#to that one anon i hope you see this lo

[rosachae]

bend (her) like beckham | manon x reader

⁍ requested: yes! thank you anon ⁍ genre: slowburn fluff, angst. idol!manon x soccer player!reader. posh spice/david beckham dynamic spinoff. wingman megan and wingman beabadoobee (soccer player!bea) ⁍ a/n: thank you so much for requesting this, anon! as i've said in previous posts, sorry for the delay in getting this out. i hope this is what you were looking for. i had a lot of fun writing this. ⁍ w.c: 20.3k ⁍ warnings: curt language, nsfw/suggestive themes, mentions of painkiller abuse and injury. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n is one of the best midfielders the sport of women's soccer has ever seen. manon bannerman is a part of the global girl group sensation, katseye. they couldn't be any more different. that much was made clear after a chance hookup lead to their paths crossing once again at a pregame performance. who knew a little note would be the start and end of everything?

los angeles glittered in a way that felt almost artificial, like a city made for the lens of a camera instead of real life. you’d flown in the day before, checked into your hotel, and tried not to overthink the weight of the season opener. it wasn’t your first time playing in a packed stadium, but the buzz around this match was different. the whole country was watching. so were the brands. so were the scouts. so was everyone who had ever told you you were too young, too bold, too much.

but tonight wasn’t about that. tonight was bea’s birthday.

you hadn’t seen her in months, not since the team usa off-season camp in colorado. she played for angel city fc now, and technically, she’d be your rival on the field tomorrow. but friendships like yours didn’t vanish just because you wore different kits. when she called earlier in the week and said “don’t you dare miss my party,” you hadn’t even pretended to hesitate.

the house was tucked high in the hills, the kind of place only athletes, actors, and internet famous people seemed to know about. you’d barely made it out of the car before you heard someone call your name. 

bea was already there, walking up to your car with a large shiteating grin on her face. 

“would you look what the cat dragged in. y/f/n. i thought you were gonna flake,” 

“beatrice laus. funny seeing your dopey face. you won’t be so happy when i wipe the field with your ass tomorrow.”

bea grimaced when you dropped her full government name, but then shook her head with a short laugh. “shit talking already? and on my birthday? have some class.” 

you rolled your eyes playfully when she leaned in for a quick hug, the tattoos on her arms glittering under the strobing lights filtering through the windows of her house. you hug her back stiffly, wincing slightly at the heavy smell of alcohol seeping into her clothes. 

“jesus, bea. how the hell do you plan on even waking up tomorrow?”

bea shrugged, her grin not once slipping from her face as she looped her arm through yours. she practically tugged you up the stairs and into her house, voice raising to be heard over the thumping music. 

“nevermind that, why don’t you have something to drink? live a little!”

you narrow your eyes. “this sounds like some shitty attempt at sabotage if i’ve ever heard it. you know we have a game to play.”

she waved her hand dismissively. “you only live once. let me enjoy my night.” then she trailed off when something catches her eye in the far corner. “while you go be mopey somewhere else, i have some babysitting to do.”

the last thing you heard before she disappeared into the crowd was a loud “hey! get off my chandelier!” before the music droned out any and all legible string of sentences. 

you shook your head, laughed under your breath, then let your gaze wander the room. you didn’t recognize many people. a few fellow athletes, a handful of streaming personalities, a tattooed actor from that one netflix show. everyone was dressed like they had nowhere to be the next day. there were polaroids passed around and a tray of neon shots no one really wanted to take but did anyway for the aesthetic. 

if you were being honest with yourself, you’d have rather been anywhere else. the music was too loud, the house too crowded, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and the kind of liquor that burned going down. it wasn’t like you to be out so late the night before a game, especially not one like this. season opener. national spotlight. everything to prove.

but bea had asked, and saying no to her had never been your strong suit.

still, as the night wore on, your patience wore thin. you were tired of smiling at people you didn’t know. tired of pretending to care when someone told you they’d seen your nike ad. you’d already dodged a half-hearted attempt from some girl you vaguely remembered, the one who thought flirting was a sport and boundaries were optional. you were sick of people trying to shove shots into your hands like you hadn’t worked your entire life for the game. you knew what coach would say if he saw you here. not angry. just disappointed. the thought alone made your stomach twist.

you kept your face neutral. unreadable. it was easier that way.

with a quiet sigh, you peeled yourself away from the crowd and wandered toward the back of the house. the hallway was long and dimly lit, the thrum of bass dulling the farther you walked. you passed a bathroom, a guest room, a door that was half-cracked open with coats spilling out like it had given up trying to hold everything inside.

eventually, you found the balcony. or maybe it found you.

it was empty except for a flickering candle on the railing and the city stretched out beneath you like a lit-up promise. out here, the air was cooler. you could finally breathe. you stayed there for a while, long enough for the hum of the party behind you to fade into background noise. the city had a rhythm of its own. the occasional whoop of a car down in the canyon, the buzz of neon from somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of music bleeding out from other houses stacked along the hills. the kind of place where it felt like everything was happening all at once.

you were so caught up in the quiet of it that you didn’t notice her step outside.

not at first.

it was the click of the sliding door, soft but intentional, that pulled your attention. you glanced over your shoulder, only half-interested. and then you saw her.

she stepped into the light like she didn’t care who was watching. slow, unhurried, utterly unbothered by the idea of being seen. dark eyes, high cheekbones, that exact kind of poised elegance that didn’t feel practiced so much as inherited. her dark brown boho braids framed her face in a way that had your breath catching in your throat. several strands of hair framed her face like they belonged there, delicate against her smooth complexion. she wore low rise jeans and a tank top that showed off her toned stomach, the belly chain around her stomach ricocheting light as if they were diamonds on her skin. for a second, you genuinely thought she might be a model.

you looked away before you could be caught staring.

didn’t matter. she noticed anyway.

“you hiding, too?” she asked, voice low and smooth like she’d spent the whole night not saying much and was only now deciding to use it. 

you couldn’t place her accent but the little teaser you got was enough to have you wanting to hear more. 

you huffed a quiet laugh. “something like that.”

she walked over, leaning on the railing beside you. just far enough to be polite, just close enough to make your skin buzz.

“i get it,” she said. “it’s loud in there.”

you nodded. “and a little too… curated.”

she smiled at that. not wide. just a tug at the corner of her mouth like she wasn’t used to smiling for strangers but decided to anyway.

“you here for bea?” she asked.

you nodded. “old friend. team usa.”

“ah. so you’re an athlete.”

you glanced over, eyes narrowing a little. “that obvious?”

“the way you stand. the way you didn’t drink the shot someone tried to give you. and…” she paused, letting her eyes drag across you for just a second too long. “the quads.”

you laughed, caught off guard. “okay. fair.”

she tilted her head, curious. “soccer?”

“football,” you corrected, smiling despite yourself.

“right. of course.”

a beat passed. the silence was comfortable now.

“you?” you asked.

she shrugged. “just here with friends.”

you raised a brow. “you don’t seem like a ‘just here’ kind of girl.”

“maybe i’m not,” she said, and you couldn’t tell if it was a challenge or an invitation.

maybe it didn’t matter.

because five minutes later, you were still talking. ten minutes after that, your hands brushed. twenty minutes later, the city wasn’t what you were looking at anymore.

maybe it was the way she looked at you.

not with expectation, not with hunger, but with this quiet kind of curiosity that made your skin feel warmer than it should have in the night air. like she was studying you. like she wanted to figure you out without asking for anything.

the ride back to the hotel was quiet. you’d called the car, sat side by side in the back seat, close but not touching. her knee bumped yours when the car hit a bump on the freeway. she didn’t pull away. neither did you.

when you got to the room, you unlocked the door like you’d done it a hundred times before. the key clicked, the door swung open, and you stepped inside without looking back. you tossed your phone onto the desk, kicked off your shoes, and reached for the bedside lamp. the soft yellow glow filled the room, casting long shadows over the rumpled comforter and the single armchair pushed against the corner.

you heard the door close behind you.

she lingered near it, one hand still on the handle like she hadn’t made up her mind. her gaze swept the room, thoughtful, slow.

“this what five-star athletes get?” she asked, lips twitching like she was fighting a smirk.

you glanced over your shoulder. “you coming in, or just here to rate my accommodations?”

she smiled then,  slow and deliberate, before stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind her. “depends. you planning on entertaining your guest?”

“depends,” you said, mirroring her tone. “you planning on staying?”

she walked the room like she had all the time in the world. dragged her fingers along the edge of the desk, paused at the foot of the bed, tapped the corner of a framed photo of some abstract skyline you hadn’t noticed before. her presence filled the space without effort. you weren’t sure if it was the way she moved or the way she looked at everything like it might tell her a secret.

“nice view,” she murmured, peeking through the sheer curtain.

you didn’t answer. you were watching her.

she turned, eyes landing on yours again. “you always bring strangers back to your hotel room?”

“only when they look at me like that.”

she tilted her head, feigning innocence. “like what?”

“like they want something.”

“maybe i do,” she said. then, after a beat, “maybe i don’t.”

you crossed the space between you without thinking. your fingers found the edge of her jeans first, then slid up to the curve of her waist. her hands came up to your collar, light and curious, not pulling you in but not letting go either.

“this where you ask for my name?” she asked, voice low now.

“do you want me to?”

she considered it. “no.”

you nodded. “then don’t tell me.”

the kiss was slow when it landed, soft and searching, her lips brushing yours like she was figuring out how you liked to be kissed before committing to it. she tasted like peppermint and a whisper of something floral. her skin was warm under your hands. 

you didn’t rush. didn’t fumble.

the pace stayed lazy, deliberate. clothes came off in between teasing comments and almost-touches. her mouth ghosted over your throat and she muttered, “what are you thinking about?” against your skin.

you breathed out, “only you.”

she laughed quietly, a little smug. but she said nothing more when you pulled her down with you onto the bed.

whatever came next wasn’t about knowing each other. it was about the way her hips moved against yours, the way her hand held the back of your neck like it meant something, the way she moaned into your mouth when you bit her lip a little too hard. it was about how quiet the room got except for the sounds you made together, the rustle of sheets, the rhythm of bodies learning each other’s language one kiss, one breath at a time.

she didn’t ask anything of you. neither did you.

but when she kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the place just under your ribs like she wanted to remember it, you wondered if she might be trying to leave something behind.

only by the time morning came, the space next to you was empty.

she was gone.

for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined the whole thing. but then you spotted the note. it was folded in half and placed neatly on the pillow, written on the hotel’s stationery in small, looping handwriting.

thx for the night. –meret

you sat there with the note in your hand for a long while, memorizing the name, the shape of it, the way her face lingered in your memory even though you hadn’t known it for more than a few hours.

you didn’t know her last name. you didn’t know what she did or where she was going next. you just knew her name was meret, and she had vanished like smoke. without a sound, without a trace, save for that single line in ink.

you slipped the note into your bag before getting up.

by the time you stepped into the stadium that afternoon for the pregame warmups, you’d almost convinced yourself to forget her.

almost.

__

‎ 

manon didn’t get back to the hotel until almost four in the morning.

technically, it was closer to four-thirty. the sun was already brushing against the edges of the horizon, and downtown los angeles looked too clean for how she felt. her braids were coming undone, her shirt was buttoned wrong, and she had the faintest mark under her jaw where someone’s teeth had lingered longer than they should have. she didn’t bother adjusting any of it. the lobby was empty, the elevator was slow, and when she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall, she just looked at herself once, then looked away.

she tried to be quiet pushing into the room. she really did. but the key card stuck a little in the lock and her boots thudded against the carpet when she kicked them off. that was enough to wake sophia.

“manon?” sophia’s voice was raspy, low with sleep. “is that you?”

a rustling followed, then lara’s voice came from the second bed. “god, it is her. jesus. what time is it?”

“you’re lucky we’re not on live right now,” daniela mumbled into her pillow. “i’d be exposing your walk of shame in real time.”

manon didn’t say a word. just slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. but that didn’t stop them.

“i want a full debrief in the morning,” megan called out. “i want names, timelines, weather conditions.”

“was she pretty?” lara asked, her voice high with curiosity.

“was she good?” daniela countered, only to be met with silence. she continued after a beat. “she’s quiet. that means yes.”

manon returned ten minutes later in fresh clothes. she looked clean but guilty, more ammunition to fan the fire.

megan sat up, stretching like a cat. “you smell like someone else’s perfume.”

“and success,” sophia added.

“how was she?” lara asked, immediately elbowed by yoonchae.

manon finally spoke, voice dry. “you’re all freaks.”

megan gasped. “rude.”

“don’t dish it if you can’t take it,” sophia said, tossing a pillow at her. “you disappeared with a stranger and came back looking like a victoria’s secret campaign. we’re allowed to be nosy.”

