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thepencilnerd · 15 days ago

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The Story Never Ends

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Reader summary: From coffee and first glances to slow unraveling and quiet return—this is a story of love across changing seasons, of what’s lost, and what still lingers; healing is neither linear nor pretty, but it’s real—and sometimes, that's enough. warnings: references to unprocessed trauma and grief, emotional burnout, relationship conflict, brief mention of a mass casualty event (off-screen) genre/notes: meet-cute, slow burn, fluffy, heavy angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, HEA (but the H stands for hopeful), robby finally confronting his demons, might as well just be angst but i promise there's comfort word count: 9.5k a/n: i write to cope

The coffee shop buzzed with its usual afternoon chaos: the hum of espresso machines, baristas calling names, sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. You stood in line, scanning the chalkboard menu like it might change, trying to decide between something familiar or something new.

It was supposed to be a regular afternoon—nothing remarkable.

Then you noticed him.

He stood near the counter, hunched slightly in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, fingers absently tugging at the seam of his cup sleeve. Not someone who stood out. But he felt like someone who carried weight. Like he’d seen too much, held too much, and hadn't yet figured out how to set it down. There was a quiet intensity to him, the kind you couldn’t explain—like he’d just come from somewhere heavy.

He must’ve felt your gaze, because he looked up. His eyes—dark brown, a little hollow—met yours.

You gave him a small, instinctive smile. Not recognition. Just something human.

He blinked, caught off guard, and then—tentatively—smiled back.

You looked away quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. But when you stole another glance, he was still watching you, his curiosity softening the tired lines of his face.

He turned back to the menu and stared at it like it might bite.

“The caramel macchiato’s pretty solid here,” you offered, voice low so only he could hear.

He looked over again, brow lifting in faint surprise.

You nodded, a little sheepishly. “If you’re into sweet. It’s my go-to after a long day.”

He considered you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “That sounds about right.” He turned to the barista. “Caramel macchiato, please. Large.”

When you picked up your drink, you glanced around for a seat—and found him already settled near the window, one hand cradling his cup. He looked up as if he’d been waiting. Then he gestured—an unspoken offer.

You hesitated, just for a second, then walked over.

“Mind if I...?”

“Please,” he said, and the word sounded like relief.

You sat across from him, hands curling around your iced drink. There was a pause—comfortable, almost—and then you smiled. “Thanks for not thinking I was weird.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You did recommend a drink to a total stranger so I wouldn't discount that just yet.”

“Well, you looked like you could use a little help.”

His smile faded, just a little. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. And something about that seemed to make his shoulders relax. You started talking about the little things. Comfort meals. The awkward barista who always spelled your name wrong. The new park nearby with the strange modern art installation shaped like an egg roll.

He caught you looking at his badge—Michael Robinavitch, doctor, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

“I’m off the clock,” he offered, voice low.

You smiled. “Well, thanks for sharing it with me.”

—

You didn’t exchange numbers that day. But you ran into him again the following week, same coffee shop, same time. It happened again the week after that. Eventually, it stopped feeling like coincidence.

He finally introduced himself. "Dr. Robby," as he was affectionately called by his colleagues, Michael by his close social circle or when his grandmother was scolding him. That he was an attending for the emergency room’s day shift crew. That his sleep schedule was a mess, and that he liked his coffee way too sweet for someone who looked like he never let himself enjoy anything.

Your first date wasn’t anything planned. It was a shared walk to the bus stop that turned into dinner at the Vietnamese place a few blocks over. He’d been quieter than usual at first, eyes heavy with something he didn’t name, until you asked him what the best hospital vending machine snack was. That made him laugh—really laugh—and he said, “You have to try the orange peanut butter crackers. Horrible, but somehow perfect at 3 a.m.”

He had a way of making you laugh—quick, offhand comments delivered so seriously you almost missed the punchline. "You're one of those people who actually reads the coffee shop signs, aren't you?" he asked once, teasing, as you squinted at the seasonal drinks board.

"Only the ones with bad puns," you fired back, and he’d smirked like you’d passed some secret test.

"Are you one of those people who judges others by their coffee order?"

"Only if it's decaf," you replied with a mock-serious look. "That’s a cry for help."

He grinned. "Guess I shouldn’t tell you about my chai latte phase."

"Only if you're ready to be judged accordingly."

"Brutal," he muttered, shaking his head, but his eyes were bright. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

That made your eyebrows lift. "So, you admit it. I’ve won you over."

"I’m saying nothing without my lawyer present," he said, sipping his drink to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

There was a rhythm between you, like banter was its own language, and even the smallest exchange left you smiling until your cheeks ached. And just like that, the air between you warmed a little more.

Robby opened up slowly, in millimeters, not miles. Told you about college, about hating anatomy lab but loving the rush of a trauma case. About his years before med school, about the heat and chaos of field hospitals while volunteering for Doctors Without Borders, and the people he couldn’t save.

You never asked questions. Always listened.

By the end of the night, when he walked you home, there was a gentleness to him that you hadn’t expected, a softness that made you feel safe. He stopped just outside your door, his hand still holding yours, and he looked at you with a warmth that made your heart swell.

“Thanks for making me feel normal,” he confessed, his eyes searching yours. The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, but it made you smile.

“You are normal,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. He hesitated for a moment before interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes shining with something unspoken. And in that moment, you knew you were falling for him.

There was no big kiss that night, no fireworks. Just two people sharing space and silence in a beginning of something.

He texted you the next morning.

Robby: Morning. Hope I didn’t say too much. Or not enough. I meant every part of it.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe maybe this could be something real.

—

It happened on a quiet night after your fourth date. Robby had invited you over to his apartment for a movie night. His place was spacious but cozy, tucked into a narrow walk-up with sloped ceilings and mismatched furniture that somehow worked. The couch had seen better days, but it was soft, and the throw blankets were well-worn with affection. A stack of unread books leaned precariously on the coffee table beside a half-finished crossword puzzle. The scent of cedarwood lingered faintly in the air, blending with the buttery warmth of popcorn.

You took a slow glance around when you stepped inside, letting the space sink in. "This place is very you," you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Cozy. Quiet. Looks like it holds secrets."

Robby raised an eyebrow, amused. "I’m not sure whether to be flattered or mildly offended."

You laughed. "It’s a compliment. It feels... like someone lives here. Not just crashes between shifts."

"High praise coming from someone who judged my choice of hospital snacks," he said, already moving toward the kitchen.

"You earned that judgment," you quipped, grinning as you bumped his shoulder with yours. "I stand by it."

You’d helped him make snacks in the kitchen—microwaved popcorn, yes, but also cutting up fruit and arguing over the right chocolate-to-salty-snack ratio. "You can’t just put Chex Mix and M&Ms in the same bowl without a proper ratio," you protested, watching him pour each haphazardly like he was mixing concrete.

"Why not? It's all dry snacks. They're meant to mingle," he said, completely unbothered.

"You’re disrespecting the science," you defended. "That’s way too much grain and not enough chocolate."

"So... you're saying you want a bowl of candy with a side of crunch?"

"Exactly. Glad we understand each other."

"It’s called contrast," he defended, utterly serious. "Like plot twists for your taste buds."

Choosing the movie had been its own saga. You held up two options. "Rom-com or action?"

Robby narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips into a soft pout. "Define action."

"Explosions. Sweaty men. Poor communication."

He smirked. "So, basically... a rom-com but louder?"

You threw a pillow at him. "We’re watching the one where no one dies."

"Do you mean emotionally or literally?"

You responded with an exaggerated scowl.

He grinned at that—wide and a little crooked, the kind of smile that snuck up on you. "Yes, ma'am," he said, mock serious, pressing play.

By the time you settled onto the couch, your knees nearly brushing, the teasing had softened into something quieter—comfortable, expectant. The screen glowed softly against the far wall, the room dim but warm, and the distance between you gradually disappeared. But neither of you were really watching. Your mind wandered with every shift he made, every time his arm nudged yours.

Halfway through, you felt yourself leaning into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted, slipping his arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. His warmth seeped into you, steady and reassuring, like the rest of the world had quieted. You could smell the faint trace of cedar and laundry detergent on his shirt, something familiar and grounding.

Your head rested lightly against his chest, where the soft fabric of his tee brushed your cheek and his heartbeat thudded in a slow, steady rhythm. As you relaxed into him, you caught the moment his nose dipped closer—just slightly—like he was taking in your perfume. Robby let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing into yours, and you felt his thumb gently tracing the outside of your arm, like even the quiet was something he wanted to savor.

“I’m not really following the plot,” he murmured after a while, voice barely above the hum of the dialogue onscreen.

You laughed softly. “Not really sure there is one.”

He turned slightly to look at you, kind eyes catching the faint light. “You always pick movies like this?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress a guy,” you said, smiling.

He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You tilted your head toward him, heart fluttering. “Jury’s still out.”

There was a pause—just a moment, but charged with something new. Slowly, Robby leaned in, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. He hesitated, giving you the chance to back away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met in a soft, tentative kiss. It wasn’t perfect—more breath than pressure, more searching than certain—but it was warm and real. His beard tickled your skin as he leaned in, grounding the moment in something tangible. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melted into him like it was where you’d always belonged.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched, both of you smiling in the quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured.

You nodded, breath catching a little. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead gently, then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you close.And in the dim light, wrapped up in each other, it felt like—for now—everything else could wait.

—

It was late one night, the two of you sprawled across his couch, the city lights twinkling through the large windows, bathing the room in a soft glow. Robby lay beside you, his head resting on your shoulder, and your fingers moved slowly through his hair, absent and affectionate. He was unusually still, like the quiet had settled into his bones. You felt him shift slightly now and then, like he was trying to work up to something.

His hand found yours, his fingers lacing with yours in a tentative, careful way. When you glanced at him, you caught the soft furrow of his brow, the way his gaze flickered toward the windows, then the floor, then finally—hesitantly—to your face.

You waited. Letting him take his time.

He took a slow breath, like it might steady the ache in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. "You make things feel easy when everything else is hard."

Your throat tightened. You turned to face him fully, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead.

He looked up at you, and for the first time, there was nothing guarded in his expression. Just rawness. Hope. Fear. All of it naked in the space between you.

Then, finally—voice rough and low—he said, "I love you."

Your heart skipped. The words landed between you with all the weight of something unspoken for too long. You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing across his beard, your own voice cracking with emotion. "I love you too, Michael."

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. A slow, soft smile broke across his face, eyes growing glassy. He leaned in and kissed you—gentle and lingering, no rush, no performance. Just truth.

—

He’d given you a spare key to his place ages ago—an unceremonious handoff after your third night staying over, when leaving in the early morning had felt wrong. You’d been flustered, caught mid-yawn and still wearing one of his hoodies, and when he held it out, your brain short-circuited.

"You don’t—are you sure? I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to—but I don’t want to, like, intrude, or assume, or—"

“Breathe,” Robby said, already grinning—that slow, lopsided smile that always made your stomach flutter. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, clearly enjoying every second of your spiraling… until he wasn’t.

You didn’t even realize you'd stopped talking until his arms were around you, warm and grounding. He pulled you in gently, tucking your head beneath his chin, his voice low near your ear. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

"I just—I don’t usually get this far into relationships," you mumbled, finally taking it, fingers brushing his. "Feels like... a milestone or something."

"It is," he said softly, and the shift in his tone made your heart stutter. "One I’m glad to have reached with you."

You’d slipped it onto your keyring like it was no big deal. But he could tell by the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes after that, the way your fingers nervously toyed with the chain, or how you pressed your lips together to hold back your smile. And he loved you a little more for it.

You didn’t use it often. But on the hardest nights, when you knew he was working overtime, you did.

Sometimes he’d come home late, bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, still smelling faintly of antiseptic. He wouldn’t say anything—just step into the apartment and find you already there, barefoot in the kitchen, cooking quietly by the stove. He would wordlessly come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and bury his face into the crook of your neck. His beard tickled your skin, but you didn’t move. You just let him hold on.

You never pried. Never asked what had happened or who he’d lost. You just stood still and let him breathe.

Some mornings, you’d wake up to the smell of breakfast—coffee already brewing, eggs soft in the pan. The light through the windows was always softest then, catching the curve of his shoulders as he stood at the stove, hair still tousled from sleep. He’d glance over and freeze for half a second, his eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, drowning in one of his shirts, rubbing sleep from your eyes and blinking toward the smell of coffee like it was the only thing tethering you to the mortal world.

“Morning,” you’d mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

And he’d just shake his head with a quiet smile, barely audible as he murmured, “You’re gonna kill me looking like that.”

He never said more than that, never needed to. But the way he’d step over to press a kiss to your temple, or slide a mug into your hands like it was second nature—it was all soft, sacred routine. Like seeing you there made the weight on his chest just a little lighter. Like it reminded him there was still good to come home to.

You never got used to casual Robby. Eventually, you moved in—not all at once, but in slow, familiar steps: a drawer, a toothbrush, a mug that became yours. By the time you were sharing bills and arguing over which laundry detergent smelled better, it felt more like breathing than change.

The first time you saw him in glasses—framed in dark tortoiseshell, hair damp from a shower and curling slightly at his temples—you’d practically short-circuited.

He’d emerged from the bathroom in a faded t-shirt and joggers, yawning, and caught you staring from your spot on the couch.

“What?” he asked, squinting as he adjusted his glasses with the heel of his hand.

“Nothing,” you said way too fast. “Just—wow. You look so... smart.”

“Smart?” he echoed, amused.

“And cozy,” you added quickly, rambling now. “Like, approachable professor energy. You know, in a hot way. Not in a—never mind.”

He laughed then—low and genuine, crossing the room to nudge your knee with his. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grinned up at him, cheeks burning. “You love it.”

“I really do,” he said, and leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, glasses bumping lightly against your skin.

During evenings when he settled beside you on the couch, arm slung casually around your shoulders, your fingers found his left bicep beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt. You traced the ink there—the delicate script of memento mori, bold and grounded—until he turned slightly, offering his other arm too.

You switched sides, brushing your thumb over the words on his right: amor fati.

“I forget they’re there, sometimes,” he murmured, watching you with a soft sort of curiosity.

“I don’t,” you said, quietly. “You carry both.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but his hand found yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. You turned your palm to meet his, lacing your fingers together, your thumb brushing over the scar just beneath his knuckle. A quiet pause stretched between you, full of the kind of knowing that didn’t need words.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple, eyes closed, breath unsteady. You shifted closer, letting your head rest on his shoulder, your free hand still ghosting along the ink on his arm.

There was pain here—still. But also comfort, and the kind of closeness that aches in the best way. The kind that says: I see you. I’m staying.

Some nights, you'd fall asleep tangled together—his arm draped over your waist, your legs tangled under the blanket in ways neither of you could explain come morning. You’d fall asleep with your face tucked under his chin, only to wake up sprawled out diagonally across the bed, one of you stealing all the covers.

He’d grumble when you yanked the blanket away in your sleep; you’d mutter sleepy apologies and pull him back into your arms. One night, you twitched in the middle of a dream and accidentally swatted him across the face.

“Rude,” he murmured, half-asleep, rubbing his cheek.

“Reflex...” you mumbled, eyes still closed. “Fighting zombies...”

He laughed, voice thick with sleep, and kissed the top of your head. “Please try not to knock me out next time.”

Even in those clumsy, chaotic hours, you never felt anything but safe in each other’s space. The kind of intimacy that came not from candlelight or declarations—but from breathing the same quiet air and fitting, without trying, into each other’s lives.

And then there were the nights he couldn’t sleep. When his mind wouldn’t stop replaying whatever it refused to let go. He’d lie down on the couch with his head in your lap, his body tense at first, breath shallow like he was trying to stay composed. You’d run your fingers through his hair in slow, gentle motions, your touch featherlight but deliberate.

Sometimes he’d drift. But other nights, he’d break. His shoulders would shake almost imperceptibly, and you'd feel his tears start to warm your skin—silent, steady, soaking through the fabric of your shorts where his cheek was pressed.

You could feel how hot his face would get, how hard he tried to hold himself together. His breath would hitch against your thigh, soft and ragged, like every inhale cost him something. And still, he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t explain.

You never filled the quiet with questions. You just stayed, your hand still in his hair, your other one smoothing down his back in slow, reassuring lines. You’d whisper little nothings sometimes—just enough to let him know you were there, that he could let go. And even when he couldn’t say it, you felt it in the way he curled into you, in the way he finally breathed just a little easier. He never talked about it. But you always knew.

And then there were the quiet nights after. The ones where nothing hurt, and nothing ached, and you could just exist together.

You’d curl up together on the couch with no agenda, his hand resting on your thigh, your head against his shoulder, sharing whatever movie or show you’d already seen three times. His fingers would absently trace shapes into your knee. You’d hum quietly, not even realizing you were doing it until he said, soft and amused, “You always do that when you’re happy.”

Sometimes he’d look over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t understand how someone like you had ended up here, with someone like him.

And sometimes you’d catch him mid-laugh, glasses slipping down his nose, hair sticking up in a way that made your heart ache with how much you loved him. You’d kiss him just because, and he’d melt like he always did—like every time was the first.

“God,” you’d murmur against his cheek, “you’re everything.”

And he’d pull you in tighter, breath catching just slightly like he didn’t know how to hold something that felt this good. But he always tried.

—

But even love like that isn't always easy.

It started small—the way his responses got shorter on the nights he came home late. How he stood in the doorway a little longer, like something heavy waited outside and he hadn’t decided whether to bring it in. The way he flinched when you reached for his hand one evening and then apologized immediately, shaking his head like he didn’t know why he’d done it.

You’d always known he carried more than he shared. But lately, it felt like even his silences were starting to shut you out.

“Robby,” you said softly one night, after he’d barely touched his dinner. “Talk to me. Please.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept his eyes on the edge of the plate, shoulders stiff. “I’m tired.”

You sat back slightly, watching him. “I know. But this is different, and you know it.”

He exhaled through his nose, then pushed his chair back and stood, running a hand over his face. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” you said gently, standing too. “I just—I don’t know how to help when you keep shutting me out.”

“I’m not trying to,” he muttered. “I’m just... tired.”

You crossed your arms. “You said that already.”

He turned then, finally meeting your gaze. “What do you want me to say? That I see too much? That I’m not sleeping because I keep hearing their voices when I close my eyes? That I’m afraid I’m going to bring all of that home and ruin the one good thing I have left?”

Your breath caught.

He shook his head, stepping back like he could shove the words back in. “Maybe I don’t need you to fix it.”

That one hit. You felt it like a slap, your throat going tight.

Robby froze. The regret was immediate—visible in the slump of his shoulders. He reached out like he could take it back, fingers flexing midair, but you stepped away, not out of anger—just ache.

“I know I can’t fix it,” you said, voice trembling. “But I thought you trusted me enough to let me try. Not to fix. Just to be here.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, looking at you like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel safe.

—

It was hours later when he finally came to you.

You were in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, folding laundry just to have something to do with your hands. The door creaked open, and Robby stood there like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over slowly, his shoulders tense, eyes glassy with exhaustion—not just from the day, but from carrying it all alone.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Because the moment he was close enough, he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face against your stomach.

You dropped the shirt in your hands and gently cupped the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He didn’t. Just held you tighter, his breath shaky as he tried to hold himself together. You could feel the weight in his grip, the apology in his silence.

You bent forward, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He exhaled into you, like the only thing he’d needed was to hear that.

Later, you curled into each other under the covers, the weight between you finally shifting into something softer. Robby lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, one arm around your waist, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt like it grounded him.

Neither of you spoke much. The silence had changed—less sharp, more like a shared exhale. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and stayed there, breath warming your skin.

“You’re still the one good thing,” he said eventually, voice rough and low.

You reached back to touch his arm. “And you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I know,” he whispered, like it still scared him to say it aloud.

You turned in his arms to face him, resting your forehead gently against his. “Then we’ll figure it out. One bad day at a time.”

Robby let out a shaky laugh—just a breath, really—but it was something. He pulled you closer, held you like an anchor in the dark.

And eventually, tangled up in each other, you both fell asleep—not because the weight was gone, but because it had shifted. Because it was shared.

—

Your mind flashed back to the times when everything felt simpler. You remembered the way his eyes lit up as he looked at you, the warmth that had filled those moments, making you forget the world outside. You thought of the nights spent waiting for his calls, the whispered conversations that ended with him walking through the front door and into your arms, the promises made in hushed tones, hoping the world would never hear.

There were days where nothing was wrong—no missed calls, no bad news waiting on the other end of a shift. Just you and Robby, a day off together, the sun warming the hardwood floors, and the smell of fresh laundry in the air.

He’d pull you out of bed late, already dressed in soft sweats and a mischievous grin, tugging the blanket away until you whined. “C’mon,” he’d tease. “You promised me pancakes and an embarrassing dance break while flipping them.”

“I said that once, half-asleep,” you’d grumble, dragging your feet to the kitchen. “It doesn’t count.”

“Still legally binding,” he’d say, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying you gently, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I take all sleepy promises very seriously.”

You’d cook together, music playing low in the background, hips brushing, fingers stealing bits of fruit off the cutting board. He’d lean against the counter with a mug in hand, watching you like you were his favorite part of the morning.

And later, after breakfast, you’d collapse on the couch together, limbs tangled, sunlight spilling across your bare feet. He’d trace circles onto your thigh and tell you stories from med school, the kind that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. You’d kiss him between sentences, just because you could.

You never forgot the heavy days—but God, the light ones were magic.

—

Magic has a way of fading when one person keeps their pain locked behind silence.

The pattern had established itself. Missed texts. Longer showers. The way Robby would go quiet even in the middle of a sentence, zoning out like he was watching something only he could see.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You tried to bring it up gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he said, not unkindly—but it was clipped. Automatic. A reflex he’d honed too well.

You started to keep count. How many times in one week he said he was fine. How many times he didn’t say anything at all.

One night, after a particularly long shift, he came home later than usual. You were curled up on the couch waiting, a soft blanket over your legs, a cup of tea gone cold in your hands. When he walked in, you stood up—tentative. Hopeful.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You stayed late.”

He shrugged out of his coat. “I stayed to finish some charts.”

You nodded, following him into the kitchen. “Want me to heat something up?”

“No. I’m good.”

That word again. Good. Like it meant something real.

“Robby,” you tried, voice quiet. “You haven’t been sleeping. You barely talk anymore. You come home and shut down like I’m not even here. I know you’re hurting, but—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. It was louder than either of you expected. The kind of loud that made everything else stop.

You blinked, the words catching in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just stood there, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Do you even hear yourself anymore?” you asked, the hurt breaking through. “Every time I try, you shut me out. Every time I reach for you, you flinch. I’m not asking you to bleed in front of me—I’m asking you to let me in.”

He turned, finally, but his eyes were stormy. “And what if I can’t? What if letting you in means dragging you down with me?”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “Then let me choose that. Don’t decide for me.”

