night, a fedora hanging off one finger.

“Thought I’d get another mix,” he said, eyes trailing over her shoulder like he wasn’t staring at her mouth, “You put somethin’ new in that last batch. Had me dreamin’ sweet.”

Annie crossed her arms, one brow lifting, “Ain’t changed a damn thing.”

He licked his lips and looked away, smirking, then back again, “Maybe it’s you, then.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The night crooned outside, frogs in chorus and crickets whispering between leaves. A gust of wind stirred the altar smoke inside—thick and fragrant, curling toward the door like an invitation.

She stepped aside without a word, letting him in. The floor creaked under his boots. The inside of the shack was warm, close. Lit by the flame on her altar and a single oil lamp near the window. Shadows danced on the walls like they were keeping secrets.

Smoke hovered, eyes taking her in, “You always this quiet when a man comes knockin’?”

Annie turned to face him, arms loose at her sides now. Her gaze softened, but only just, “Only when I know he don’t need what he say he need.”

She stepped closer, fingers brushing the front of his suspenders, her body heat making him sweat under his clothes.

“You restless?” she asked, voice low, “Or just hard-headed?”

Smoke’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer. He just let out a slow breath.

Annie reached up, unfastened a single button on his shirt, then another.

“You smell like gunpowder and need,” she whispered, “Ain’t nothin’ I can do for the first. But I know how to feed the second.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t want to.

She eased him back onto the old blanket near her altar. The smoke from it rolled around them like a living thing, rising with the heat that sparked between their bodies. The candle flickered. The wood groaned. The world outside faded.

And then she dropped to her knees.

The air is thick in Annie’s shack, laced with incense and the slow curl of altar smoke, rising from a cracked ceramic bowl set before a cluster of bones, roots, and a half-burned red candle. The room breathes around them, the walls moan with age, and the wood under their knees creaks and shifts like it remembers old sin.

Outside, the swamp hums—cicadas whirring like tiny gears turning fate, frogs calling low and throaty, and the occasional rustle of something moving through leaves, like the woods are watching. Overhead, Spanish moss dances in the windless dark, casting shadows like fingers across the shack’s smudged windows. The smell of burnt sage and old secrets clings to everything.

Smoke sits on a worn blanket she pulled down from her cot, back against the wall, shirt unbuttoned, chest rising slow but ragged. The glow from the altar catches his skin, casting it in flickers—like fire trying to decide if it should lick or burn.

Annie kneels between his thighs, hands on his knees, her lips parted but not touching him yet. She looks up at him, and he meets her eyes…those hoodoo eyes, glinting with something old and knowing.

“You sure?” she whispers, voice honey-thick, but her fingers already tug at his waistband, “Soon as I wrap my lips ‘round this big boy…you ain’t gonna want me to stop…”

He nods, jaw tight. His throat works around a groan when her hands find him, warm and certain.

And then her mouth—

Soft, slow, sinful.

Like she’s tasting communion made flesh.

Smoke’s head hits the wall with a dull thud. “FUCK…Lord,” he exhales, then again, “Lord…”

The altar smoke billows behind her like it’s alive, coiling above her spine, dancing around the sway of her hair as she works. Her tongue moves with a conjure’s rhythm —not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate. Reverent.

Up…down…up…down…

Smoke watches, mesmerized. Entranced by her magical mouth and those intense eyes. She didn’t use her powerful hands. She simply worked his girth and length with the strength her tight jaws and skillful tongue.

Every wet sound is amplified by the hush in the room. The slurp, the suck, the gentle growl of her throat tightening around him. It’s obscene…and holy…at once.

His hand trembles as it finds hers. Their fingers intertwine, his scarred knuckles rough against her smoother ones, grip tightening with every bob of her head.

“Annie,” he breathes, voice guttural, a warning and a prayer, “Damn, baby…”

But she doesn’t stop. She hums around him—a sound that vibrates so deep his hips jerk involuntarily, knees nearly buckling.

“Shit, baby… baby, that mouth of yours…”

The whisper of old spirits stirs behind them, almost lost in the haze, voices like wind caught in the cracks of the wood. Some say her shack is haunted. Smoke believes it in that moment. Not because of fear, but because something about this feels too powerful to be just flesh and want.

He’s sweating, chest heaving, eyes shut tight. The smoke curls around his head, mingling with the scent of her, the altar, the salt of his body. The floor groans beneath him, as if it too is straining under the weight of his pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps. “Fuck, Annie, don’t stop…”

She grips his thighs tighter, goes deeper, her rhythm now slow and messy, like she’s trying to ruin him sweet. Every moan he lets slip is filthy, laced with need and disbelief.

And when he finally comes—

It’s with a low, broken sound, like something ancient inside him cracking loose.

He clutches her hand like an anchor.

His body jerks once, twice.

He pants like a man baptized in sin.

She stays there, gentle now, slow licks to clean him, like sealing a spell. His breath is still ragged, hand still in hers.

The shack settles. The whispers go quiet. The altar candle sputters once, then stills.

Smoke finally opens his eyes and looks down at her, spent and dazed.

“You… you gon’ kill me one day, girl,” he says, voice raw.

Annie smirks, wipes the corner of her mouth with her fingers, and leans up close.

“Nah,” she whispers against his jaw.

“I’ma keep you right on the edge.”

And she does.

[lucy-literates]

You always write such lovely words under requests, so kind 😊

I have another idea for Lewis :)

The reader is younger again (28) and she is afraid Lewis will not see her as woman, but it is the opposite, but he is also nervous that she finds him to old 🫣

And he proves it to her - with a smut part 🤭

Greetings :)

A/N: Hello again, Anon! Thank you, I always think that it's better to be kind and always say something. I also do it because all the requests I get are so good! I love the age gap and mutual pining; it is beautiful. My requests are open (and now empty, sorry to everyone who had to wait for theirs!), hope you enjoy 🫶

Too Young for You?

You’ve known Lewis for a while now.

A slow-burn kind of knowing — casual meetings at events, friendly texts, the occasional long phone call when one of you needed a distraction. He’s charming. Warm. Ridiculously attractive. And he makes you laugh without trying.

But you’ve always kept your distance. Emotionally, at least.

Because Lewis Hamilton is… well, Lewis Hamilton. And you’re just you. Twenty-eight, still figuring things out. Still getting used to being in the same rooms as people like him.

So you decided early on: he probably doesn’t see you that way. You’re too young, too inexperienced, maybe a little too much.

He needs a woman. A graceful, powerful, 30-something goddess. Not someone who second-guesses her outfit three times before dinner.

So you’ve kept it friendly.

Even when he looked at you a little too long. Even when his hugs lingered. Even when he texted I miss your voice after a bad race weekend.

You still played it cool. You had to.

Because you were sure it wasn’t mutual.

What you didn’t know is — Lewis felt the exact same way.

Tonight is one of those quiet, perfect nights in. Monaco’s moonlight spills across his apartment, soft music plays in the background, and a bottle of red sits between you. You’re both a little tipsy, curled up on his oversized couch, knees brushing beneath a blanket.