“it’s a sisterhood,” daniela said solemnly. “this is what you signed up for.”

manon climbed into bed besides lara without answering. she kept her expression neutral, but they all clocked the faint smile she tried to hide when she turned toward the wall.

she only managed to get two hours of sleep before she had to get up and prepare for the day ahead of her. 

they had spent the morning rehearsing, the afternoon getting glammed, and now they were all dressed in stage outfits that shimmered when the sun hit them right. hair slicked, nails done, in-ear monitors already tucked into place.

by the time the van pulled up to the stadium it was 2p.m. the teasing had died down, replaced by the kind of focused energy only performance days brought. manon sat by the window, earphones in, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. she hadn’t said much since leaving the hotel. the others assumed she was just in the zone. none of them noticed the way her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh, or the way she kept glancing down at her phone like it might tell her something she didn’t know yet.

the van pulled into the private tunnel, slowing to a crawl. stadium security swarmed the entrance, and huge vertical banners hung from the outer walls. each one showed a different player. bold block letters. intense, stylized headshots. pure american sports propaganda.

the others were talking about stage positions when manon saw her.

it wasn’t just recognition. it was impact.

her gaze snapped to the banner like she’d been physically pulled by it. the face on the vinyl was unmistakable. same mouth. same eyes. same jawline that she had kissed in the dark just a few hours ago.

manon didn’t move. didn’t blink. for a full three seconds, she forgot to breathe.

megan caught the shift immediately. she felt it in the way manon’s posture changed. the sudden stillness. the air around her turning sharp and quiet.

megan leaned forward, her voice low and curious. “hey. you good?”

manon didn’t answer right away. then she blinked and turned her head, too fast to be casual. “yeah. fine.”

megan narrowed her eyes. “you sure?”

manon nodded. too quickly. “just nerves.”

megan didn’t push. not yet. but she filed the moment away, sharp and clean, and said nothing else as the doors to the van opened and the sound of the crowd roared in from outside.

your face was the last thing she expected to see.

if manon was being honest with herself, she still didn’t know why she went back to your hotel last night. it wasn’t like her. that kind of impulse,  reckless and raw, didn’t usually make it past the filter she kept up in public. especially not in a city like this, where eyes were always watching. 

maybe it was the way you looked at her on that balcony, like she had hung the stars herself. like all of los angeles could burn and you wouldn’t notice, not with her standing there in front of you. 

maybe it was your mouth, the way it curved just slightly at the corners when you smiled, like you were holding back a secret only she was allowed to know.

whatever it was, it pulled her in. and now, seeing you again like this ten stories tall on the side of the stadium, all fire and focus and unapologetic light, she froze. manon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run.

not that it mattered. alas, the decision was already made for her.

katseye was being ushered through the underground tunnels, their in-ears already clipped in, stage crew calling out cues like the whole night balanced on a stopwatch. they’d prepared for this for months. late-night rehearsals, endless fittings, vocal run-throughs in hotel lobbies. she was ready for this. or at least, she had been.

but then the lights in the stadium dropped to black, the crowd erupting as the announcer’s voice boomed overhead, and manon felt her pulse stutter.

she was center-stage, spotlight trained directly on her, and all she could think about was the way her stomach flipped.

the beat dropped. the opening note hit. the others moved like second nature, muscle memory taking over. but manon’s breath caught. because across the pitch, down the sideline tunnel, she saw you.

you were half in shadow, your kit not even fully visible yet, but your face was unmistakable.

the distance between you was too far for logic, too far for clarity, but somehow, impossibly, she saw it. the way your expression went slack, the way your mouth parted, the way all the blood seemed to drain from your face.

and just like that, the lights weren’t the only thing that came crashing down.

you knew, and so did she.

it was only going to get complicated from here.

the pregame show was electric. clean transitions, perfect harmonies, not a single misstep. katseye had performed in bigger stadiums before, but tonight felt different. louder. tighter. like the air was wired. manon didn’t know if it was the fireworks or the roar of the crowd or the way the grass looked under the lights, but something about the whole thing made her chest feel like it was being wrung out.

then the game started and the pressure shifted. the girls were all but ushered off field and into a private viewing box, given barely a minute to greet fans.

the stadium stayed loud, the drums kept pounding, but manon’s attention had narrowed. she was supposed to be watching the match, they all were. but the second she saw you step onto the field, she forgot the plot entirely.

you were everywhere. cutting through defenders like they were suggestions. calling for the ball with that calm, commanding urgency. scoring once, assisting twice. but it wasn’t your footwork or your stats that had her losing her mind.  it was the fact that you were you.

because what were the odds? what were the actual, statistical, cosmically humiliating odds that the girl she’d kissed breathless in a los angeles hotel room would turn out to be you?

manon sat frozen in her seat, arms crossed tight over her chest, trying not to freak out visibly.

megan noticed anyway. the chinese girl peered over at her, speaking quietly so none of the other girls could eavesdrop but just loud enough for manon to hear. “you okay?”

“fine,” manon said, too fast.

“you look like you’re about to throw up.”

“just hot. adrenaline. post-performance crash.”

megan raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. not yet.

manon wasn’t too sure how much time had passed of her sitting uncharacteristically still, her eyes following you as you ran up and down the field. it was almost unfair how good you looked, she decided. memories of the night before kept flashing in her mind against her will, an embarrassed flush crossing her cheeks just subtly for sophia to give her a weird stare. but, within what felt like minutes (but was most definitely an hour and some change), the game ended. your team had won. it was only the opening game of the season, but the crowd ate it up regardless. 

manon didn’t clap. she couldn’t. she was too busy staring at you, her mouth slightly open, her thoughts absolutely feral.

after a beat, she turned slowly. “hey… what’s number fourteen’s name?”

megan looked at her like she’d just asked what two plus two was. “are you serious?”

manon blinked.

“you mean y/n?”

“y/n,” manon repeated under her breath, like it tasted different now that it had a name attached. “what’s her whole deal?”

megan looked suspicious. “why do you sound like you’re about to launch a background check?”

“just answer the question.”

“okay… let’s see. olympic medalist. league mvp. rookie of the year. huge nike deal. she’s on the cover of like, three magazines this month. wait, didn’t you guys go to bea’s party last night? they’re pretty close friends. i’m surprised you didn’t run into her. they played on the national team together.”

manon couldn’t help but whistle lowly, a teasing grin crossing her lips despite the thoughts running rampant in her mind. 

“damn, mei. who knew you were so well versed in this sport?”

megan simply grinned widely. “what can i say? brainrot tiktok doomscrolling leads you down paths you don’t come back from.”

then she cut herself off, her mind already jumping to the next factoid to spit out to the older girl.  megan continued after a hum. “she’s also apparently really private, hates interviews, has this weird thing about not letting anyone film her workouts, and—wait. wait.” she narrowed her eyes, her voice dropping. “why are you asking?”

manon stayed quiet.

then, like clockwork, megan’s jaw dropped. “no.”

“megan—”

“no. manon. no.”

“i didn’t know it was her.”

“you hooked up with y/n and didn’t even ask for her name?!”

“i was going to,” manon mumbled. “but then i panicked and left.”

“how do you panic after-“ she paused, looked left and right, then whispered aggressively.“- s.e.x?”

“i don’t know! it was intense! i needed to breathe!”

megan stared at her like she was watching a slow motion car crash. “manon, you ghosted the golden girl of women’s soccer and now you’re sitting here looking like you want to crawl into the grass and die.”

manon’s cheeks flamed a bright shade of crimson. she looked anywhere but at megan. before she could come up with a comeback, the door to the private viewing box and opened and in walked their manager, clipboard in hand. his voice cut through the room loudly. 

“alright, time to move!”

manon groaned softly but pushed herself up, more than happy to move on and pretend the conversation never happened.

megan gave her a pointed look. “oh, this isn’t over. not by a long shot.”

manon forced a pained half smile, still feeling the heat of embarrassment, and followed their manager out.  the words between her and megan hung unfinished in the charged air, the other four girls none the wiser of the war raging in her mind. 

the universe sure did have a funny way of bringing things full circle. 

__

‎ 

over the next week, your thoughts had been completely tangled around meret manon bannerman. at least, that’s what a quick google search said her name was. you practically held the note she left to your chest the very second you got back to your hotel room after the game. 

thx for the night. -meret 

the words were crinkled now, the pen ink smudged. 

every time you closed your eyes, you could still feel the way your heart dropped in your chest when you saw her pregame. you could still feel the way your blood ran cold when she looked in your direction in that brief, electric moment. 

she was stunning. 

her movements were engraved into your mind as strong as your earliest childhood memory. her every move was captivating, her pretty face full of expression every time she appeared on the jumbotron. the more you thought about it, part of you was embarrassed you hadn’t recognized her sooner. especially after the night you spent together. 

yet, stronger than whatever embarrassment you felt, here you were. unable to shake the phantom trace of her hands on your skin, the way she looked under those bright stadium lights. how the light caught her body in just the right way, how her stage outfit made her stand out like her own special star. 

perhaps you shouldn’t have been so surprised when bea approached you after the game, a knowing gleam cemented across her face. 

‎ 

“so? spill.”

you turned to face her when she approached you in the athlete tunnels. she was sweaty, just as tired as you, and yet she still found the energy to seek you out and level you with those teasing eyes. if she was bothered by her teams loss, she didn’t show it. she had far more ‘pressing’ matters to attend to. 

you narrowed your eyes. “what are you talking about.”

she practically scoffed as if the answer was obvious. “you and manon, that’s what. don’t forget it was my party you left together. which, by the way, fuck you for ditching so early.” then she shook her head, her faux aggravation shifting into something softer. “what happened when you guys left?”

you glanced away, unwilling to meet her gaze. “nothing happened. we just talked.”

bea raised an eyebrow. “really? because you played like someone was watching you.”

you crossed your arms defensively. “i’m not going to give you the whole story.”

bea’s grin widened. “come on, you can trust me.”

hesitation tightened your throat. the weight of bea’s gaze felt heavy like she was waiting for something, a truth you weren’t sure you wanted to give away just yet. for a moment you looked away, the memory of that night flickering in your mind. the way manon’s laugh had sounded, the heat of her hands sliding along your skin, how the world had shrunk to just the two of you. you took a slow breath, chewing on your words as if deciding whether to swallow them whole. finally, you let out a quiet sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing just enough. 

“okay,” you said, voice low and a little reluctant, “we hooked up.”

bea’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “thought so. now, spill the details.”

‎ 

and you did. kind of. you didn’t tell her everything, just enough to stop her wicked grin and avoid the flood of questions you knew would come next.

but that was a week ago.

now, as you waited for the practice facility’s elevator to open with its little ding, you realized one simple fact. perhaps you’d made your biggest mistake yet by trusting that information with beatrice laus of all people. 

it was supposed to be your day off. but, of course, here you were. fresh out of an impromptu strategy meeting with your coach, clipboard in hand, scanning over a revised game plan you barely had time to digest. the soft thud of your sneakers echoed as you walked through the quiet corridor, music and chatter spilling faintly from a nearby training room. you pressed the elevator button, already planning to retreat to a quiet corner and study your matchups in peace.

the doors slid open with a calm mechanical hiss. you stepped inside without looking, preoccupied with your notes. but the second they closed behind you and the soft red glow above the buttons lit up, you realized you weren’t alone.

you heard it first. a small, startled sound, like someone had just choked on their own breath. you looked up, and against all odds, there she was.

manon.

she was standing off to the side, spine straight as a rod, arms folded tightly across her chest like she was trying to make herself smaller. her eyes met yours for only a second before flicking away, as if even looking at you might unravel whatever thread of composure she had left.

you froze. your brain fired off a thousand questions, all scrambling for space at once. still, you managed to speak, your voice quieter than you expected.

“meret…? what are you doing here?”

for the briefest of seconds, manon flinched when her name dropped from your mouth. she’d almost forgotten she left a note for you the morning after, the reminder sending a chill down her spine. but she didn’t correct you. in some way, it sounded almost special coming from you. 

despite whatever awkward nerves consumed the space between them, manon somehow conjured enough confidence to unlock her phone and flash the screen in your direction. a text chain between herself, bea, and megan was all you saw. 

“i was told there was some kind of conference room,” she said, voice trailing off as she glanced back at her phone. “megan said bea was giving her a tour of the facility. told me to join.”

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have to. the moment your eyes skimmed the screen, the truth of it was written all over your face. manon noticed immediately.

with a sigh that sounded more tired than angry, she shoved her phone into her jacket pocket and leaned back against the elevator wall.

“right. clearly i walked into a setup.”

you scratched the back of your neck, guilt crawling in slow and steady. “yeah. sorry. that’s probably… my fault.”

for a moment manon simply stared at you. it took a moment for your words to fully register, but when they did, she knew what you were talking about instantly. the admission that another person knew of your hookup had her nervously itching the skin above her wrist. 

some part of you couldn't help but feel surprised as you watched her. the way she looked down, embarrassed. the way she bit the inside of her cheek as if she could will herself to disappear from this moment and hightail it back home as if nothing happened. she was so different to how she was the night you spent together. it was almost like night and day. 

after a moment, you sighed. 

“you need a ride home?” you asked before you could stop yourself, heart racing.

she looked surprised. for a moment she seemed to mull over her thoughts, tentative. and then she nodded with a resigned sigh. 

“please.”

‎

the drive was quiet at first, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of manon adjusting the sleeves of her jacket. los angeles glowed outside the windshield, all neon haze and soft gold streetlights stretching across pavement. you kept your eyes forward, fingers flexing slightly on the wheel, trying not to let the silence settle too heavy between you.

she didn’t speak, and neither did you. the only thing she did say was a low “chateau marmont” and a frustrated “can’t believe i flagged my driver and guard away.” other than that, nothing. 

you flicked on your turn signal even though no one else was on the road. something about the sound filled the space, made it feel less like the two of you were suffocating under the weight of a memory you still hadn’t figured out how to name. every few minutes you could feel her shift in the passenger seat, like she was building herself up to say something but couldn’t quite manage it. you didn’t push. you didn’t dare.

you had run every possible version of this drive through your head. in one, she pretended it never happened. in another, she confessed she regretted it. in one especially (oddly) hurtful version, she looked at you and said it was a mistake. so now, with the real thing stretched out before you, you kept your mouth shut and tried to focus on the road.

manon cleared her throat softly.

you glanced over, just briefly. she was staring out the window, jaw tight, fingers curled into the hem of her sleeve like she was grounding herself with the fabric.

“so,” she started, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it, “we’re really not going to talk about it?”

your grip on the wheel tightened just slightly. your stomach twisted. “i wasn’t sure you wanted to.”

she didn’t answer right away. she turned her head slowly, eyes on you now instead of the window. 