Silence stretched between you, taut and cracking at the edges.

And then it built to the moment that cracked something in both of you.

You were pacing, voice trembling as you spoke through the hurt. "I feel like I’m tiptoeing around a version of you that won’t look me in the eye. I miss you, Robby. Even when you’re right here, I miss you."

He stood still in the kitchen, hands braced on the edge of the counter like he might break it with his grip. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” you said, softer now, pleading. “Why do you keep shutting me out?”

His head dropped forward, jaw tight. “Because every time I let something slip, you look at me like I’m falling apart.”

“No,” you said, a little sharper now, voice thick with emotion. “I look at you like I love you. I want to help you carry it, but you make it impossible.”

Robby’s brow furrowed, defensiveness creeping in. “I never asked you to.”

You stepped back like his words physically knocked the air out of you. “I know. But you let me think I could. That I was helping. And now you act like all of this—us—was better before I got too close.”

His eyes flickered, like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how. Like he was stuck between retreat and surrender.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“You’re not,” you said, breath hitching. “You’re pretending nothing’s wrong, and every time I try to reach for you, you pull farther away. And I’m tired, Robby. I’m so tired of feeling like loving you is something I have to earn over and over again.”

He didn’t respond at first. And when he did, it was quiet—so quiet you almost didn’t hear it:

“Maybe it was easier before you were always here.”

You froze. A breath—gone.

His face crumpled as soon as the words left his mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. Because even if he hadn’t meant it, he’d thought it.

You turned away, the tears already spilling—hot, silent, and fast. Your throat was tight, your hands shaking as you moved without thinking, heading for the bedroom.

You grabbed a bag from the closet and started stuffing clothes into it—not carefully, not thoughtfully, just enough to get through the night somewhere else. You weren’t sure where you'd go yet, but it didn’t matter. You just needed space. Air.

Behind you, Robby stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for a breath, then bolted forward, panic overtaking disbelief. "Wait—please, just—wait," he said, his voice cracking as he caught up to you.

He reached for your arm, hesitating before he touched you, as if afraid you'd flinch. "Don’t go," he whispered. "Please, just talk to me. I didn’t mean it like that."

You didn’t turn around. Your jaw clenched, eyes blurry as you shoved another shirt into the bag.

“I said something stupid, I was angry—I didn’t mean it,” he rushed, voice rising with desperation.

“I need space, Robby,” you replied, your voice shaking.

But Robby pulled you into him before you could take another step. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head as if you might vanish if he let go.

“Please,” he whispered, breath warm against your temple. “Please don’t go.”

You stood stiff for a second, your hands still clenched around the fabric of the bag, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to do this right, I just—can’t lose you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let yourself sag into his chest, trembling, as he held you like an apology.

“I don’t want to,” you whispered. “But I don’t know how to stay when it hurts like this.”

Robby pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky, his hands gripping the back of your shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing. “Then don’t,” he begged, voice cracking. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Just—stay.”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling freely now. “I’m so tired of being the only one trying.”

“I know,” he said, the words crushed between guilt and fear. “I know. I’m trying now. I swear. I’ll do better. Just don’t give up on me.”

His voice broke on the last word, and you felt it—every fracture in his armor finally showing. He held you tighter, like he could anchor you to the floor, to him, with sheer desperation.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t know how to show it. Even when I get in my own way. I love you so damn much.”

You swallowed, forehead still resting against his. Your voice was numb, not angry—just tired. Bruised from the inside out. “Then show me. Not tonight. Not with words. But show me.”

Because you couldn’t keep holding both of you upright anymore. It wasn’t just the arguments or the silences, it was how they chipped away at the space between you until even comfort felt like pressure.

Robby didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him nod—slowly, brokenly—his fingers twitching where they clutched the hem of your shirt. You were both worn raw, clinging to each other not because it made sense, but because letting go felt worse.

He was always the one who froze when things got too heavy. Who went silent instead of soft. Who drowned quietly so no one would have to watch him go under.

And you—you were the one who filled the silence, who tried to anchor both of you with warmth and patience, until you had nothing left to give.

You didn’t know what came next. But when his breath hitched against your skin, when his lips ghosted a promise across your temple, it wasn’t resolution—it was need. A shared ache that lived in the spaces where words had failed.

The tension between you was thick, your emotions raw and desperate. You curled up on the bed together, the blanket falling in soft waves over your legs as you lay facing each other, breath shallow and eyes red-rimmed. No words were exchanged—there were none left to say. Just the soft beat of your heart against his chest and the ache of being too close and too far away all at once.

But then his lips found yours—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. A plea to stay tethered to something real. You kissed him back like you needed it to survive, like if you didn’t feel him now you’d vanish entirely.

He cupped your face, hands trembling slightly as he whispered your name, his voice so full of longing it nearly broke you in half. His forehead pressed to yours, the rhythm of his breath uneven.

Clothes were pushed aside, discarded with the same urgency that carried his hands across your skin. There was no finesse, no choreography—just aching, reckless need. You wrapped yourself around him, limbs tangled and breath shared, moving together like you’d forgotten how to be separate.

His hands roamed your body with a reverence sharpened by pain, like he was trying to memorize every inch, every sound you made. And when he buried his face into your neck and whispered broken apologies—"I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you, I need you"—you kissed him harder, silencing the guilt with your mouth.

It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about needing to be known. Needing to be held in a way that made the world go quiet.

Afterward, you stayed tangled together, legs overlapping, his arm curled tight around your waist. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His fingers traced your spine like he was still trying to say something without words.

Nothing had been solved. Everything still ached. But in that fragile, flickering space between exhaustion and need, you held each other like it was the only truth that hadn't slipped through your fingers.

—

The days that followed blurred.

You still shared a bed. Still exchanged small gestures, the ghost of what once was: coffee waiting by the sink, a brief graze of fingers in the hallway, the habitual kiss on the temple that neither of you felt anymore. But the air between you had shifted. Thick, not with tension—but with the kind of quiet that feels like waiting for something to break.

Robby tried. You saw it in how he stood in doorways like he was working up the courage to speak, in the way he’d squeeze your hand under the blanket at night as if that one touch could undo the distance. But whatever he was reaching for, it never quite made it to you. His grief lived like a second skin, and no matter how close you got, you could never peel it back far enough to breathe with him.

And you—you were tired. So tired of shrinking yourself so he wouldn’t have to face the wreckage. You softened everything: your tone, your expectations, your joy. Until you felt like a whisper of the person you used to be. Even your patience had started to sour.

The silences weren’t loud. They didn’t scream. They just pressed, heavy and constant. And in that pressure, you both stopped speaking—not out of anger, but out of resignation. What was left to say?

You still looked at him like you loved him. Because you did. But more and more, that love felt like grief with a heartbeat.

And you wondered, in the quiet, how long a person could stay in something that made them feel so alone.

You stopped trying to talk first.

Not out of spite—just self-preservation. You couldn’t keep opening a door that never swung back your way.

Some mornings, Robby would kiss your shoulder before he left for work. Soft. Automatic. And maybe that was what hurt the most—how even love had become muscle memory.

You weren’t angry. Not really. Just tired in a way that felt marrow-deep. You woke up with it. Carried it like weight in your chest. The version of you that used to fight for every little connection had grown so quiet lately you hardly recognized yourself.

And Robby—he was still there. Still kind, still careful. But careful in the way people are when they know a glass is cracked and one wrong move might shatter it.

The worst part wasn’t the fighting. It was the lack of it. Like you'd both agreed to live in the ache instead of pulling each other out.

You still set the table for two. Still folded his laundry. Still turned on the porch light when you knew he’d be home late.

But you stopped waiting up.

You stopped hoping the door would open and he’d walk in like he used to—eyes tired, but lit with something soft when they landed on you.

Because it had been a long time since he looked at you like that.

—

After the breakup, Robby buried himself in work.

He picked up every extra shift. Charted until his fingers cramped. Slept in call rooms. Survived on caffeine and convenience store sandwiches. He didn’t go home unless he had to—and even then, he made it quick. Just enough time to shower, change, and leave again.

Abbott noticed first. He always did. He tried to check in after shifts, lingering by Robby’s car, offering dinner or a beer or just some silence on a park bench.

“You need a break,” Jack said one night, when Robby looked particularly worn down. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” Robby muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Jack didn’t buy it. “You’re not. And don’t tell me this has nothing to do with her.”

Robby said nothing. Just stared ahead, jaw tight.

The others noticed too—nurses leaving snacks outside the on-call room, the new med student nervously asking if Robby was always like this. But no one said what they were all thinking: he looked like a man unraveling. A man trying to outrun something that lived in his own skin.

He barely ate. He barely slept. He didn’t talk unless he had to.

He just kept moving, like stillness might break him in half.

And the apartment? It stayed dark. Quiet. Cold. Empty.

—

“He’s not okay,” Dana said one evening as she leaned against the coffee machine in the break room, arms crossed, concern etched deep across her brow. “He’s always been a workhorse, but this... this is something else.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him,” Abbot added, toying with the serrated edge of an unopened protein bar. “He brushes it off every time. Says he’s ‘good.’ But I caught him charting the same patient twice this morning.”

Dana sighed. “You can see it all over him. It’s like he’s just... surviving. Going through the motions.”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” Abbot shook his head.

“We should do something,” Dana said gently. “Get him to go home. At least sleep. Eat something.”

Then Abbot added, softer still, “Won’t matter unless he wants to help himself.” He paused. “Maybe we should call her.”

Dana shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if she’s the answer right now. He’s got to want to come back to himself first.”

A beat of silence stretched before the soft click of a door behind them made them freeze.

Robby stood at the edge of the break room entrance, a coffee cup dangling from his fingers, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the handle.

“No need to whisper,” he said, voice low. “I can hear just fine.”

The tension crackled instantly.

Abbot was the first to speak. “Robby—”

“Don’t,” Robby cut in, setting the cup down a little too hard on the counter.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The weight in it was enough to make them all go still.

“I know I’m not okay,” he said, looking down at the floor like he hated saying it aloud. “I know I’ve been a mess. I know she’s not coming back.” He swallowed, jaw shifting. “But I need to keep moving, because if I stop… I don’t know what’s left.”

No one said anything. Not at first.

Then Dana stepped forward, her voice gentler now. “You don’t have to stop. But you don’t have to do it alone either.”

Robby didn’t respond. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might hold him up better than anyone else could.

—

Later that night, Jack texted you against Robby’s wishes.

Jack: Please. Just consider coming by. He’s not himself.

You: Jack, you know it might make things worse...

Jack: I know. But we’re all worried. He’s not eating. He’s barely sleeping. He needs something familiar. Someone who’s home.

You: ...Okay. But I’ll only come if you’re there to let me in. I don’t want to make it harder.

Jack: Thank you. I’ll text when he’s out cold.

You stared at your phone for a long time after that.

They’d had beers at Robby’s place that night. Jack had swung by after shift with a six-pack and takeout neither of them touched. They sat on the floor because the couch felt too formal, drinking in silence, the television flickering in the background. Robby had barely said five words.

When he finally passed out—curled on his side, still wearing his hoodie, mouth parted slightly like he hadn’t slept in days—Jack fireman-carried him to the bedroom, laid him gently on the bed, and grabbed his phone.

Hours later, a message buzzed in:

Jack: He’s asleep. Been out for almost an hour. Come now if you’re still up for it.

When you arrived at Robby’s apartment, Jack let you in quietly. The place smelled faintly of takeout and stale beer, the air still holding the weight of a long day. Jack didn’t say much—just pulled you into a tight hug, holding on for a beat longer than usual. His arms wrapped around you with the kind of quiet reassurance that said everything he couldn’t put into words. He nodded once and squeezed your shoulder before heading out, leaving you alone in the dim light.

The kitchen table was cluttered with unopened mail and a few empty takeout containers, the chairs askew like they'd been left in a hurry. A light layer of dust clung to the counter near the fridge, and a clean shirt hung over the back of a chair as if forgotten mid-morning.

The rest of the apartment told the same story—kitchen sink filled with dishes, clothes draped over the couch arm, blankets kicked into a corner, a half-full water bottle left beside the couch. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… untended. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it.

So you cleaned. Quietly. Carefully. The way you used to when he had rough weeks and couldn’t lift his head, let alone fold laundry.

You weren’t sure how much of it was for him or for you. If the meditative rhythm of straightening, wiping, sorting was meant to soothe his unraveling—or to calm your own.

You wiped down the counters, sorted the mail into a neat pile, folded the blanket he always left crumpled on the couch. You didn’t do it for recognition. You did it because when he woke up, you wanted the first thing he saw to be something soft. Something familiar. Something that looked like care.

Once you were done, you slipped into the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You found the familiar ingredients tucked behind newer groceries he hadn’t touched. It was muscle memory, the way your hands moved—preparing the dish Robby always asked for when he came home too late, too tired, too wired to sleep.

Soon, the scent filled the apartment, warm and grounding. You left the plate on the counter, neatly covered, the light above the stove left on.

Then you stood by the door for a moment—just breathing—before you left the same way you came.

Quiet. Careful. Hoping, maybe, when he woke up, something in him would remember the version of you that used to feel like home.

—

Months passed, and life went on. You tried to focus on yourself—on healing, on finding something steady again. You kept your head down. You worked. You saw friends. Some days even felt okay.

But no matter where you went, no matter what you did, the memory of Robby clung to you like a phantom ache. You’d be fine, and then a scent would knock the wind out of you. Or a patient would mutter something in the same cadence he used to. Or you'd catch yourself turning to text him something funny, only to remember.

One evening, you were out for dinner with your best friend at a cozy little restaurant, tucked away from the noise of downtown. The conversation was light, your laughter real. You were almost starting to feel normal again—until the TV above the bar switched to the news.

“Breaking update out of Pittsburgh tonight,” the anchor began, and your attention barely flicked upward—until you caught the words PittFest and shooting in the same sentence.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fork clattered against the plate. You didn’t even hear your friend asking what was wrong. The footage was grainy, chaotic—sirens, a shot of the emergency bay at PTMC, a flashing banner at the bottom of the screen.

Your friend reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

You shook your head once. "Yeah," you said, your voice barely audible. "I just... I need a minute."

—

Across the city, Robby stood frozen in the middle of Trauma 2, his gloved hands still bloodstained, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The ER was silent now. Cleared. Stabilized. But the aftermath sat heavy on his shoulders—every scream, every gurney that rolled in, every second he had to pretend he was made of steel.

He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the wall just outside the bay, eyes closed. Someone handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t drink it.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the shift finally thinned out and the lights dimmed to their late-night hum, that he found a corner of the supply closet and finally let himself breathe. Not cry. Not yet. Just… sit. Just exist.

He thought of you.

He didn’t have to check the news. He’d lived it. But part of him—some deep, fractured part—wondered if you’d seen it. If you’d hear about the chaos. If you’d wonder where he was.

Or if he was okay.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the shelf behind him, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

God, he hoped you weren’t watching. He didn’t want you to worry.

But a small part of him also hoped you thought about him—if only for a second.

—

It was spring. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals littering the sidewalks, drifting through the air like soft snow. The familiar scent of roasted espresso beans and warm bread filled the air as you stepped into the café.

You ordered a caramel macchiato this time. Something sweet. Something that might help anchor you.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he saw you—walking in with sunlight in your hair, shoulders tucked against the spring breeze. You scanned the café absently, completely unaware that you’d stepped right into the same orbit again. Robby felt the moment shift, like the air had thickened, like the city outside had gone silent.

His breath caught.

And when you finally turned, looking for a table, your eyes landed on him.

Robby was sitting in the exact same seat where you’d met. Shoulders hunched forward, hands curled loosely around a coffee cup that had long gone cold. His hoodie was pushed up to the elbows—a different one, but worn in the same places, frayed slightly at the cuffs.

You could see the moment recognition hit him, like a current moving through his chest. His breath hitched. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. But this time, he looked different. Brighter. Less weighed down. Like the heaviness he used to carry in his eyes had finally lightened—like something inside him had softened in your absence, not hardened. And still, there was something raw in the way he looked at you—like he’d spent months trying to forget your face only to find it right there, exactly where he’d hoped to see it again.

His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, knuckles going pale. The city outside blurred behind him in soft motion, petals drifting past the window like the whole world had slowed just for this.

And in that stillness, his expression shifted—not shock anymore, but something softer. Something braver.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world blurred around the edges, like the city was holding its breath.

His eyes softened. Just slightly. Enough to undo you.

He gestured to the empty seat across from him. The same way he had all that time ago.

And when you sat down—heart loud in your chest, hands wrapped tight around the warmth of your drink—you noticed it: the silver ring still on his finger. A quiet, familiar weight that mirrored the one still circling your own.

He looked down at his hands as if he hadn’t realized he was still wearing it, then up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything tender in a while. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. “It has.”

Silence hovered between you—not heavy, but tentative. Like the hush before a held breath.

Then, quieter: “You look good.”

A real smile this time, just a flicker. “So do you.”

Then, after a pause, Robby glanced down and gave a soft huff of breath, like he was working up to something. “I, uh... I took Abbott up on that therapist offer. After PittFest.”

His eyes flicked back up to meet yours, searching.

“It was long overdue,” he added, quieter now. “I didn’t know how bad I’d let it get until I started saying things out loud.”

Your heart ached, caught somewhere between heartbreak and relief. To hear him say it—to know he had started to find a way through the darkness—you could feel the pressure in your chest begin to ease, just slightly.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your smile. “I’m really glad.”

Robby reached across the table, fingers brushing yours with the kind of tentative hope you hadn’t felt in so long. You didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers through his, slowly, like you were relearning the shape of something familiar.

His thumb moved gently over your knuckles, and when your eyes met again, both of you were blinking back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Robby said, voice barely above a whisper. “For everything I put you through. For shutting down. For pushing you away when all you wanted to do was pull me out.”

He looked like he might say more, but the words caught in his throat.

“I want to try again,” he continued, steadier now. “If you’ll let me. If there’s still a part of you that thinks we could get it right.”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening gently around his hand.

“I'd like that,” you whispered, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.

There were smiles too—real ones. Small and soft and a little broken. But full of something bright.

Hope, maybe.

And just like that, something shifted—something warm and incandescent blooming quietly between you, like the first dawn breaking through after a long, hard winter.

You didn’t know what would come next. Neither of you did.

But as you looked at him across that small table—amid the swirl of petals, the smell of coffee, and the quiet echo of something old and aching—you felt it settle into your chest.

The spark. The ache. The what-ifs. The maybe.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

ㅇㄴ��ㅇㅊㅅㄹ

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr. robby #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #noah wyle #dr robby imagine #the pitt spoilers #dr. robby x reader #the pitt imagine #michael robinavitch imagine

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throttleheart · 10 days ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Where the Sea Meets Us

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, best friends to something more, a pinch of angst, paparazzi being unethical

Word Count: ~5.6k

Summary: A quiet coastal bedroom, with a sea breeze through fluttering curtains, you, him & the world. The good and the bad happens.

⸻

You hadn’t meant to wake up this early.

The sea breeze had slipped past the half-open window, dancing the sheer curtains across the room like something out of a movie. It tugged at the hem of your oversized t-shirt and coaxed you out of bed with that salty, sun-warm scent that only exists near the ocean.

You padded across the wooden floor, the chill making you shiver just slightly, arms wrapping around yourself as you stood by the window. From here, the sea looked endless, framed perfectly by the gentle curve of the wrought iron balcony. You let your fingers rest lightly on the cool railing.

A creak behind you startled you slightly.

You turned to see Lando in the doorway, hair a chaotic mess, one hand rubbing at his eye, the other still holding the doorknob like he hadn’t quite decided if he was awake yet.

“I thought I heard something,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Guess it was just you being dramatic with curtains.”

You laughed under your breath. “They’re doing it on their own. I’m not that theatrical at six in the morning.”

He smirked, stepping in. He didn’t move toward you, but he looked at the window and then at you like the view was fighting for his attention. “Nice, huh?”

You nodded. “It’s peaceful.”

He didn’t answer right away, just leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed, like he was anchoring himself there.

“You couldn’t sleep?” you asked, still facing the ocean.

“I slept,” he said, then shrugged. “Woke up. Your door was open.”

You looked over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Were you checking on me?”

Lando rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “No. I was checking to see if you’d stolen all the good pillows.”

You gave him a pointed look. “I’m in the guest room.”

He shrugged again, casual and totally not casual at all. “Still.”

You shook your head, turning back toward the window. “You can come sit if you want.”

There was a pause—just long enough for your chest to tighten—before his bare feet padded across the floor. He didn’t sit too close. Just enough for your shoulders to feel warmer.

You didn’t say anything for a while. The breeze filled the silence, brushing past both of you like a secret it hadn’t shared yet.

Finally, Lando spoke, quietly. “You always wake up this early?”

“No. Just… didn’t want to waste this.”

He hummed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

You glanced at him. His gaze wasn’t on the sea anymore.

It was on you.

You don’t look back at him again, even though you feel it—that weight of his gaze. Like sunlight on the back of your neck.

Instead, you keep your eyes fixed on the sea, determined not to let your breath hitch the way it wants to.

“I thought you’d sleep in,” you say, mostly just to say something. “You usually do.”

“I usually don’t have someone pacing around like a ghost at sunrise,” he says, teasing, but there’s something gentler underneath it.

You huff a soft laugh and hug your arms tighter around yourself.

A few seconds pass.

Then: “Cold?”

You shake your head. “Just… processing.”

He doesn’t ask what that means. Doesn’t push. Which is a relief—and also slightly disappointing.

You feel the mattress behind you dip just slightly. He’d moved, finally, settling on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit too close. There’s still a respectful distance between you.

Still that space. Always that space.

“You know,” he says after a minute, “this whole trip feels kind of fake. Like—too quiet to be real.”

You glance at him.

His eyes are on the sea now, at last. Not you. But his brows are furrowed like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the horizon. Like maybe if he studies it hard enough, it’ll stay with him when he leaves.

“I know what you mean,” you say quietly.

Silence stretches again, but it’s not awkward. It’s thick with all the things neither of you are saying. Like how this place feels too soft, too still, to match the lives you’ve both come from. How this morning feels like a pause you don’t know what to do with.

You break the quiet this time.

“I don’t think I’ve had a morning like this since I was a kid.”

Lando hums again. “You used to live near the sea?”

“No. But I used to imagine I did. I’d open the windows, close my eyes, and pretend the wind from the highway was waves.”

That makes him laugh. It’s low and real and it warms your ribs.

“I would’ve believed you,” he says. “You’ve got the ocean girl vibe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, sunburned and salty?”

“No. Like… you belong somewhere like this. Somewhere quiet.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t.

And maybe he feels the weight of his own words because he clears his throat and suddenly stands.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says, avoiding your eyes now. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

You watch as he walks to the door. Just before he leaves, he pauses, turning slightly.