You laugh at something he says, and his eyes flick to your mouth before he catches himself.

You pretend not to notice. You always pretend not to notice.

But tonight, something’s different. Something’s pressing at the edges. The air feels charged.

“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly, swirling your wine.

He nods. “Anything.”

You bite your lip. “Do you ever… think I’m too young for you?”

Lewis goes very still.

The silence stretches a second too long.

You rush to fill it. “It’s just — I know I’m not as… polished, or worldly, or whatever. And I know how many amazing women you’ve dated. It’s okay if you don’t—”

“Stop.”

Your voice dies in your throat.

Lewis puts his glass down carefully. He turns toward you fully, gaze locked on yours — intense, unreadable.

“You think I don’t see you as a woman?” he asks, voice low.

You blink. “I—yeah?”

He exhales a quiet laugh. But there’s nothing amused about it. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath catches.

“You walk into a room and I forget how to breathe,” he says simply. “You smile and my whole chest fucking tightens. And every time I hold back from touching you, it’s because I’m scared you think I’m too old. That you want someone younger, cooler, someone who doesn’t carry all this… weight.”

Your heart shatters a little.

“Lewis…”

“I want you,” he says. “I’ve wanted you for months. But I wasn’t going to push. I wasn’t going to risk making you uncomfortable.”

“You couldn’t,” you whisper. “God, you couldn’t.”

He leans in, so close his breath warms your lips.

“Say the word,” he murmurs. “Tell me you want this. Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

Your fingers curl in his shirt.

“You’re not dreaming.”

His kiss is devastating.

It starts soft — reverent, almost — then quickly deepens, like he’s starving and finally allowed to taste. His hands cup your jaw, tilt your face just right, and you moan into his mouth, all nerves and need.

He pulls back slightly, panting. “Bedroom?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes. Please.”

His bedroom is dim and warm, all dark sheets and soft lighting. The moment you’re inside, he’s on you — kissing down your throat, lifting your shirt with trembling fingers.

“I want to take my time,” he breathes. “I want you to feel everything.”

Your shirt’s gone. Your bra’s next. His hands skim up your waist, slow and sure, until his thumbs graze your nipples and you arch into him, gasping.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs, eyes dark.

You nod, breath hitching. “Always.”

He smiles, lowering his mouth to your chest. “Perfect.”

His tongue is wicked — slow flicks, gentle sucks, one hand pinning your hips down as you start to squirm.

“Lewis—please—”

“Not rushing this,” he says. “I need to learn you. Every sound. Every spot.”

By the time he slides your panties off and kisses down your stomach, you’re shaking.

But then—

His mouth finds your pussy and everything melts.

He licks you like he’s memorizing, alternating between deep, slow strokes and soft suction on your clit. He hums when you moan, gripping your thighs tighter as your hips rise.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans. “Could stay here all night.”

You cry out when two fingers join the rhythm — slow thrusts, perfectly angled — and the coil in your belly snaps fast.

“Lewis—oh my god—”

You come hard, thighs trembling, a broken gasp leaving your lips as he rides it out, coaxing every last wave from you with his tongue.

He kisses back up your body, eyes full of fire. “Still too young for me, baby?”

You laugh breathlessly, dizzy from pleasure. “Not even close.”

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Good. Because I’m not done.”

He fucks you slow at first — hips rolling deep, his hands everywhere. But when he sees how desperate you are, how you pull him closer and beg for more, something shifts.

“Look at you,” he growls. “So needy for me. Letting me stretch you open.”

“God, yes—”

“You thought I couldn’t handle you, huh? Thought I’d be soft? Gentle?” He snaps his hips, hard and deep, and you cry out.

“Lewis—!”

“That’s it,” he pants. “Say my name again. Let me prove it to you.”

You come again, harder this time, eyes rolling back, his name a prayer on your lips.

He follows soon after, moaning low in your ear as he spills inside you, hips still grinding, wringing every last wave of heat between your bodies.

Afterward, he pulls you close, your legs tangled together under soft sheets.

You rest your head on his chest, still trying to catch your breath. “So…”

“So?” he teases, brushing your hair back.

You grin. “Definitely not too old.”

He smirks. “And you’re definitely not too young.”

Tag List:

@alexxavicry

@k-1609

@alyislost

@supersanelyromantic 

 @astrlape

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[valeisaslut]

I'm definitely sorry for bothering you with this (and our girlies with their busy lives), BUT, your last Autowire and Puppy interview HC’s made me immediately think of the lie detector ones and what kind of uncontrolled chaos it would be if Ellie and reader were in one together. The chemistry, the tension, the banter, the EYECONTACT. Ellie having to sit still with all the wires, either reader or Ellie going off-track and asking their own questions with a smug smile on their face? “The machine’s giving an indication of some nervousness.” “Inconclusive.” Or blatant, unashamed honesty to some of the questions? The giggles during the ridiculous questions? “Would you still love me if I were a worm?” The person behind the detector third-wheeling and having to keep a straight face through it all as they rope them into their chaos? Trouble. A couple million views in no time, easy. 

But also a moment for cuteness,

“How does this picture make you feel?” As reader slams a photo on the table, and it’s a photo of teeny tiny reader as a kid and Ellie just thaws and keeps the photo. OR it’s a photo from reader’s VS shoot and the machine goes zig-zaggedy-zig so fast because Ellie’s heartbeat’s picking up.

Anyway, good luck with your studies and take care, love! Wishing you all the best!!

OH MY GOD. LISTEN. THIS IS CANON NOW. HOW DID I NOT SEE THIS BEFORE???????? I NEED TO WRITE IT RNNNN. okay this was before... everything. lets picture i like:

“Is your name ellie?”

ellie shifts in her seat, squints at the wires strapped to her hands like they’ve personally wronged her “yeah.”

“truth.” says the guy behind the polygraph. monotone. already spiritually checked out.

you’re sitting beside her, legs crossed, looking dangerously smug with your cue cards.

she glances sideways. “you’re loving this way too much.” you hum. “i’m just here to get to the truth, officer.”

she rolls her eyes, but her knee’s bouncing. twitchy. charged. like she’s already nervous. and you haven’t even asked a real questions yet.

“okay, next one.” you clear your throat dramatically. “have you ever thought about me during sex?”

ellie blinks. pauses. “i’m literally dating you.”

you shrug. “not what I asked.”

the guy says nothing, just stares at Ellie like ma’am please answer the question.

ellie licks her lips. leans back. smirks. “every time.”

BEEP. “truth.”

“oh my god,” you say, fanning yourself. “PR team is gonna kill us.”

at some point the questions spiral:

“would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“i’d build you a worm mansion.”

truth.

you: visibly emotional.

and THEN you drop a photo on the table without warning — a tiny, chubby-cheeked version of you as a toddler in a glitter tutu, holding a microphone and looking like you were born famous.

ellie goes quiet. softens instantly.

she picks it up gently, like she’s scared to ruin it. “where did you even find this?”