”well… how about we start with the acknowledgement that this is a pretty awkward first impression we could have possibly had of each other.”

you let out a quiet breath, a short laugh escaping before you could stop it. “yeah,” you said, glancing at her again, this time longer. “i guess jumping straight to a hotel room isn’t exactly the standard getting-to-know-you route.”

manon smiled, just barely, but it softened the tension in her face. “you think?”

you shrugged. “could be worse. you could’ve never left a note.”

“i almost didn’t,” she admitted. “i panicked. wasn’t sure if you’d think it was weird.”

“i thought it was nice,” you said honestly, drumming your fingers lightly on the wheel. “though if i’m being honest, i’m surprised you signed your name as meret.”

she blinked, caught off guard. “why’s that?”

you glanced at her, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. “i googled you after the pregame show. figured out real fast who i’d been in bed with.”

manon groaned and buried her face in her hands. “oh my god.”

“to be fair,” you continued, teasing now, “you were kind of impossible to ignore. all that hair whipping around, the outfit, the lights.”

she peeked out from between her fingers, face flushed but amused. “so you’re telling me you learned everything about me before we even had this conversation.”

“not everything,” you said, shrugging. “just the basics. stage name. discography. three fan edits.”

manon laughed, the kind that crinkled her nose and made you bite back your own grin. “you’re worse than i thought.”

“you were very memorable,” you said simply and that shut her up again, her gaze flicking back to the window, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“besides, not everything,” you continue, eyes back on the road now. “just enough to feel like you're completely out of my league.”

she blinked. “why would you think that?”

“because you’re manon bannerman. international popstar. face of like five brands. terrifyingly attractive. meanwhile, i’m just a girl who likes to kick a ball really hard.”

manon grinned. “you’re kidding, right?”

“not even a little bit.”

“well, now you’ve made me feel like i need to impress you,” she said, and her voice had taken on something lighter, like she was letting herself breathe for the first time in the car. “we didn’t even do proper introductions.”

you pulled up to a stop sign and looked over again. her expression was softer now, curious, open.

“okay,” you said, shifting in your seat so you could offer your hand between the console. “i’m y/n. professional ball kicker.”

manon let out another laugh. “manon. i think all your googling saves me the backstory.”

you took her hand, your fingers brushing hers in a way that felt more deliberate than casual. you held it just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the quiet weight of the moment.

“nice to meet you, manon. officially.”

her mouth curled into the faintest smile, something soft and unreadable in her eyes. “likewise,” she said, and her thumb swept lightly across your knuckles before she let go.

there was a brief silence, charged and delicate, before she spoke again.

“and for the record,” she said, voice lower now, “i signed the note with meret because that’s who you were with that night.”

you turned toward her just slightly, pulse quickening. her gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no teasing in her voice, no sarcasm. just truth.

“so which one are you right now?” you asked, quieter than before.

her lips parted, a breath caught between sentences. she didn’t answer right away, but when she did, it was slow and sure.

“i don’t know,” she said. “but you make it really hard to pretend like that night didn’t matter.”

your hand shifted on the steering wheel, grip loosening, breath catching just for a second. you swallowed the sudden lump in your throat.

“did you want it to mean something?” you asked, the words barely a whisper, edged in something raw and real.

she didn’t answer at first. but she didn’t look away either.  that silence said more than any ‘yes’ ever could.

she was quiet for a long time. you didn’t rush her. the hum of the engine filled the silence, a steady rhythm under the buzz of traffic.

you turned down a quieter street, one lined with swaying palms and golden-orange streetlights, the sky above slipping from dusk into something darker. it was the kind of road where the world felt paused, like whatever existed beyond your windshield didn’t matter as much as what was happening inside the car.

the tension between you hadn’t disappeared. it still lingered, heavy and unspoken, but it softened somehow. it didn’t cut anymore. it settled, warm and aching beneath your skin.

then manon hummed, low and thoughtful, and it made something pull taut in your chest.

“tell me something about you.”

you glanced sideways. “suddenly interested?”

a short laugh slipped from her lips before she could stop it, as if the absurdity of the situation was finally kicking in. “i think we skipped every step that comes before a casual hookup. why not start now?”

you scoffed, but it came out quieter than you intended. “you can’t just put me on the spot like that. not when the only thing i can think about right now is you.”

the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. it was thick. charged. like even the air between your bodies was listening. you weren’t sure where your sudden boldness came from, but it sat between you now like a weight. she didn’t flinch. if anything, her breath hitched just slightly, and her lips parted like she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

the hotel came into view far too quickly. the moment the security guard popped open the boon gates and you pulled into the parking lot, the car slowing and stilling in a shadow cast by the building, the tension was harder to ignore. the music from the radio played low, a dull thrum in the background.

manon didn’t move to unbuckle her seatbelt. didn’t reach for the handle. she just stared ahead, and after a pause that felt like an eternity, she finally spoke.

“i keep thinking about it,” she said quietly, voice almost lost under the music.

you didn’t ask what she meant. you didn’t need to.

you swallowed, your hand twitching slightly on the gearshift. the air between you was tight again, warm with memory.

“me too,” you said, the words dragging out of your chest like a confession.

she turned to look at you. then it happened. one moment all you saw was a familiar fire in her eyes, the next she practically crawled over the console to straddle your lap behind the wheel. her knees pressed into either side of your thighs as she settled into you, the steering wheel digging into the small of her back. but she didn’t flinch. didn’t adjust.

it wasn’t tentative. it wasn’t soft. it was immediate and wanting, like she had been holding her breath since the moment she saw you and finally let herself exhale. your hands found her hips automatically, gripping tight through the fabric of her low rise jeans as if that might ground you in the moment. it didn’t. nothing could. not with her mouth on yours, not with the way she moved against you like she remembered exactly how your body felt the last time she had you.

there was something about her. the way she kissed you like she was starving, like the memory of your touch had kept her up at night. she was all urgency and heat, her fingers slipping up the back of your neck, threading into your hair like she didn’t care how messy it got. your breath caught in your throat when she rolled her hips just slightly, seeking more, daring you to pull her closer.

it was messy. too hot. too fast. it felt like a freefall, and still you didn’t stop. couldn’t. not when your heart was racing in time with hers, not when every nerve in your body lit up under her touch.

she pulled back just barely, her lips brushing yours, her breathing heavy. her eyes were darker now, glassy in the dim light.

there was just something about her that was so numbingly intoxicating. clearly, she felt the same way. 

finally, she broke the silence. “i want to keep seeing you,” she said, voice low but steady.

you swallowed hard.

 “i want that too.”

she leaned in again, slower this time, her eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back like she was trying to memorize the moment. your breath caught as she got closer, her hand grazing your jaw, the air between you thick with heat.

but then she shifted.

her hip nudged the wheel with just the right force for the car horn to explode into the quiet night, loud and jarring. she jolted in surprise, and in that split second, her forehead collided hard with your nose.

“fuck!” you hissed, the sharp crack of impact making your eyes water instantly. pain bloomed, fast and hot, and before you could even register what happened, you felt something warm drip over your lip.

“oh my god,” she gasped, immediately pushing back off you. manon’s face was a mask of panic. “i’m so sorry. i was trying to be smooth, not concuss you!”

you gave her a weak, bloody smile. “well. you left an impression.”

“okay, no,” she muttered, already reaching for the door handle. “you’re coming upstairs. i’m fixing this.”

‎ 

megan clocked you the second you walked through the hotel suite door, her eyes lighting up with immediate mischief. she was curled up on the couch with her phone in hand, idly scrolling through unread text messages. but the second she saw you and manon step inside all flushed, tousled, and  breathing just a little too hard, she knew. her lips parted into a slow, satisfied grin.

clearly, her and bea’s plan worked.

then her gaze dropped to your nose, the blood streaking down. whatever teasing remark she was about to toss out died in her throat, replaced by a sharp snort she couldn’t hold back even if she tried.

“what the hell did you do?” she laughed, eyebrows raised, eyes dancing between the two of you. 

manon groaned beside you, dragging a hand down her face. “i’m never living this down, am i?”

from across the room, sophia’s head snapped up the second megan snorted, her brows pulling together in confusion. for a moment she thought maybe daniela, lara, and yoonchae had come back already from their ice cream run. instead, she saw you. her eyes widened when she caught the mess of your shirt sleeve trying to stop the flow of blood pooling from your nose. 

“oh my god— what happened?” she stood from where she was sitting, already making her way over before either you or manon could answer. her hands hovered near your face, gentle but firm. “are you okay? does it hurt to breathe?”

you blinked, a little overwhelmed by how fast she’d turned into someone’s concerned older sister.

manon could feel her soul leaving her body. “i headbutted her. didn’t mean to. i swear i didn’t mean to.”

sophia gave her a quick look but didn’t stop her fussing. “you definitely nailed her. jesus, you’re lucky her nose doesn’t look broken.” she reached for the tissue box on the counter and pressed a wad of them gently into your hand. “come on. bathroom’s this way. let’s clean you up before anyone passes out.”

“it’s not that bad—” you tried, but she was already halfway down the hall.

“i’m not negotiating with someone who’s actively bleeding,” sophia called back. “manon, get over here. you’re helping.”

manon let out a quiet, horrified sound and followed like a scolded dog. behind her, megan cackled into a throw pillow.

“god, this is better than anything i could have hoped for,” she said between fits of laughter. “and lara thought nothing juicy would come out of this week. girl’s gonna scream when she hears about this.”

manon shot her a scowl over her own shoulder, a warning glare. the chinese girl simply doubled over even harder. 

sophia stood over you in the cramped hotel bathroom, gently tilting your chin back with a practiced kind of care. the light above the mirror buzzed softly, casting a faint glow over your blood-streaked shirt and manon’s guilty expression lingering in the reflection behind you.

“you’re lucky,” sophia said as she dabbed carefully at your nose with a damp cloth. “it’s not broken. just a nasty bump.”

you nodded stiffly, trying not to move your head too much. “thanks. sorry for barging in like this.”

sophia gave you a half-smile. “not your fault. though next time maybe try ringing the doorbell instead of bleeding through it.”

manon hovered awkwardly near the bathroom door, arms crossed tight against her chest. “i didn’t mean to slam into her. it just… happened.”

megan, leaning on the hallway wall just outside, snorted. “yeah. so did that lipstick on your neck, babe.”

you nearly choked, eyes widening as you instinctively reached for your collar. manon’s ears flushed deep red.

“megan,” sophia warned, but there was no real heat behind it. “don’t make her pass out from embarrassment while she’s still mid-bleed.”

“hey, not my fault they walked in looking like they just got thrown around in a wind tunnel,” megan shot back. “this is gold.”

you let out a weak laugh, unsure where to look. “uh… i’m y/n, by the way. we didn’t really get to do introductions with all the blood and chaos.”

sophia’s expression softened as she rinsed the cloth out under the tap. “sophia. and you’ve already met our resident menace out there.”

megan popped her head back in. “pleasure to meet you, superstar. bea’s been talking you up for months.”

your brows raised. “she has?”

“mmhm,” megan said, clearly enjoying herself. “but i guess someone didn’t get the memo.” she nodded her head very aggressively in manon’s direction. 

a quiet beat passed before you turned slightly toward manon, barely thinking. “guess you should’ve been paying attention, meret.”

it was instinctual, the name slipping from your mouth like muscle memory. you didn’t even realize what you’d said until you heard the sharp intake of breath from behind you.

sophia froze mid-dab. her head whipped around so fast it was a miracle she didn’t pull something in her neck. the look on her face was immediate, intense, like you’d just said something sacrilegious.

“i’m sorry,” she said slowly, setting the cloth down on the sink. “what did you just call her?”

you blinked. “meret…?”

sophia stared at you for a long second, then turned slowly toward manon, who now looked like she wanted to crawl into the floor.

“oh,” sophia said, voice dropping just enough to sound dangerous. “you’re the one.”

megan cackled from the hallway. “i’ve been trying not to say it all night.”

you looked between them, suddenly very aware of just how small the bathroom was. “what one?”

“the girl,” megan grinned. “the one she snuck out of bea’s party with.”

“you didn’t tell them?” you asked, turning to manon.

“i didn’t tell anyone except megan.” manon muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. 

sophia folded her arms, expression unreadable but not unkind. “well. it’s nice to finally meet you properly. meret doesn’t show up often.”

manon gave her a tired glare. “can you not?”

sophia held up her hands. “just saying.”

you smiled awkwardly, wiping the last of the blood from your upper lip. “well… it’s nice to meet you both too. even if i’m bleeding and weirdly exposed.”

megan appeared in the doorway again, smug as ever. “if this is how you usually meet people, i get why bea said you needed help.”

“megan,” manon warned, shooting her a glare.

sophia just laughed, stepping back to rinse her hands in the sink. “honestly, this is kind of iconic. blood, secrets, confessions. what a night.”

“okay,” manon muttered, suddenly pulling open the bathroom door. “i’m walking her out.”

you blinked. “you don’t have to. ”

“i insist,” she said, already stepping into the hallway, clearly in need of escape.

you followed her past megan, who gave you a little finger wave and an exaggerated wink. “good luck, superstar.”

manon didn’t stop until you were at the hotel room door. she reached for a small notepad from the side table, scribbling quickly, her handwriting sharp and messy. then she tore the page off and shoved it into your hand with a bit more force than necessary.

“here,” she said. “for your shirt, if you want me to cover the dry cleaning bill. or whatever excuse you decide to use.”

you looked down at the number, then up at her. “you really think i’d let you pay for dry cleaning?”

she shook her head. “i think you’re not gonna throw away a perfectly good excuse to text me.”

you didn’t deny it. “i wasn’t planning on it.”

her eyes lingered on yours for a second too long. “good.”

before you could say anything else, sophia’s face twisted into a look of displeasure. “manon, ask her if she wants to stay for tea or something! don’t just shove her out like a scared raccoon!”