“And hey,” he adds, “if you ever feel like pretending again… I’ll sit by the window with you.”

Then he disappears down the hallway, leaving you with fluttering curtains, salt in your throat, and a heartbeat that won’t slow down.

⸻

You finally leave the window when your stomach starts to grumble loud enough to be embarrassing.

By the time you wander into the kitchen, Lando’s already there, battling the coffee machine with a stubborn frown and a determined finger jabbing the same button over and over.

“You know,” you say, sliding into the doorway, “I think it likes being romanced. Maybe try whispering sweet nothings.”

He glances back at you, fake-offended. “Excuse you, I’ve been nothing but respectful.”

“Mmhmm. Aggressively respectful.”

He gives the machine one last annoyed poke before you step in and flip the switch he’s missed.

It immediately starts to hum.

You grin. “See? Seduction works better than threats.”

Lando narrows his eyes at you. “Remind me never to bring you to a team briefing.”

“I’d charm the data right off those spreadsheets.”

He laughs, leaning his hip against the counter while the machine gurgles to life. “You wanna go down to the beach later? It’s still early.”

You tilt your head. “Beach walk before noon? Who are you and what have you done with Lando Norris?”

“I’m evolving,” he says. “Plus, I figured you’d want to. You’ve been staring at the ocean like it’s gonna reveal the meaning of life.”

You fake gasp. “You noticed?”

“Hard not to,” he mutters, grabbing two mugs.

You pretend not to hear that last part.

Ten minutes later, you’re both dressed and walking the narrow path down to the beach, warm mugs in hand. Lando’s sipping his like it’s fuel. You’re letting yours warm your hands. Neither of you talks for a bit, but it’s easy, natural.

Your elbows bump. Neither of you moves.

When you reach the shore, he drops the towel down with an exaggerated sigh like he’s just trekked across a desert.

You kick off your shoes and flop down beside him. “Such a struggle. Truly heroic.”

“I suffer for your happiness,” he says, flopping dramatically.

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your foot. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

The waves roll in and out, and you both sit there watching them like people who’ve been doing this their whole lives. You don’t fill the silence because you don’t need to—not with him.

“Okay, real talk,” he says, tipping his head toward you. “If you could stay here forever, just like this, would you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “With you or without?”

He grins. “Ouch. With me, obviously. Don’t be rude.”

You smirk. “Then yeah. Probably.”

Lando hums like that answer does something to him, but he covers it with a sip of coffee.

A few minutes pass. The air’s warm now, and the breeze tastes like salt and something sweeter.

“You always get this quiet near the ocean,” he says, not looking at you.

You glance at him. “You’ve noticed that too?”

“I notice everything.”

You don’t say anything to that, but your heart skips all the same.

Then he adds, casually, “Also you hum when you’re thinking too hard.”

You groan. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do. Don’t worry, it’s cute.”

You kick sand at him.

He laughs and lets it hit his leg. “Hey! Uncalled for.”

“I’m keeping you humble.”

“I’m already humble.”

“You’re the definition of not humble.”

He grins, leaning back on his elbows. “And yet… you’re still here.”

You look at him, and for a second, the teasing softens. There’s that familiar ease between you, but now it feels heavier. Like it’s holding something it didn’t used to.

You turn back to the waves.

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “I am.”

And he doesn’t say anything to that.

But he doesn’t look away from you either.

⸻

The afternoon passes slowly, stretched and golden, heavy with sea air and the kind of quiet that only exists when you’re too far from the world for it to find you. The AC clicks on again overhead with a soft hum, pushing cool air into the corners of the beach house, and your wireless headphones shift slightly as you lean forward, elbow-deep in flour.

The dough’s already soft and warm beneath your palms, elastic from a patient, steady knead. You’d started it without thinking, letting the rhythm of the process calm you—flour, water, salt, sugar, yeast. A few ingredients and a little time. Simpler than most things.

You’re in the zone when Lando’s voice cuts in, a familiar blend of amusement and faux desperation.

“There’s nothing to eat in this place,” he announces from the doorway like he’s discovered a crisis. “I checked. Three times. All we have is cereal, old grapes, and whatever that thing is in the freezer that looks like a fossil.”

You don’t turn. You just press your knuckles into the dough and nod slowly. “You’ve survived harsher environments.”

“I’m an athlete. I need fuel,” he insists, flopping dramatically onto a barstool at the kitchen island. “I’m withering away.”

You glance over your shoulder, hair tucked behind one ear, headphones dangling from your neck now. “You just ate lunch.”

He points an accusing finger. “Yeah. A salad.”

“That you made.”

“That I assembled,” he corrects. “Barely. It was lettuce and self-pity.”

You wipe your hands and cross your arms, eyebrow raised. “So what? You want me to fix that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “What I want,” he says, slowly, like he’s building suspense, “is a real burger. A messy one. With bread that isn’t sad and meat that didn’t come from a frozen packet.”

You snort. “That’s specific.”

“Homemade buns,” he adds, like he’s daring you.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally watching me make them right now.”

“Sure,” he says innocently, “but maybe I’m just trying to inspire you. Push you toward greatness.”

You turn fully toward him now, flour still clinging to your forearms. “You’ve had my cooking, like, twenty times. Why are you acting like I’m some amateur?”

“Because it’s fun to mess with you,” he says, not missing a beat. “And because the face you make when you’re pretending not to be smug is very entertaining.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches anyway. “You want burgers? Fine. But you’re grilling.”

Lando places a hand dramatically over his heart. “I accept this sacred responsibility.”

“Don’t burn the house down.”

“Zero faith,” he sighs, sliding off the stool and heading to the fridge like he owns the place.

You go back to work, rolling the dough into perfect spheres, placing them gently on the baking sheet. The kitchen smells faintly of yeast and salt, warm and clean and nostalgic—like the first rainy weekend of fall or the memory of Sunday mornings that belonged to someone else. The breeze from the sea pushes gently through the half-open door, ruffling the edge of the kitchen towel you drape over the buns.

Behind you, Lando’s rattling around with the spices like he’s doing something important. You don’t interrupt.

He leans over your shoulder a few minutes later, suspiciously close. “You put magic in these, right? The buns?”

You glance at him sideways. “Just butter. And patience.”

He nods solemnly. “So, magic.”

You huff a laugh, already moving to the meat. It’s instinct at this point—seasoning it the way you always do. Garlic powder. Onion. A splash of Worcestershire. A pinch of smoked paprika. Salt and pepper. Lando watches like he’s studying for a test.

“You could help,” you offer.

“I am helping,” he says, holding up a plate like it’s a contribution. “This is moral support.”

“Mmm. So helpful.”

“Extremely.”

Once the patties are shaped and resting, the buns proofing again, he finally rolls up his sleeves and steps toward the stove.

You pause. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I’m about to grill the greatest burgers of our generation,” he says, confidence absolutely unwarranted. “Step back, baker girl. Let the grill master work.”

You cross your arms and lean against the fridge, watching as he fumbles slightly with the heat, then too-casually presses a patty into the pan with far more sizzle than necessary.

He looks back, smug. You don’t dignify it with a response.

But the smell—rich, smoky, layered with the rising scent of bread in the oven—makes your stomach twist in the best way.

When everything’s done, you plate the burgers without ceremony. Toasted buns, juicy patties, crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, sharp cheddar, a smear of mustard. No overthinking, no garnish. Just food that tastes like effort and feels like home.

You both sit on the cool kitchen floor with your backs against the cabinets, knees brushing, plates balanced carefully. Outside, the ocean breathes quietly against the shore. The wind plays with the edge of the curtain. The kitchen’s half-lit by the last of the afternoon sun filtering through the window.

Lando takes a bite and immediately groans. “Okay. This is actually insane.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that every time.”

“Because every time it is. I would sell my car for these buns.”

You laugh through a mouthful. “Which one?”

“Pick one. Dealer’s choice.”

There’s a comfortable silence after that—one that settles between you like a favorite blanket. No rush to fill it. Just shared food, shared air, and the kind of closeness that’s always felt easy, even if lately it feels like it might mean something else.

He finishes his last bite, then glances at you sideways.

“You ever think about doing this, like, for real?” he asks. “Opening a bakery or something.”

You pause. “Sometimes. But then I remember I like it better when it’s quiet. When I can take my time.”

He nods slowly, like he gets it.

“I think it’s cool,” he says after a beat. “How you make space feel like… I don’t know. Like it’s yours. Like you’ve always belonged in it.”

Your chest tightens just slightly. You don’t say anything.

Outside, the wind shifts. Inside, the AC clicks off. The quiet wraps around both of you, layered and still.

He clears his throat after a second. “I’ll do dishes.”

You glance at him. “You sure?”

“No, but I’ll do them anyway.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Thanks, grill master.”

He grins. “Anytime, baker girl.”

⸻

The plates are nearly empty now, save for a few breadcrumbs and a smear of mustard you’ll rinse off in a minute. Lando’s halfway through sipping the last of his Coke, sitting back with a satisfied groan, his bare feet stretched across the kitchen floor.

“I’ll do dishes,” he repeats from earlier, as if trying to beat you to it before you can argue.

“You said that twenty minutes ago,” you say, collecting the plates anyway, stacking them neatly, out of habit.

“Yeah, well, I was digesting. That was a full-body burger experience.”

You roll your eyes but say nothing. The kitchen smells like bread and spice and evening. The sun has officially dipped past the horizon, but the golden wash still lingers through the windows, soft and amber, casting everything in that magic-hour hush.

Lando follows, eventually. Not in a hurry—he rarely is when it’s just you two like this.

You’re already running the water by the time he steps in behind you. It’s warm, not too hot, the way you like it. Soap bubbles slip between your fingers as you rinse the plates, methodical and slow. You don’t look at him when he joins you, just scoot over a little to make room, knowing he’ll grab the towel without asking.

He always does.

“You know,” he says after a beat, drying the first plate you hand him, “this is suspiciously domestic.”

“Suspiciously?” you echo, lips twitching.

“Yeah,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Like if someone walked in right now, they’d assume we’ve been married for seven years and fight about what kind of almond milk to buy.”

You hand him the next dish, arching a brow. “I’m not lactose tolerant.”

“Even more suspicious,” he deadpans. “A perfectly compatible fake marriage.”

You let out a soft snort, shoulders shaking.

The faucet hums. So does the silence.

Lando leans a hip against the counter, brushing a wet plate dry with lazy movements, but his eyes flick sideways more often now. You can feel it—the way he’s watching you, not the dishes.

“You always do this,” he says, quieter now.

“Do what?”

“Make a place feel… like it’s been lived in. Like it matters.”

You glance at him, hands pausing briefly in the suds. “It’s just a kitchen.”

“Yeah, but it’s your kitchen. Even when it’s not.”

Something in your chest shifts. You rinse the last plate and pass it to him, brushing his fingers in the process. Neither of you flinch. But you don’t pull away either.

“I just like feeding people,” you say after a second. “Makes it feel worth something.”

Lando nods, towel still in hand, eyes on you.

“You ever get tired of doing all of it alone?”

It’s a question that lands heavier than it should. He says it casually, but it hangs in the air with weight, like a kite caught on a wire. You could pretend he means the dishes. The food. The baking. But you know he doesn’t.

You shrug one shoulder, voice low. “Not always.”

He folds the towel slowly, too neatly. Something’s crackling underneath the quiet now—nothing dramatic, just the subtle friction of maybe-wanting and maybe-not-knowing-how.

Then, like he’s cutting through the thread too neatly tied between you, Lando clears his throat and nods toward the patio again.

“You wanna sit outside for a bit? I’ll bring the rest of the chips.”

You give a soft smile, grateful for the shift, even if part of you hated the way the moment bent and broke. “Sure. I’ll grab a hoodie.”

By the time you return, he’s got the lights strung along the deck turned on—those low, warm ones that look like something out of a lazy summer dream. The kind of light you only ever look good in when no one’s trying to look. A bowl of chips sits between you, and he’s already lounging in one of the patio chairs, drink in hand, eyes toward the sea.

You sit beside him, knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves hiding your hands.

The ocean sounds different at night—deeper, softer. Like it’s whispering now instead of roaring. The moon reflects faintly off the water. Salt is still in your hair.

Lando doesn’t say much. He never really has to. He just tilts his head toward you, eyes tired but fond, and offers the bowl your way.

You reach for a chip, fingers grazing his, and this time, neither of you move.

Not for a long, long moment.

⸻

The sun filters in warm and golden, spilling lazily through the gauzy curtains onto the beach house patio. The waves whisper against the shore, just beyond the private fence, and seagulls cry somewhere in the distance like the world is still stretching awake.

You’re half-buried under a blanket, stretched across the patio couch, body tangled loosely with Lando’s. One of his arms is under your head, the other curled around your waist. Your cheek is pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. It’s the kind of morning that feels like a secret.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep out here.

But the air was too gentle. The wine from the night before still hummed in your blood. And the warmth of him beside you had lulled you into a peace you rarely allowed yourself to feel.

Lando shifts slightly, his body going rigid.

You don’t notice at first. You’re too wrapped in the haze of waking up slowly. But then his hand brushes over your back—not in a sleepy, lazy kind of way, but purposeful. Careful.

He tucks the blanket higher. Over your shoulders. Then over your hair. Over your face.

Your breath hitches. “Lando?”

His voice is low. Controlled. “Stay still. Don’t move.”

That’s when you hear it. The soft click-click-click of a camera. Close. Too close.

Your stomach plummets.

You’re on a private beach. This house, that you and Lando rented for the week, this patio—each one has its own fenced section. The gates are locked. There’s no public access this far out. Whoever is taking pictures had to climb over to get them.

Your pulse thuds in your ears.

Lando doesn’t panic. He doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t make a sound that might make the intruder think he’s been caught.

Instead, he reaches—quiet as ever—for his phone, tucked under one of the throw pillows behind him. Still lying down, with you shielded under the blanket, he unlocks it, turns the camera on, and starts recording. The movement is smooth, practiced. Like muscle memory.

You hear the camera shutter again. And again. The photographer thinks he’s winning. Thinks he’s hidden.

But Lando has him.

He keeps filming, capturing the long camera lens poking between the slats of the fence. The flicker of movement. The flash of a sneaker behind the bushes. He even tilts his phone just enough to catch the guy’s face when he shifts slightly—trying to get a better shot.

Your face is completely hidden now, the blanket tucked tight.

Lando gently exhales through his nose, almost like he’s amused.

“This is getting old,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough to make sure it’s caught on the recording.

You don’t dare speak. You stay tucked close, breathing in the cotton-soft smell of the sheets and the faint citrus scent of his skin.

Then, finally, after another shutter snap, Lando raises his voice—clear and cutting, but calm.

“Hope you got what you needed, mate. Would hate for you to waste your trespassing charge on a blurry photo of two people sleeping.”

There’s a rustle. A sharp intake of breath. Then crashing footsteps retreating quickly—someone running.

Lando lowers his phone, ends the video, and finally sits up, pulling the blanket away from your face but still keeping it wrapped tight around you.

You blink up at him, heart pounding. “Did he get anything?”

“Not of you.” His voice is gentler now, brushing hair from your forehead. “I covered you before he got the first shot.”

“You’re sure?”

He nods. “I’m sure.”

The tightness in your chest doesn’t fully ease, but you nod, swallowing thickly.

“What now?”

He exhales, not angry—but focused. “Now I send this to my team. And to the property manager. And then I take a deep breath and go make coffee.”

True to his word, Lando doesn’t post the video on social media. He doesn’t call out the photographer publicly or stoke any drama. He sends the video to his lawyer and his manager. He forwards it to the owner of the beach house community, who confirms that yes—someone had scaled the fence. That security footage caught the same guy entering the property line. And that yes, there would be consequences.

The photographer is identified. He’d already tried to sell the photos. But none of them were usable—Lando had made sure of that. Your face had been hidden. And now, with the evidence in hand, the guy is facing charges for trespassing and invasion of privacy.

The photos never get out.

There’s no media circus. No leaked tabloid stories. No Twitter frenzy dissecting your every movement. The world keeps spinning. Blissfully unaware of how close it came to crashing into yours.

You stay wrapped in the blanket long after he leaves the patio.

When he returns, two mugs of coffee in his hands, he leans down and kisses your forehead.

“Still safe,” he says softly, setting the mugs down. “Still private.”

You nod.

Still private. Thanks to him.

⸻

The statement goes out mid-afternoon.

You’re curled on the couch in one of Lando’s hoodies, scrolling through your phone with the kind of slow, anxious curiosity that comes after a storm. He’s beside you, not saying much—his hand hasn’t left your knee in over ten minutes.

“McLaren condemns the illegal actions taken against Lando Norris and a guest during a private moment at a secured property. No photos have been authorized, and legal action is underway. We ask that fans and media alike respect boundaries, safety, and basic human decency.”

The post is up on every major platform. Bold. Direct. Unapologetically furious.

Your breath catches when you refresh Instagram—and see Lando’s story go live.

It’s the video he filmed that morning. You didn’t realize he’d posted it already.

There’s no caption. Just a shaky few seconds of the camera catching a figure beyond the patio fence—lens up, snapping photos before bolting. You can hear the fabric rustle as Lando subtly adjusts the sheet to cover your face. You hear his breath, low and even. The way he whispers into the mic, “Mate, really? That’s how we’re doing this now?”

It’s intimate without being revealing. Sharp without being cruel. But it says everything.

The internet explodes.

Within minutes, thousands of fans flood the comments with outrage. Not just at the trespassing—but at the gall of someone climbing over a private beach fence to catch two people asleep on a patio in the one place they were supposed to feel safe.

“You can literally see the gate—he climbed over it.”

“This isn’t paparazzi. This is stalking.”

“How is this even legal? Oh wait—it’s not.”

“I don’t care if it’s Lando Norris or some random couple, this is disgusting.”

You set your phone down. Your hands are shaking just slightly.

Lando notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning to face you. “You okay?”

“I don’t like people knowing where we were. That close. They weren’t supposed to see us like that. It felt like ours.”

“It was ours,” he says, voice firmer now. “Still is. They just didn’t have the right to it.”

You look at him, and for a second, all of the noise—the reposts, the reaction videos, the outrage—it blurs into background static. All you hear is him.

“They’re not gonna get away with it, Y/N,” he adds. “The team’s on it. Police too.”

“Good,” you whisper. “Because I don’t want to sleep out there again. I don’t want to have to worry.”

He nods and tugs the blanket higher around your shoulders. “Then we don’t. We keep it ours. Let the rest of the world scream into the void—we stay here. We stay us.”

You give a small, tired smile.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles without thinking.

Outside, the world burns with fury. Inside, you let yourself lean against him again, trusting him to be the shelter you need.

⸻

It’s evening by the time the adrenaline fades. The sky is pink through the windows, melting into a blue so soft it looks like it could fall apart if you touched it.

The beach is quiet now. No footsteps near the fence. No shadows in the dunes.

Inside the house, you and Lando decide—wordlessly—not to talk about it anymore.

Not tonight.

Not while the house smells like butter and the couch is overflowing with pillows. Not while the fairy lights cast warm little halos against the walls. Not while there’s a half-finished bowl of popcorn and a stack of board games on the floor between you.

Lando holds up a battered box of “Guess Who?” with a skeptical look.

You raise an eyebrow. “Scared I’ll destroy you?”

He gasps. “Excuse me. I am a trained professional in identity deduction.”

“You’re a Formula One driver.”

“Exactly. You have to be observant.”

“Okay, Sherlock. Let’s go.”

You set up the game, and within three rounds, it becomes aggressively competitive. He narrows his eyes at your board, suspicious.

“Is your person wearing a hat?”

You glance down. “Yes.”

“Ha!” He flips like seven characters down and grins smugly.

“You’re awfully confident for someone who thought Martha had a beard.”

“That drawing was ambiguous!”

You’re both laughing now, relaxed in that perfect, silly way that only happens when you’re safe. The tension from earlier is still there, of course—humming under the surface—but it’s softened. Made bearable by the sound of his voice and the weight of his knee bumping against yours.

Eventually, the game devolves into accusations of cheating and dramatic reenactments of each character’s backstory (complete with accents and tragic monologues). You’re crying laughing by the time Lando insists the man with the glasses is a secret agent who runs a cheese shop as a cover.

“No, listen—Gerald has layers,” he insists, face deadly serious. “He’s misunderstood. He has a complicated relationship with dairy and justice.”

You’re doubled over, clutching your stomach. “Please stop, I’m going to choke on this popcorn.”

He tosses a piece at you. Misses. You retaliate. A war breaks out. It ends with popcorn everywhere and you half under a blanket, trying to breathe.

And that’s when it happens again—so quietly you almost miss it.

He looks at you with that kind of fondness that sticks. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… steady.

“You’re my favorite person to be boring with,” he says, voice low and unfiltered.

Your breath catches.

You don’t respond right away. You just smile—soft, a little crooked—and nudge your shoulder against his.

The silence between you is warm now, full of things you haven’t said yet. But they’re not scary anymore. Just waiting. Patient.

Outside, the sea sighs against the shore.

Inside, your world is small, and golden, and safe again.

⸻

The popcorn war winds down eventually—mostly because Lando yawns so dramatically it makes you yawn, too. He’s sprawled half across the couch, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest, his curls a little flattened from the pillow and his shirt crumpled from all the flailing.

You, somehow, have ended up sitting sideways, your feet in his lap, a throw blanket tucked around your knees. His hand rests absentmindedly over your ankle, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded shapes.

The game boards are forgotten. The lights are low. The only sound is the soft clink of the popcorn bowl as you reach in blindly and come up with a single kernel.

“Do you think Gerald ever found peace?” you murmur, voice low and teasing.

Lando shifts just enough to glance at you from under his lashes, smile lazy. “Nah. He definitely ran off with that cheese heiress and vanished into Switzerland.”

You grin. “A romantic and a fugitive.”

“The best kind.” He stretches a little, shifting your legs with him. “You tired?”

“Kind of. But I don’t want to move.”

“Then don’t.” His voice is gentle, a little hoarse. “We don’t have to do anything.”

And it’s true. The air feels still, but not stiff. The kind of stillness that wraps around you like a second blanket—content, peaceful. Safe.

You turn your head slightly, watching him in the low light.

He’s scrolling absently on his phone now, eyes scanning something. But you can see it—his body’s relaxed, but his jaw is tight. Still carrying some of that tension from earlier. Still carrying you, even if he won’t admit it.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He blinks, looks over at you. “Yeah. Just… you know. Still a little pissed.”

“Me too.”

He nods once, and then adds, quieter, “I hated seeing you scared like that. It’s not fair.”

You shift, curling in a little closer, toes bumping his side beneath the blanket. “You covered for me. Literally.”

He gives you a tiny, crooked smile. “It was the least I could do.”

“Lando?”

“Yeah?”