“how does it make you feel?” you ask, smug again.

she stares down at it, then at you. “like I want to marry you.”

the polygraph explodes.

the guy behind it chokes on air. “we’re just gonna call that… emotional honesty.”

they post the video and it hits 4.6 million views in 24 hours. someone edits it with a soft indie track and a title card that reads: “i’d build you a worm mansion.”

ellie reposts it to her story with “never doing one of these again” and you repost with “liar. and not even the sexy kind.”

[qvicksilversass]

Hey you with the sad face

(John Walker x reader)

Recruited by Valentina to spy on clean up after the misfits, you can fix almost anything, except a way to get them to trust you. Then there's Walker, he's the only problem you don't want to fix. words: 6021 warnings: violence, lots of swearing, angst, bit of fluff, ptsd flashbacks, mentions of parents with cancer and dementia an: watched Thunderbolts, mainly for Bucky, definitely not expecting John Walker. Heard a good song and started writing again after a year -ish. My first Walker fic, so let me know if anything's off. x p.s. I've called his son Hobie, I can't find his name anywhere, if you know, let me know x

For months you'd drifted, taking any job you could to pay for your dad's treatment. So, when Valentina called recruiting you to rebuild the tower for her in exchange for his fees. Well, you jumped at the chance. You should have realised you were signing away your soul. After the tower, she never stopped. Forcing you from one job to another.

Now she's dragged you into a new mission, cleaning up after the new Avengers. Oh, and she wants you to spy on them for her, easy right?

Every single one of them regards you with suspicion the moment you step out of the elevator behind Valentina, that and annoyance.

Valentina doesn't wait for a greeting. "This is y/n, she's here to clean up after you."

"Yeah, how's she gonna do that?" Bucky spat back at her.

Valentina pushes you forward like a prize, "Y/n here can fix anything; your weapons, your suits, buildings, bones, you name it. She even fixed up this place for me…."

You glare at her, crossing your arms. Yeah, like you did it out of the goodness of your heart. Not that you had no choice, stuck in a contract you could never escape. You hated working for Valentina, nothing was ever enough.

“Can she fix it so you're not a bitch?" Yelena quipped.

“Unfortunately not.” You snicker, earning an amused smile.

"Remember why you're here y/n." Her lips press into a tight smile and you step back behind her, rolling your eyes.

“Yes, ma'am.” 

You mock-salute her, noticing Alexei giving you an approving grin, "I like her.”

"You should all get acquainted. You'll be spending a lot of time together. She goes with you on your next mission, Barnes."

Bucky gets in her face, but it doesn't faze Valentina, that you are impressed with.

“You don't tell us what to do.”

“You need all this right?” she smirks and his jaw sets, knowing she's right,  “do this little thing for me. She'll be great, won't you y/n?"

“Y/n.” 

“Yep, great.”

She heads for the elevators, her knowing smile grating on you almost as much as the sound of her heels. There's never any kindness with Valentina. You can breathe again when the doors close, her malevolence leaving with her.

“I hate that bitch.” You and Walker grumble in unison, both sharing an amused smile. He wasn't what you expected from Valentina’s files.

“Yeah, she's not a nice person.” Bob pops his head over the sofas, making you all jump. Had he been hiding all this time? 

“That's an understatement, Bob.” 

You sit down, not expecting them to follow your movements. They all sit across from you as if you're at the world's worst job interview. Not nerve-racking at all.

 “So you're here to spy on us right?” Bucky states, more than asks.

“No, just clean up.” You answer as steadily as you can, fighting the urge to fidget, make too much eye contact. Anything that would give away that, yes, that's exactly what you're here for.

“Right.”

“Are those contacts?” Ava asks.

You shake your head, pulling your hair over your eyes a little more. Forgetting that the purple was strange to most people. 

“They're cool.”

“Thanks-”

“So, what can you do?” Bucky interrupts, impatient.

“Fix stuff, I guess.”

“She already said that.“

“Break your arm, get shot, I can heal it. Accidentally destroy a building, I can rebuild it. I can fight too, when I have to.”

None of them are convinced. You don't have a suit, a code name, you're a nobody as far as they're concerned.

"How come we've never heard of you?"

"I stay in the background, I guess."

Well, you did, until Valentina got her claws into you.

Bucky fires more questions at you, watching your every move. Hoping to make you nervous, trip you up. And fuck, you'd never been more intimidated in your life, desperately trying not to show it. 

“Is this what you always do between missions?” You ask, snarkily, “just sit here?”

“We do today.”

Remember who you're doing this for. You exhale, slumping back against the leather, pretending you're bored, irritated. Unsure how much longer you can keep it together.

The sound of bone cracking and a scream fills the room. You turn to see Alexei, his arm dangling at an odd angle. 

"Alexei, what the hell?!" Yelena screams at him, "did you just break your own arm?"

"Fuck, man."

“I want to see her do it!” Alexei grins at you expectantly, sweating a little. How is he not crying in pain right now? 

You run over, still not quite believing what he's done, "What if I was lying?!”

He just shrugs his good shoulder.

You feel along his arm for the break, conscious of the Avengers crowding around you. That familiar current tingles as it flows down through your fingers. Purple energy wraps around his arm and after a few seconds the bone cracks back into place.

Alexei feels over his arm in fascination, “So worth it.”

“You're crazy.” Yelena smacks his now-healed arm.

“It's even better than before, she can stay.” He moves his arm around, punching the wall, testing it as if it were a new toy.

“Do your eyes always glow like that?” Bob asks, observing you with curiosity and you give him a quick nod, "huh."

Your eyes go to Bucky, hoping you'd won him over too, though if he's impressed, he doesn't show it. His phone beeps and he frowns down at it.

“Is that?”

“Yep, let's go.”

You follow behind them, down to the tower basement and up the ramps to the trucks. 

“So what's the mission?” You fall into stride beside Bucky, him trying his best to ignore you. The others shrug past you onto the truck, Bucky's metal arm blocking your way when you try to follow behind them.

”Nope. You stay here, that's your mission." 

“I can help.”

You knew they wouldn't trust you straight away, you told Valentina as much. But how would you ever get them to trust you if they never gave you a chance?

“Valentina sent you. I don't trust you…sorry.” He closes the door on you with a sly grin.

Oh, he's definitely not sorry. 

Tyres screech and the truck disappears out of sight. Leaving you standing there fuming, feeling like an idiot. You turn to see Bob wave them goodbye. He tugs at his sleeve, peeking up at you through his hair, "I can show you your room, if you like? You don't have to tho-"

"I'd love that, Bob, thank you. At least you're nice."

You follow him back to quarters before hanging around the tower. Wandering the endless corridors and getting lost more times than you'd ever admit. I mean, you rebuilt the thing. You're so bored that you find yourself curled up in bed, scrolling through your phone. Anything to stave off sleep.

It's midnight when you hear the thundering sound of boots, then voices bickering in the hall outside your room.

“What did I say?! I told you to give her a chance!”

"She could've patched him up, now we lost the intel- ”

“I wanted to check her out first, Val-”

"Fuck, don’t worry about me, I'm fine..."