“go!” manon hissed, practically shoving you outside of the hotel room and shutting it firmly in your face. 

for a moment you just stood there, overwhelmed and confused. but then you moved. you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face as you stepped into the hotel elevator, sliding the note with manon’s handscrawled phone number into your pocket. another momento of the enigma that was meret manon you could add to your collection. 

whatever this was, it definitely wasn’t nothing.

__

‎ 

you weren’t exactly sure when the shift happened.  when something casual and unspoken between you and manon began pulling at the edges of something deeper. maybe it was the moment you finally worked up the nerve to text her, her number saved under a single lowercase ‘m,’ always sitting stubbornly at the top of your messages, no matter how many hours passed between replies. you’d fall asleep with her words still open on your screen, wake up to find she’d responded in the middle of the night, like she couldn’t help herself either.

maybe it started in switzerland.

katseye was in zurich for a tour stop, the city glittering beneath early spring skies, and you were there too. you were called up for a friendly between team usa and team switzerland. you hadn’t planned to see her. hadn’t even thought she’d answer. but you sent the text anyway, a plain “u free?” with no punctuation and more hope packed into two words than you’d admit out loud.

what followed wasn’t what you expected. she met you outside a station, hood pulled low, no cameras, no glam team. just manon, just meret, just her. it was supposed to be a quick drink, something light and easy, but it ended in a motel outside the city center, the kind with too-thin walls and a view of nothing but train tracks. her body curved beneath yours, soft and certain, her breath catching every time you said her name. her curls were free from their usual boho braids, dark and wild against the pillow. she looked impossibly beautiful, more so than you remembered, more than you thought you could handle.

or maybe it started when you were both in the states, the girls in town for a broadcast performance set to air on every major american network that weekend. katseye had already taken over the charts. now they were coming for television too.

‎ 

you were deep into training, your jersey soaked through and clinging to your back from hours of drills under the unforgiving florida sun. the number fourteen on your shoulders practically burned beneath it, your skin hot, your body running on muscle memory and stubbornness alone. you were the best midfielder in women’s soccer for a reason. no way were you letting a little heat slow you down.

but then you saw her.

she was standing just inside the athlete tunnel, mostly hidden from view, like she hadn’t quite decided whether or not she wanted to be seen. it felt almost cinematic, like the roles had flipped. your brain flashed back to the season opener, that first impossible moment when your eyes found hers in the middle of the chaos. and just like that day, everything else faded.

you stopped cold. for the first time in over three hours, you shot the soccer ball into the net one last time and turned away from the field. you tuned out the ache in your thighs and the gatorade keg that practically had your name written on it. all you could focus on was her.

she wore a baseball cap pulled low and a facemask that covered most of her face, but you knew the shape of her by now. the curve of her shoulders, the way she leaned to one side like she didn’t have a care in the world, her fingers brushing along the hem of her hoodie like she was waiting for something to happen. you jogged toward her, skirting around a bench and ignoring the sting in your calves. and then you hugged her, no hesitation, no second guessing.

if she was surprised, she didn’t show it. if anything, she melted into you, pulling you closer, both of you half-hidden by the shade of the tunnel. you were still catching your breath when you pulled away, sweat clinging to your forehead, eyes searching hers for a reason.

she didn’t give one.

instead, manon slipped her mask down to her chin and bit the inside of her lip without meaning to. her gaze dragged over you slowly, like she didn’t care that you were a mess. your face was flushed, your jersey damp, your socks streaked with dirt. and still, to her, you looked annoyingly good. you smelled like sun and effort and something warm she couldn’t name. her heart was pounding and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss you or stare at you forever.

you blinked, thrown by her silence. “what’re you doing here? is everything okay?”

she nodded, and her smile curled into something that made your chest tighten. her palm pressed flat against your chest like she wanted to ground herself in the heat radiating off you. her voice was soft but certain.

“yes. i just wanted to see you.”

one thing led to another. it always did with her.

you don’t even remember how you got there exactly. one second you were standing in the tunnel, manon’s hand still resting against your chest like she didn’t want to let go, and the next, you were both slipping through a side entrance to the locker rooms like you had done this before. maybe not here, not in this exact spot, but the rhythm of it felt familiar. inevitable.

the hallway was quiet. the air conditioning inside was a stark contrast to the heat outside, but your skin still burned, pulsing with leftover adrenaline and something else entirely as manon led you by the wrist down the hall, past rows of lockers and benches, until she found an unlit corner behind a set of closed doors. it wasn’t glamorous. scuffed tile floors, abandoned water bottles, a broken clock on the wall.  but it didn’t matter. you weren’t thinking about any of that.

she pushed you gently against the wall, eyes searching your face like she needed to make sure you wanted this too. you didn’t say a word. you didn’t need to. your fingers were already curling into the hem of her hoodie, pulling her closer until there was no space left between you.

her mouth found yours, warm and insistent, tasting like strawberry chapstick and something sweeter, something that made your knees weak even though you’d been running drills all morning. you kissed her like you hadn’t seen her in weeks, like the sound of her voice saying your name in that low, accented way had been echoing in your head nonstop since the last time. maybe it had.

her hands were everywhere. your waist, your jaw, your thighs, her fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts with a quiet urgency that made your breath catch. you pressed your forehead against hers, noses bumping, eyes half-lidded as your pulse pounded in your throat.

“we shouldn’t,” you muttered, barely believing it even as the words left your mouth.

manon just smiled, slow and wicked, and kissed you again. “i know.”

but neither of you stopped.

the locker room was quiet but your breathing filled it, ragged and uneven, her soft moans barely restrained as she rocked against you. your back hit the wall again, and you let it, let her take whatever she wanted, gave it willingly because god, you wanted her just as badly.

‎ 

or perhaps, counter intuitively enough, it was that night in seoul. 

‎ 

you had flown in for a friendly against south korea, the stadium packed, the energy wild with national pride. katseye happened to be in the city too, riding the chaos of a promo week that had them performing on every major music show and showing up to every brand partnership event possible. you’d barely caught glimpses of manon through screens. a fan cam here, a blurry group photo there, but nothing real. not until megan messaged you late one night, her name lighting up your phone with a simple question. 

  [9:30 p.m.] can u come? she won’t admit she’s sick but she needs someone.

you knew who she was talking about instantly. 

despite your body aching from ninety minutes of pushing yourself to your physical limit, despite the early call time you had the next morning, you were already grabbing a hoodie and digging through your backpack for whatever you could carry. pain meds. electrolyte packets. a heat patch from the drugstore across from your hotel. a bag of honey-dipped crackers and one of those vitamin drinks that tasted horrible but worked. little things she had mentioned once, weeks ago in passing. things you didn’t even realize you had remembered until you were stuffing them into your arms.

megan met you by the emergency exit of their hotel. she didn’t say much, just pressed the keycard into your hand with a meaningful look.

“she’s in 1903. don’t be weird. and don’t let the staff see you.”

you laughed under your breath, heart pounding with nerves, but still you nodded. “thanks, mei.”

when you slipped into the room it was dim, the curtains drawn tight. manon was bundled into the bed, hoodie half-zipped, hair loose and messy around her pillow. she didn’t look glamorous. she looked pale and worn out, her skin too warm under the soft light of the bedside lamp, a tissue box on one side of her and her phone facedown on the other. her eyes fluttered open when you came in, and for a second she didn’t say anything. just blinked at you like she wasn’t sure if you were real.

“you actually came,” she said finally, her voice rough and barely above a whisper.

“of course i did,” you said, your own voice quieter than usual. you slipped off your shoes and dropped the bag onto the edge of the bed. “megan said you were dying. this is me saving your life.”

she laughed, tried to at least, but it turned into a soft cough. you sat beside her, pulling out everything you brought, lining them up on the nightstand. her eyes followed your hands as you laid down the heating pad, the tea sachets, the exact brand of menthol patches she liked for muscle aches.

“you remembered,” she murmured.

“yeah, well. you kind of say a lot of things when you’re drunk on post-show adrenaline,” you teased, but the warmth in your voice gave you away.

she didn’t answer right away. just watched you with this look in her eyes, like you had peeled her open without trying, like it scared her and thrilled her all at once.

you helped her sit up, propping the pillows behind her, your fingers brushing hers every time you adjusted something. she was burning up, and it made your chest hurt. she shouldn’t have been performing that hard. she should’ve been resting, drinking soup, wrapped in seven blankets and watching cartoons like she used to as a kid.

“do you want me to go?” you asked after a while, once she had taken the meds and curled back under the covers.

her answer was immediate.

“no. stay.”

you didn’t climb into bed, not right away. you just sat there, your back against the side of the mattress, close enough that her fingers could find yours if she reached. she did, eventually, her hand falling limp into your lap. you held it gently, your thumb tracing the faint calluses along her palm.

it was quiet. not tense. not charged. just… quiet. comforting. the kind of silence that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t used to.

after a long stretch, manon spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“this is scary,” she said. “how much i like this.”

you looked up at her, and for once, she didn’t look away. she let you see it all. the vulnerability, the truth, the walls she had built so carefully, now lowered just enough to let you in.

“then don’t be scared,” you said softly.

she didn’t answer, but she didn’t let go of your hand either.

you stayed there until the sun began to rise. no kisses. no tension. no clothes tangled on the floor.

just her hand in yours and the quiet question over whether something had shifted. 

‎ 

but it didn’t. it never had.

you and manon had defined the rules from the beginning, sharp and clear like lines drawn in chalk. strictly physical. a situationship that worked when your paths happened to cross. a night here, a hotel room there, nothing deeper than sweat and stolen time. you were constantly on the move, bouncing from city to city with your team, and she was prepping for katseye’s world tour, about to disappear into stages and spotlights across six continents. it made sense this way. clean. easy.

besides, you were polar opposites.

you felt most like yourself with your cleats in the mud, jersey soaked, surrounded by teammates shouting directions and coaches losing their minds on the sidelines. 

manon thrived in controlled chaos under stadium lights and camera flashes, her body moving in perfect rhythm, her expressions rehearsed and weaponized. 

you liked quiet mornings. she liked the buzz of late nights. and neither of you believed in fairy tales.

the night you first brought up boundaries, it had been her who said it out loud.

‎ 

“no feelings,” manon said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your hotel bed, her fingers twisting the drawstrings of her hoodie. “just fun. that’s the deal, right?”

you nodded, trying to ignore how the word ‘feelings’ lodged like something sharp in your chest. “right.”

it should’ve been enough.

but sometimes she said things that chipped away at the walls you both worked so hard to keep up. like the night in sacramento, when her lips were still pink from kissing you breathless and she laid on her side, staring up at the ceiling like she was scared of what she’d see if she looked at you. her voice was quiet, but you heard every word.

“i’m not ready to be a headline,” she said. “megan still gets tagged in edits with that livestream where they basically forced her to come out. like it was content. and lara…” she trailed off, jaw tightening. “lara got eaten alive for being honest.”

you understood. of course you did. you had teammates who were careful with who they followed on instagram, who they sat next to at press conferences, who they hugged too long after a goal. women who chose privacy over peace of mind. you’d done the math too many times to count.

“then we keep it simple,” you said finally, your voice steady even though your stomach was twisting. “just us. when we can. no strings.”

and you meant it. you both did.

but it was getting harder by the day.

harder when her name lit up your phone and your heart jumped before you could stop it. harder when her voice dropped to a whisper just for you, even when her whole group was around. harder when you caught her watching you after you’d already looked away.

you told yourselves the rules were still in place. but deep down, you both knew the game had already changed.

‎

truth be told, manon wasn’t sure when everything started to change, either.

she told herself it was still casual. convenient. she liked the way things were. the thrill of control, the ability to slip in and out of someone’s life without consequence. it was easier that way. clean. you were supposed to be just that, a beautiful complication she could walk away from whenever the schedule got too packed or the spotlight too harsh.

but somewhere along the way, she stopped walking away.

it was sophia who called her out first.

they were backstage at a commercial shoot waiting for touch-ups, manon’s face already half-painted in shimmer. sophia sat beside her, legs kicked up on an unused stool, casually sipping her coconut water like she wasn’t about to drop a bomb.

“is it just for the sex?” she asked, not even looking at manon when she said it.

manon blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

“you and her. is it just the sex?”

there was a beat of silence. manon forced a laugh, but it came out tight.

“obviously,” she said. “i mean… that’s the whole point.”

sophia looked at her then, eyebrow raised. “you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

manon didn’t answer after that. she didn’t have to. the lie was already starting to fray, tugged loose thread by thread every morning she woke up. with every text she sent you between layovers, when she should have been sleeping or doing vocal exercises or scrolling past the mess of her notifications.

you had started becoming a part of her rhythm, tucked into the margins of her day like something familiar and necessary. it wasn’t defined. it wasn’t labeled. but it was there, humming beneath everything like background music she couldn’t turn off.

and then the tabloid dropped. a headline splashed across one of the biggest entertainment sites. 

katseye’s manon skipping practice to be with mystery lover?

the photos weren’t all that incriminating. a blurry shot of her slipping into a black suv, another of her walking through a hotel lobby with a baseball cap pulled low. but the article did what it was designed to do. it stirred the pot. people started speculating, naming names, dragging innocent people into a story they had no business being in. her phone exploded in minutes.

the group was shaken and management was furious. manon got defensive. sharp-edged. she told them she was giving her all, and she was. she hadn’t missed a single show. she was nailing every vocal, every formation, every interview. she was doing everything right. but inside, she was spiraling.

she hated how exposed it made her feel. how the idea of being seen with you now felt like a risk instead of a relief. she hated how much it scared her, not because of her career, but because of what it meant. what it had already become.

so she shut everything down.

she stopped replying to your messages. stopped opening them, even when she saw the little preview on her lockscreen. she told herself it was necessary. strategic. protection. but the truth was simpler than that.

she was terrified.

even when you were in the same city, just blocks away, she didn’t reach out. not when she passed by the cafe you mentioned stopping at before matches. not when she saw a clip of you post-game, sweat glistening on your forehead as you gave an interview. not even when megan threw her a pointed look and said, “you know she flew out on her own dime just to be here, right?”

radio silence. it was easier that way.

at least, it was supposed to be.