You pause, your voice softer now. “Thanks for not freaking out. Not really, anyway.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “You kidding? I was freaking out so much. I just couldn’t show it ‘cause you looked like you were about to hide under the floorboards.”

You snort. “I was close to doing that!”

He laughs, hand still loosely wrapped around your ankle.

Then, without looking at you, he says it—like he’s been meaning to for a while, like it’s been simmering beneath everything else:

“I really like being around you, you know?”

You look at him, heart a little too loud suddenly. “I like being around you too.”

It’s not new. It’s not surprising. But this time it lands differently. No noise, no crowd, no deflections.

Just you, and him, and the feeling that something is shifting—slowly, steadily, like the tide outside.

You let it sit there between you, soft and unspoken.

And then, just to break the spell, you whisper, “Gerald would be proud of us.”

Lando’s laugh is immediate and real. “Gerald would’ve officiated our wedding with a wheel of Brie.”

You throw a pillow at him again.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

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burningembers91 · 4 months ago

Text

The Shape of You - Park Gyeong-Seok x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Follow up piece to

Loving You From Afar

Synopsis: When babysitting Na-Yeon, you discover one of Park Gyeong-Seok’s secrets.

You were looking after Na-Yeon when you found the drawings. One of her Barbie’s shoes had fallen down the side of the sofa, and as you leaned down to retrieve it, you felt the wads of paper stuff between the sofa and wall. Pulling them onto your lap, you were shocked to see at least a dozen drawings and paintings of you. There were ones of your whole body, ones of just your face, ones where you were laughing, and one where you were staring off into the distance. You had no idea Gyeong-Seok had been drawing you, had no idea why he’d kept these hidden. You’d never thought of yourself as particularly beautiful and yet he’d managed to capture you in the most stunning light. He was out until late evening, taking on some extra work as an art teacher in a local night school, but you needed to find out why he drawn you so many times and then hidden them away.

You fed Na-Yeon and read her to sleep, before settling back on the sofa with the pictures. Gyeong-Seok had captured you so perfectly, had painted you in a light you’d never seen yourself in. you couldn’t stop looking at the images in front of you, wondering if this was how he saw you. You so looked so confident, so sure of yourself and so naturally beautiful. You tried comparing your reflection to the drawing but somehow, Gyeong-Seok had managed to capture you better than a mirror ever could.

The TV was down low when he arrived home. He’d has such a great evening, and there had even been talk of giving him a more permanent position. It would mean more money for him and Na-Yeon, more money to maybe finally take you out on a date. He stopped dead when he saw you, still clutching the drawings he thought he’d hidden so carefully.

“I…” He stood dumbstruck as you held them up to him.

“These are really good,” you smiled. “I had no idea.”

“I…” Again, Gyeong-Seok seemed unable to form words, the embarrassment creeping up his face like a red-hot poker. You weren’t meant to see those drawings; he never should have made them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, “I look… you’ve made me look more beautiful than I’ve ever felt before.”

“I was just painting you how I see you,” he shrugged, shifting his bag from his shoulder to the rickety kitchen table.

“But I look so beautiful,” you whispered, still unable to believe that you were the person depicted on the pages.

“Well,” he said quietly, so quietly you barely heard him. “It’s because you are. You are beautiful.”

You both stood staring at each other, both wondering what came next. He wanted to kiss you so badly, to show you that you were so much more beautiful than you ever gave yourself credit for. You both slowly closed the gap between you, the air buzzing with the growing tension.

“Say it again,” you whispered, your eyes fixed on him.

“You are beautiful,” he replied. “And funny, and kind, and so good to me and Na-Yeon.”

You were mere inches apart now, your faces so close he could see the specks of colour dotted in your irises. “You are so beautiful,” he repeated, his hand coming to rest gingerly on your cheek.

His lips met yours, soft and sweet, both of you testing the water. This felt so good, so right, and neither of you could believe you’d denied yourselves this happiness for so long. His fingers caressed your neck, your arms entwining round his waist as you deepened the kiss, the tips of your tongues meeting as you explored one another. Gyeong-Seok wanted you, needed you. He needed to feel every inch of your skin, needed to hear you moan his name as he fucked you. He led you gently to his threadbare sofa, never once breaking your kiss. But it was you who gently pushed him down into the pillows. It was you who straddled him, removing his checkered shirt as your lips traced the sweet contours of his neck. You’d thought about fucking him right here on this very sofa more times that you could count. Gyeong-Seok had so much pent-up stress inside of him, and you were dying to release it. There would be time to explore each other properly; right now, you both just needed to quell the deep aches between your legs.

Pushing him down further into the cushions, you removed his faded grey t-shirt, giggling quietly as he helped remove your sweater. You looked so perfect in the dim light of the TV, your curves more perfect than he ever could have imagined. His torso was toned, his arms surprisingly strong as he manoeuvred your body on top of his. He heard the sound of his jeans unzipping, felt your hand dip into his underwear and gently grip his cock. He had to clamp his hand over his mouth to supress the moan that fell from his lips. It had been so long since anyone had touched him like this, and he’d forgotten how good it felt. You bit back another giggle, hopping off the sofa to fully remove his jeans. As you pulled down your skirt and underwear, Gyeong-Seok looked up at you from his reclined position on the sofa. Reaching his hand up, his slid his fingers ever so gently through your slick folds. Now it was your turn to supress a moan as he slipped two fingers inside you. You were so wet, so perfect and he smiled as you shivered against his touch. You couldn’t bare it any longer; you needed each other.

You climbed on top of him, lowering yourself down on his hard cock, your lips meeting in a crashing kiss as you desperately sought to subdue your moans. You moved against each other, Gyeong-Seok’s hips thrusting into you in the sweetest of rhythms. His hands traced your stomach, your breasts, his fingers tracing delicate circles over your flushed skin. he felt you shudder against him as you reached your peak, your teeth grazing his lower lip in quiet ecstasy. He wasn’t far behind you, his hands gripping your hips as he spilled himself inside of you.

you stayed with him that night, cuddled up on the sofa bed with the threadbare fabric and the broken springs. Gyeong-Seok held you as you slept, the scent of your perfume already staining his sheets. Tomorrow, he would ask you out for that cup of coffee. Tomorrow, he would finally ask out the girl he’d fallen in love with.

#squid game #squid game 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game fanfic #squid game smut #park gyeong seok x you #park gyeong seok x reader #park gyeong seok #park gyeong seok smut #lee jin uk

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prettyfastcars · 1 year ago

Text

'til I touch, touch, touch you | Mob!Lewis

Summary: Lewis finds out that you have a thing for his hands.

Themes: explicit language, smut, fluff, praise kink, daddy kink

“Why are you sitting so far?”

He dared ask, looking at you like he didn’t know what he was doing to you. Manspreading on the other side of the couch, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows revealing his tattoos, all the buttons of his shirt were undone so you could see his muscular, tattooed chest clearly, and his braids tied neatly at the back.

He looked confused as to why you put all that distance between you and him on the large couch. If you sat any closer, you’d end up getting on his lap and beg him to fuck you till the morning. And he’d been working late these past few days, he looked a little tired. He deserved a little rest, you thought.

But fuck. Those soft eyes he made at you weren’t helping. And his damn hands. One holding a whiskey glass, and the other extended towards you. You tried your hardest to look away from them. Tattoos all over his fingers, and all his rings… you took a deep breath and said, “It’s comfy here.”

He frowned at you and tried again, “Babygirl,” He spoke in that irresistible voice of his, “Come sit with daddy, I missed you all day.”

Ah, screw it. You gave up resisting and crawled to him until you settled right beside him, throwing your legs over his lap and leaned into the warmth of his bare chest. You couldn’t help but lean down and kiss his warm skin, right above the compass tattoo.

“I missed you too.” You murmured, letting your lips brush over his skin. Then you nearly groaned when he brought his hand over to caress your exposed thigh. As if just looking at them weren’t torture enough, now he was gliding those slightly rough, tattooed fingers all over your skin.

You nearly stopped breathing altogether when his fingers began getting closer and closer to your inner thighs. Your little satin PJ set wasn’t hiding much of your body anyway.

“How was your day?” He asked, keeping an eye on what was playing on the TV while his hand mindlessly caressing your thigh.

You couldn’t look away. Those hands had been your fixation for a while now. “Uh,” You struggled to respond, “It was fine. I did, you know, stuff.”

Damn him. His hand slowly inched even further up your thigh, stopping you from even thinking coherently.

“Hmm. What else?”

You opened your mouth to answer but his fingers teased your upper thigh and you couldn’t help but groan. Leaning more into his touch as you hid your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled delicious and you groaned even louder.

Lewis chuckled. “You think I haven’t noticed you’ve been staring at my hands?” You refused to look him in the eyes so he continued. “You’ve been doing it a lot lately, haven’t you? What is it? They turn you on?”

You whined, trying to close your legs but he tightened his grip on your thigh and you couldn’t move.

“You like my hands?” He teased, placing his glass down and bringing his other hand to cup your face.

You finally pulled away from his neck so you could look up at him, and nodded shyly.

“Yeah?” He chuckled. “Where do you want them?”

You mumbled something but it was neither coherent nor audible.

Lewis brough his thumb over to your mouth, tracing the shape of your lips as he said, “Louder baby, use your words. Where do you want daddy’s hands?”

“All over me.”

His pretty brown eyes stared deep into yours as he smirked. “Come here,” He said, pulling you onto his lap.

You straddled him like you had the habit of doing and waited, and watched how his hands went back to your thighs, inching higher and higher up your leg, caressing your inner thighs. He smirked when you moaned and kept going. Sliding those gorgeous, tattooed hands all over your soft skin. The cold metal of his rings made you shiver.

His hands had done terrible things given the nature of his job. He had hurt, maimed, pulled so many triggers, ended lives even, but they were so gentle with you. So careful.

He leaned in to kiss your jaw and down your neck, his stubbled brushing against your skin gently. His lips warm and soft as they brushed all over your skin. His knuckles brushed against the front of the flimsy PJ shorts you were wearing.

He whispered, with his lips hovering over the corner of your mouth. “I can feel how wet you are, baby.” He slipped his hand past the waistband, into your thin underwear and touched you gently. His fingers circled around your clit, before he pushed a finger in, then another and started gently moving them in and out of you. “Is this what you wanted? Hmm?”

He placed his thumb on your throbbing clit and brushed it occasionally while he finger-fucked you, your wetness dripping and smearing all over his hand. You threw your head back and moaned when his fingers touched you in all the right places, curling just right and massaging your sensitive spots perfectly.

His other hand gently wrapped around your neck, not squeezing yet but just holding you firmly. You got just a little louder as he sped up, his fingers slipping in and out of you with ease.

“Look down,” He said, “Look how well you’re taking daddy’s fingers.”

You did. And fuck if it didn’t make you whine and moan even louder.

And seeing you were whining and whimpering already, he decided to torture you more by moving his hand from your throat, “Open up, baby.” He whispered, pushing two fingers past your lips and into your mouth and slowly pumped those two as well.

Your lips immediately wrapped around his fingers. And he smirked at the sight of you, with two of his fingers buried in your wet core, slipping in and out of you rapidly while his other two fingers were buried into your warm mouth. His rings clinked against your teeth as he did.

“Do they feel good?”

You nodded desperately, clenching around his fingers.

The sounds you made alone were enough to make his pants feel tighter, and make him want to tease you even more. “Yeah? You like being completely stuffed, don’t you? Look at you, look how well you take it. Daddy’s perfect little slut, hmm?”

Your muffled moans, the way his hands moved against your skin, his fingers in your mouth, in your cunt… it was all too much. Soon you had tears streaming down your face.

He removed his fingers from your mouth and wrapped his hand around your throat again, squeezing just a little as he brought your face closer to his. His breath was just as ragged as yours, his lips inches away from yours. “Are you gonna come, baby? You’re gonna come for daddy?”

You nodded, moaning when he sped up again, his fingers stroking your walls perfectly and increasing the sweet, almost agonizing pressure forming in between your hips.

You rolled your hips against his hand in a haze, chasing your orgasm, moaning and whimpering. “Come for me, babygirl.” He encouraged you and tightened his grip around your throat just a little bit more.

And you couldn’t hold it anymore, you let the familiar waves of pleasure wash over you as you came all over his fingers, crying out loud in pleasure. Gushing out all over his hand as he kept pumping his fingers in and out of you, getting everything he could out of you. He finally pressed his lips to yours and kissed you hard.

You couldn’t keep your hands to yourself then. You hurried to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, lowering the waistband of his underwear to free his erected cock. The mere sight of his perfect cock had you whimpering with need again.

You got off his lap and dropped to kneel in between his legs immediately. You reached out and wrapped your hands around his base and placed your mouth on his cock immediately, your tongue slowly circling his tip. He groaned and spread his legs further apart, inching his hips slightly forward as you took more of him into your mouth.

He sighed as he leaned back and grabbed his glass of whiskey again and sipped on it as he watched you suck his cock, bobbing your head around him just like how he liked it. You took him inch by inch until he filled your mouth completely.

“Fuck, baby…” He swore under his breath again as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper into your mouth. “You feel so fucking good.” His praise gave you a rush.

You wanted more. You took most of his cock into your mouth and repeated your actions again and again.

He moaned and growled occasionally. He bucked his hips forward very gently into your mouth, and loved the sight of your spit coating his cock. You looked magnificent on your knees, taking him perfectly. You always did.

You took him out of your mouth and teased him a little bit, licking his cock from bottom to top while your hands toyed with his balls as you gently stroked him. His taste and scent was all you could focus on.

He swore under his breath at your teasing, as you dragged your tongue over the slit on this tip lazily. He looked down at you with a warning in his pretty brown eyes, his glass of whiskey just an inch or two from his plump lips. “Don’t tease me, babygirl.” He spoke, his voice carrying nothing but authority and lust.

So you got back to it while looking him in the eye. You took him back into your mouth and sucked on his cock until he was so close to coming undone all over your tongue, groaning and grunting in pleasure. You sped up your actions because you liked the sounds which left his lips while he was right on the edge.

“Fuck… slow down, babygirl.” He moaned, breathlessly as he came into your mouth. His thigh muscles tensing and his hips thrusting gently up into your mouth.

You swallowed all that he gave you and you licked him clean before climbing onto his lap again. This time after taking your clothes off.

“You’re such a good girl for daddy, you know that?” He said, after catching his breath for a second or two. Hands reaching up to cup your face. “You want more?”

You nodded again, licking your lips for any remnant taste of him. Lewis smirked and pushed you back down on the couch before he slid inside of you again, effortlessly. And the two of you moaned in unison as he filled you up again, your walls already gripping him tightly as your back arched off the couch.

“Fuck…” You whimpered.

His one hand wrapped around your throat while the other held on to your hip, keeping you in place. You felt his cock stretching you, filling you up. Every inch of him sliding into your tight cunt. You could feel your eyes tearing up at how snug he felt inside you. And his hand around your throat… fuck.

He held your stare as he reached down to grab your legs and wrapped them around his waist. He looked down to where your bodies connected, quickly spitting right on your clit, his thumb spreading the wetness around as he leaned down to give you a messy kiss, swallowing your desperate moan in the process.

“Please,” You mumbled against his mouth. You couldn’t help your loud moans which followed as he moved his hips the slightest bit. His cock moving in and out of you.

“Please what, babygirl?” Lewis pulled away and watched you as you whined at the feeling of his cock slowly moving in and out of you.

“Fuck me, please.” You whimpered, then felt your walls clenching around him as he finally sped up and pounded into you. You felt all of him stretching you, filling you up, moving rapidly in and out of you until he was all you could focus on.

“You feel so fucking good…” He whispered, pounding into you relentlessly as he bent down to bite your lower lip and tug on it. “So perfect for daddy.”

You moaned at how perfect his hard, muscular, tattooed chest felt against yours, his weight pressing down on you. His slight stubble tickled your skin as he moved. His soft lips brushing against your skin as he kissed you everywhere he could.

Your legs trembled as you wrapped them tighter around his waist. His thrusts, relentless and unbearably good. The pressure around your lower body, tight and hot.

Lewis looked down at you as you tightened around his cock. He smirked, looking down to where his cock disappeared into you each time he thrust in. “Look at me, babygirl.” When you did, he whispered, “Daddy loves you. So much. You understand?”

You nodded. The possessiveness in his voice only made you clench around him again.

He gave you a lazy smile, “Then be a good girl and come for daddy.” His hand squeezed your throat, making you moan even louder. He leaned in, giving you a messy kiss. “Come all over my cock, baby. Come on.”

You whimpered, unable to say anything because of how good he felt sliding in and out of you. The familiar pressure formed at your core yet again and you whined when his hand let go of your throat and his fingers found your clit, toying with it while he pounded into you mercilessly.

Lewis loved that look on your face, that look of utter bliss, pain, pleasure, lust and hunger all at once. “That’s it, babygirl. You’re taking me so well, look at you. Now come, come all over me,” He whispered and that was all you needed to hear before you came undone all around him.

Whimpering and back arching off the couch as you came hard around his cock, tightening around him. He kept pounding into you as your orgasm washed over you, your walls squeezing him violently. Your body trembling under his intense gaze.

He growled as he buried his cock deep inside you, coming undone right after you. You whined and whimpered as you felt him filling you up, feeling some of his cum drip down your thighs before he dropped carefully on top of you.

“You okay, baby?” He asked, gently kissing your neck while his hands touched you everywhere they could, rubbing up and down your sides, and thighs.

“Yeah,” You breathed, placing a hand on top of one of his, toying with his rings.

“Wanna go to bed?”

You sighed. “Don’t think I can walk just yet, give me a minute.”

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton smut #mob!lewis #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton au #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 #f1 fanfic

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annaswrites00 · 8 days ago

Text

A Night In

LN4 x gf!reader

(1.0k)

Summary - You and Lando stay in to bake pizzas… warning - none, just wholesome fluff and bf Lando

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The rain had been coming down all afternoon, a soft patter against the windows that made the whole world outside look sleepy and slow. Inside Lando’s Monaco flat, everything felt golden and warm. The overhead kitchen lights buzzed quietly, the smell of flour and tomato sauce thick in the air, and somewhere in the background, a playlist crooned low and lazy.

You sat perched on the edge of the marble counter, swinging your legs and watching as Lando fought — and lost — a battle with a stubborn piece of pizza dough.

“I thought you said making homemade pizza would be fun,” he said, shooting you a betrayed look as he struggled to flatten the dough with a comically small rolling pin.

“I did say that,” you said, laughing. “You’re just weak.”

He gasped, scandalized. “You wound me.”

You tossed a little pinch of flour in his direction, the white powder floating through the air and dusting his messy curls. He froze mid-roll, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, it’s on.”

Before you could scramble away, he darted forward, swiping a floury hand across your cheek. You squealed, trying to wriggle out of his reach, but he just laughed — that bright, boyish laugh you loved — and grabbed you around the waist, holding you hostage.

“Say you’re sorry!” he demanded, mock-stern.

“Never!” you shrieked, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

It ended, like it always did, with both of you breathless and messy, smudged with flour, clinging to each other and laughing. You finally pulled back, resting your forehead against his shoulder, the scent of him — warm skin, clean laundry, a hint of cologne — grounding you.

“We’re gonna ruin the pizzas,” you mumbled into his hoodie.

“Worth it,” he said, and kissed the top of your head.

You both managed, somehow, to get back to work. Lando was determined to make your pizzas heart-shaped, even if it killed him. The results were… questionable, at best. His looked more like a lopsided potato than a heart, and yours wasn’t much better — but neither of you cared.

“Tadaaa,” Lando said proudly, presenting his mangled dough to you like it was a trophy.

“You’re an artist,” you deadpanned, biting back a smile.

He stuck his tongue out at you.

Your heart flipped stupidly in your chest, and you quickly turned back to your toppings to hide your blush. You layered sauce and cheese, bickering over what counted as “too much”, tossing rogue pepperonis into each other’s mouths, and arguing over whether pineapples were an acceptable topping (they were not, according to Lando).

Finally, the pizzas slid into the oven, and you both collapsed onto the couch, exhausted and giddy.

You dragged a fuzzy blanket off the back of the sofa, throwing it over the two of you as you snuggled close. Lando smelled faintly of flour and boy and something you couldn’t name but always associated with home.

He picked up the small stack of romcoms you’d brought over, flipping through them dramatically.

“The Deal,” he read aloud. “The Kiss Quotient. Love, Theoretically.”

He turned and grinned at you. “These can’t be real.”

You laughed, nudging him with your foot. “Pick one, loser.”

He eventually settled on The Deal, propping it open and resting it on his lap. You curled into his side, your head tucked under his chin, his free arm automatically wrapping around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He started reading out loud, voice a little teasing but surprisingly soft.

You closed your eyes, listening, your whole body warm and relaxed against him.

Every few minutes, he’d pause to make a comment — usually stupid.

“If a guy ever talked to you like this, I’d deck him,” he muttered during one scene.

You cracked an eye open to grin at him. “It’s a romance novel, Lan.”

“Yeah, well. He better watch himself.”

You smiled into his hoodie, feeling ridiculously happy, ridiculously safe.

The rain kept tapping against the windows. The flat smelled like baking dough. Lando’s voice was low and rhythmic, the words buzzing softly in your ear.

After a while, you tilted your head up to look at him. He caught you staring, eyebrows raised.

“What?” he asked, smiling that soft, sleepy smile that was reserved just for you.

You shook your head, heart aching with how much you loved him.

“Nothing. Just… you��re really cute.”

He flushed a little, ducking his head. “You’re the cute one.”

You nudged him again, and he leaned down without hesitation, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. It was slow, sweet, a little clumsy — the kind of kiss that tasted like comfort and home and all the little things that mattered most.

The oven dinged, the timer going off with a loud beep, but neither of you moved right away.

When you finally pulled apart, Lando grinned, forehead resting against yours.

“Pizza’s ready,” he whispered.

“Five more minutes,” you whispered back.

He tightened his arm around you, tugging the blanket higher, tucking you closer. You stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, the world outside a blur of rain and city lights.

You would eat slightly burnt, lopsided heart-shaped pizzas later.

You would laugh about it, feed each other cheesy bites, and probably fall asleep halfway through another chapter, your bodies twisted together under the blanket.

But for now, you just stayed.

Safe. Warm.

Exactly where you belonged.

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Thanks for reading!!!

✩°｡🧸𓏲⋆.🧺𖦹 ₊˚

#lando x y/n #lando norris #lando x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fic #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #lando x you #formula 1 fic

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yourstrulyrani · 1 month ago

Note

MORE BIKER SIMON!!

biker!simon riley x reader

blurb: biker!simon riley // no cws // wc: 1340 inspired by my headcanons

a/n: omg yess as you wish!! thank you guys for the love you guys have given so far. i only had this blog for a little over a week and yall are spoiling me LIKE OMG i love u guys. i've decided to spoil yall back by actually writing a blurb instead of some hcs, i hope you guys enjoy!