“He needs y/n.” 

“Go on then."

“Why should I knock?!”

“Oh, for-”

You yank the door open and lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. They're all dirty and battle-worn, though none as bad as Walker. He's leaning on Ava, holding onto his side, dark red covering his hand, dripping onto the floor.

“Told you I should have gone with you.”   

“You wouldn't have lasted five seconds.”  Bucky grumbles and you scowl back at him.

You'd have lasted at least ten.

"Hello? bleeding out here..."

Ava steps forward, exhausted from holding Walker's weight, "Can you help him? He won't shut up." 

Ava and Yelena help him onto the bed, lying him back. Blood covers his suit, he must be in agony. You sense the bullet, fragmented and cutting into his tissue. Working their way to his organs.

"How did you get shot?" 

"With a gun genius…"

"Hey, be nice, do you want to die?!" Yelena smacks his ear and Walker fumes up at her, his knuckles white with the pressure he's putting on his wound. The other Avengers step back into the hall and you give them a reassuring smile. Bob, still sleepy, the only one that stays in the room with you both.

Blood pools over onto Walker's hand, his breathing heavy. He's lost a lot of blood already. His face is a sickly shade of white, and you can tell he's trying to hide how much pain he's in. You see it in the clench of his jaw, the way his eyes dart to the wound. Filled with fear when he thinks no one's looking.

"I thought those suits were bulletproof?"

"Yeah, so did I."

“Hey, Walker, just let me…” You lift his shaking hand from the wound and begin to cut away the suit, assessing the wound. You'd only seen these kinds of wounds with powerful shotguns at close range. In soldiers hit with explosive shrapnel shells. Someone wanted to kill him, painfully and slowly.

"Noo, not the suit..." his head falls back and you think he might pass out. 

"Sorry, I'll fix it later…relax okay?” 

You focus on the wound, repairing the tissue as you have a thousand times before. The shrapnel and what's left of the bullet dislodging and clattering to the floor.

“Woah…you got pretty eyes...”

Your power also has a sort of anesthetic depending on how bad the injuries were. You guessed he got a big dose from the wonder on his face. You grin down at him.

“All done.” 

“Look at that,” You hear the relief in his voice, him grabbing over the now soft healed skin, “thanks, new girl.”

He sits up too fast, trying to stand but fails, his weight falling onto you. Bob takes his other arm and you both help him to stand. 

"Okay tough guy, let us walk you to the common room?" He grunts in reply, though he lets you hold him up and you reach round, grabbing what's left of his shield. 

“Oh, I've got your, erm, Shield? Taco? Sorry, want me to fix it?”

“Nah, still waiting on Bob.” 

You look to Bob for an explanation. He seems a little embarrassed though he doesn't say anything. You heal the rips and stains in Walker's suit as you walk, dropping him onto one of the sofas, careful not to hurt him. Bob sits next to him and Walker grumbles, shrugging off his concern. You saw right through it, and you had to admit it was adorable.

“Rest a while, you'll be okay.” 

Bucky and Yelena are deep in conversation by the windows. You head over, hoping they'd actually listen to you. They stop talking as soon as you're in earshot. Rude.

“You should find who shot John. They wanted him to suffer; they might come after more of you.”

“They wouldn't stand a chance y/n, but thanks.” Bucky dismisses you, checking a notification on his phone. 

“Yeah, John was just careless.” Ava shouts, trying to rile Walker up.

“I'm still here!” 

“Is he okay?” Bucky asks.

“Give him a minute.”  You smile and head back to your room, leaving them to de-brief. Walker nods as you walk by, Bob giving you a warm smile.

"Night y/n."

If you thought healing Walker would help your case, you were wrong. Bucky avoided you the next few days, hell, they all did, except for Bob. You're so frustrated, itching to help, to do something, anything. When they all sneak off again, you wait a second then follow. Hiding outside the briefing room, listening in.

“...terrorists trying to be the next Hydra, Rateliffs organised a rally in East Detroit.”

“We take him in, stop it before they gain more traction. There's gonna be lots of civilians so we need to minimise casualties-”

“I can definitely help with that.” You poke your head around the door and Bucky rolls his eyes at you.

“No.”

"Bucky, it's been days, please let me help.” You give him your best puppy dog eyes still his frown doesn't waver.

Ava lets out an exasperated sigh. You're not sure if she's sick of you or Bucky, “Well, did you find anything on her?” 

“Not till she started working for Valentina." He admits, clearly still unsure about you.

“Nothing bad, though?"

Reluctantly, Bucky shakes his head.

“Then can we go now?”

“Ugh, fine. She stays in the truck.”

"Come on, fucks sake." You mutter to yourself. You'd have to take it, at least he's let you go this time. Plus, it wouldn't be hard to sneak away...

“You sound like Walker.” Bob smiles over his shoulder at you from the kitchen, making a new recipe and your irritation dies away.

"They treat him like crap too?"

"Trash, actually." John smirks, smoothing down his hair and your face heats up when he nudges your shoulder. Have his eyes always been so blue?

"Wow, you're all assholes..." you call after them only half-heartedly, not quite knowing what that was, you never blush. 

"Except you, Bob.”

The rally is being held at an old railway depot, surrounded by abandoned buildings and junkyards. A poor area, forgotten and full of angry souls, the perfect place to recruit.

You've made your way there from a few blocks away, keeping to the back of the crowd. It's made up of mostly young men, talk of revolution on everyone's lips. The main guy, you guessed Rateliff doing his best to brainwash the people to his cause.

"If you want me to help, you have to tell me the plan.” You know you're annoying him. Bucky's still seething that you followed them from the truck. But you hated being left in the dark, it made you anxious.

He keeps his voice low so as not to draw attention, “Stay out of the way till we need you." 

“Fucks sake when will you trust me.”

“Valentina sent you, so probably never.” 

You start to reply, then you notice the quiet. Rateliff's stopped talking, people in the crowd are no longer cheering. You grab Bucky's arm pulling him back.

“Wait…this is a trap.” 

“How do you-?”

He stares down at you, only half believing you. You sense broken knives and cracked chambers in worn-out guns. Men in the crowd begin to move towards you, crowding around your position.

“Well, we're surrounded so…” 

The few civilians who are in the crowd start screaming, all running past you. Bucky pulls you along with them and shoves you behind a wrecked container.

“You, stay there.” Bucky warns, and you find yourself watching them fight off Rateliff’s men, feeling useless. Though they were all impressive, your eyes are drawn to Walker. The way he moved, the way he used his shield with such skill...his suit, you wonder if it's all padding under there.... Nope, not the right time y/n.

Explosions pull you out of your thoughts, cars and old freight on fire around you. They're closed in, surrounded, taking fire from buildings. They need to get back to you, back to cover.

Fuck it, you can't sit here and hide; you had to help them. Bucky wouldn't give you a weapon, so you grab a metal bar. All you had to do now was avoid getting shot.

You charge the first man from behind, kicking his legs from under him and knocking him out with the metal bar. One down...the group turns to you then, mocking you.