__

‎ 

the scans were already up on the screen when you walked into the medical suite on crutches, your sock balled in your fist, blood from a turf burn drying on your shin. the pain in your foot throbbed with every step, but you barely noticed it. not compared to the ache twisting behind your ribs.

dr. vasquez didn’t say anything at first. just motioned for you to sit, then turned back to the monitor. the x-ray glowed quietly behind her.

“third metatarsal,” she said finally, voice calm, clinical. “clean fracture, just above the base. you’ll need to be non-weight bearing for at least three weeks, maybe longer, depending on how your body responds.”

you stared at the image, the thin white line splitting the bone like a crack in porcelain. it didn’t feel real. it didn’t feel like your foot.

you should have seen it coming.

but your head had been somewhere else entirely. still spinning from the headline you saw that morning. you’d already re read it ten times over since it dropped. it was a tabloid splash with manon’s name in bold, alongside a photo that could have been anywhere, but you knew. the angle, the outfit, the timing. it was from the day you snuck out the back of the hotel after one of her shoots. your hood up. your hand brushing hers just before she pulled away.

katseye’s manon skipping practice to be with mystery lover?

your fingers had gone cold when you saw it. not because of the implication, but because she hadn’t said a word. no explanation. no warning. just silence. it had been days. messages unopened. voice memos unplayed. nothing.

you were still thinking about all of it when the ball ricocheted across the scrimmage line. still thinking when you pivoted to intercept, not noticing carly’s sprint until it was too late.

you remembered the moment in pieces.  the sharp twist of her cleat, the angle of her hip, the deliberate weight behind the collision that sent you crashing down. she hit you low. too low. too late.

you couldn’t prove it, but you knew it was on purpose. the way she looked at you when you hit the ground, the flicker of something smug in her expression before the medics were even called. she had always hated how much press you got. how coaches praised your instinct, how you never had to fight for minutes. jealousy made people reckless. sometimes it made them cruel.

and now you were here, sitting under sterile lights, the pulse in your foot screaming with every heartbeat.

“what’s the recovery window?” you asked finally, voice hoarse.

dr. vasquez’s expression softened, but her tone stayed steady. “if we’re aggressive with rehab, maybe six to eight weeks. but that’s pushing it. you’d be cutting it dangerously close.”

your stomach dropped. you did the math before she even finished.

“so i’m out.”

she didn’t say yes. she didn’t have to.

you leaned forward, burying your face in your hands. the shame hit first. then the anger. not just at carly, or at the injury. but at yourself, for being distracted. for letting manon live rent-free in your head while everything you’d worked for slipped through your fingers.

there were fifty-two days until the world cup.

dr. vasquez sat beside you, softening just a little. “i know this is hard. but if you push too soon, you risk long-term damage. you could make it worse. you could lose more than just this tournament.”

you nodded, even though every part of you rejected it. your fingers clenched the edge of the bench so tightly your knuckles ached.

“you’re going to have to sit out,” she said gently. “even if the team makes it all the way, it’s unlikely you’ll be cleared in time. i’m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t.

your whole life was built around movement.  training, matches, chasing the ball like it was oxygen. and now you were expected to watch from the sidelines while the biggest tournament in your career unfolded without you. 

all because you let yourself care about someone who didn’t even bother to check if you were okay.

‎ 

you didn’t cry until later.

not in the medical suite, not in the locker room when you sat numbly in your uniform for another forty minutes, not even when you hobbled to your car and stared at the steering wheel like it might tell you what to do next.

but later that night, with the lights off and your foot elevated on a stack of pillows, a half-eaten protein bar abandoned on the nightstand and the taste of metal in your mouth from biting down too hard on your molars.  that was when it cracked. when it finally all broke open.

it started slow. the kind of crying that barely makes a sound. a quiet leak of emotion that felt more like an exhale than a sob. but then it grew, sharp and raw, a frustration so tangled you couldn’t pull one feeling free from another.

you were furious. at carly, at your bad luck, at the way the world moved forward even when you were stuck standing still.

but most of all, you were hurt.

manon hadn’t reached out. not once. not even after the tabloid dropped. not after the photo. not after your injury, which was now spreading across headlines too. 

usa star midfielder suffers metatarsal fracture ahead of world cup.

it was too much. the noise, the silence, the pain.

so you shut it all out.

you turned your phone off. stopped checking your messages. stopped opening apps. even the sound of a teammate’s voice on your voicemail made your stomach twist.

the pain in your foot was manageable at first. dr. vasquez had prescribed a standard course of anti-inflammatories, mild painkillers. but it wasn’t just the break that ached. it was everything else. your body didn’t want to move. your head didn’t want to think. every reminder of the game, of the tournament slipping by, it all made your chest tighten.

so you took more than you needed. then something stronger. then something else altogether when the first bottle ran out.

days blurred together after that. your crutches leaned against the corner of your room, untouched for hours at a time. dishes piled up. emails went unread. you had your surgery, but rehab appointments were missed, then rescheduled, then ignored.

you told yourself it was fine. that you just needed time. that you’d bounce back.

but weeks passed, and you were still stuck in the same space. not just physically, but in your mind.

the silence between you and manon stretched like a fault line. neither of you said the words. neither of you reached across the gap. and maybe she had her reasons. maybe she was scared. maybe she didn’t know what to say.

but so were you.

what was there to say when everything you had built—  your career, your momentum, your carefully guarded heart— was crumbling around you, and the one person who made you feel less alone in all of it had disappeared without warning?

you were benched. fractured. falling into something you couldn’t name yet, not fully. not until the days started feeling like fog and the nights like nothing.

you had always been the strong one. the composed one. the one who never buckled under pressure.

but now you were slipping, and no one knew just how far.

‎ 

you didn’t hear the knock the first time.

it was the second, louder, more impatient, that made you jolt upright on the couch, a thin line of drool drying on the corner of your mouth. your ankle throbbed where it was still loosely elevated on a pillow, your muscles aching from staying curled in the same position too long. a sharp pain shot up your spine as you moved, and you cursed under your breath, blinking toward the door.

when you opened it, half-limping, half-squinting at the afternoon light, bea was already pushing her way inside.

“jesus christ,” she muttered, eyes scanning your apartment. “have you moved in the last three days?”

you didn’t answer. didn’t really need to. the answer was all around you. plates on the kitchen counter, unopened mail, a cluster of pill containers on the coffee table. a heating pad sat unplugged on the floor, next to an untouched resistance band draped across a crumpled pair of joggers.

bea toed a pile of athletic tape with the tip of her shoe, then turned to look at you, arms crossed.

“i texted you a dozen times.”

“i know.”

“and called.”

you nodded.

she paused, letting that hang for a second, before exhaling slowly. “okay. you want to be mad, you can be mad. you want to shut people out, fine. but i’m here now, and i’m not leaving until you stop looking like the ghost of someone i used to win olympic gold with.”

you looked away, your jaw tightening. “i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

there was no judgment in her tone. just fact. clear and simple.

you sank back onto the couch and ran a hand through your hair. your fingers brushed the edge of your temple, where a dull headache had been living for most of the day.

“my foot’s fucked,” you muttered.

“yeah, i figured.”

you closed your eyes for a beat. “world cup’s gone.”

“for now,” bea corrected, sitting on the arm of the couch. “not forever. you’ll get back there.”

“you don’t know that.”

“no, but i know you,” she said. “and you’re not the kind of person who gives up. or hides out like this. what’s really going on?”

you didn’t answer. not right away. bea gave you time.

finally, you said it. “i’ve been taking the meds.”

her gaze flicked to the bottles.

“more than prescribed?” she asked quietly.

your silence was enough of an answer.

bea sighed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “okay. look. i’m not here to lecture you. i get it. you’re in pain. physically, emotionally, whatever. but this?” she gestured at the mess, the closed blinds, the lingering haze in your eyes. “this isn’t you.”

you bit the inside of your cheek.

“you need to go to rehab,” she said, gently now. “not just for your foot. for your head. your heart. get back to feeling like a person again. you owe that to yourself.”

you stared at the floor. “i just… i can’t even think straight.”

“then let someone help you think,” she said. “start small. one step. you talk to dr. vasquez. you get back in the gym. you cut the pills. even if you don’t believe you can, just act like someone who might.”

your chest hurt. not in the physical way, not like your foot, but in the deeper, heavier way. like something caved in.

“she hasn’t even called,” you said suddenly. it slipped out before you could swallow it back.

bea blinked. “manon?”

you nodded.

“do you want her to?”

you didn’t know how to answer that either. 

it felt silly. no matter how many times you wracked through your brain trying to make sense of the hurt you felt, it never made sense. why were you so bothered? you weren’t even dating. manon had made it very clear that whatever you had going on meant less to her than it did to you. 

still, you knew the answer was yes. if the swiss girl was to call in that moment then, you would have answered without hesitation. 

after a beat, bea sighed.

“okay,” she said, softer now. “then leave that part. for now. focus on what you can control. your body. your recovery. get strong again. then decide what comes next.”

you let the silence stretch out again. not as long this time.

eventually, you nodded.

you didn’t say thank you. didn’t have to. bea saw it in the way you started stacking the pill bottles into a bag. in the way you pulled the blinds open an inch. in the way your voice didn’t break when you finally asked, “will you drive me to the clinic tomorrow?”

“yeah. of course.”

for the first time in weeks, you let someone help you.

__

‎ 

manon hadn’t planned to ghost you. not really.

when the tabloid dropped, splashing her name across headlines with words like “mystery lover” and “missing rehearsals”, her stomach turned so hard she almost threw up backstage. it didn’t matter that the photo was grainy or that she hadn’t missed a single scheduled rehearsal. what mattered was that katseye’s name was being dragged, and her face was at the center of it.

management was livid. not at her directly, not at first, but at the optics. they didn’t ask questions about where she’d been or who you were. they didn’t want the truth. they wanted control. so she apologized, bowed her head, promised to focus, promised it wouldn’t happen again. she cut off the distraction.

you.

it was supposed to be temporary. just enough time to let things cool down. she performed like everything was fine. every camera flash, every dance rehearsal, every note sung like her lungs weren’t filling with something heavier each day.

it worked. kind of.

the group dynamic stabilized again. management backed off. the scandal passed, replaced by some other trending story. the comments under katseye’s posts stopped mentioning the photo.

but something in her didn’t settle.

she felt it when megan looked at her for a second too long during vocal warmups. when sophia threw her a side glance during dinner, chopsticks paused mid-air. when she hesitated before asking if she was “doing okay” in the most nonchalant tone she could manage.

then one night after practice while the group was sprawled out in the dorm’s main room, pizza boxes open and a drama humming softly on the tv, lara finally said it.

“you know you’ve been weird lately, right?”

manon looked up from her phone, blinking. “what?”

“standoffish,” daniela added from where she was braiding yoonchae’s hair. “like, emotionally constipated but in french.”

“i’m literally fi—” manon started.

“you don’t have to lie,” sophia cut in gently. “we know it’s about her.”

for a moment manon didn’t say anything. she looked back and forth between the faces of the five girls looking back at her. all knowing, all patient, and all careful as if they were afraid the wrong word would set her off. 

manon then turned to sophia and megan pointedly, her face twisting up in betrayal. “you told them?”

lara interrupted with a soft shake of her head, reaching a hand out to gently grasp and squeeze manon’s knee. an action rooted in comfort and reassurance more than anything. “don’t be mad at them. we all kinda put two and two together. you were practically glowing after florida.”

“then you started moping after the tabloid,” daniela added, less accusing than concerned. “you ghosted her, didn’t you?”

manon didn’t answer, and they didn’t push. they didn’t need to. the silence said enough.

megan was the one who broke it.

“you should call her,” she said quietly, tugging her hoodie sleeves over her hands as if trying to make herself smaller. “it’s not too late.”

“yes it is,” manon snapped, the words escaping before she could stop them. too quick, too sharp, more reflex than thought. she wished she could pull them back the moment they were out in the air, but no one flinched. they just looked at her like they already knew she felt that way.

sophia leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. her voice stayed calm. “she probably thought you didn’t care.”

manon’s jaw tightened. “i do.”

“then tell her,” yoonchae said softly, barely above a whisper. “or at least let her explain. you owe her that much.”

and maybe they were right. maybe she did owe you something.

but the part no one understood, not even herself most days, was that caring about you terrified her. you were everywhere. in her chest, in the spaces between her ribs, in the long silences after the lights went down on stage and the applause faded and she found herself alone with her thoughts.

so she nodded. not to them, but to herself.she’d call. eventually. that was the plan. 

that was, at least, until the photos showed up. they found her in the middle of dance rehearsal.

her phone buzzed twice in her pocket before her instructor scolded her into checking it during a water break. and there it was. a text from megan with just a link.

she clicked it.

the article wasn’t long, but the headline was bold.

star midfielder y/n l/n sparks new romance? mystery woman spotted leaving rehab clinic with athlete.

and underneath it, a gallery of images.

you, stepping carefully down the concrete steps, a compression boot still strapped to your foot. you, shielding your face with a hoodie. and beside you, a woman. one hand steadying your back as you climbed into a car.

manon felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

it didn’t matter how innocent it might have been. didn’t matter how professional the woman looked.

she shoved the phone into her bag and didn’t finish rehearsal. didn’t wait for approval or sign out. just walked straight out the back exit and into the evening air, rage clawing up her spine and sinking deep into her shoulders. jealousy bloomed before she could even name it. bitter and sour and fast.

you looked good. better than the last time she saw you. like you were getting stronger. like you didn’t need her. and maybe you didn’t. maybe she’d made it that easy to walk away. to replace her.

she hated that she had no right to be angry. hated even more that she was anyway.

her fingers hovered over your name in her contacts. the one still saved under something stupid. not your full name. not even your nickname. just a little sun emoji, because that’s what you were. what you’d become. blinding. impossible to ignore.

but she didn’t call. you were still in the same city, at least for another few days. 

perhaps she should have. 