You wouldn't think that the Simon Riley would ask you out on another riding session. You begged him for wheelies nonstop the first time you rode with him, potentially to the point that he was probably annoyed. So why on earth is he texting you: 'Hey, love. When are you free? Do you wanna go for another ride?'

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard on your phone. Should you lie? Tell him you’re busy the whole week so you don't have to feel his torso under your hands again? But after a few minutes you reason with yourself. Another ride with him can’t hurt and neither does being truthful.

You: Hey Simon. I’m free. How does tomorrow sound?

Simon 👻: Great. Tomorrow at 6 then. See you later lovie.

You honestly melt each time he calls you these endearments. You convince yourself it’s how British people speak. But when Simon says it, it sounds different to you. Almost as if he actually means it.

Tomorrow couldn’t have come quicker. Simon didn’t even have to bother calling or texting you to say he's outside. One rev from his bike had you looking out the window and your pulse pounding in your ears. You walk downstairs and outside your house, strolling over to Simon’s bike. He’s dressed in full gear this time in contrast to his short-sleeved t-shirt and jeans combo the first time you rode with him. The leather of his jacket hugs his form perfectly. His trousers are baggy but enough to shape around his huge thighs. He clears his throat and lifts a leg to get off the bike. He tilts his head down to compensate for how tall he is and shakes his head disapprovingly.

“No.” His voice rumbled.

Your eyes squint in confusion. Instead of greeting you, he’s only going to spit out one word? “What do you mean ‘no’?” He drinks in your outfit, staring at your shoes and moving up until he glares at your face.

“This outfit. It won’t pass this time.” He takes his backpack off his shoulders and unzips it. He takes out a hoodie, trousers, and gloves. He settles the things on the hood of your car. “You wore only a helmet last time. You need more gear. This is a bloody missile,” he points to his bike, “and you need proper protection.”

No way.

You giggle at his adamance, “But Si—“

“No.” He interrupts you. “Don’t ‘But Simon’ me. You’re either wearing this gear or you can take your pretty little self back inside your house. I’m not risking it.” As much as he wants to tell you how good you already look, he’d much rather have you safe.

You hate to admit it, but the way he’s commanding you makes you weak in the knees. You roll your eyes, “Fine. But I—”

He huffs in annoyance at your stubbornness. "Bloody hell, doll." He drags a hand down his face and places his hands on his hips. "You're either wearing what I bought you or I'll have no problem carrying you back inside." You two stare each other down, but your resolve crumbles and you do as he says. You put on the hoodie and trousers over your outfit and slip on the gloves.

Now he hates to admit it, but Simon would much rather watch you strip down for him than dress up for him.

He puts on the helmet for you, like last time pulling you by the straps so your body leans closer to his. You can’t see it because of his balaclava, but you know for sure with the way his eyes squint slightly that he’s smirking at his own cheekiness. Once you both are all set, he hooks a leg over the bike while offering you a hand to get on. Simon shivered a little at your gentle touch. It’s so different from his. He has rough, calloused fingers that have seen every inch of war. You, on the other hand, have hands so gentle he imagines how they’d feel along his body. How you, a woman so gentle, could hopefully be with a man as rough as him someday.

He clicks his tongue when you place both hands on his shoulders. “Not there.” He takes your hands down to wrap around his torso, making your chest press against his back. “I don’t need you falling off. You're too precious.” He said that last time, you think. He chuckles. “Okay, now I need to make sure you remember from your last ride. If you ever want me to pull over when we’re riding, what do you do?”

You tap his thigh, “Tap two times.”

He nods approvingly. “Good girl.” He flicks down his visor and you follow suit. With a startup and rev, he drives you both off. The cold evening air with the heat of hugging your body against Simon is enough to make you shiver, making you cringe at the subtle intimacy of the situation.

Simon is not immune either.

The last time he rode with you he spent the whole night thinking about you once he got home. It got so bad to the point you cross his mind in the shower now. Just one ride with you and here he is: yearning for you. Your touch. Your voice in his ear. Your body pressed against his. He adores riding with you though no matter how smitten you make him, which is something he could never tell you. Hell, he is so smitten he had paperwork to drop off at base today, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of a ride with you.

He loves the way you follow his orders, like knowing to tap his thigh when you feel a little uneasy, or tapping his helmet when you see a police car. He loves when you tilt your body with his so he can turn the bike more easily, when you hold onto him a little tighter every time he goes up a gear, and the way you trust his riding so much to the point that you felt safe enough to go for a second time.

After sunset, the ride ends with Simon pulling into your driveway to drop you back home. Simon can’t figure out if this is an unfortunate or fortunate thing. He wants to spend time with you since he craves that quality time. He thinks about you in ways a friend shouldn’t. But he wants distance, because not even Simon Riley knows when Simon Riley will blurt out what he feels for you.

You grab Simon’s shoulders to get off. He places the bike on its stand and helps you out of your helmet. Even with your hair disheveled, he still thinks you’re gorgeous. He takes his hands and smooths out the messy bits. If anything, your hair helps Simon wonder what it would be like if you were under him on his bed. So beautiful, he thinks.

“You’re quite the smooth operator, Simon.” You mention his skill of riding as he fixes one last strand. His eyes squint in the balaclava before he pulls it off his head.

He tilts his head at you and you’re grateful you can finally see the pink of his full lips as he speaks, “You think so?”

You nod in conviction, “Of course I do." He chuckles and takes off his leather jacket to reveal a short-sleeved black t-shirt, now showing off his tattoo sleeve.

What a tease.

“You handle the bike well too, sweetheart.” He crosses his arms, causing a gorgeous flex on both biceps. You couldn’t help but to stare at his arms, then down to the outlines of his pecs and lastly to his torso.

You want him so bad.

“You think so?” You copy his own curious tone from before at a potential attempt of flirting.

He nods and steps closer to you, “Know so, doll.” You were Simon's first backpack ever on the bike. He knows without a doubt you will be his favorite (and only) backpack from now on.

that was my first blurb ever on this blog, so i truly hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it! i honestly don't think it was that hot of a blurb but as long as you who are reading like it, that's all that matters HAHA.

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

#simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley cod #biker!simonriley #bikersimonriley #simon ghost riley x reader #simonrileybiker

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thegettingbyp2 · 1 year ago

Note

38 -Jess Mariano

We're Not Friends

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You were straddling Jess’ lap on the sofa in his and Luke’s apartment above the diner, your fingers tangled in his hair as your hips swivelled on his cock. The apartment was filled with the sound of yours and Jess’ combined whimpers and groans. You’d had the apartment to yourselves for the past day and a bit due to Luke being over at Lorelai’s and it was safe to say that you were both making good use of the empty space.

‘Jess,’ you whined, on the verge of tears. You were so overstimulated from the amount of times the two of you had fucked in the last 24 hours. Jess’ hands were firmly gripping your hips, bouncing you up at down on his cock as his lips pressed kisses and bites along your neck and chest.

‘Almost there, baby, you’re doing so good,’ Jess murmured into your skin, digging his teeth into your collar to make you cry out and clench around him. ‘I’m almost there,’ he repeated, planting his feet on the ground and using the leverage to thrust up into you. Your body collapsed on his chest as he used your body like a toy. Thrusting once more up into you, Jess let out a deep groan as you felt his cum coat your walls.

Resting against his chest, you nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck, your eyes fluttering closed tiredly as his arms wrapped around you. You stayed like that for a few minutes before you reluctantly pulled away and got off of his lap, wincing slightly when he slid out of you.

‘Where are you going?’ Jess asked, still sounding tired but looking more alert when he saw you putting your clothes back on.

‘Home,’ you replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘Why?’

‘Because we don’t do the whole hanging around, staying over thing.’

‘We did last night.’

You felt your body freeze at his words. You and Jess were strictly friends with benefits, you’d both agreed on that before starting anything up, not wanting to get on the wrong page of anything. Up until last night, you’d kept your rule of not staying round the others after hooking up but Jess having the place to himself, neither of you questioned it when you’d decided to stay over.

‘Jess,’ you said, sighing quietly before turning around to face him. ‘We’re friends and we made a - ’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘We’re not friends, (Y/N), we passed “just friends” about 20 fucks ago, and you know it, so don’t give me that.’

‘We always said that we wouldn’t let feelings get in the way of this.’

‘Well, too late.’

‘And you’re so sure that we both have the same feelings for each other?’ you asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘If I’m wrong, walk out of that door right now,’ Jess said, stepping towards you, his voice low. His hands moved to settle lightly on your hips and you couldn’t help but shiver when you felt his fingers gently press into the new hand-shaped bruises that were forming on your hips. ‘Walk out and I’ll never bring it up again. But I’m 99.9% sure you’re not going anywhere.’

You couldn’t think of anything else to say, your hands came up to rest on his bare chest and you had to fight the urge to laugh when you felt goose bumps erupt over his skin at your touch.

‘I,’ you began, not knowing what to say at all.

Jess’s eyes softened as he looked at you and he took a step closer to you. ‘You feel it too right?’ You nodded, tears springing to your eyes and a lump forming in your throat, making it impossible for you to speak. ‘That’s all I needed,’ he said before leaning in to press his lips back to yours.

That’s when it hit you. Standing in the middle of the apartment, half dressed.

You were in love with Jess Mariano.

#jess mariano #jess mariano imagine #jess mariano smut #jess mariano x reader

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girliism · 2 months ago

Text

patrick zweig x reader

“oh please pick up, pick up, pick up.”

“hello.”

“oh thank god. i thought you weren’t gonna answer.”

“i’ll always answer for you.”

there was a pause like there always is when either of you says anything a little too intimate.

patrick clears his throat. “but um why are you calling shouldn’t you be at your bachelorette party?”

your sigh echos through the phone. “i’m actually currently hiding out in the bathroom at a stripclub after having three different strippers half hard cocks thrust into my face.”

patrick’s loud laugh fills your ears, and you have to roll your eyes. “so what, do you need a get away driver? want me to come get you?”

you shook your head as if her could see you. “no, no. i just needed a little break from my bridesmaids.” you said the title in a mocking manner. “i thought this wedding stuff was supposed to be fun.” you say quietly.

“you could always come hang out with me.”

before you could respond there was a knock on the bathroom door.

“are you done in there we have to move on to our next location.” you gave a half assed answer back to whoever was at the door would leave.

“i have to go.”

the rest of the night you let your bridesmaids drag you around new york before you started to complain.

“seriously you guys i’m so so tired, and my feet hurt. i would love to stay out but i really really can’t.” before they could try and convince you you shut to door in their faces. letting out a loud sigh you threw your bags next to the door.

you got yourself ready for the night. washing away the activities of tonight before slipping into your pajamas.

it was 3 am and you couldn’t sleep. you toss and turn, you count sheep, you even try to get yourself off but couldn’t be further from in the mood. patrick’s words rang through your head. “you could always come hang out with me.”

three soft knocks sounded through patrick’s hotel room. he originally ignored them but three more came.

“sorry but i didn’t order room service-” he started, opening the door without look through the peek hole. instead of if being a worker it was you in a navy blue slip dress and white slippers carrying two bottles of champagne.

“still wanna hang out?”

patrick stepped aside to let you in, and as if it were your own room you immediately crawled into his bed settling down. patrick slid in next to you grabbing one of the bottles of champagne, popping it open and taking a big glup. “we should watch 27 dress. since, you know, you’re getting married tomorrow.”

“asshole.” you said unseriously, taking the bottle from him chugging back some of the alcoholic beverage.

you and patrick passed back and forth the bottle of champagne taking sips, and eating from the large basket of fries you guys had ordered. ignoring the way your fingertips would sometimes brush, neither of you moving to separate them just letting them linger for a second.

“i don’t wanna get married.” you say softly, watching as jane nicholas switches between dresses. you feel patrick’s eyes on you but you don’t turn to meet them.

“why?”

you shrug, picking at an imaginary loose thread sighing. patrick in all the years that he’s known you he has never seen you so… unsure. not even when you guys were sixteen and patrick got way to drunk at a charity event and crashed his dads car. you knew exactly what to do and who to call. but right now you just looked defeated.

“i mean, it’s not like it’s even my wedding. all just a business transaction. patrick, i didn’t even get pick my own bridesmaids. oh! and my main of honor is the daughter of some guy my dads trying to close a deal with.” you scoffed, letting out everything you’ve been feeling since the night to said yes to the proposal. “at first i was fine with it but i don’t know anymore.”

you sounded so hopeless and patrick didn’t know what else to do but trace little soothing shapes on your bare knee.

“why didn’t you ask me patrick?”

the question caught him off guard. he knew what you were talking about but it still shocked him.

when your parents had deemed you were getting to old and need to marry because in their words. “you have nothing other skills my dear, the least you can do it marry for the business.” patrick had been their first contending, he always was since the two of you met. he came from a very wealthy family and your fathers were already friends. but patrick said, no.

“i don’t know what you mean-” you cut him off with a scoff and an eye roll. “why. didn’t. you. ask me patrick?” you finally turned to look at him, and said with a small voice. “i wanted you to ask me.”

patrick sat up taking his hand off of you and running it through his hair.

“you— you deserve someone better than me.” patrick shrugged. and it’s true, you did. you deserved someone with a stable life, who’s parents weren’t just waiting for him to give up and join them in the family business. you deserved someone who didn’t live in their fucking car half the time.

“someone better being a man i hardly know.”

patrick’s mouth moved faster than his brain.

“you’ll learn to love him.”

you stare at him shocked. “you sound like my mother.”

the brunette winces but doesn’t say anything. it’s silent as you guys sit there watching the movie but not paying attention before you speak again.

“i deserved you.”

patrick scoffed, shaking his head. “you don’t believe that. you see how i live, paycheck to paycheck. driving around in my broken honda to tennis matches only to lose. you don’t fucking deserve that.”

patrick never thought he was good enough for you not even when he was in his “prime” always thought he was too dumb, too immature, too reckless for you. you who was prefect, never a hair out of place, or a wrinkle in sight.

“you deserve someone who can take care of you, who won’t drag you down. you’re use to a certain way of living and being with me at this moment in my life would bore you. you’d grow to hate me.”

you groan. “have you ever thought that maybe i don’t care about that. i have enough money to take care of myself i don’t need a babysitter.” you covered your face with your hands taking a deep breath. “this probably stupid to say before my wedding but fuck it.” you look him right in the eye.

“patrick i’d live in your smelly honda for the rest of life if it ment being with you. your not the brightest but there’s no way you missed all the years i spent absolutely pinning after you. i love you patrick i’ve loved you since the day i met you in that damn coat closet when you were hiding from your parents and i’m gonna keep loving you.” the tears in your eyes fall slowly down cheeks.

patrick took forever to respond and it had you thinking the worst. he didn’t need to say it you already knew he was gonna reject you.

you scoff a laugh. “i’m so stupid.” you whisper to yourself, moving to get out of the bed and forget this ever happened. but before you could make it fully out patrick’s hand took hold of your wrist yanking you softly in to his embrace.

your lips met patrick’s halfway in a kiss the both of you have been dreaming of for far too long. it started out soft, patrick wanted to take his time molding his lips against yours but you needed him. you snake your hands into his curly hair and pulling him closer to you, dragging his body down on top of yours.

patrick’s body fitted itself in between your legs, one of his hands coming to rest on your hip.

“push me away, tell me to stop.” he said, against the skin of your neck as he tracked kisses down your sternum, bunching your dress up and places them on your stomach. you shook your head, arching up into the touch. “no.” you sucked in a breath when his lips brushes against the waistline of your panties. “i want you. i want you. i want you. i want you.” your chanting turned to moaning when patrick’s face disappeared between your legs.

come morning you were gone, the only evidence of you being there was a slight dent in the empty pillow next to patrick’s, and the dull ache on his back that your nails left behind.

“shit.”

his head hurt from his mini hangover and from the knowledge that in a few short hours he’d lose you forever.

he needed to drag himself out of bed and in to the shower then head over to the reception just so see you before you said i do.

as much as you had wanted to stay in patrick’s bed and wake up to him you knew you couldn’t. you had a responsibility.

“you look so beautiful, my dear.”

your mother rested her hands on your bare shoulders, placing her smiling face next to yours. your cheeks nearly touching as she looked at you through the mirror. “though i do wish you picked the other dress.”

there it was.

you let out a sigh standing up for vanity. “well, this was the dress i choose can’t you just be happy with that.” your mother came close to you reaching her hand up to yank out a little fly away hair from your scalp. “the other dress was better.” you rolled your eyes when she turned her back to you checking her watch.

“it almost time. remember all you have to do is walk down the aisle and say i do. think you can do that?”

you wanted to say no, you wanted to take off this dress and get out of this stuff room. but instead you bite the inside of your cheek and gave a short nod. she walked to door, opening it before turning back to you for one last piece of advice.

“and don’t forget to smile.”

when the door shut you let out breath you didn’t even know you holding in. you paced back and fourth, the skirt of your dress flowing around you. the door to your dressing room opened causing you to groan expecting to be faced with your mother not a certain brown haired boy you left stranded this morning.

“hey.”

“hi.”

“your dress is nice.”

“thanks.”

you guys stood there staring at each other awkwardly. you didn’t know what to say, patrick was scared to say what he wanted to say.

“so you’re still gonna do this, still gonna get married.” patrick’s question broke the silence. you sighed again for the hundredth time today. “yes, patrick i am. i’ve tried and there’s only so much i can do.” it was taking everything in you to hold back your tears and patrick’s sad puppy like stare wasn’t helping.

“don’t do this.” patrick stepped closer to you grabbing your hands. “please don’t do this.” you let go of hands and threw you arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

“thanks for last night, pat.”

patrick buried his face into the crook of you neck, breathing your scent in. his hands flexed against your lower back pushing you closers.

a knock at the door tore you two apart. you gave patrick one last look before leaving there. again.

the wedding march plays when you enter the room. everyone standing up from their seats. the two little flower girls skip ahead of you, dropping white rose petals in their wake. multiple pairs of eyes are on you, watching as you walk down the long aisle with your arm linked with your fathers. when you reach the end you hand off your flowers to your mother, place a kiss on your father’s cheek, before taking place in front of your husband to be.

“dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

patrick kinda blacked out the first half of the ceremony. the second you walked out nothing else seemed to matter. you were practically glowing under all the lights, thought the glow didn’t quite reach your eyes. the priest next words seemed to break patrick out of his hypnosis.

“speak now or forever hold your peace” there was a pause, no one in the audience stood up prompting the priest to continue.

“wait, i object.” patrick shot up out of his seat causing everyone to turn and look at him. “patrick!” he ignored his mothers sharp call of his name, moving out of the pews to stand in the middle of the aisle.

“i object.” he this time with more confidence. “you were right last night. you don’t deserve this sham of a marriage. you don’t deserve to get married to guy you’ve known for four months and who makes you wear flats on your wedding day so you don’t appear taller.”

you stifled a laugh.

“i know my life right now is kinda shit, and i was trying to be selfless by letting you go, but fuck it. i love you, i love you so much. so, leave that loser and come with me.” patrick held his hand out.

you didn’t need to think twice before pulling off the ring on your finger and dropping in the hand of the man in front of you.

“what do you think you’re doing.” your mother stopped you half way down the stairs. you looked at her sighed. “something for myself.” you pushed past her, running a little to reach patrick. your hands found each other’s, fingers interlocking as you walked out the reception leaving behind all the confused murmuring.

“that would have been really embarrassing if you hadn’t come with me.” patrick joked, grabbing his keys from the valet. “let’s get out of here i’m starving.”

“patrick.”

he stopped and turn to look at you. you reaching forward, your hands grabbing onto his cheeks pulling him in for a kiss.

“i love you.”

patrick couldn’t help the blush and smile that crept onto his face. he took hold of your hands leading you to the passengers seat opening the door for you.

“your chariot my lady.”

you hopped into the passengers seat and patrick slid into the drivers, starting the car and driving away from the dramatic scene he just caused.

#girliism #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig fluff

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sillygoose067 · 11 days ago

Text

Time in a Bottle

Dick Grayson x Reader

The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting soft amber streaks across the room and catching the dust that danced lazily in the air. You were curled up on the couch, a book in your lap, but your attention was nowhere near the pages. You hadn’t been reading for weeks—not since you found yourself endlessly rereading the same paragraph, only to realize you couldn’t remember what it said.

Six months.

Six long months since you last saw him. Since Dick pulled you close on the fire escape, kissed you like he was carving the shape of your mouth into his memory, and whispered, “This mission’s different. I won’t be able to contact you. Not even a burner. Please trust me.”

And you did. Because that’s what you did. You trusted him. You just never imagined that trust would stretch this far, this long. The ache of missing him had settled into your bones—quiet, constant, a constant companion. You tried to fill the void with his hoodie, his old sweats, his shampoo. You wrapped yourself in his scent like armor, slept on his side of the bed, clinging to the warmth like it might never leave.

But when the door jiggled, your first reaction wasn’t joy. It was fear. You weren’t expecting anyone.

You froze. Heart in your throat.

The lock clicked.

You grabbed the nearest thing—a mug he’d left on the counter a week before he left—and stood, ready to defend yourself, the world feeling suddenly too big, too empty.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Dick.

His hair longer, face sharper, shoulders drawn tight. A duffle bag hung loosely from one hand, and his eyes locked with yours, wide and unsure, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

The mug hit the floor with a hollow clink.

The duffle bag hit the floor with a dull thud.

But neither of you cared. All that mattered was the way he pulled you into him, arms locking around you as if you were the only solid thing in his world. The collision was silent, a chaotic mix of breathless noise and desperate hands. You clung to him like you could never let go, arms wrapping around his neck with an intensity you hadn’t known you were capable of. And he held you just as fiercely, the heat of his body pressing into yours, grounding you both.

His face buried into your neck. You felt the shudder run through him, the weight of months spent without this. Without you.

It wasn’t clear who was holding who together. Maybe both.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to look you in the eye, his thumbs brushed your cheeks, like he was trying to make sure you weren’t some fevered dream.

“You’re home,” you whispered, fingers tracing his jaw, afraid to break the spell.

“I am,” he replied, voice thick with something you couldn’t name. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “God, I missed you.”

You didn’t answer. You kissed him instead—slow, deep, full of everything you’d held back for months. He leaned into it like he was starved for this, like it might just be the air he needed to breathe again.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

You didn’t let go. Neither did he.

Eventually, when the trembling between you both started to subside, he whispered, “You still smell like me.”

You laughed quietly, the sound almost lost in the moment. “I was trying not to forget.”

“I thought about you—every damn day. I was starving without you.”

“I know,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “Me too.”

You leaned back, just enough to see his face—drawn, tired, but his eyes were still full of you. You were still catching your breath when he pulled back just slightly, his hands never leaving their place around your waist, his thumbs rubbing slow, grounding circles into your skin. His voice was quiet now, hoarse. “I should shower… feel like I’ve got six months of soot and Gotham grime on me.”