So you do what you always do when people don't take you seriously: you get angry and you focus. Remembering what your dad taught you. You let them come to you, anticipating their moves. Hitting pressure points and taking them down as quickly as you can.

“Is she using a metal bar?”

“Pretty fuckin well too.”

You stop and turn to see them watching you, a little too confident, liking the impressed look on Walker's face a little too much. You hit the last guy extra hard, showing off.

“See, told you I could-”

The breaths taken from you as you're shoved back. Walker shielding you from the bullets aimed straight for your head. Both of you hit the ground hard, his weight on you a second too long. He roughly drags you behind a car, sitting beside you.

Shit, this isn’t fun anymore.

"You're supposed to stay back.”  He mutters, dusting himself off. Raising an eyebrow at you, he pulls a bit of dust and concrete from your hair.

“At least I cleared a path for you.” You half smile, batting his hands away, hiding your fear. Though you know he sees through it.

Bucky and the others join you, scrambling behind the car, all trying to catch their breath.

“We need to get out of here, there's no cover and Rateliff's long gone-” Bucky starts, an explosion shaking the ground beneath you, covering you all in dust.

“Does it always go this badly?!” 

“Only on a good day!” Alexei roars, firing blindly over the car.

“Walker, you get her back to the truck. We'll draw their fire, meet you there.”

You're surprised when Walker doesn't question Bucky, he simply nods, holding his hand out to you. You take it, his fingers soft in contrast to the worn leather gloves. He pulls you along, keeping low, keeping you behind him. Constantly checking for threats, protecting you.

“Who taught you to fight?”

“My dad, he'd be pissed if he knew I was here…”

You can make out the road back to the truck ahead of you, only there's a group of men blocking your path. Walker looks behind you for another way through, frowning.

“Those guys you knocked out are getting up.”

He shoots you an annoyed glance. You don't care, there's no way you'd kill anyone if you don't have to. You fix things, you don't destroy them. You do have to admit that it's backfired on you both now. More men are joining the small group and even more are running out of the buildings. Shooting at Bucky and the others, drawing them away.

"How many goons has this guy got?"

“Goons?" John scoffs, rolling his eyes at you, “we're not in a fucking movie y/n.”

Okay then.

“Think you can take them?" You put on your best authoritative voice, punching his shoulder, and you can see him watching you for a second. Unsure if you're serious, your grin winding him up.

"Stop."

"Go, Walker! I'll cover your six!" You yell dramatically, enjoying his annoyance, at making him smile, shaking his head at you.

"Wow, I can't..."

He checks it's clear, creeping behind the men, tapping one on the shoulder. The guy turns and Walker punches him square in the face, knocking him out instantly. He turns to smirk at you before near effortlessly taking down the rest of them. You're more impressed than you'd ever let on.

He motions for you to run to him, thinking it's clear and you see the figure charge at Walker, too late to warn him. He ducks, spinning round and hitting the guy with his shield. The force of it sends him flying back, hitting the concrete so hard it cracks. Walker runs over and bends down, pulling off the assailant's mask and stumbling back.

“Walker?” You approach him slowly, a tentative hand on his shoulder. He tenses up, running his hand over his face. “Walker, are you okay?”

“He just came running at me, shooting, I thought...” 

Oh no.

The boy is too still, too lifeless. He only looked about thirteen. What was he doing mixed up in all this?

“Is he dead? Walker?” 

“I don't know."

You brush past Walker, kneeling and checking the boy's neck for a pulse, relieved to hear the faint beating. He must have hit his head, blood ran down his face, his breathing ragged. Maybe crushed ribs, internal bleeding? Fuck, Walker had done so much damage, he wouldn’t last long.

“Hey, it's okay, I think I can heal him…" You turn to Walker, hoping to reassure him.

“They killed him…what fucking choice did I have?“

Shit, this isn't good. You realise he's not listening to you, he's not seeing the boy, he's seeing that guy the day his friend died. Staring down at his shield, wiping away blood that isn't there. Pulling at the helmet he wasn't wearing. Back to feeling the effects of the Serum, newly running through his veins hazing his mind...

You want to help Walker, but if you don't help the boy, he'll die. You begin to heal the boy as Bucky and the others rush over. You try to signal to them that Walker's not okay. Only they're too furious to notice.

“Walker, what did you do? That's just a kid!” Bucky shoves him, Walker still lost in his head, he can't focus, can’t concentrate.

“No, he killed Lemar, he's one of them…” 

“What's he talking about?”

 "What's wrong with him?”

“Walker?”

Your powers fade, the boys injuries healed and his heartbeat steady. That took so much out of you, a few more moments and he'd be gone.  Exhausted, you pull yourself up, stepping between Walker and Bucky.

“Stop, you know he has ptsd right?”

They look between each other, how could they not know? They'd worked with him for months, they must have seen this before, talked about it?

“He’s stuck in a memory, my guess the day Lemar died-"

The boy screams, pulling a knife and charging at you. Ava knocks him out and you all give her a shocked look.

“What?”

“I just healed him.” You groaned in frustration, you’d need time to heal him again, though a 'thanks' would have been nicer.

“He's just knocked out, he's fine.” She dismisses you, heading for the road. You stay close to Walker, guiding him.

“How many times you gonna hurt innocent people Walker?”

Oh, come on Bucky. He had to get that dig in, even after what you'd told him.

“He came at me with a fucking gun!”

You have to hold Walker back, couldn't help but feel bad for him. His face set in anger, eyes filled with shame that they’d seen him like that. Seen him struggling to shake his flashback. You'd think Bucky would understand more than anyone. You thought of your dad, how devastated he was for days after a bad spell.

Yeah, Walker's an asshole sometimes, but Bucky always holds that over him. Every time he makes a mistake. Making sure he knows his place. Even in your short time with them, you'd had enough of it.

“Oh for fucks sake, Bucky, again?”  You step in front of Walker again, like you're shielding him, like you could protect him. Your mind back in all the times you'd had to do the same for your dad.

“How many people have you all killed? That guy was a terrorist, you mean to tell me if that was Steve, you wouldn't have at least considered it?”

That got to him, Bucky steps back from you, his anger wavering, “This never happened before." 

“That you've noticed. He's likely been hiding them from you."

“We aren't doing this now. Get him back on the truck.” Bucky growls and pushes past you. You realise you're shaking, not just from anger, from memories of having to protect your dad, keep him safe. From grief, god you missed him so much.

Yelena walks beside you, “Why are you sticking up for Walker?” 

“I'm sick of all the hypocritical shit, you're all as bad as eachother, give him a fucking break.” 

“Hey, calm down.” 

“She's got a point,” Bob whispers into your ear, anxious and soft through comms, “You're all just people who've done bad things trying to be better; you should be supporting each other.”

You shoot them all a ‘see, he gets it’ look and they storm back to the truck.

“Thanks Bob.” You whisper.

“No problem, y/n.”

“That's so weird, he’s like a voice from above.” 

The ride back to the tower is tense and quiet. Walker is still out of it and trying to hide it. You're all exhausted, Bucky glares at you every time you catch his eye, only Alexei seems happy.