‎ 

by the time she was outside your hotel, she didn’t have a plan. she shouldn’t have come, she knew that much. bea had texted megan your hotel and room number, and one thing led to another. 

the next thing she knew, she was knocking on your door.

one knock. then another. then silence.

her hands clenched at her sides, her pulse screaming through her eardrums. when the door finally clicked open, there you were. eyes tired, hair damp like you’d just gotten out of the shower, wearing a hoodie that was too big and probably stolen from one of your teammates. your boot was still on. your expression crumbled the moment you saw her.

“manon.”

“who is she?” manon asked, skipping hello. skipping anything remotely human.

you blinked. “what?”

“the woman in the photos. is that what you do now? go from one secret to the next?”

your face paled. then hardened.

“you don’t get to ask me that,” you said quietly.

manon’s throat burned. “so it’s true.”

you exhaled like you were trying to hold it together, like the air itself was too sharp. then you turned your back to her, walking back into the room, and left the door open for her to come inside. 

she did.

when you opened the door you expected bea. maybe one of the team trainers, perhaps even room service. but the second you saw manon standing in the hallway in a zip-up jacket and baseball cap, mouth drawn tight, your stomach dropped.

“you could’ve called.” you said when she stepped in behind you, the door slamming shut. 

manon tugged her cap off and with it, the air shifted. it always did when she was close.

you didn’t speak and neither did she. not until her eyes landed on the overnight bag by the couch, your rehab paperwork half-tucked beneath it.  

“who was she?” manon asked, again, sharp. “the one in the photo. leaving the office with you.”

you frown. “it’s not what you think.”

it truly wasn’t. your rehab caseworker was a woman nearly twice your age, a woman with a husband and kids. she was helping you. 

truthfully, at this point you didn’t think manon even deserved the answer. 

“really?” she laughed bitterly. “because from here, it looks pretty obvious.”

your jaw clenched. you couldn’t begin to describe the emotions embroidering themselves into you in this moment now. anger. frustration. disbelief. you were angry at yourself for staring, for still being so inconceivably taken aback by her sheer beauty despite it all. you were angry for still finding her so breathtaking even after seeing her for the first time after weeks of silence. she ghosted you. she left you to pick up the pieces of something she left shattered. 

above that, you were angry she had the guts to show up and demand answers like you owed her anything.

you didn’t even bother asking how she knew where you were, you knew bea had something to do with it. 

instead, you scoffed. “you’ve got some nerve, meret.” you say her name with a kind of venom that made her flinch, even if she tried not to show it.

she took a step closer. “don’t turn this on me.”

you shake your head disbelievingly. “what do you want from me? you show up after leaving me in the dark, and expect me to welcome you in with open arms?”

“you think I wasn’t losing my mind watching my name go viral for something that wasn’t even real?”

real. you scoff, biting your tongue. the words you wanted to say begged to be let out. instead you shook your head. 

 “you didn’t have to disappear.”

manon laughed, hollow, like it scraped something raw inside her. “my career was on the line.”

“so was mine!” you nearly shouted, and the sound of your voice bouncing off the hotel walls startled you both. you closed your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. “but I didn’t ghost you. I didn’t pretend like none of it happened.”

“i wasn’t pretending,” she said, softer now, but the edge hadn’t fully left her voice. “i was trying to fix it before it got worse. management was on my ass. the girls were on edge. and then that headline—”

you shook your head, stepping away from her. your foot ached as you moved, but you didn’t care. the pain grounded you more than anything she said. you cut her off. 

“you ghosted me to save your image, fine. but don’t you dare come in here accusing me of anything.”

her eyes narrowed. “so you admit there’s something to accuse you of?”

your chest heaved. “no. i’m saying you don’t get to act like a victim.”

she was silent for a beat, long enough for the air between you to feel toxic. then she gestured toward the bag and the paperwork she’d seen. “what even is all that?”

“don’t act like you care now, manon.” you scoff. 

manon’s face twisted up with a kind of hurt that she felt in the core of her being. for a moment she just stared at you. she so badly wanted to say all of the things that plagued her mind the months you’d known each other. she wanted so badly to drop to her knees then and there, to swear on her life— her career — that not a single day had passed where you didn’t cross her mind. 

instead, her frustration got the better of her. 

“we weren’t even together,” manon snapped, eyes flashing.

“i know we weren’t.”

“we said it was just sex. fun.”

“yeah,” you said, louder now, “but it stopped being fun a long time ago, didn’t it?”

manon had nothing else to say. knowing that you felt the same way she did should have felt like relief. like a breath of air. instead, it felt bitter. it left a taste in her mouth she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to swallow. 

your words weren’t a confession, and she knew it.  

she swallowed. “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

you laughed. a melancholic, tired kind of sound that shook your body with the weight of all your pent up emotions. “then let’s just pretend like none of this happened. that’s what you wanted, right?”

the words hit their mark. you saw it in her shoulders, in the flicker in her jaw, in the way she wouldn’t meet your eyes now.

you stepped back, your boot knocking into the corner of the bed.

“go.”

manon grabbed her cap off the counter, turned to the door, and paused. 

“maybe this was a mistake.”

the door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality that sounded louder than the shouting ever had. and just like that, the room shifted. heavier, colder, emptier. the silence rushed in all at once, like water filling a void. you didn’t move for a long time. just stood there, breathing shallowly, your pulse still racing from everything she said. from everything she didn’t.

it wasn’t until your eyes dropped to the floor that you saw it.

a piece of paper, half-tucked beneath the corner of the nightstand. crumpled, like it had been carried around too long. worn thin, like it had been folded and unfolded over and over again. you weren’t sure when she’d left it. maybe when you turned your back, maybe before the fight even started.  but somehow, it felt like the loudest thing she’d said all night.

you hobbled over slowly, the pain in your foot barely registering now beneath the weight in your chest. when you picked it up, your fingers shook. the ink was faded in places, smudged at the edges, but the handwriting was unmistakable. familiar. careful.

i think i love you. –meret

you stared at it for a long time, something breaking open inside you with every second that passed. all the things she hadn’t said, all the chances you both missed, pressed into six quiet words. not a plea. not a promise. just the truth.

and it came too late.

__

‎ 

another week passed since your argument. you were still in los angeles, and there were now two days until the world cup opener. 

the stadium was completely empty, silent except for the distant hum of the city beyond the floodlights. you sat alone on the cold metal bleachers, the late afternoon sun sliding slowly behind the stands, casting long shadows across the empty pitch. the grass looked impossibly green, the goalposts still standing like silent sentinels, and every inch of the field called out to you with a quiet ache you couldn’t ignore.

you looked down at the note again, the ink smudged where your fingers had held it too tightly. the weight of those six words felt like a stone inside your chest, heavy but delicate all at once. then your eyes shifted to your foot. the boot had been taken off only a day ago, but every time you put weight on it, there was a sharp reminder that your body was still fragile. the pain was duller now, not enough to keep you off the field, but enough to remind you that your foot had betrayed you once, and you weren’t sure if you had forgiven it yet.

your team had made it through without you. barely. sitting on the sidelines, pacing the hospital halls with a phone pressed to your ear, hearing the whistles and scores secondhand had been a slow kind of torture. but somehow they had pulled through. by grit, by luck, and by sheer will. it should have been enough to light a fire inside you, something fierce and unbreakable, ready to carry you onto the field again.

but your mind was elsewhere.

you could still hear manon’s voice when your eyes closed. the way she had said your name in the hotel room, the way her frustration had cracked just enough to show something softer underneath. the fight had burned through every part of you, but it was the silence after that cut deepest. the click of the door, the empty room she left behind. it stayed with you like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

you knew katseye was still in la. you knew it was their final stop before they headed back to europe for an undetermined amount of time. you probably wouldn’t see her again for a while. 

in twenty minutes you had your final medical exam. it was the moment that would decide if you were really ready to play. you should be getting up, walking to the clinic, proving to everyone including yourself that you were ready to play. but your body refused to move. your foot still ached, but more than that, your heart did too. the ache in your chest pressed down like the cold metal seats beneath you, heavy and inescapable.

you almost didn’t register the feeling of someone approaching you. you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. the sound of her sneakers on the metal steps had been careful, deliberate, but not quiet enough to mask the familiarity.

“i thought i’d find you here,” bea said quietly, her voice floating down like it belonged to the quiet.

you didn’t turn around. not at first. the note was still warm in your hands, soft from how many times your fingers had traced its edges. you knew the creases by heart now, the way the folds had started to tear, the way her handwriting had smudged just enough to feel like a memory slipping away.

bea eased down onto the bleacher behind you, one row up, her elbows braced on her knees, eyes fixed on the same field you hadn’t been able to stop staring at. for a while, she didn’t say anything else. just breathed next to you, steady and quiet. then she hummed knowingly. “you’re gonna miss your checkup.”

her tone wasn’t urgent, but the weight of what she was reminding you of pressed in anyway.

you nodded slowly, the answer already formed before she asked. “i know,” you said. your voice came out low, but solid, like the decision had already rooted itself in you. “i’m not going.”

the silence that followed wasn’t surprised. it was careful.

“what do you mean?” she asked after a beat, not accusing, just trying to make sure she understood you.

you finally turned your head, just slightly, just enough to look at her over your shoulder. “i mean i’m not doing it. i’m not going. i don’t think i can.”

bea leaned back a little, her brow creased, confusion shifting into something quieter. “you’ve waited for this for weeks,” she said, not unkindly. “the whole rehab, the work, everything. all of it.”

you nodded again, the motion small but sure. “i know. but something in me still doesn’t feel right. my foot’s almost there, yeah, and i’m technically cleared to test it. but it’s not the pain that’s stopping me.”

she didn’t press you. didn’t speak. just stayed with you in the quiet, letting it stretch a little, like she knew there was more and she was willing to wait for it.

you took a breath and let your eyes fall back to the field, the light now golden and low. “everything else in me still feels shaky,” you said. “like i could take the field tomorrow and my body would show up, but the rest of me wouldn’t.”

you didn’t realize you were gripping the note until your thumb brushed over the paper again. the edges had curled, worn thin from the way you kept holding it like it might hold you back together.

“she left this,” you said, your voice quieter now.

bea glanced at the paper in your hands, then back at you. “how do you feel?”

the question sat in the air for a long time before you answered. “like i was halfway in love with her the second i saw her.”

bea tilted her head, her eyes gentle. “is it still there?”

“yeah,” you whispered. “it never really left.”

she looked down at her hands, then up at the empty field. “you know… we’ve both played through pain. done it for years. and i get it. sometimes you have to. but this?” she nodded at the note. “this doesn’t sound like something you should be playing through.”

you stayed quiet.

“you love her,” bea said, not a question this time, just a quiet truth placed between you.

you nodded again, barely, the motion so small it might’ve been missed if she hadn’t already known the answer.

for a while, all you could hear was the buzz of the stadium lights overhead, the slow groan of one flickering to life after another. the field looked too perfect, too green, too untouched. it felt like a painting, still and silent, waiting for someone to step into it.

“so why are you still here?” 

you exhaled slowly, staring straight ahead. “because if i miss this exam, i don’t play. and if i don’t play, then what was all of it for? the injury, the rehab, the sacrifice… what was the point?”

bea didn’t look away from you. she stayed still for a moment longer, then finally spoke again.

“maybe it wasn’t just for the game.”

you turned your head, uncertain.

“maybe it was for more than that,” she said. “for learning that your worth isn’t measured by the next match. for giving yourself permission to want something you can’t chart on a scoreboard. for figuring out that there’s a difference between playing through pain and playing like you actually want to be there.”

you looked down at the note in your hands again, your voice almost too soft to hear.

“i don’t know if she wants to see me. not after how we left things.”

bea didn’t hesitate. “then find out.”

“it’s too late,” you said, not with certainty but with fear.

“it’s not,” she said. “she’s still in the city, right? the tour ends tonight?”

you nodded, barely. “yeah. the bowl.”

“then you don’t need a plane. you don’t need a manager or a doctor or a pass. you just need to go.”

you opened your mouth, hesitating. “what if i’m wrong? what if i go, she doesn’t want to see me?”

bea gave you a look. not harsh. just steady. “then at least you’ll know you weren’t too scared to try.”

the stadium around you was still. the sun nearly gone now, the lights casting that familiar pregame glow over the field. the ache in your foot felt distant for once, like your body had finally decided to follow your heart’s lead.

“the medical team—” you started.

“i’ll cover for you,” bea said. “i’ll tell them you needed time. they’ll deal.”

you stared at her, overwhelmed. “why are you doing this?”

she gave a small smile. “because i’ve seen you fight for everything else in your life. now i want to see you fight for this.”

you blinked hard, throat tight.

“thank you,” you whispered.

bea stood with you, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “go,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “before i start getting emotional and ruin my whole cool persona.”

you let out a breath that was half laugh, half something closer to release. “too late for that,” you said, your voice shaky but warm.

and this time, when you turned and started walking down the bleachers, it didn’t feel like you were leaving something behind.