You nodded, already moving to give him space, but he tightened his hold, just enough to keep you close.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice almost shy. “Would you… Would you join me?”

His words were soft, raw in a way that made your chest tighten. There was no urgency in it. No demand. Just a quiet, aching plea to stay close.

Without a second thought, you nodded.

He took your hand as if he needed to—like your touch was the only thing anchoring him to something real—and led you into the bathroom. The air was thick with steam, fogging up the mirror as the world shrank down to the heat, the water, and him.

Under the stream, his arms found you again. But this time, it was slower. Reverent. You slid your hands up his chest, your fingers tracing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hands roamed your back, slow and thoughtful, like he was relearning every inch of you, every curve, every line.

He kissed you like he was afraid he’d forgotten how.

You kissed back like you were afraid he hadn’t.

There were no words. Just soft gasps, wet skin, and the occasional quiet laugh when your noses bumped or a fingertip tickled unexpectedly. You let your hands roam, memorizing the new lines of him, the rough edges he’d come home with.

And then you noticed.

You pulled back, fingers brushing through his damp hair. “Your hair’s longer.”

He blinked, surprised. “What?”

You tilted his head, gently running your fingers through the length of it, which curled slightly with the water. “It’s grown past your ears.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish despite being pressed against you, the tension easing just slightly. “Yeah… no time for a haircut. I forgot how fast it grows when I’m in the field.”

You smiled, pulling his hair back to get a better look at him. “I kinda love it. Makes you look even more unfairly gorgeous. As if that were even possible.”

He huffed, resting his forehead against yours. “Is that a compliment?”

“Absolutely,” you replied, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “It’s unfair how good you look.” You trailed your hands down to his chest, pressing your palm against his steady heartbeat. “But I’m glad you’re still you.”

The water slowed to a steady drizzle as you both reluctantly stepped out of the shower. The familiar rush of water was replaced by the more intimate sounds of clothes being shuffled, of warmth pressed between you both in the steam-filled bathroom.

Dick reached for the towels, his broad shoulders glistening in the dim light, his movements instinctive, almost absentminded. But you, without thinking, moved toward his clothes. You’d been doing it for months now. His hoodies. His old shirts. His familiar scent.

You felt the tug at your chest, that quiet yearning. You couldn’t help it.

When you looked up, you saw Dick watching you with a soft, amused smile, his towel hanging low around his waist. He stepped closer, his eyes full of something between affection and surprise. “You’ve been wearing my clothes for months, haven’t you?”

You bit your lip, slightly embarrassed. “I—I guess I have. It helped, you know? Felt like a part of you was still here.”

His smile softened, his hand gently cupping your face. “I don’t mind. It’s actually kind of sweet… though I might need to get my shirts back.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm and familiar in the space between you.

Dick moved to dry his hair, but you stopped him, gently taking the towel from his hand. “Let me,” you murmured, your voice soft as you reached for the damp strands.

You worked your hands through his hair, drying it carefully, feeling the weight of him relax under your touch. “You’re good at this,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Takes me a good hour to dry this mess myself.”

You smiled, a little more settled now. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you.”

The two of you drifted toward the bed, where he pulled you close again, your head resting in his lap. He looked up at you with those same eyes—tired, but full of that warmth you’d missed so much. You ran your fingers through his hair again, feeling the length of it, the way it framed his face now.

He closed his eyes with a soft smile, his hand finding yours. “I’ve missed this.”

“I think I’ve missed you more,” you whispered, tracing circles on his skin.

You both lay there in silence, just breathing, savoring the way it felt to finally have him home. The hum of the city outside the window barely registered; it didn’t matter. He was here. And everything felt right again.

After a while, Dick’s voice broke the silence. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been so glad to be home. Here with you.”

You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, smiling softly. “You’re not going anywhere now, right?”

He turned his head to look up at you, playful but sincere. “Not if I can help it.”

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 7 months ago

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Words: 3,476 Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader Warnings: mentions of past injury, nothing else really! (oh always language I guess? because of who I am as a person haha) Summary: The reader insists on leaving Hilltop and Daryl insists on helping her despite her annoyance. A/N: Guyyyysssss, the dynamic that is growing between these two... #FEELZ #OOF

“I ain’t askin’ ya to stay,” Daryl drawled quietly, walking beside you across the grassy open space in front of the manor. “ ‘M just sayin’—gimme ten minutes to get some supplies together for ya. It’d make all of us feel better.”

“I don’t need your supplies,” you retorted, staring straight ahead. Daryl was annoyingly persistent.

“It ain’t about—” he let out an exasperated sigh. “It ain’t about what ya need. We’re all worried. I know ya think we only care ‘bout findin’ out about them skin freaks from ya, but it’s not just that. Enid is sick over the fact that yer gonna walk outta here against medical advice. And honestly, so am I. How ya gonna even run out there? How ya gonna fight in the shape yer in if ya run into trouble?”

You finally looked at him and his blue eyes were intense. “There are ways around fighting,” you said.

His jaw tensed. “Like livin’ in the damn trees?”

“Walkers don’t look up. And neither do most people.”

He sighed heavily, his hands clenching into fists anxiously and then releasing again. “Ya ain’t even got any arrows left. At least let me get ya some more so ya can protect yerself. I just gotta run over to the armory. It’ll take five minutes.”

You fiddled with the strap of your empty quiver. It was disturbingly light without the usual weight of your ammo. You conceded. “Fine. I’ll be by the gate. Five minutes.”

Daryl looked immensely relieved. “Alrigh’. I’ll be right back.” He strode away hurriedly and you watched until his broad shoulders and the distinctive wing design disappeared around the corner of a building. You stood still for a moment until you could feel the eyes of nearly everyone in sight landing on you and sticking. Your anxiety began to rise and you gulped at the tightness in your throat. Your palms tickled. Your heart thumped.

You cast your gaze upwards and saw Achilles wheeling gracefully overhead, his tail fanned out against the sky revealing the characteristic the wedge shape of ravens. You felt a little calmer with your eyes on him and forced in a long slow breath. Then, you adjusted your pack and headed toward the gate.

You stopped at the wall and leaned against it, ignoring the curious looks from the guards up on the platform as best you could. Despite the mildness of the day, you clutched your cloak around yourself. You waited.

You didn’t have a watch, so you couldn’t say for sure how many minutes it’d been when Daryl came hurrying down the slope toward you. Dog was now at his side and—wait—

You straightened up immediately, your brow furrowing low. “Five minutes so you can grab me supplies?” Your expression was decidedly skeptical.

He shrugged. “I did,” he said, holding out a bundle of arrows.

You snatched them from him, perhaps a bit aggravated. Your narrowed gaze on him was sharp. “Going somewhere?” you said, cocking an eyebrow at him. Daryl had a pack on his back, his crossbow over his shoulder, and was wearing an extra layer he certainly didn’t have on when he went to retrieve the arrows for you.

“Turns out we’re headin’ the same way for a bit,” he drawled, undeterred by the harshness of your gaze.

“You don’t know where I’m heading,” you retorted. Achilles let out a few sharp clicks with his bill and settled down on your shoulder. The rush of air from his wings blew across your cheek. Dog tilted his head and whined, looking up at the bird.

Daryl scratched anxiously at a non-existent itch on the back of his head. “I mean, if ya wanna get technical ‘bout it,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed further. “You’re gonna follow me?” you asked, incredulous. “Seriously?”

He gulped. “If I gotta track ya, I will. S’just for a couple days, so ‘m nearby just in case. Until, ya know, yer a bit less—”

“Less what?” you snapped. “Useless?”

Now his brow furrowed to match yours. “Nah. Hurt. I doubt ya’ve ever been useless.”

Your nostrils flared as you stepped toward him, Achilles fluttering a little to stay perched on your shoulder. “I don’t need your fucking babysitting and the first chance I get, I’m gonna lose you.”

“Ya can try,” Daryl said, determined. He sighed heavily. “ ‘M sorry, okay? I can’t just—just let ya wander off in the shape yer in to get killed by fuckin’ walkers or some of them skins. I owe ya a debt for savin’ me and Dog and—”

You pointed at him, almost shoving your finger into the center of his chest. The color in your cheeks rose. “You don’t owe me a damn thing and I certainly don’t owe you anything either.”

“Tha’s what ya think.”

You let out a frustrated growl and tossed your hands up, pacing away. Achilles took off again with a high whistle and gurgling sound. “Your doctors seem to think they saved my life, so doesn’t that make us even?” He shrugged again. “I guess not to me.”

The muscle in your jaw tensed as you stared at him. He was infuriating. “Just stay the fuck out of my way…”

Daryl ducked your gaze and patted Dog before whistling to the guards above and signaling for them to open the gate.

You stifled a grimace as you adjusted your pack and strode out, with him and Dog on your heels.

It had to be close to thirty minutes before either of you spoke a word. Daryl was walking just slightly behind you now as you moved beneath the canopy of old oaks and pines. You hesitated at a small creek and bent to look at a scraping in the muddy banks, touching the marks with outstretched fingertips, chewing on the inside of your cheek thoughtfully as you examined it.

Daryl knelt down beside you, also studying the sign. “Walker,” he drawled.

You stood and rolled your eyes. “Or Shepherd. They mimic their movements.” You clutched a hand over the wound in your side as you climbed to your feet. Daryl’s fingers alighted softly beneath your elbow for a moment in an attempt to help you to your feet, but you quickly startled away, recoiling and looking at him with surprise. Your eyes were wide and almost fearful.

He stepped back, eyeing you nervously. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I was just tryin’ to help ya—”

“Well, don’t,” you said severely. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

Daryl frowned and a shadow seemed to settle over his eyes as he studied your reaction. “Sorry,” he murmured again. He heard a raven croak overhead and knew Achilles was flying low over the trees.

You sighed, some of the tension leaving you, and shook your head, resuming your previous pace and stepping carefully rock to rock over the stream. Daryl followed while Dog happily splashed through to the other side, stopping and nosing around in the long sedges clinging onto the bank. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow a stranger through the woods? Like interrogating Lydia? Or preparing your community for when Alpha and her assholes show up?”

“I ain’t the leader there. Tara can handle it,” he replied, his eyes flickering over the surrounding woods. He was on edge. He sincerely hoped he could keep you from anything strenuous for a couple days. He had no problem with you being pissed off at him if it kept you from seriously hurting yourself further. He knew he could never forgive himself if something like that happened, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was just the debt he felt he owed, but that didn’t seem to entirely explain it. You were essentially a stranger, but there was something about you… He felt drawn as if by a magnetic pull. Perhaps it was just the strangeness of the life you were living or maybe the mystery you seemed to intentionally wrap around yourself like a quilt, carefully guarding yourself. He felt like he was grasping for any little puzzle piece to help him construct a clearer picture of who you were.

There was a thick silence for a few moments, but when you next spoke your voice was softer, less exasperated. “Lydia—what will happen to her?” you asked suddenly.

Daryl hazarded a careful glance at you as he came to your side. You’d slowed a little to speak to him. He shook his head. “I dunno. That all depends a lot on her, on what happens next with these Whisperers. She may end up stayin’ in that cell a long time. Or, if some things change, she could be one of us,” he said.

“Just like that?” you said. “From one of them to one of you?�� Your tone was cynical.

“I ain’t sayin’ it’d be easy or—or simple,” he drawled. “But, yeah. Maybe. She’s just a kid. Like ya said.”

Another sigh escaped you and he caught the slight shake of your head. You started forward again and this time Daryl kept pace beside you instead of lagging slightly behind. “And who was that in the other cell? Your son?” you asked.

Daryl let out a scoff and shook his head. “Nah... But he’s been a royal pain in my ass so far,” he growled.

“So, who is he then?”

“He’s—my best friend’s son. He’s family. ‘M watchin’ after him for a bit while he gets some trainin’ at Hilltop.”

“No, you’re not,” you laughed wryly. “Not anymore you aren’t.”

He shot you a sideways glance, and some part of you was satisfied to see that he looked a touch annoyed. “He’s locked up. What’s he gonna do?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Give away all your community secrets to Lydia? After all, they looked about the same age and he certainly seemed concerned about what I was doing there talking to her. Teenage hormones being what they are—”

Daryl stopped dead and you slowed and turned to look at him. “What?”

His bright blue eyes were narrowed. “I know what yer doin’. It ain’t gonna work.”

“What?” you said again. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Uh huh,” he growled, starting forward again.

You laughed dryly and shrugged. “Seems like I hit a nerve…” you murmured.

Just then there was a burst of noise overhead and you looked up to see Achilles dropping back down through the canopy toward you. He let out a raucous series of caws and hovered a few feet above you, something clutched in his foot. Daryl watched curiously as you extended a hand and the bird dropped something into your palm.

Your expression tightened as you examined it. “Thanks, buddy,” you said to the bird. With your other hand, you dug into a pocket and withdrew some crimson berries you presented to him in your palm. He quickly gulped them down and flew off again, rising gracefully and twisting through the branches overhead with ease.

Dog was prancing anxiously on his front paws, sniffing eagerly at what was in your hand.

“What is that?” Daryl asked, moving closer.

You opened your hand and there was a partially bloody and clearly decomposing ear. “Achilles says there are four of the walking dead nearby,” you said softly. “He looks out for them. And for people.”

“Damn. That’s a pretty fuckin’ good lookout ya’ve got. Wish mine had wings,” he said, grabbing hold of Dog’s collar and holding him back from attempting to eat the ear out of your palm. You tossed it to the ground, however, and he got a hold of it anyway.

You tilted your head to the left. “They’re this way,” you said, starting off in that direction silently, your bow at your side.

“Shouldn’t we be going a different way then?” Daryl asked.

You looked back at him and shook your head. “No. You can if you want. I plan on putting them down.”

Daryl swore under his breath. “Ya’ve got a serious knife wound and ya wanna go lookin’ for a fight?”

“Like I said before, it doesn’t have to be a fight. Just stay quiet and hidden until the right time.” You crouched low and moved through some denser undergrowth despite the way your body ached and every movement tugged at the stitches on your side. Daryl followed, ignoring the sharp teeth of briars poking into his skin and grabbing at his clothes. In less than a minute, the two of you began to hear the familiar shuffling of staggered steps and low growls of the undead wandering toward you.

Daryl sat up on his knees and peered over your shoulder. He could easily see the shapes of them approaching. He waited. He noticed your fingers smoothing over your bowstring. Another moment and you gracefully pulled an arrow from the quiver on your back and moved to nock it onto the string.

When you stood, he stood. Before you could even bend your bow, there was a snap sound and the rush of air past your face as a bolt flew directly past you and buried itself into the center of the forehead. The figured dropped like a lead anchor.

A metallic swish came next and Daryl’s knife tumbled through the air and took out the second one. He stepped slightly in front of you and whistled to Dog, who took off after the third and took it down easily. By then Daryl had another bolt loaded onto his crossbow and he shot the fourth.

You’d hardly gotten an arrow onto your string before the onslaught. He looked back at you over his shoulder and easily read the annoyance painting your features. “Seriously?” you said tersely.

He shrugged and went to collect his knife and bolts. “Ya could rip a stitch again,” he said. Dog stood panting over the bodies.

Achilles let out a hoarse croak and fluttered down to land on your shoulder. You stroked his back and scratched under his chin as you wandered toward the downed undead. “Check for masks,” you said softly, watching as Daryl retrieved and sheathed his knife. His matching one was still at your hip. He’d insisted on you keeping it since yours had been lost in the woods during the fight against Alpha. The fact that he’d split a matching set, obviously religiously maintained, had struck you.

You lifted a foot to kick one of the bodies over and Daryl stopped you. “Whoa, hey!” he barked at you. “Lemme do that. Ya tryin’ to hurt yerself?” he growled. You rolled your eyes but stepped back. He heaved them over, one by one, and checked for masks.

“No Shepherds,” you said as he examined the last one.

“Not here anyway,” Daryl drawled, his blue eyes darting over the surrounding woods. He began patting down the clothing on the bodies, something you often did as well. Sometimes you’d recover ammo or other useful things out of the pockets.

Still slightly annoyed by his interference, you nudged Achilles who flew up off you shoulder. You whistled a single note that started low and then rose to a higher pitch. The raven croaked and descended silently toward Daryl before plucking out a strand of his wavy brown hair and then taking off again.

“Ow! Goddamn!” He jolted to his feet and looked back at you, shocked. “Did’ya tell him to do that?”

You smiled back at him vaguely and held out a hand which Achilles dropped the strand into. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh…” He glared, but couldn’t quite stop the tiniest smile from curving his lips as he shook his head at you.

“Anything good?” you asked, looking back at the bodies.

“Nah,” he said, setting a bolt back into the flight groove of his crossbow. He fixed his blue eyes on you when he straightened up again and they met your gaze and held it. You noticed then just how blue they were and felt an uncharacteristic wash of uncertainty trickle over you. “Ya really ain’t gonna tell me yer name? I mean, I feel like since yer bird just ripped out some of my hair maybe—”

You cut him off by laughing and it surprised both of you. “Alright. That’s fair. It’s Y/N.”

Daryl nodded. “Alrigh’. Y/N.”

Something about hearing him say your name produced an unusual fluttering in the middle of your chest, and you realized your body and you realized how long it’d been since you’d heard anyone speak it. You ducked his eyes and sighed. “Alright. Probably should keep moving,” you said, replacing the arrow still in your hand back in your quiver and moving around Daryl and past the walkers strewn on the forest floor. You sunk your fingers into Dog’s thick fur and gave him a few scratches as you passed him and the Malinois let out a happy noise and began walking at your side.

“Tha’s funny,” Daryl said, starting after you.

“Hmm?”

“Dog usually prefers me over ev’rybody,” he drawled.

You glanced back at him and then down at Dog beside you. “Oh. Sorry. Are your feelings hurt?”

Daryl could hear a slight touch of jest in your voice again. He liked it. It eased his worries over your condition somewhat. “Maybe a little bit,” he said.

There was another minute or so of silence before you broke it again. “I have to ask you,” you began, “what exactly is your plan here?” You were slightly out of breath and paused partially up a steep hill to look back at him. You were sore and your stamina was nowhere near normal. You could tell you wouldn’t be able to go much further that day.

“What plan?” Daryl responded.

“You’re really going to follow me for… days?”

Daryl shrugged. “Somebody should be around. Just in case.”

You sighed, starting at him and shaking your head. “There’s no way I can convince you to just leave and go back to your community?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“I’m fine, Daryl.” “Yeah, well I’ll know that ‘cuz I’mma be around. Yer stubborn, but so am I.”

“Yeah, I’m gathering that,” you breathed. You shut your eyes for a moment and pulled in some deep breaths.

“…Ya okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah…” you said quickly. “Just a little tired. And sore,” you added with a laugh, one hand coming to rest over the bandaged wound on your side.

He nodded. “I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said ya lost a ton of blood. It was—scary…” he drawled. “Ya wanna take a rest?”

You shook your head, your eyes moving over the trees around the two of you. “No. This area isn’t safe.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You shook your head. “It’s just not. But—I don’t think I can go too much farther today and we should be tucked away somewhere before it gets dark. I don’t think I’m climbing anything without a ladder today and we won’t make it to—anyway... I know a place that isn’t much farther that should be safe.”

Daryl was surprised that you had now seemed to accept that he’d be tagging along. You started forward again and he trailed behind you, catching glimpses of Achilles dropping below the canopy every now and again. Dog trotted between you and Daryl now, sniffing here and there and occasionally breaking off to one side or the other. It was almost like a relaxing walk through the woods…

Eventually, you came to a dead stop and Daryl looked over your shoulder to see a small cabin that seemed to have been nearly consumed by the vegetation and wild growth around it. He glanced sideways at you and was startled by how pale you looked.

“Y/N,” he said gently so you’d look at him. “You okay?”

You nodded, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. “This is our stop for the night.”

“Alrigh’. I’ll make sure it’s clear.” He whistled to Dog and this time you didn’t argue. You were exhausted. And part of you was glad to see the wings on Daryl’s back that were becoming almost familiar.

#daryl dixon fanfics #daryl dixon x fem!reader #daryl dixon fanfic series

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brownsugaboba · 5 months ago

Text

title: “Chapter 2: Back in The Day: Simpler Times.”

december 19th, 2024.

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bruce wayne x reader.

black reader. (anyone can read but emphasis on black.)

19+. (this chapter is NOT 19+, however future chapters will be.)

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the wayne manor library was quiet, except for the soft ticking of an antique clock on the wall. the stretch of leather-bound book casted long shadows across the room, but neither bruce nor yourself paid much mind to the dark night. you both, after all, had spent countless hours there as children, so the familiar surroundings felt comforting, nostalgic even.

bruce sat in his usual armchair, a glass of scotch resting on the side table beside him, while you were sat on the edge of the window seat. your posture was relaxed, though your eyes held the same quiet look they always had. you two had been talking for hours, reliving memories from a time when the world seemed simpler, before tragedy reshaped both of your lives.

"remember the time we tried to build that treehouse in the oak behind the manor?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your two tones lips as you recalled the memory.

"we thought we could build it all by ourselves, even though we barely knew the difference between a hammer and a nail."

bruce couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound rare and warm. "i think we still managed to get it up, though. it was only after a week when alfred found it that we realized we had left half of it unfinished."

"that’s because you kept insisting we needed more space for all our 'secret' things," she teased. "i think you were just trying to escape your parents."

bruce’s smile faltered for a brief moment, but it didn’t go unnoticed. you saw it and immediately reached out to place a hand on his.

the unspoken bond you had shared since childhood had always been something that transcended words, even now. you both had known loss too young, your parents taken from you in different ways but with the same devastating finality.

"i never thanked you enough for being there for me back then," bruce said quietly. "for always knowing when i needed someone."

your voice was equally as soft. "you don’t have to thank me, bruce. you were my best friend, too. we were always there for each other."

you two went into a slight silence, the weight of unspoken grief settling between you both. the passing of your parents was still something neither one of you had truly come to terms with, but it had shaped you both in ways you couldn’t fully explain.

"i miss them," bruce said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"i miss him." the words for his father, thomas wayne, hung in the air.

"i miss her too," you said. "my dad... he was always so proud of you, bruce. he admired you, even when you were just a little kid who'd sneak into the hospital to watch him work."

bruce’s lips twisted into a faint yet gentle grin, but the sadness was still there. "he never knew when to stop talking about his work. your father… he used to give me tips on how to stay focused during surgeries, even though i wasn’t sure if I’d ever need them."

"and you did. in your own way," you replied. you squeezed his hand before letting go.

"you turned out more like him than you think."

bruce met your gaze, his eyes betraying a sense of emotion he rarely showed. he stopped himself from reaching for your hand again, wanting to hold it for comfort.

"and you turned out like your dad in the best ways. i’m sorry we both had to go through that loss together."