Well, that went well.

After a long shower, you need a drink, need to clear your mind. The quiet bar a few blocks near to the tower drawing you in. Booths and low lights, only the sounds of people chatting; perfect. You order a beer, your phone ringing the moment you sit down.   

"Valentina. It's all work. Nothing about you, they're not plotting to kill you. They'd like to if that helps? They're saving people, doing avenger stuff."

There's a pause on the line, she doesn't believe you, "Get them to trust you, y/n."

"You should make me official, maybe they would-"

She snorts, "yeah, okay, no."

"Why's that so funny?"

"You fix things y/n it's hardly-"

"I can fight."

"What use are you injured? You can't heal yourself or your bloodline, look at your father,” did she actually laugh? Your grip on your phone tightens, wishing it was your hands around her neck, "you be a good girl and I'll keep him alive. Be a shame if he went the same way as your mother…."

"Fuck you Valentina." You hiss down the phone, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. 

"I own you y/n, don't forget that."

You heave for breath, slamming your phone on the table. How could someone be so evil? You brush away the tears that sting your eyes. You wouldn't let that witch make you cry. Mom developed early-onset dementia, made all the more cruel when her doctors discovered a brain tumor.

You lost part of her every day, until there was nothing left. Until she became frightened of her own husband and daughter, leaving you and dad devastated. A few years later dad was diagnosed and you'd lost it, how could you go through that again? How could you lose him? Your best friend?

"Hey, you with the sad face.” 

The voice catches you off guard and it takes you a moment to register that it's him.

"John?"

"Ouch, using the first name? Want another?" he asks, pointing to your half-empty glass.

He heads to the bar, and you try to collect yourself. He looks softer without the suit, his armour, more anxious, his fingers gripping the bar. Guess he was as okay as you were. Maybe you should go.

"Who got you so upset?”  He sits opposite you, beers clanging on the table. His hair is messy, you guessed from the shower, falling into his eyes, and you notice a few scratches, contrasting red on his cheek.

"I'm not." 

"Your face says otherwise."

Thanks for that, Walker

Ugh, you could lie, what was the point now? You wanted them to trust you, despite his reputation and gruff nature you had a good feeling about him. 

"Valentina asked me to spy on you guys," he raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, "but none of you talk, ever. About anything. She doesn't like me giving her nothing."

You take a drink and smirk at him, picking at your fingers.

"What has she got on you?" He asked, leaning forward with a hint of concern his eyes.

“She's paying for dad's cancer treatment.” You answer sadly.

“Can't you heal him?” 

"Nope, not myself or my bloodline. If I stop working for her, she stops paying.”  

"Fuck. I take it back, you deserve the sad face."

You both take a drink and you're fidgeting with the bottle, avoiding his eyes. You can sense he wants to talk, though he's not sure how to go about it. Whether you'd listen, so you decide to help him out.

"What about you? Why have you got the sad face?"

"I'm not sad." He dismisses you, shifting in his seat his gaze drifting over the bar.

"Yeah, you are. You hide it, but I see it.” You don't want to make him uncomfortable, but after today, it might do him good to talk to someone. So you both didn't go home to the quiet again, to the emptiness.

"You heard the stories, pick one..."

"Not from you." 

He takes a moment, actually looks at you, like it's the first time in an age someone's actually wanted to hear what he has to say.

"You'd actually listen? Why though?"

"Because I'm nice." He laughs and you give him the finger, knocking your bottle over the table, spilling beer everywhere. He laughs even harder at that. You scowl at him getting tissues from the bar.

"Fuck you walker, I am."

You mutter wiping over the table, the tissues making more mess.

"Everyone just sees me as an asshole.” 

"You are an asshole." You flop back down on the seat, smirking at him.

"Wow. Thanks."

You catch his eye again, smiling earnestly, "But I know that's not all you are. I got one good ear, try me."

He's struggling, wringing his hands and he doesn't, can't look at you as he talks.

"That today, it keeps happening. Worse since the void, most times I can feel them starting, but today, it hit me like a truck. You knew?"

"My dad was in Iraq, he was never the same after. He has these flashbacks where he's stuck reliving his traumatic memories. He won't tell me what he sees, but I know it's bad."

Walker studies you with understanding, "I guess it takes the edge off being part of something again. Maybe Olivia will let me see Hobie some more...I don't know." His eyes light up at the mention of his son, his smile easier and you liked it.

"What's he like?" John watches you strangely, like he's surprised you're interested.

“Hobie? He's fucking amazing. Nothing like me. He reminds me of Lemar sometimes. I miss him...part of me died with him that day...the good part…after Olivia left,  I was...I am fucked up, I was nothing, had nothing, I thought about…fuck, ignore me...”

That little sliver of happiness turns to pain and you wish you were closer, that you could comfort him. You knew. You'd been there. For weeks after the void, what you saw breaking you all over again.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't go through with it, who else would've saved my ass today?"

"That is fucking true, they still don't trust you, except for Bob."

"I love Bob!" You grin and he holds out his bottle.

"Right?"

You clink them together in mock cheers.

"I do though, I trust you."

"Thanks, Walker."

"No, I mean it, and for what you said earlier, helping that kid.”

"Bucky was so pissed.”

“Ain't he always?”

You get more drinks in, both of you are a little lighter. He tells you hilarious stories about Lemar, his eyes lighting up when he does. You tell him about your mom, all the good times and you both find comfort in being able to remember. To feel a little less alone.

Time runs away from you and the bar gets busier, noisier, harder to hear what he's saying. He's moved to sit by you, having to lean closer so you can hear him. But the way he's talking so close to your ear, you start to burn up.

“Want some air?”

You make your way through the bar, swaying a little and you both lean against the terrace railing. You close your eyes and let the cool air soothe your face.

“I'm gonna help you. Get you out of her nasty ass claws.” He's staring out over the city as he says it, and you're not sure he actually means it.

"How?" 

"I don't know yet."

He turns back to you, features serious in the glow of the low lights and it shocks you how sincere he is.

“But I will, I promise you.”

“It's weird you being nice like this.” You lean closer, your arm brushing his, conscious of his eyes on you.

“Must be the beer.” He murmurs and you fight the urge to meet his gaze.

“Yeah, must be.”

Finally, you tilt your head to him. He's leaning a little too close, eyes drifting to your lips, but you don't want to stop him. Your skin bristles where his fingers brush yours.

“Hey, you wanna-”

His phone vibrates and rings so loudly that you both jump back. He rummages in his pocket, clumsily turning the phone round and squinting down at it, 'Barnes' flashing over the screen.

 “Hey Bucky!” 

"Are you two drunk?" Bucky asks, that usual grumble in his voice.

"Nope."

"Definitely not."

"Fuck no."

"We've got a problem. Sober up and get to the tower. Now...” John imitates Bucky as he speaks and you splutter, desperately trying not to laugh, "You know this is a video call, right?" 

"Yes, sir." You both salute.

"Oh my god."  

Bucky hangs up on you and with one look, you're both laughing. You'd be in trouble for that later.