‎ 

‎ 

the show had ended, but the air still pulsed with it. every surface backstage hummed like it had absorbed the sound and refused to let it go. the concrete beneath your feet felt warm, as if it had held the energy of thousands of stomping feet and was still deciding whether to let it fade.

somewhere beyond the heavy doors, the crowd was still roaring. you stood near the back exit, just out of sight, half shielded by a wall of black storage trunks marked with shipping labels and tour codes. it smelled like sweat and vinyl and adrenaline. somewhere along the drive, bea must have called megan to give her a heads up that you were on your way. it was likely megan’s doing that you were let backstage without any hassle.

you hadn’t planned what to say. not on the drive over. not in the slow, stalling walk through the backstage corridor. your mind had been too loud and too blank at once.

your phone hadn’t stopped vibrating since you arrived, tucked deep in your jacket pocket. it buzzed again and again. the coaches, the medical staff, your name probably floating across a dozen group chats in varying degrees of concern, irritation, disbelief. you’d silenced everything. not because you wanted to be reckless, but because this moment didn’t belong to anyone else.

you needed it to be yours.

when the door opened from the far side of the stage, a fresh wave of cheers rolled in, muffled but still enormous. then the sound shifted. boots against metal, quick voices calling for clear paths, crew shouting directions over each other as the final load-out began. a golf cart beeped somewhere near the loading dock.

and then, in the middle of all that movement, she appeared.

manon.

she was walking with the rest of them at first, laughing at something, her head turned toward one of the other girls. her shirt clung to her back with sweat, her hair damp and tangled from the heat of the stage. her face was still flushed, bright from the lights, from the movement, from whatever high came with finishing something that had taken months to build.

you almost stepped back when you saw her. the way your breath caught felt involuntary, like your body had been holding it in anticipation for longer than you realized.

and then she saw you.

she stopped like she’d hit something.  like her whole body forgot what it was supposed to do. her mouth parted slightly. one step, then another, slower this time. the girls kept moving without her, unaware or pretending not to notice. now that you thought about it, you definitely didn’t miss the sly glances megan and sophia shot your way. but, before you could dwell on it, your attention was brought back to the woman of the hour.

the sound around you blurred for a second, not disappearing but dulling. like someone had turned the volume down on everything except the space between you and her.

her eyes stayed on yours, wide, searching. her lips moved before her voice did, like she had to try it out first just to believe it was real.

“you’re here,” she said. not an accusation. not even a question. just a quiet fact she hadn’t expected to say out loud.

you nodded. “i couldn’t miss this.”

manon blinked, slow and dazed, like she was surfacing from deep water. she looked exhausted, like the kind of tired that clings to your bones. but still, impossibly, unfairly beautiful. there was a glazed softness in her eyes, as if the stage had taken something from her and left behind a quiet kind of wonder. strands of hair clung to her damp temples, her breath still unsteady, and yet she carried herself with the kind of grace that made it hard to look away

you stepped closer, letting the words rise from the place where they had been buried for too long. she didn’t step away. you fished into your pocket and found the note she left you. not the first one where she thanked you for the good night together, but the second. you couldn’t shake its words from your mind no matter how hard you tried.

her eyes dropped to the note and recognition flickered across her face in an instant. her lips parted slightly, then pressed together as she swallowed. the weight of memory settled in her throat.

you hesitated for a moment, opened and closed your mouth. there were so many things you wanted to say. maybe an apology, an icebreaker to dull the hurt you made each other feel in that hotel room. instead, your words slipped out before you could fully register them, second nature.

“i love you.”

manon froze, her breath catching as if your words had cracked the stillness between you. for a long moment, neither of you moved. the air felt thick, heavy with everything left unsaid, everything too fragile to touch. then, slowly, her eyes lifted to meet yours. wide, uncertain, searching. a flicker of something raw and unguarded passed through her gaze, breaking through the stunned silence.

she swallowed again, voice barely above a whisper.

 “i… don’t know what to say.”

you continued so she didn’t have to. you take another step closer so that you were only a foot away, swallowing for the nth time since you arrived. you folded the paper delicately in front of her and placed it back into your pocket with the kind of care fit for gold. when you talk your voice is barely above a whisper, but she hears you loud and clear.

“you don’t have to say anything. i just needed you to know.”

manon’s eyes softened. you didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the way her chest slowly deflated like she was finally releasing a breath you hadn’t even noticed she was holding. her face relaxed, the tension in her body collapsing as if your words made everything right. as if suddenly, everything made sense. 

she closed the distance between you, her voice slow and careful as she lifted a hand to rest on your arm, hesitant. she moved with the softness of someone afraid their very touch would burn. she didn’t want you to pull away. 

“i didn’t want the world to ruin what we had,” she admitted, her voice soft and honest. “but i almost did that myself.”

you nodded slowly, feeling the tightness in your throat, the weight of everything that had passed between you. the words tasted bittersweet but true.

she reached out then, her fingers trembling just a little as they lowered from your shoulder and brushed against your hand. the touch was tentative, fragile, but it grounded you both in the moment. you didn’t rush.

“i love you, too,” she whispered.

it was all you needed to move.

when your lips finally met, there was none of the noise or flashiness you might have expected. no fireworks burst in the air, no grand gestures to announce your feelings to the world. instead, the kiss was steady and gentle, as if it had been waiting patiently for this moment to arrive.

it was quiet, a soft meeting of lips that felt like a secret finally shared between two souls who had been searching for each other in the dark. the warmth of her mouth against yours was steady and sure, offering comfort instead of urgency. it was a calm reassurance, a slow and deliberate connection that spoke louder than any shouted confession ever could.

the kiss deepened just enough to hold the weight of everything you’d both been carrying. frustration, hope, regret, love. it was like the first solid step after a storm, the foundation beneath your feet that had been missing for so long. 

when you pulled apart, her smile hit you like a burst of sunlight, lighting up her entire face. you barely noticed the soft rustling and muffled giggles as megan tumbled to the floor, caught off guard by the moment. she, yoonchae, sophia, daniela, and lara were practically piling on top of each other behind the corner, like a comically awkward tower of kids trying to sneak a peek at the kiss. their eyes wide and curious, they peeked around the edge in a jumble of limbs and whispered excitement, struggling to stay quiet but failing spectacularly.

even when megan clambered back up, embarrassed. even when manon rolled her eyes at them before turning back to you with a warm smile.

all you saw was her.

__

you didn’t win the cup.

the team barely made it out of the group stage before collapsing under pressure, slipping out of the tournament with a loss that tasted more like betrayal than defeat. the fine came quickly after. five figures. stern wording. a statement released to the press so the league could pretend like they were doing something about it. you didn’t necessarily expect that purposely missing your health examination would lead to such a big consequence, but you didn’t fight it. didn’t argue. didn’t even flinch when the payment went through. because the truth was, you didn’t regret a single thing.

being off the field meant time, and time meant manon. 

katseye had left for the european leg of their world tour two days after the tournament ended, and you went with them. not officially. not publicly. but you were there. slipping into venues through side doors, helping manon rehearse choreography by counting beats on your fingers, sitting backstage with a spare towel and gatorade like it was the most normal thing in the world.

the phone calls changed, too. they got softer. longer. manon stopped hanging up first. she stopped hiding behind excuses, stopped changing the subject every time it got too close to sounding like love. somewhere between paris and prague, you spent more time together. long train rides across europe, cheap hotel rooms between tour stops. the kind of nights where everything slowed down just enough for both of you to exhale. 

by the time the new season came around and you flew back to los angeles, the fear that used to wrap itself around manon’s ribs like wire had finally started to loosen its grip. the phone call confirming you were cleared to play the next season was celebrated, the two of you spending the night together in the best way you knew how.

carly wasn’t so lucky.

she didn’t just get benched, she got dropped. her contract terminated, her name wiped from the team’s socials like she was never there to begin with. the league didn’t offer an explanation, but they didn’t have to. everyone had heard the recording. it passed through group chats and newsrooms like wildfire. her voice, smug and casual, bragging about how she’d gone in harder than necessary during that scrimmage. said she was tired of you being treated like you were untouchable. like some golden girl. said you needed to be humbled.

jealousy cost her everything. and for once, you weren’t the one left picking up the pieces.

the season opener came fast. same stadium. same energy humming under the lights. bea’s same infuriating grin across the athlete tunnel as the crowd was already spilling into the aisles.  drums echoing in the distance, flags waving.

 but something felt different this time. like the tension had shifted.

katseye was there, dressed down in team hoodies and dark glasses. they weren’t performing this time, but rather watching. not for the cameras. not for a paycheck. just as fans.

manon stood at the edge of their section, fingers curled around the railing. her shoulders were straight, her posture easy, and stitched across her back in bold white lettering was your number.

fourteen.

you didn’t see her at first. you were too locked in. cleats tapping against the tunnel floor, eyes scanning the pitch. everything sharp and focused and familiar. until the sound shifted. a wave in the noise,  sharper, higher, a cheer that didn’t quite match the moment. and when you turned, she was there.

stepping down from the suite, walking toward the sideline like she belonged there. like she’d done it a hundred times before. her expression unreadable, her pace calm and sure. security didn’t stop her. the cameras didn’t look away. and when she reached you, she didn’t pause.

her hands came up to your face, warm and steady, and she kissed you. right there. in front of the fans. in front of the world. it wasn’t a stunt. it wasn’t a reveal. it wasn’t soft or hesitant or staged. it was real.

open. certain. hers.

the photos hit twitter before the first whistle blew. your name and hers started trending in less than ten minutes. a thousand different versions of the same headline began circulating.

 power couple. surprise romance. soft launch, hard launch, everything in between. it couple status: confirmed.

for a while, it felt like everything tilted off its axis. interviews you hadn’t agreed to. red carpet invites with both your names spelled wrong. paparazzi waiting outside practice and tabloids stitching together timelines that didn’t make sense. people fell in love with the idea of you before they even understood the reality. they cropped photos, made edits, wrote essays on your love like it belonged to them.

but beneath the noise, beneath the flashbulbs and thinkpieces, the truth stayed simple.

you chose each other.

even when it was inconvenient. even when the schedules didn’t align. even when you were halfway across the world, talking through time zones and static and exhaustion. when your bodies were too tired to move but your hearts still found ways to reach.

you fought for it.

and manon, who once thought being loved out loud would cost her everything, now wore your hoodie through airport terminals, took your hand in front of fans, leaned her head on your shoulder when the cameras flashed like she wasn’t scared of being seen anymore.

she hadn’t expected any of it. not the attention. not the weight of being talked about like you were something bigger than just two people trying to love each other the best way you knew how.

but when she looked at you, she knew she’d do it all again.

[writingwisterias]

Anon from the professional boxer Leon request, I have an idea 😍

One, he comes home from after a fight he lost, with a nasty black eye and a bloody nose, and we just tend to him and gently kiss his sweaty face while icing his eye. But he’s also like, all riled up too, shower sex.

I'M HERE I SWEAR ANON SORRY! I will not let boxer!Leon go. He's on my brain again finally... I hope you enjoy

Boxer!Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut MDNI, Praise Kink, soft Angry Sex? idk he's using you to calm down, Soft Dom Leon, Shower Sex, Implied Size kink, Semi-public sex, Porn with little plot

Who knew I just needed to sit in another room to be so productive and finish this off! Thank you @shymoob for proofreading again ily

Taglist: @senawashere @danigirls-missions @lxzy-bxby @074calicocat @gut1ess

You didn't need to mention the outcome of the match to him, there was no need to console him in the mistakes he had made. It was evident with the tension that laced his body, the words that spat out of his mouth to his manager, he already knew what he did. That he was already beating himself up with what could have been. There was no point in reminding him that he failed, it would just land you in the firing line of his anger and tension. Instead it was safer for you to follow him, despite being blinded by all the camera flashes and disappointed fans, all of them trying to get a word or glimpse of him.

Your hand covered your face to block, whilst the other hand was held tightly by him making sure to keep your body hidden close to his back. You could feel the hardened muscles through the dressing down he had draped around himself. The silk fabric decorated in his name like it was something to be proud of.

A polite smile was plaster on your lips, one of the kind that formed out of awkwardness. You could see the door you were both aiming for now at least, finally able to move from behind him as you both exited the tunnel. The same one he was bounding out of a few hours earlier eager and smiling, feeling like he was on top of the world.

With just a glance to his face you can tell the last half of the match the opponent had knocked his game up. The blood dripped slowly out of his nose, one of his eyes slowly swelling shut with the promising bruise that was coming into play. No one would bother either of you in here, the locker room after the match strictly out of bounds as it was the only way you could calm him down. Using both traditional and not quite traditional methods. The manager couldn't give a fuck, as long as he got his money from Leon and his head was screwed on for next available match. You were the stress reliever of his team and with his mood like this, your skills at the job were definitely going to be tested today.

Leon slumped on the bench first, a large frustrated groan leaving his lips as his palms rubbed into his eyes. You rummaged through the numerous bags he has in here, most of them being stuffed with many outfits for him to decide to wear in the ring. However, you were looking for the minor first aid kit whilst Leon began to shrug what little clothes he had left on. The robe with his name dumped carelessly on the floor, his surname in a satin font laid face up, glinting in the light. Leon refused to look at it, as if looking at the blue letters made him admit his defeat tonight.

You didn't miss the hiss of pain as he leaned back against the wall or the groan as the aches began to settle in now the adrenaline wore off. “I can't believe I lost,” he grumbled, another sigh rumbling through his body almost like a growl. Your fingers lifted his chin, guiding his features to look at you as you began to wipe him free of any blood. Leon's hands gripped your hips, holding you like a life line as he swallowed himself in self pity. His eyes avoided you, worried he wouldn’t see the love and affection that normally laced them compared to the alternative look of disappointment everyone else seemed to sport today.

“Everyone loses sometimes” you spoke softly, acting as if the man in front of you was but a wounded animal and you needed to be gentle so you didn’t spook him. Sometimes even Lions have to get their egos bruised every now and then. “I shouldn't have lost, the fight was easy. It should have been an easy win” his chin jerked from your hand, his eyes fierce with something you couldn't quite pinpoint. “Even so…I think you did well. You looked good” Your tone dropped to that sultry one he loved so much, his eyes watching as yours narrowed a smile growing across your pretty face. You were tempting him and who was he to refuse?