"i think we’re both sorry for that," she said softly.

the conversation shifted after a moment, the past lingering like a shadow, but they had moved on. the reason you were there became clearer. you were still family, and today was no exception.

"selina’s wedding," bruce said, finally having the courage to say it. "that is why you came all this way, no?"

you sighed, crossing your arms. "i’m not here for the wedding itself, bruce. i’m here because i know how much it’s going to hurt you to see her walking down that aisle."

bruce closed his eyes for a moment, the pain evident. "she deserves happiness. i knew that the moment she let me go. but it doesn’t make it any easier."

you nodded. "i know. but you’ve always been too good at hiding how much things affect you. and you can’t hide that from me when i do the same thing. it’s not healthy."

before bruce could respond, a quiet voice interrupted him from the hallway.

"do you think it’s gonna bother selina seeing bruce with someone else?" damian’s voice was low but sharp, his curiosity peeking around the corner of the library door.

he was followed by his brother, dick, who smirked. "i mean, we all know she’s been a little—" he hesitated, glancing at damian. "possessive?"

damian gave him a pointed look.

"i was going to say 'protective,' but sure, go ahead." tim remarks.

bruce’s eyes narrowed at the sound of his children’s voices. his instincts were immediate, but his gaze softened when he caught your amused expression.

just as he was about to call them out, cassandra stepped into the hallway. she had only overheard the conversation but hadn’t understood the full context, since she wasn’t there for the building of the plan.

she crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow.

"selina's getting married," she said bluntly, looking between the brothers. "and you’re all acting like idiots. it’s not like she hasn’t moved on. she’s been with someone else for a while now."

damian and jason blinked in unison, looking a little stunned with how long selina has been with her partner, considering she had ever so recently left their dad. "wait, what?" jason asked, his confusion growing. "she—"

"she moved on, guys," cassandra said, shaking her head.

"she’s already marrying someone else. you know how she is. if she sees bruce with someone else, she’s probably gonna think it's funny more than anything."

dick spoke. "you dont know that."

tim frowned. "you really think so?"

"yeah, because she knows what she wants. and she’s not holding onto stuff she can’t control," cassandra replied coolly.

"i want the best for bruce too, but you can’t just sit here and overthink it."

jason scowled. "that’s because bruce is—"

"just go talk to him yourselves," cassandra cuts in, dismissing them. "stop standing around like it’s a tragedy and act like adults."

her bluntness caused the brothers to retreat, but their expressions remained conflicted. as they all walked away, you and bruce shared a quiet, knowing glance.

bruce sighed. "i never thought i’d have to explain myself to them this way."

you smirked, your tone light and sweet as your dimples showed. "you’ve been a little distracted lately. it’s okay."

"maybe," bruce said, staring at your dimples and remembering the first time he had ever seen them.

"but things don’t seem simple anymore."

"maybe they never were," you replied.

“or maybe simple is too simple for us.”

fin.

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next chapter…

#batman #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x black!reader #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #damian wayne #cassandra cain #batman x reader #batman x black reader #bruce wayne family #bybrownsugar.

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woncheolisms · 2 years ago

Note

Can I please request rekindling a relationship with ex-boyfriend Atsumu who is a total ass man? (He can't stop touching, fondling reader 's ass.)

one day. (miya atsumu x fem!reader)

word count: 755

warnings: post-break up. sexual language but no explicit smut. swearing. osamu is there. slight angst if you squint. nsfw. mdni.

Taglist: @keiva1000

Atsumu should have known that even after breaking up with you, your presence in his life would be inevitable. After all, you had been childhood friends, and while your relationship had soured and fizzled months ago, you were still very, very close to Osamu, and no beef with Atsumu could stop you from seeing his twin.

So Atsumu had gotten used to walking into Onigiri Miya and seeing you perched on a stool at the counter, deep in conversation with Osamu who was carefully shaping onigiri for you. You were just as much a fan of his brother’s food as he was, maybe an even more enthusiastic supporter. Osamu often called you his little “taste tester”, and Atsumu would make a sleazy joke in your ear about how he was your taste tester, in that he would bury his head between your thighs to taste y-

You would always smack him before he could finish.

Ah well, those days were long gone. You weren’t interested in anything he had to say anymore, which Atsumu thought was karma for the last few weeks of your relationship, when he had started missing all your calls, messages, dates. After the fight that led to your breakup, which was filled with your teary complaints about how he had no time for you at all, Atsumu wondered if his volleyball career just left no room for him to date. But then he would look at Meian, who had a whole wife, and think that maybe it was just him. He just didn’t know how to maintain a relationship.

That didn’t stop him from hesitating now, catching sight of you in conversation with his brother, your arms folded on the counter before you with your torso leaning forward, and Atsumu’s gaze was immediately beckoned down to your-

Fuck.

Those were his favorite pair of jeans on you.

You had gotten them when he took you birthday shopping, and Atsumu had been enamored with them the minute you tried them on. High waisted and tight, they hugged your ass deliciously, so much that Atsumu had insisted he buy them for you, later using that as an excuse to bend you over the nearest surface any time you wore them and having his way with you. This couldn’t be a coincidence now, why would you wear them today? To come to Onigiri Miya? Where you knew you would likely run into him? Atsumu’s jaw clenched at the thought and he stepped further into the shop, finally catching your and his brother’s attention.

“Finally. What’s the point of making ya fresh onigiri if ya won’t show up on time?” Osamu scowled at him, but Atsumu paid him no mind, catching your eye and giving you a smirk.

“Nice ass.” He quipped, making you roll your eyes and turn back to your own plate, but Atsumu caught the tips of your ears turning red, making him grin. Victory.

“You’re disgusting, Miya.” You replied, voice low before you took another bite. Atsumu settled into the stool next to you.

“Ya never minded that when we were datin’. In fact, I still remember the sweet sounds ya made-”

“Shut up.” You glared at him, while Osamu made a disgusted face, saying something along the lines of ‘not in front of the food’. Neither of you reacted too viscerally though. Atsumu’s foul language was nothing new. You might have broken up with him, but you both knew he still liked you, and he would never stop flirting. That was his way of saying he wasn’t giving up on you.

Deep down, Atsumu knew you liked it. So when Osamu turned his back to search for something behind him, Atsumu leaned close to you, lips brushing your ear.

“Why’d ya wear those jeans, doll? Temptin’ me to bend ya over this counter?”

You dug your elbow into his side to push him away a bit. “In your dreams.”

Atsumu hummed, no longer resisting the urge to reach down and give your ass an appreciative squeeze. You jumped a bit, turning to glare at him. “Ya really don’t wanna know what goes on in my dreams, sweetcheeks.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes, but Atsumu caught the corners of your lips, fighting to hold back a smile. He sighed as Osamu placed a plate of food in front of him, not bothering to bite back his own smile. You still loved him, deep down, Atsumu was sure, and he was determined to make you his again one day.

One day.

#miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu smut #haikyuu smut #hq smut #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu x y/n #miya atsumu fluff #miya atsumu angst #miya atsumu fanfiction #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu fanfic

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walkintomymystery · 6 months ago

Text

Fall Into Me

(Set after Sonic 3 - Alternate Ending)

Defeated, world-weary, and impossibly lost, Shadow allows himself to be taken back into G.U.N custody. While his fate is decided, he is housed in a secret facility hidden deep in the heart of one of the country’s National Parks. Still reeling from the heartbreaks that have shaped his life, Shadow never expected to find the closest thing to a home he’d known in over fifty years.

Pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x Original Female Character

Characters: Shadow the Hedgehog, Original Characters, Sonic the Hedgehog, Miles "Tails" Prower, Knuckles the Echidna, Tom Wachowski, Maddie Wachowski, Wade Whipple

Tags: Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Ending, Mystery, Thriller, Slow Burn

A/N: this story will take place immediately after the end of Sonic 3 with a bit of plot divergence

Chapter One

Evening had fallen. That was all Shadow could glimpse of the outside world. That, and the dizzying blur of trees flashing by.

The transport van was cramped and uncomfortable, but that was all Shadow had known for the past fifty years. He’s spent his whole life in captivity, his current circumstances weren’t novel in the slightest. Perhaps he should have relished the opportunity to stretch his legs and breathe in the fresh air while he had the chance. Too late now.

The metal walls that blocked him in rattled and shook as the van trundled down seemingly endless narrow roads. The whole vehicle vibrated at a bone-trembling pitch; Shadow’s body had started to feel numb after just a few minutes into his journey. G.U.N cared little for his comfort.

Time passed with agonising lethargy. When there was nothing but the constant, sluggish drone of the engine and one image out the window to occupy his mind, the minutes dragged by as if through molasses.

More trees rushed past. The small, opaque window in the side of the van was high above his head and granted him a limited view, but Shadow could catch glimpses of their rounded, bulging bases. They were tall, far taller than he would’ve thought possible, and their branches stretched and reached for each other like grasping hands.

A forest, then. It had to be. Shadow closed his eyes and tried to summon a map of the area. His limited knowledge of the surrounding terrain irked him.

He wished he’d taken more time to memorise the roads, the towns, the whole damn continent, but he had some vague idea of where he was. Or he used to. He couldn’t remember seeing a forest on any map. But then, it hadn’t seemed important at the time.

He opened his eyes again and stared out of the tiny window. So many trees. Had he ever seen so many? They were different from how he’d imagined them. The flat, lifeless images in the books he had once studied hardly came close to the towering pines that rushed by.

In all the information he and Maria had devoured about the Earth, in all their wildest dreams, he was sure neither of them could have imagined how these giants would look up close. They were so full of life. So green. He was a long way from the ARK.

Shadow curled his fingers into tight fists, making the thick handcuffs that bound him stretch and creak. One of G.U.N’s soldiers had nervously slapped them round his wrists, possibly thinking he’d fight back. He was right to be nervous, but for some reason, Shadow let him, then allowed himself to be led into the back of this van to head off into the night.

Shadow eyed the van doors. They were heavy and firmly sealed, but surely not strong enough to hold him. Even if he did try to escape, it would be difficult to find his way. They would locate him, capture him, and shove him back in this van with much less civility than they had the first time.

He sank back in his seat, a painfully hard wooden bench attached to the wall with thick chains.

An uncomfortable thought settled onto Shadow’s weary shoulders. Even if he weren’t completely lost, he had nowhere to go. Even if he did get away, even if he could figure out where he was, he had nothing, no mission to urge him onwards, no reason to keep going at all.

If he wanted to, if he really wanted to, he could be free. He could run and run until his body finally failed. But what was the point? What did it matter? Freedom to him was as nebulous and vague as a dream. Even in his youth, when Shadow thought he had the whole world at his feet, autonomy had been an illusion. He had always been owned, bartered over, and controlled.

Silent and hollow, he watched as any hope of breaking out, of finding his own way, slipped like sand through his fingers.

He had nothing. He was nothing. And he’d never known any different. There was nowhere to go. No one to run to. He was aimless, directionless, completely without purpose. Whatever the humans wanted with him, perhaps he should just let them do it.

One of Shadow’s ears flicked. The slightest whir of hydraulics, pads pressing against rotating discs. Grinding metal. Friction. Brakes. Silence finally cut through the roar of combustion and the old engine sank into sleep.

They’d arrived.

His whole body tensed instinctively. This was the moment. This was where he decided if he was going to fight tooth and nail to get away from these awful, violent humans, or stay docile, let them put him back into that godforsaken tank, and allow them to switch him off for another fifty years.

It would be easier. It would be so much easier. Shadow could be alone with his dreams once more, a peaceful place where there was no noise, no tang of copper on his tongue, and no one wanted anything from him.

In his dreams, it was just him and his sister, laying side by side in a meadow of stars. Shadow had nowhere to be, no one to answer to, just the deep navy sky and her gentle voice. He’d never know a heaven, but he was sure that was as close as he would get.

A sudden shout caught his attention.

Through the thick walls of the van, he could interpret very little, even with his excellent hearing, but Shadow’s ears swivelled in the direction of a second voice. The muffled sounds rose suddenly, then fell silent again.

Shadow straightened his back. He waited. Nothing. He held his breath.

A sudden, shrill hiss split the monotony in two. Shadow whipped his head around, eyes wide, to find a thick, grey gas spilling in through the crack between the van’s doors.

He jolted, instincts kicking in, and scrambled to his feet. They’d taken his shoes when he was arrested, but even if they hadn’t, there wasn’t nearly enough room to build up the momentum and speed he’d need to burst out of the van.

The thick, curling gas pooled on the floor around his feet, rising quickly like water until it was up to his neck.

Blind with panic, Shadow swung his bound hands against the driver’s cabin, sending a shockwave through the van’s metal sides.

He stumbled and fell into the wall, the gas obscuring his vision, his thoughts. He tried to shout but his tongue was heavy in his mouth.

“Hey!” Shadow swung his hands against the cabin again, throwing his whole weight behind it. “Hey! Anyone!”

But there was no response.

Shadow stumbled back and fell into the bench. All he could see now was a grey haze. Though he tried to hold his breath, it seeped into his lungs, his racing heart forcing his body to pull in more and more of the toxic oxygen.

His head felt foggy but he had just the wherewithal to climb up onto the bench, trying in vain to get away and find a pocket of clean air, but there was none.

Shadow’s eyes began to grow heavy. He fought against sleep but his body felt clumsy and unresponsive. He swung his hands one final time against the side of the van and barely made a sound.

He felt his head loll against his chest as the world blurred all around him. At the edges of his vision, a darkness crept steadily closer, until it had overwhelmed his acute senses.

Gravity turned on him, and the last thing Shadow knew was the floor rushing up to meet him, before the world went black.

He was in the medbay. He knew before he opened his eyes. The reek of disinfectant, the squeak of rubber shoes against the polished tile floor, the constant noise of the machines. He knew it all by heart, a symphony of pain and longing.

Shadow woozily raised his heavy eyelids. His whole body ached. It was a familiar feeling but not one he’d known for some time. The doctor used to send him for evaluation every month or so, then every two weeks as Maria grew weaker-

Maria.

Shadow’s eyes widened as she suddenly appeared before him, floating above his hospital bed like a pale spirit. She was sickly white, practically translucent. Ghostly and faint, her wide blue eyes gazed down at him emptily.

“Shadow…”

Hardly able to catch his breath, he tried to raise his hand up to touch her but his body refused to cooperate. Shadow tried to blink but an age seemed to pass between his eyes closing and opening again.

“Shadow, you’re hurting me…”

Panic tightened his chest. He looked down, following the cannula as it ran down her chest to where it tangled with another.

With agonising sluggishness, Shadow tried to raise his hand to help her, and found the other cannula attached to his own nose.

“Shadow, it hurts, please…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Shadow wrapped his fingers around the plastic tube and tried to rip it from his nose but it was stuck fast. With every sharp tug, the cannulas only seemed to tighten and twist further, until they were impossibly intertwined.

“I’m sorry, Maria, I’m trying. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Hot tears began to fall from her dull eyes, hitting his cheeks, his forehead and his jaw like bullets.

The more he tried to pull at the tubes that connected them, the more Maria cried and the more suffocated he felt, until Shadow was clawing for breath.

He could only watch, paralysed, as a thin river of scarlet blood began to dribble from her nose, staining his white fur, the bed-

The transport van tripped over a dip in the road, forcing Shadow into consciousness with a jolt.

He gasped for breath, pulling in a huge lungful of air to steady his pounding heart.

Four blank walls stared back at him. He was still in the van. Shadow stared at the doors, then lifted his head to the roof. No sign of any gas. He couldn’t smell any trace of it. Just a dream. It was all just a bad dream.

Slowly, his tensed muscles began to relax, and Shadow sank back against the wall behind him.

It wasn’t like him to fall asleep like that. He didn’t need to rest, his power made sure of that. It was only something he indulged in when he needed to pass the time, or when Maria would beg him to snooze beside her in her hospital bed. He could only allow himself to sleep when he was sure that he was completely safe, and he definitely wasn’t now.

Shadow pushed down the anxious uncertainty that rose in his chest and forced himself to focus on the present.

The transport van was freezing. It had crept up on him slowly. Nothing at first, then a gnawing chill. Shadow found he had to keep tensing his muscles to encourage some warmth into them.

Worry nagged at the back of his brain again, an unfamiliar emotion. He couldn’t remember the last time the cold had affected him.

He tried to rub his eyes but found he could hardly lift his hands. He looked down.

The stiff, black cuffs were gone. In their place were a pair of thick, brass rings that covered his own inhibitors. Heavy and clumsy, they seemed to have some kind of mechanism hidden within. He could feel a hum of static reverberating off of them, tapping into his bones and sending a faint current throughout his body.

Shadow frowned. Where had they come from? Had they put them on while he slept? Surely not. On the rare occasion he did rest, he was a light sleeper. He would have felt it. Why couldn’t he remember?

He turned his wrists fractionally, examining the rings and testing their strength. They were broad and heavy, and felt cold against his skin, even through his fur. With a sinking feeling, Shadow wondered if they might be the reason he felt so weak.

As he studied the rings with sharp eyes, he wracked his brain, trying to remember if he’d ever seen anything like them before.

Shadow lifted his right index finger and gingerly hooked it under one of the rings.

Before he could make another move, a voice snarled at him from the corner,

“Keep still.”

A soldier was sat propped up in the very corner of the transport van. Half shrouded in darkness, Shadow couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he could tell that the soldier was tall and broad, and so relaxed that he must think he had nothing to fear.

Had he been there this whole time? Shadow couldn’t remember. He was having a hard time summoning back his short-term memories. His thoughts were in complete disarray, his nightmare still clouding his mind.

The blue hedgehog, his friends, defeat, this van - but the details were fuzzy, and the more he tried to grasp for them, the further they slipped away.

That worry gnawed away at him again.

All of Shadow’s senses felt dull and distant, as if the sights, scents and sounds that often threatened to overwhelm him were now nearby, but just out of reach. He felt as if he was in one room and his soul was in another, disconnected from the world around him. He didn’t feel right, he couldn’t feel anything.

Shadow shifted in his seat, testing the waters. The guard sat in the corner didn’t move but he knew behind his dark sunglasses, a pair of keen eyes were trained on him.

Shadow disregarded him and turned his attention back to the window. More green blurs. They were still in the forest. Where could they possibly be taking him?

He twisted his wrists again and focused on moving his hands. Static coursed through his veins, making him flinch, but he kept going. Though his body still felt heavy and unresponsive, Shadow was able to raise his clenched fists from his lap.

“I said, keep still,” the soldier muttered, and this time, he lowered one hand to rest against an impression in his jacket.

He was armed and probably more than happy to shoot. But they couldn't kill him. If they wanted to, they would have done it already. They wouldn’t bother driving him out to the middle of nowhere just to do away with him. No, he was too useful for that.

And then, it stopped. Unlike in his dream, the van gently rolled to a standstill, then the driver switched off the engine.

Shadow looked back at the doors. The guard assigned to watch him was speaking again but he barely registered his presence.

Where was he? It had taken hours to arrive, but logic dictated he couldn’t be too far from civilisation if they were going to keep him contained.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He was pulled to his feet.

Shadow ignored the twist in his gut and just tried to focus on his next move. They needed him, but for what? It could be anything. They could use his blood for testing, extrapolate his DNA for an all manner of projects, send him out on missions, use him as an attack dog.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now, apart from getting out of here.

Another soldier dressed all in black opened the van from the outside and Shadow was led out into the night.

They’d stopped at the edge of a clearing. Just a few feet away, a huge hill rose up out of the ground, rolling backwards and backwards, growing and forming into a distant mountain. Beneath his bare feet, the earth was cold and damp and unpleasant.

It was so dark, Shadow could only see a few paces in front of him. Another of his usually sharp senses had been dulled.

He tried to remember everything he’d learnt, everything Gerald had taught him. Keep your eyes up and keep your head down. Run and run and run, and never ever look back.

The hand was heavy on his shoulder. The two guards that flanked him chatted amongst themselves, swapping stories about the long drive as they guided him towards a low, squat building that appeared to be dug into the side of the towering hill, which seemed almost as tall as the pines that surrounded it.

A door opened. Burning orange light spilled out, pushing through the black night and illuminating his path. Two figures stood in the doorway, just silhouettes, contrasting shapes that didn’t make sense to him.

The cold air awoke something in Shadow’s brain. A spark ignited, a glint of hope.

He wouldn’t let them take him. He wouldn’t just give in. He was the Ultimate Lifeform, he was the descendant of a great power, he could go wherever he wanted. And he didn’t want to be trapped, he didn’t want to be locked away under layers of earth and metal and rock for another fifty years while the humans decided what to do with him. He wanted to be free.

With a rough cry that began in his belly and tore from his throat, Shadow ducked under the hand that held him down and swung his leg round, knocking one of the guard’s feet out from under him.

The other made a grab for him but Shadow jumped and swung his arm around the man’s neck, knocking his sunglasses off as he dragged him to the ground. Shadow untangled himself from the soldier before he could even think to reach for his gun.

He stumbled to his feet, chest heaving, and sprinted towards the tree line. But he only made it a few steps.

He felt all the breath leave his body as some invisible force clapped down on his back and knocked him off-balance. Shadow grunted as he hit the leafy ground, hard, his heavy hands awkwardly jammed beneath his chest.

Whatever had pushed him down had enough force behind it to knock the wind out of him. One of the guards? Surely not. The blow had felt all-encompassing and formless, as if the sky had fallen down on his head. Shadow groaned as his ribs smarted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt real pain.

He tried to get up but something weighed on his back, pressing him down into the earth, though he couldn’t actually feel anything, as if he were just an ant under the heel of an enormous boot. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Then he felt his body move without his say so, and he was turned over onto his back.

Shadow lay there, staring up at the black sky. There were thousands of stars, almost as many as he’d been able to see on the ARK.

A memory, faint and ephemeral as breath on a cold day, floated through his mind. Maria had countless astronomy books. She would point out the constellations to him, one by one, until they had almost mapped out the whole cosmos. There were still countless systems they’d never got around to learning about.

Shadow closed his tired eyes.

If this was the end, if this was how his lonely, painful life was finally snuffed out, maybe it wasn’t so bad. The ground was hard and cold but he’d never known anything else. His chest ached, but again, that was nothing new. If the stars Maria had given him were the last thing he ever saw, he could make peace with that.

“The Ultimate Lifeform, huh?”

Footsteps crunched through the dry leaves that littered the ground all around him, growing steadily closer and closer, until they finally stopped by his head.

“Says who?”

Despite every instinct telling him not to, Shadow opened his eyes.

A Mobian stood over him. Dark, dark fur, a black jacket that was two sizes too big, and almost comically large ears were all Shadow could make out against the sparkling night sky.

”Hey. I’m Kit.”

Even though she was shrouded in twilight, Shadow could still pick out a self-satisfied smile.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The Mobian flicked her fingers and Shadow felt his body rise off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all.