"Coffee?" You hold out your hand and he takes it, letting you pull him up him stumbling into a table.

“Ugh, it will take more than coffee.”

You link his arm, both putting weight on each other, somehow staying upright, "you don’t get much downtime with this job, huh?”

“Nope.”

You walk back, ducking into a coffee shop and downing as many espressos as you can carry. Still not completely sober when you meet the others at the tower.

“Someone's blowing up New Jersey again, we gotta go.”

“Again?”

You get no answer, Walker pushing you forward and up the ramp. A bright orange sky greets you in New Jersey, thick smoke and ash covering every surface.

You can make out the shape of someone hovering in the air, flames firing from their hands engulfing everything in their path, buildings and cars exploding, people screaming and running.

"I'm not sober enough for this." Walker groans, surveying the chaos. His skin is ashen, and he's holding onto the door of the jet like it's the only thing keeping him upright. All the way here, he'd been getting greener, all those espressos and beers not mixing well with g-forces.

“You can fix all this?”  Bucky asks and you nod.

“You'll have to put the fire out first."

"Right, you two get all these people away from the fire," he scans you both, "think you can handle that?" Oh, you were in trouble.

"Yes, sir-" You start soon regretting the snark when you see the look on his face.

"Don't push it, get to work." He warns, before he runs with Yelena towards the fire. Both yelling something about Asgardian power diffusing handcuffs...

“You heard him, keep up Walker.”

“Yay….”  

A few more missions later, you're already two months in. They're finally warming to you even Bucky. It helps you've given Valentina absolutely nothing. Making you happier the angrier she gets at each check in. You're waiting for her to pull you out, put you on another job but you're starting to like saving people.

You love backing the misfits up and Bob, well he's hilarious. You'd long since admitted your ‘secret mission’ to them. Not that they're surprised, you're a terrible spy.

After mission drinks with Walker became your favourite thing. Always the same bar as that first time, that same booth, like a ritual. Sometimes he'd be there first, waiting for you, sometimes you'd walk there together. Seems you both needed a friend. Friends. It should have been enough, but the more time you spend with him, the more your attraction grows.

You start to wonder if it was the beer talking that night, just a bit of loneliness. There are times you think he might feel the same. When he sneaks a glance at you, a little too long. When he thinks you don't notice. You wonder if he ever catches you, like now. You're just back off mission and he's messing with his hair, all roughed up from fighting. Completely oblivious to how gorgeous he is.

“Can you believe y/n’s been here two months?”

“Yeah she's getting like furniture.” Yelena jokes and you poke your tongue at her.

Alexei walks by you, patting your shoulder and flashing you a big grin, “I always said, I had a good feeling."

"So, you gonna stay?" Bucky asks giving you a warm smile, and you sit up. Wait, he's smiling at you?

"Do you want me to?"  You whisper, nervous now.

“I guess.”

"Yeah, she's helpful sometimes."

“Wouldn't be the worst thing…”

Walker watches them, waiting to add his take, "I do, I definitely want you…on the team I mean, god.”

"Smooth."

"My god, Walker."

“Can't say no to that, y/n,” Bucky smirks, ”meet back here tomorrow, nine am? Ugh, the witch is back.”

Valentina strolls in, taking mission notes from Bucky and everyone scrambles. The last thing you needed was another 'talk' with Valentina.

“Hey y/n, wait.”

Walker approaches you, a little shifty, is he nervous?

“Hey Walker, drinks later?”

John passes you a letter and you're confused, “Is this a love letter? John…you could text me-” You mock him a little, secretly hoping it was actually a love letter.

“Just open the damn letter.”

You do. Slowly. For effect. Him getting Impatient, you loved winding him up. You tear open the envelope, holding out the letter. Manhattan Cancer Care Centre? This place costs a fortune, even more than Valentina's clinic. 

“This says it's paid up as long as he needs it?” Your gaze keeps shifting between Walker and the letter, not believing what you're reading. That night, he actually meant it?

“How did you?” 

“Don't ask.”  You're searching his eyes, not believing them when he simply shrugs, the paper heavy in your hands. No matter how he did it, you would never forget his kindness. You didn't even think he knew how much this meant to you.

“He's there now?”

“Yeah, you can go see him.”

“It’s been nearly a year. She wouldn't let me see him.” You check the address, mumbling.

Happiness rushes over you, a sense of relief you haven't felt in years. So overwhelming you don't know what to do first. You start to run for the elevator, then run back. Shit, you should thank him. Flinging your arms around him you kiss him on the cheek.

“Shit, I didn't mean to make you cry. “ He reaches up to brush tears away, his touch lingering too long, leaving goosebumps and you'd never wanted to kiss him more.

Fuck it. You close the distance between you his breath hitching slightly when you press your lips to his. Soft and longing, his fingers tangled in your hair, gripping the base of your neck. The other at your waist holding you closer, the firm heat of him against you. Smiling, he pulls away a little, you chasing his lips.

“Thank you, John.” You whisper, biting your lip. His face flushes, squeezing your waist before you let him go.

“My god, go.”

You had so much to tell dad, though you'd leave out the getting shot at part. Valentina's still talking with Bucky and you hold the elevator.

Just one more thing.

“Fuck you, Valentina, I quit.”

“Excuse me?” Valentina turns to you, indignant. For once, you don't care. Didn't have to.

 “I said, fuck you. You don't own me anymore. I work for them now.” You grin and give her the finger as the door closes. 

Yelenaa joins Walker, who's watching you with amusement and something else she can't place. She shoves his shoulder.

“Wow, you did a good thing.”

“I guess.“ 

“How does it feel?”

“Pretty fucking good.”

▪ Masterlist ▪

[starlightshadowsworld]

“Atsushi doesn’t realise Mori the friendly neighbourhood physician and Mori the Port Mafia Boss are the same person.” → I want you to know this has been haunting my brain (positive) since I first saw it. I feel like there’s so much comedy potential that it makes me want to learn how to write comedies

Awh I’m glad you like it.

The sillies.

I have seen versions of this where Atsushi just doesn’t know who the PM boss is and meets physician Mori and only knows that guy.

But my idea is that Atsushi has met both but doesn’t realise that they’re the same person. And that Mori finds the whole fucking hilarious, Elise likes the guy and he just plays along.

Says that he’s often mistaken for this other Mori guy, apparently we have the same haircut it’s a real nightmare getting anywhere in those city when people think your a Mafia boss.

And Atsushi believes him.

It’s like how there’s this one scene in Avatar where Azula lies so convincingly that even Toph who’s a human lie detector can’t tell she’s lying.

That’s how I feel this situation goes.

Mori’s just that good of a liar and both his personas embody such different energies, different mannerisms, tones that they may as well be two different people.

The tiger can’t sense that he’s the same person so what hope does Atsushi have?

It also doesn’t help that no one in the Agency knows about physician Mori apart from Kyouka but she was so terrified at the sight of him that she neglected to say why.

And then just assumed Atsushi knew when everyone started talking about the PM Boss.

But he just assumed it was some other Mori and not the same Mori as this Mori. And then when he told everyone about this kind doctor he neglected to give them a name.

Because he didn’t know Mori’s name at the time and then just got used to calling him that nice doctor he met.

Actually I just imagine physician Mori going by Nori as in not Mori.

And Kyouka doesn’t say anything because obviously it’s some other doctor like Atsushi wouldn’t go meet this guy for lunch because he’s the Port Mafia Boss.

And she’s just conveniently never around for these visits.

And you know in Atsushi’s defence no one in his life ever explains things properly and without some manner of cryptic shit.

So even if someone did find out and tell him that Mori and Nori are the same person, he would think it was some philosophical fucking thing and not literal.

Because these are the people he surrounds himself with.

And until that happens no one is gonna hear oh I went to eat chazuke with this doctor friend of mine and think ah yes the Port Mafia’s Boss.

Because yeah Mori’s favourite food is also tea on rice but he’s a lot less vocal about it. And we have shit going on and it Atsushi makes a friend good for him,

The funny part then is when someone bumps into them meeting with each other and accuse Nori or being…well Mori and Atsushi’s apologising for his rude friends.

That this is so embarrassing guys he’s not the Port Mafia Boss they just have similar names and haircuts.

And said Agency member (bonus if it’s Dazai or Yosano) looks like they’re about to have a conniption and are just staring at Atsushi as if he’s losing it.

While Mori just watches on in amusement.

It would be cinematic.

[dingletragedy]

if anyone was to ask me to pinpoint aaron and robert's love i'd make them watch the garage scenes before the reunion

and i'll tell you for why

the fact that robert was even in the garage in the first place!!!!!! and that aaron had been there the night before!!!!!! just so they could sit.. alone.. in the dark and think about their wedding day. pinning and longing for that kind of happiness again, the happiness they both know they can only find with each other

then there's the way that robert is almost outraged that aaron has dumped alex .. it's a strange reaction for robert to have and you can tell it catches aaron of guard. but it makes perfect sense - he is trying and trying to push aaron back to alex because needs aaron to with someone else - the alternative seems to painful in that moment

(but then aaron's like thank fuck that boring pricks gone)

and then aaron bring out the line of all lines ... I MEANT I WAS SCARED HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU

but aaron's insecurities kick in because robert isn't saying all the things aaron expected him to, all the thigs he rehearsed and imagine over and over again in his head since valentines day, and he's scared. he's scared thar robert doesn't feel the same way any more. UNTIL robert quietens them with the most sure "of course i want ya, you idiot" the world has ever heard

then they are on the FLOOR and aaron grabs robert's hand and stares at them entwined as if his life depends on it with the BIGGEST HEART EYES as if it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen (it is) but it's not enough, it's not close enough, because he has to grab his other hand too and it's MAGICAL

and they talk. they really talk and aaron knowing that he can and will love seb, for the simple fact that he is robert's little boy, is poetic. how on earth could he not love something.. someone.. that is robert's????

but then robert goes over every single hurdle that could stand their way. it'd be so easy for robert to ignore everything and just kiss aaron there and then, but he loves aaron way too much to just jump straight into this. heed needs to know that aaron will be okay, because no matter how much he wants him, he wants aaron to be happy and healthy above even more

but even hearing that isn't enough because the love robert has for aaron run so so deep and therefore so does all the hurt

so the way aaron's voice breaks as he tries and fails to grab robert and stop him leaving will haunt me forever

so then robert comes out with one of the most gutwrenching lines or their whole story and says I LOST MY HUSBAND I LOST MY BEST FRIEND AND I LOST MY HOME

(do you need any more confirmation that they really were each other's everything)

and if you thought that hurt wail until robert says "i think i'd rather never have you back then lose you again" .. that is love. insane love. love like you've never seen it before. he broke hearts all over the world with that line. and aaron's. and this own.

AND if all that isn't enough for you, mr aaron dingle then does the single most ROMANTIC thing i have ever heard of in my whole entire life and sits and writes a whole list of reasons he loves robert jacob sugden (before banging his door down in the middle of the night and delivering it to him in the most beautiful way ever)

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

My friends we are finally here! In just a little while I’m posting the last chapter of the Firefighter AU!!

I have a lot of people to thank, so I figured I would put it all into a post before the chapter so that you guys can get right to the meat of it.

I don’t know what to say besides thank you. To the twelve thousand people who have read it, to the hundreds of comments and kudos, to the kind tags and asks here on Tumblr, thank you thank you thank you. The love being poured into me for my writing has sustained me over these ten months of writing.

This piece isn’t perfect. It very much resembles a first draft, and I might come back in the future and tweak some things, but all in all, I am so satisfied with this piece. I truly think this is my best writing.

I’ll be moving on to more Redacted fic, finishing other pieces that have been put to the wayside in favor of this one, and working on some original stuff now that I’m done. Expect at least some more one shots in this universe if not full pieces!

Lastly, I want to give some shoutouts to those who have helped me along the way with this piece. I truly wouldn’t have been able to write this without the community that rose up around me.

Thank you to my fiancé, whose love of schlocky romance novels is what inspired a piece about burly firefighters. He knows about my obsession with Redacted and, when he sees me listening he often goes “oh, you’re listening to your other boyfriends?” While he’s not into this world, he’s listened to me ramble about this piece and my plans for so long that he might as well be. Thank you, honey. Without you, I wouldn’t know how to write about love.

Thank you to Crab Anon, my mysterious analyzer who deepened and complexified how even I thought about these characters. You made me consider things in so much more detail than I intended to when I started what was meant to be a 10 chapter, 20k word fanfiction. Thank you for your constant presence and support. If you ever feel like revealing yourself (although I have a pretty good idea of who you are ;D) please send me a message. I’d love to thank you personally!

Thank you to @moonvalley94 and @nillabeanwrites for reaching out and starting some wonderful friendships over my silly fanfiction. You two have shown me the depth of community and how much talking with those passionate about art can make it that much more meaningful. Please know so many details about this piece are they way they are because of you two.

Thank you to @angelcakeeee who made so much of the details in this fic real and tangible. Your experience as a first responder helped to deepen this world and make it tangible. Beyond that, you’ve folded me into your friends, given me creative room to breathe, and made me feel so much more confident about the realism of my writing. Thank you, my friend!

And finally, the biggest thank you of all to @romirola. My friend, I don’t know what to say. You knew about this fic before anybody else and you nurtured the idea for a short and sweet piece into what is essentially a full length novel. In the almost year that you and I have talked every single day, I have grown as a writer and a person. When I believed that I wasn’t capable of something like this, you pushed back. You believed I could do it more than I did until I met you there in that belief. Thank you. I am the writer I am because of you. Steel sharpens steel, my friend, and we are very sharp indeed!

Thank you again to everyone who has read, liked, kudos’d, commented, and asked. Please know that I’ve read all of your messages, and if I haven’t responded yet, I will in the coming days. I hope you’ve had as much fun with this story as I have, and that this last chapter ties everything up for you. I love you all!