Once his feet were safely back on terra firma, the Mobian sighed and shook her head.

“Please don’t try to run again. It’s pointless and honestly, I can’t manage more than a fast walk, and even then I’m out of breath. I’d much rather we got to know each other over dinner.”

She nodded towards the rectangle of orange light in the distance, still smiling.

“Shall we go inside?”

Next Chapter

Master List

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow x oc #sonic movie 3 #sth

62 notes · View notes

sweetblinginrose · 3 months ago

Text

stay away from me, lestrange!

(Neville Longbottom x fem¡OCLestrange)

warnings: It mentions torture, death, bullying, abuse, evil, distress…

words: 2,5k

a/n: it’s a bit of an introduction, sorry, the good stuff is coming, i promise.

my main language is not English.

masterlist previous chapt. next

━━ ✧♡✧ ━━ ✧♡✧ ━━ ✧♡✧ ━━

Chapter four: Belladona

“I don’t understand how you can keep going to that Muggle house when you could perfectly well live here, with all of us…” Draco commented, his tone hovering between incredulity and reproach. His pale eyes settled on his cousin Morwenna, who remained expressionless, her gaze fixed on the plate of gourmet food in front of her. The tableware, pristine and adorned with intricate gold details, only served to highlight the contrast with her mood. She had no appetite. In fact, she hadn’t felt hungry in weeks, lost in thoughts that had consumed her ever since that day in the library.

She barely paid attention to Draco’s words, which seemed to reach her from a distant fog. Deep down, she knew he was right: life in Malfoy Manor was, at least on the surface, comfortable, safe, and luxurious. But neither safety nor luxury could dispel the knot forming in her chest every time she remembered that argument, those furtive glances, and the secret she still couldn’t share with anyone. Not even Harry, who, incidentally, was risking his life in those absurd and dangerous Triwizard Tournament games. How could she think about anything else when her friend was facing deadly trials that only served to feed the magical community’s morbid fascination?

But Draco didn’t understand—or rather, he didn’t want to understand. He kept badgering her with his opinions, as if he believed he could shape her to his will. Worse still, he had started insisting on something Morwenna found unbearable: Viktor Krum. According to Draco, the famous Bulgarian Seeker was an ideal candidate for her, “worthy of her lineage,” he would say with his characteristic air of superiority. What Draco didn’t understand was that Morwenna neither needed nor wanted anyone deciding for her. And least of all turning her love life into yet another tool to reinforce the Malfoys’ blood purity obsessions.

Tired of her cousin’s words, Morwenna did nothing but keep her gaze fixed on her plate. The meat, perfectly cooked and seasoned, hardly seemed like food to her. The pure silver cutlery in her hands felt cold, just like the light that bathed the immense dining table, a distant light devoid of warmth, seeping into every corner of that place. She toyed with the cutlery, twirling it between her fingers as if it were harmless, but in her mind, a storm raged. As Draco continued speaking, his voice faded into the background like a useless echo, growing more distant and more irrelevant with each passing second.

In that moment, Morwenna wasn’t at that table; she was trapped in her own thoughts, her own ghosts, in a world where neither Draco nor his obsession with lineage had any place.

Morwenna couldn’t shake the firm voice of Neville from her mind. It was like a persistent echo, resonating in her head over and over again. She had never heard him speak like that before. Neville Longbottom, the boy who always seemed shy, almost invisible amidst the chaos of Hogwarts, was no longer the submissive boy she remembered. There was something different about him, something that unsettled her and, at the same time, intrigued her.

As Draco’s words continued to flow uninterrupted, Morwenna drifted again into that memory. Her thoughts soon veered toward something much darker, something she didn’t want to relive but that returned to her with the force of a storm: the Ravenclaw’s hands. She closed her eyes briefly, as if that simple gesture could banish the sensation from her mind. But it was useless. The memory of that moment seemed to have left a mark she couldn’t erase, no matter how hard she tried.

It was only when the clatter of silverware against her plate snapped her back to reality that she noticed Draco was still talking. His usual tone, full of superiority and enthusiasm, was starting to pierce through the barrier of her thoughts.

“… So, what do you think? Should I tell him? I’m sure you two would be the best at the ball!” Draco exclaimed, with a confidence as absolute as it was irritating.

Morwenna slowly raised her gaze, barely focusing on him, while her mind was still struggling to push away the images that haunted her. “Yes, yes, whatever…” she murmured at last, too drained to argue, too weary to contradict him.

Draco’s face lit up instantly, as if his cousin’s indifferent words were precisely the approval he’d been waiting for. “Perfect! I knew you’d see it my way!” he remarked with a polite smile, tilting his head slightly in triumph.

While Draco celebrated to himself, Morwenna let out a soft sigh. Though her cousin was delighted, she couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that enveloped her. Her thoughts, always so insistent, slipped back once again to the echo of Neville’s voice and the shadow of that memory she so desperately wanted to forget. Morwenna stood in front of the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, her expression as cold as the stone walls of the castle. Facing her, with a mocking grin and an air of careless confidence, was Cormac McLaggen—the boy who had recently become the center of countless rumors in the corridors of Hogwarts. One particular rumor had brought her here: the blatant lie that he and Morwenna had kissed.

“Who do you think you are?” Morwenna snapped, her voice laced with a restrained fury that could rival the roar of a lion, even though she wasn’t a Gryffindor. Her eyes sparkled dangerously as she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him, her nails gleaming under the warm light of the torches.

Cormac, instead of backing down, simply raised an eyebrow and smirked, as if her anger was more amusing than threatening. “Oh, come on, Morwenna, don’t be like that. It’s just a bit of fun. Who’s it hurting, really? A little rumor never killed anyone,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension that almost made her lose her temper entirely.

“I didn’t even know you existed until a few days ago,” she shot back sharply, every word cutting like a blade. Her finger remained pointed at him, as if she could pierce through his arrogant facade with the sheer force of her glare.

For a moment, Cormac’s confidence seemed to falter, but he quickly recovered, leaning slightly toward her with a smile that was meant to be charming but only served to irritate her further. “Really? Well, it seems like now you know exactly who I am. And admit it, the rumor isn’t that far-fetched, is it? It could’ve happened…”

Morwenna felt anger surge through her like an uncontrollable wildfire. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to keep herself from completely losing her composure. “I’ll say this once, McLaggen. If I hear you spreading anything like that about me again, you’ll regret it. I don’t have time for attention-seeking children,” she said, her voice icy enough to make even Cormac tense slightly.

Cormac narrowed his eyes, his mocking grin twisting into a scowl of irritation. Morwenna’s defiant attitude no longer amused him; his wounded ego was beginning to show in the way he tilted his head and furrowed his brow.

“Oh, yeah?” he shot back, his voice now laced with venom. “Well, that’s not what some of the guys are saying…”

A chill ran down Morwenna’s spine, but she refused to let it show on her face.

“I’ve heard you’ll kiss just abut anyone,” he continued with cruel satisfaction, savoring each word as he studied her with eyes glinting with arrogance. “And, well… it wouldn’t hurt if I joined that list, would it?” he added, his tone dripping with suggestion as he stepped closer.

That was the final straw.

Before she could even process the disgust rising inside her, her body moved on pure instinct. In an instant, her wand was raised, aimed directly at McLaggen’s face.

“Slugulus Eructo!” she cast, her voice steady and blazing with fury.

The spell hit him squarely, and within seconds, Cormac doubled over, his expression shifting from smug to horrified. A sickening, wet sound filled the corridor as the first slug wriggled out of his mouth, followed by another… and another. His face turned pale with revulsion and rage as he fell to his knees, gagging and retching.

Morwenna watched him with a mix of satisfaction and disdain. “That’s the closest you’ll ever get to kissing a girl, you creep,” she spat, her voice carrying through the corridor with such force that several heads turned.

From the Gryffindor common room, a few students peeked out to see what was happening, while in the nearby hallways, conversations fell silent. A ripple of murmurs spread among those witnessing the scene, stunned by the confrontation—and even more so by the punishment Morwenna had just dealt to McLaggen.

But she was no longer there to hear their whispers or see their stares.

The anger that had burned so fiercely just moments ago vanished in an instant, leaving behind something much heavier, much more suffocating. Something inside her cracked at that moment, something that yanked her back to the memory she had fought so hard to bury.

Cormac’s words, his tone, his arrogance… it all reminded her too much of that day in the library.

Her eyes burned with tears before she could stop them. A crushing wave of helplessness hit her so hard she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Without another word, without even looking back, she spun on her heel and ran—away from the crowd, away from their stares, away from the pain threatening to consume her.

The minutes crawled by as Morwenna hid in the west courtyard, a secluded corner of the castle where few ever ventured. The cool afternoon air brushed against her skin, but it did nothing to ease the burning in her chest or stop the tremors in her hands. She hugged herself tightly, trying to stifle the sobs that still escaped her lips.

It was a quiet place—almost too quiet—save for the sound of her own crying and the soft whisper of the wind stirring the dry leaves scattered across the ground. But then, another sound made her tense. A crunch. The distinct crackling of leaves being stepped on.

Her body reacted before her mind did. Heart pounding, she spun around sharply, bracing herself to face whoever had followed her.

And she found herself face-to-face with Neville Longbottom.

The shock of it left them both frozen for a moment. He had walked straight toward her without realizing she was there, and now they stood so close that she could see the faint flush spreading across his cheeks. Neville awkwardly stepped back, mumbling something under his breath as he avoided her gaze.

Morwenna, however, didn’t look away. Her tears still glistened on her face, but something in her expression had shifted. There was no trace of the usual contempt with which she treated him, nor the disdain she often had for Gryffindors. Only exhaustion remained.

“Oh… it’s you,” she murmured, her voice dull, but lacking the sharp edge of hatred that usually colored her words.

Neville hesitated, as if unsure whether he should stay or leave. But something in his dark eyes—a mixture of concern and nervousness—made Morwenna, for the first time in a long while, feel no urge to put up her usual walls between them.

Neville took a step back, clearly unsure how to react to the situation. “Oh, I didn’t mean to intrude…” he murmured, turning toward the path he had come from, ready to leave as he had arrived.

But before he could take another step, Morwenna, with an unexpected impulse, stopped him. Her hand settled firmly on his arm, as if she didn’t want him to slip away, as if, for some reason, she needed him there.

“Uh… Neville… I…” Morwenna began, her words breaking, barely audible. It was as if the simple act of speaking to him made her unravel even more. Her words tumbled over one another, struggling to emerge, as the tears continued to fall.

“Thank you… for the library… you know, for stepping in…” she finally murmured, her tone lower now, but full of palpable gratitude.

Neville froze, surprised by the words he had just heard. It had been so long since they had had any real interaction, always wrapped in hurtful words and looks full of disdain. He never would have imagined that Morwenna, the same girl who had insulted and belittled him countless times, would now be thanking him for something as simple, yet significant, as this.

“I… I didn’t know what to say… but… well…” Neville stammered, still processing the situation. His gaze softened, and a small, shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as if, deep down, he couldn’t help but be touched by her gesture.

Morwenna stared at Neville, her eyes glassy as she fought to regain control over her emotions. Then, suddenly, the reality of the situation hit her. She realized just how vulnerable she must have looked to him, how exposed she was in that moment. A wave of shame washed over her, and her face turned a deep crimson.

In a sudden burst of discomfort, she pulled her hand away from Neville’s arm quickly, as though what had just happened had no place in her life. Her fingers trembled as they disconnected from him, and she hastily wiped away her tears, desperate to erase any trace of the vulnerability she had shown. She grabbed her bag without looking, taking a step back, her unease visible in every one of her movements.

In her haste, she stumbled slightly on the uneven ground, and dry leaves and dirt clung to her right knee and calf. A sharp sting shot up her leg, but she didn’t even pause to check; her only concern was getting away, escaping the discomfort she felt.

“This never happened! Don’t talk to me!” she shouted, her voice a mix of anger and embarrassment, as if pretending none of it had occurred was the only way to salvage what little of her pride remained.

Without waiting for a response, Morwenna spun around, walking briskly, almost slipping again as she rushed to leave. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and her hands, gripping her bag tightly, betrayed just how nervous and confused she felt. As she walked, the images of the library and Neville’s face kept echoing in her mind, but she couldn’t stop. She needed to be alone. She needed to distance herself from him, from the vulnerability she had just exposed.

The days passed slowly, but everything changed when, finally, the date of the long-awaited Yule Ball was announced. Morwenna, who had been eagerly waiting for that moment, found herself caught between excitement and fear. The ball had always been something she had idealized in her mind, a dream where magic and elegance came together, and in her fantasies, she had always imagined a handsome guy by her side, as if that would be the moment she would meet someone with whom to share her life, someone who would become everything to her. Of course, she thought that way every time she kissed a boy, even though the realities were far less ideal than her dreams.

As the days went by, she began to notice something she hadn’t before: Viktor Krum couldn’t take his eyes off her. Every time she entered the Great Hall, she felt his gaze fixed on her, as if she could feel the weight of his eyes even while he was talking to other boys or training with his team. His presence was constant, like a shadow in her line of sight. At first, Morwenna thought she was being paranoid, but when the glances continued even while he was with others, she started to wonder if there might be something more behind it. She then remembered her cousin Draco mentioning Krum in some conversation, suggesting that he might be a good option for her, though at the time she hadn’t paid much attention to that advice.

The glances became a regular thing, but one day, the situation changed abruptly. Krum approached her unexpectedly, and Morwenna felt her heart race with every step he took toward her.

With his deep voice and sweet Bulgarian accent, Krum sat next to her, making his presence feel even more imposing. For a moment, they both stayed silent, as if the air around them became thick. However, it was he who broke the ice, his words filled with a confidence that took her breath away.

“Hello, beautiful Evangeline…” he said, using her second name in such a natural way that Morwenna blushed instantly. It was one of those small things she hadn’t seen coming, something that disarmed her effortlessly.

“I’ve heard very good things about you, both mentally and physically,” he continued, his tone so direct that it made her cheeks burn with a deep blush.

Morwenna didn’t know how to react, surprised by the boldness of his words, but also by the way he said them, so serious, so intense. Before she could process it, Viktor took her hand with a gentleness that didn’t seem to match his imposing figure, and kissed it delicately. His touch was firm, yet at the same time, as if he wanted to make sure she understood what that gesture meant.

The sensation of his lips touching her skin made Morwenna lose her breath, her face completely red. The power of Krum’s gaze, the intensity of his presence, made her heart race, while an uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach. She tried to process what had just happened, but the words seemed to slip away from her mind.

“V-Viktor, right?” she whispered, her voice trembling, unable to believe he was there, in front of her, speaking to her in such a close, direct manner. The mixture of surprise and a strange emotion she couldn’t identify overtook her.

Krum smiled slightly, never taking his eyes off her, and Morwenna could see a spark of amusement in his gaze. Despite the discomfort she felt, something in her chest, deep inside, was awakening. It was a confusing sensation, as if she were trapped between surprise and the desire to see what else would happen in this unexpected encounter.

Morwenna was so lost in her thoughts, caught up in the intensity of Krum’s gaze, that she failed to notice Neville Longbottom watching her from a nearby table. Her mind was still spinning from what had just happened, from the soft brush of his lips on her hand and the way Krum looked at her with that overwhelming fascination. She couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted from her, why he was behaving that way.

But Morwenna’s focus wasn’t on what was happening around her. Instead, her thoughts drifted, caught between confusion, admiration, and a strange emotion that made it hard for her to process everything she was feeling. What she didn’t see, however, was Longbottom’s gaze, fixed on her from across the room as he sat at a table with Ginny Weasley, lost in their studies.

Neville, upon realizing what was happening between Morwenna and Krum, couldn’t help but feel a wave of disgust. His face tightened, and his brow furrowed so intensely that it seemed as though he might pour his disdain over the entire table. It wasn’t just a look of discomfort; it was pure revulsion. Even though Ginny tried to talk to him, Neville couldn’t take his eyes off what was happening in front of him. Every gesture from Krum, every word he directed at Morwenna, seemed to anger him more. The way the Bulgarian looked at her, so confident, so imposing, not only irritated him, but seemed to stir something deeper, something he couldn’t quite identify.

Ginny, noticing Neville’s shift in mood, cast him a questioning glance, but he barely acknowledged her, so absorbed was he in what he was witnessing. His expression was a mix of frustration and something more profound—an unease that gnawed at him as he watched Morwenna, so indifferent to everything around her, so completely absorbed in Krum’s attention.

Unable to hide his disgust any longer, Neville finally diverted his gaze, focusing back on the books in front of him. But even as he did, something inside him kept stirring, something he couldn’t silence.

The days passed quickly, and finally, the moment of the grand dance rehearsal organized by Professor McGonagall arrived. After weeks of announcements, rehearsals, and much speculation, the day came when all the students of Hogwarts would gather to practice their steps for the Yule Ball. The Great Hall, usually spacious, was now packed with students of all ages. The heat was unbearable, and the buzz of the crowd made the atmosphere even denser. The tables, typically arranged in perfect order, had been rearranged to allow students to line up, but it was still nearly impossible to find space. The air felt heavy, and the discomfort was reflected in many faces.

McGonagall, as always, maintained absolute control over the situation. With her usual seriousness, she began calling students one by one, inviting them to step forward to show off their dance skills. She had promised to award five points to each student who impressed others with their dancing prowess, and as expected, many volunteered eagerly, eager to earn those precious points for their house.

However, what no one expected was that McGonagall, in an unexpected twist, decided that students would not only showcase their solo dance skills but would also have to dance with a partner assigned by her. The air in the hall became even tenser, as many exchanged confused glances, wondering who they would be paired with.

The shock was immense when, amid murmurs and nervous laughter, McGonagall called on Morwenna Lestrange and Neville Longbottom. The professor, with her upright posture and unyielding gaze, paired them together, despite the clear discomfort on both their faces.

Morwenna couldn’t believe what was happening. Her face, usually so commanding and confident, showed a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Her expression twisted into a grimace of distaste as, with a defiant attitude, she tried to avoid the situation.

“Uh… Professor, are you sure I can’t be paired with…?” Morwenna murmured, trying to keep her voice low so no one would hear. She was desperate to avoid the humiliation of dancing with Longbottom, the boy she had always looked down on. However, to her misfortune, McGonagall, with her unrelenting authority, responded to her protest aloud.

“Not a chance, Lestrange. You must respect the pairing I’ve chosen. No changes allowed. Deal with it,” the professor said, her tone firm and final, as she continued organizing the other pairs.

Morwenna, now completely trapped in the situation, could hear the muffled laughs rising among the students. Some, unable to contain themselves, whispered to each other, while others watched with a mix of surprise and amusement. The awkwardness of the situation didn’t go unnoticed, and the curious eyes of others seemed heavy, almost as if they were enjoying the drama unfolding before them.

Neville, for his part, didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more embarrassed by the attention the scene was attracting. Though his expression remained relatively neutral, Morwenna could see in his face that he wasn’t enjoying the situation any more than she was. But what frustrated Morwenna the most was the obvious truth: she was trapped. And the thought of having to dance with Longbottom, someone she had despised and ridiculed for so long, made her feel as if she were losing a part of herself.

The atmosphere grew even denser when Neville, though a bit awkward, placed his hand on Morwenna’s waist. The softness of the contact made Morwenna shiver, as if every inch of her skin had reacted to the touch of Neville’s hand. The reaction was immediate and visceral; she grabbed his shoulder tightly, almost as if trying to avoid any kind of closeness, but her fingers inadvertently dug into his skin, leaving a faint mark from her nails. Neville, surprised by the intensity of her grip, let out a puff of air, the tension between them now palpable.

The music began to play, and without warning, their bodies moved in unison, as if they had become an extension of each other. The rhythm of the melody, gentle yet persistent, seemed to spark something between them, an inexplicable connection. Morwenna, although tense at first, began to feel surprised by how effortlessly their movements matched. It wasn’t that she was enjoying the situation, but something inside her began to recognize the fluidity with which they moved together, as if the initial discomfort disappeared with each step they took.

Despite the tension and surprise, they became more than just two people forced to dance together. The fact that they had never communicated smoothly beyond the sharp and awkward words didn’t stop them from moving as if they had been doing it all their lives. It was a bewildering contrast: he, usually clumsy and shy, and she, used to controlling the situation, now moved forward as if they understood each other without needing to speak.

Morwenna, still uncomfortable, couldn’t help but feel a trace of astonishment as she realized that, somehow, they were perfectly in sync. Their feet seemed to move almost autonomously, and as their bodies spun, she couldn’t help but glance at Neville, noticing a mixture of concentration on his face—and something else. She couldn’t put a name to it, but she felt it. As if, for the first time, the situation was beyond frustration or anger, and was touching a new form of connection.

Despite everything that had happened before, everything she had thought about him, Morwenna couldn’t deny that, in that moment, there was something inexplicably captivating in how their bodies, despite their differences, moved together.

After a series of flawless spins and steps, they were the only ones left dancing until the end of the song. The others, either exhausted or uncomfortable, had long since exited the dance floor, abandoning it in the midst of the music’s crescendo. But they continued, somehow, completely absorbed in the moment. Each movement seemed to flow with an almost magical precision, and the connection between them, which had started as something awkward and tense, was transforming into something so fluid that it felt as if the music itself had possessed them. The movements were not just a coordination of steps; there was something more, a tacit understanding that grew with each turn. It was as if they were both in a shared trance, completely immersed in what they were doing.

However, like all good things, the song came to an end. The final chord resonated in the air, and at that precise moment, a loud round of applause burst through the atmosphere, shattering the bubble they had been in. They both separated abruptly, as if a thunderclap had struck between them. Suddenly, the electricity that had been hanging in the air dissipated, and with it, the moment vanished, leaving them back in the same discomfort that had defined their relationship from the start.

Morwenna quickly took a step back, her face now flushed with the embarrassment and awkwardness of what had just happened. What had once been near-perfect synchronization now felt like an invasion of her personal space. She wasn’t sure what she had felt, but that same closeness that had seemed so seamless before now felt foreign, even strange. As she tried to compose herself, she noticed that Neville, also puzzled, stepped back, his expression mirroring her own confusion.

“Bravo! Spectacular!” Professor McGonagall clapped enthusiastically, her excitement unmistakable as she held the vinyl record, clearly waiting to change it. Her face gleamed with satisfaction at having achieved what she had intended, though the atmosphere between the two dancers was far more tense than she had anticipated.

Morwenna and Neville exchanged a fleeting glance, full of discomfort, before their eyes shifted to the floor, as if that simple gesture would allow them to avoid the inevitable. The break in the moment had been as abrupt as the dance itself, and now, amidst the laughter and applause filling the Great Hall, they returned to their original positions: him, the awkward and shy Neville, and her, the ever-proud and reserved Morwenna. The magic that had existed, even if just for a brief moment, had evaporated, leaving only the echo of what had just transpired between them.