You watched eagerly as his own smirk grew, his touch slowly becoming more possessive as the fight of self-pity left him. His mind as it always did grew distracted by your taunting presence, the way your fingers worked softly through his sweat slicked hair. Playing with a few of the strands that fell in front of his face, curling them between your fingers as you looked down at him. His muscles rippled with temptations, stiffening his form as you touched his shoulders again. “You seem like you need a shower, maybe all the hot water will ease all your– tension” you whispered, your breath tickling against the shell of his ear. Leon smirked, his body towering over yours as he stood up. “Are you going to join me?”

“Did you even have to ask?”

His hand engulfed yours, the heat spreading throughout as he walked over towards the showers. Steam slowly filled the room, the warmth spreading throughout you faster as his hands went to the hem of his tight shorts. His hardened length is prominent through the spandex material. Your fingers twitched at your sides as you watched him pull them down his thighs, clearly flexing the muscles he had gained through his training. He was putting on a show for you, as if he was attempting to make up his sour mood to you. If there was one thing Leon never failed at it was ensuring you were never left unsatisfied.

His tip was beading pre-cum for you eagerly as he turned to look at you, his fist slowly working his length as he backed into the shower stream. You watched his eyes roll back, a his of pleasure escaping his lips as he worked himself. You felt targeted when he opened his eyes– watched as they raked over your body with lust and desire. “Seems a little unfair, sweetheart” He teased, his free hand gesturing to your current clothing situation as his other hand continued to pump himself. You watched his thumb move over his slit, gathering the fluid he was presenting you with.

You started with your blouse, the buttons already straining against your chest. He grinned as your breast became exposed, your nipples hardened against the mesh of your bra. Perked and beautiful craving for his attention. Your trousers were next giving him a little shimmy as you let them drop onto the tiled floor. You pulled the underwear away displaying your pussy to him– a light shine already decorating your thighs as your arousal pooled. “You were turned on before we got here, weren’t you?” Leon taunted, chuckling as your eyes widening before nodding sheepishly. “Your anger is hot”

“That so?”

You cupped your breasts as you approached him, now playing with your peaked nipples once they were free from the bra. Leon watched your actions, mimicking a similar motion with his tip until you were finally within reach. His hands left his cock to reach for you, his length twitching in the stream. Leon’s lips were upon your neck instantly, his hands gripping the flesh of your ass pulling you closer into his frame. He was hungry for you, desperate for a prize he should have won today.

He shouldn’t be here in the locker room fucking his frustrations out on you, he should be listening to his fans scream proudly, listening to the praises offered by his manager. Instead he got your needy noises, the sweet whimpers you offered him when he sucked against your pulse point. Whilst it wasn’t the reward he was expecting tonight, it was one he would gladly take. Leon hoisted you up, holding your weight as your legs wrapped around his hips. Your nails scraped his shoulders as they wrapped around his neck making his already battered skin. You hissed at the feeling of the shower wall hitting your back as he spun you both behind, his tip pressing against your entrance groaning as it fluttered at his slight intrusion.

“Such a good girl for me” He groaned, his lips finding your in a messy kiss again. You could feel his muscles tighten as he pushed himself inside of your pussy sighing thankfully at the feeling of you wrapped around him. His usual methods of foreplay forgotten as his desire for a release on the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t find himself to care at this moment. Not as your cunt squeezed the life out of his cock, the burning feeling flooded through the system as he began to move. “Squeezing me so tight – fuck girl” He grunted, the pain soon turning into the pleasure that only he could achieve.

He held you effortlessly, your weight never a bother. Leon’s head fell to your shoulder, biting and soothing the skin in a continuous battle. “Leon–so fuck–” You whimpered. Your nails left crescent marks in his skin, the biting pain you were causing him helped distract himself from the loss. The angry shouts of his fans, their hurtful words of disappointment fading away with your persistent whimpers and begs for more. You wouldn’t break on him, lose your faith in him like they would. Each flutter of your cunt was a praise, well done for all his efforts today.

You could feel his ass muscles clench beneath your heels as he pressed himself closer, forcing his cock deeper. His tip brushed against your cervix bullying his presence inside of your cunt. His mouth left bite marks as he felt himself grow closer, each spot feeling tender despite the kisses he left after. Your mind was filled with nothing but him, your body was filled with nothing but him but as your orgasm grew closer you didn’t care. “More” You begged, “Please”

Leon grunted, his cock twitching as he stilled his movements. He moved you both to the nearest bench, the sounds no longer muted as the shower faded to a stop. You began to bounce immediately, your slick body moving with ease as you began to chase after your high. Leon watched your tits, following them like a cat with a laser as you pushed them further in his face, your hands braced on the wall behind his head as you focused. “Such a good girl using me like that – makes me feel like I’m good for something” He cooed, his lips kissing the breast closest to his mouth before latching on. Pleasure shot to your throbbing core, his wisps of hair teasing your clit with every movement.

“You’re perfect” You moaned, slowing your bounce to a low grinding, following the pleasure his hair was giving you. Leon wasn’t going to stop you, not as his hands encouraged your slow grind pressing you further into his lower abdomen. “Leon–”

“That’s it, good girl, give it to me baby” he whimpered, his balls tightening. At his praise the coil snapped, your hips slowing their movements as your thighs shook with pleasure. Leon smirked before working your over sensitive body on his cock like you were some expensive fleshlight before with a final deep groan he spilled himself inside you.

The pulsing of his cock was beautiful, the thickness and length keeping the warm love he gave you plugged inside. Leon stroked your hair, cooing at you as you collapsed on his chest. Feeling used and useful in his huge world. “Fuck baby, so good for me” He whispered against your temple, pressing a kiss in the spot as well. You giggled against his form, relishing him in his lighter mood. “I’m proud of you Leon” You muttered against his neck. Leon stilled, his hips jolting his now softening length inside you as your words affected him more than he thought. “Really? Even though I lost”

“Yeah because I know you can still get up and win”

[quietstormxr]

Priority

Garrick Tavis x Reader

Summary: Anon Request: You thought you were Garrick's world, until Xaden ordered Violet's protection and that always seemed to take priority.

A/N: Mentions of torture, violence, spoilers for FW, small OS spoiler, angst

Word Count: 9k

Waking up to the bitter scent of healing herbs and the blinding white of the infirmary is not what you expected when you had gone to bed three days ago.  Eyes adjusting to the lighting, you took stock of your limbs and tested each and every one. Curling your fingers and toes, rolling your wrists and ankles, moving your head from side to side, but when you went to pick up your legs, the phantom pain came rushing back in fast and sharp. 

A moan escaped your lips unbidden as you tried to push down the reminder of the two lieutenants who had used you as their personal punching bag. This wasn’t the first time you’d been interrogated for RSC, but it was definitely the worst. And you knew there was something more to it than just RSC because you had been on your own. For three days, you were held captive, beaten, bruised, and broken all for what, you didn’t know. Or at least you think it was three days, but pain and mending seem to blend together when you have nothing else to focus on.

Finally opening your eyes fully, you look to the end of the bed and expect to see a familiar pair of hazel eyes staring back at you. Instead, you are met with an empty chair. 

Brows furrowing, you slowly hoist yourself to a sitting position to take a better look at the room around you. It is there and then that your heart absolutely shatters. Reality of everything slamming into you in a way that you never thought possible.

There’s no mistaking that no one had been in to see you. The area usually meant for visitors still as pristine as usual and no furniture out of place. But before you let yourself spiral, you make a promise to wait to confirm with the healers themselves. 

As if answering your silent call, a light blue uniform peaks around the door and comes toward you. 

“I’m glad to see you’re finally awake my dear.” A comforting smile breaks across the older woman’s face causing you to give her one in return. 

“Just need to check over a few things with you and then you can be on your way.” She continues her tone sweet, but actions clinical.

Before you can decide the better of it, the words have left your mouth. “Can I ask if anyone has come to see me while I’ve been in here?”

Sadness creeps into her eyes and the look confirms your suspicion before she even speaks. You give a slight shake of your head and tilt it up to try and stop the tears that are beginning to threaten. Pools of water coat every inch of your eyelids, but you refuse to close them and let a single tear fall. Not now at least. You only let your fragile heart break into pieces and know there isn’t enough glue in the world to possibly put it back together anymore.

Before long the healer has given you a few pain tonics and confirmed you can head back to your room. You take the bag and throw your torn and bloodied flight jacket over your arm and head back towards the riders quadrant hoping you can avoid everyone. 

Zinhal however decides that isn’t to be your luck. As you turn onto the landing for the second-year floor, the last person you wanted to see is standing right in front of you. A smile on his face has his dimple popping as he looks at you after pausing his conversation with Bodhi. 

Emotions swirl and you’re unsure if you want to punch him in the face or rip out his heart, just like he just did to yours. The hurt settling into your heart and dragging it to the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight.

Taking a deep breath as every piece of your shattered heart jostles against your chest, you look straight forward showing no emotion and head straight to your door. 

Before you can make it all the way to your room, the mountain of muscle that usually had your heart racing stands in front of you. Your eyes slowly rise and look back at the man who was your entire world. The dimpled smile still plastered on his face, he steps forward to take your hand and you immediately step back and avert your gaze.

“Hey.” He has the audacity to put his hand under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him. “I’ve been looking for you.”

At those words you let out a sardonic scoff. Clearly the cretin in front of you has no idea what he just said and everything you just experienced.

“Where have you been over the last few days?” Your voice is dry and void of emotion, but you still need the answer. 

He looks at you and furrows his brows before responding. “You know I was helping Xaden with the blades and saddle for Sorrengail. I’ve been in the forge with him.”

“Ah.” It’s the only thing you have to say to the man in front of you. Pulling your face from his hand, you sidestep him and begin walking to your room. 

Without turning around, you call out to make sure he won’t follow you. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed early. I’ll see you later.”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you shut your door behind you and lock it. Without hesitation, you pull out your book on wards and immediately start reweaving the ones you have. You pull every ounce of control you have left to change your wards to only allow yourself through your door. There is no doubt in your mind that Garrick will have a shock when he tries to come in, but at this point, you don’t care. Bitterness settles into your heart crawling like vines between your ribs with deep roots weaving between every bone.

Setting the last piece of power in place, you let yourself break. Sliding to your knees, every possible sound is drowned out by the sounds of your sobs.  You let your head hit the floor as you break apart. Your body unable to even hold itself up. Tears streaming in a torrent down your face and your breathing turning rapid and irregular. You try, but it’s impossible to control the shaking of your body with the violent sobs racking your heart.

It isn’t until you wake the next morning that you realized you never even made it to your bed and sobbed on the floor until the exhaustion tore you apart. Rising, you go to the mirror and look back at the girl staring at you in the reflection.

The eyes that greet you are puffy and bloodshot, but there is a vacant look where there used to be a spark of life. There is no brightness to the color of your skin, every ounce of sunlight seemingly bleached from your complexion. Purple bruises look as if they are indented under your eyes. The color of your irises once so vivid now muted and dull, empty and haunted. 

Closing them, you breathe in the heartbreak that has filled every pore of your skin. The breath feeling like its traveling through the broken glass of your lungs, sharp and unrelentingly painful. You know there is no way you can show the devastation you’re feeling, not in this quadrant, and not to all the people who told you that you were just another conquest. With a heaving sigh, you head to the bathing chamber and pray to the gods that you can wash away the grief as best you can and put on the face of a warrior. 

Though as the water begins to heat your cold skin, you feel the warm tide of anger rise with it. A fury buried deep beneath your heart begins to consume everything. Thoughts you had buried for so long burrowing deep in your very core. You finish dressing and immediately make your way back to your room and dress for the day, every movement sharp and harried. 

Putting on your tight-fitting training leathers, you tie your hair up close to your head and pin it in place. There’s no mistaking the blaze that has taken over your eyes a vibrant fire dancing in the previously muted color, dismissing the vacant look from before. Without waiting any longer, you tear your door open and begin the slog to the training room.

Your footsteps are heavy, thudding loudly against the stone floor as you march yourself towards the nearest punching bag. Each step is another strike of anger taking a bite out of your already tattered heart. The fire of your anger laid thick into the stones of the fortress.

“Feisty and wallowing today, are we?” The snarky question comes from the last female you wanted to see. 

You don’t give her the satisfaction of a response as you continue pushing past her down the corridor. At least you didn’t think you would, until you find yourself turning around and looking at her with Bodhi now next to her.

“He’s all yours Cardulo. I’m done with all of you.” Your voice drips venom, though if either one of them knew you well enough, they would hear the betrayal and sadness seeping through every syllable. 

Not taking another second to register what she could possibly reply, you immediately keep walking. Making your way into the gym, you quickly take up a spot at the nearest punching bag. Not bothering with wraps, you swing with every ounce of emotion you can possibly displace. White hot pain splits up your knuckles, but you relish in it as it replaces the agony tied around your heart.

Unsure of how long you’ve stood there delivering punches to the bag with all the force you can muster, you are startled when a large shadow appears behind you.

“What did that punching bag do to you?” There’s no mistaking the tease in his voice and it only fuels the fire within you.

“Fuck off, Tavis.” You spit to the man that is hovering over your shoulder. 

As you go to throw another wild punch, your eyes fly up when your fist is intercepted by the aggravating man’s large hand. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Garrick questions and his audacity to ask has you pulling back you hand as quickly as you can. 

“It’s none of your business. In fact, I’m no longer your business. Why don’t you go back to protecting your duke and precious charge and leave me the hell alone.” The rancor in your tone is obvious as you immediately twist away and head to the door. 

Before you can push it open, a gust of wind pushes you against the wall, taking the breath from your lungs. Looking up, hazel eyes are staring down at you mixed between disbelief and anger.

“You aren’t just going to say that and walk away. Tell me what the fuck is going on.” You can’t help the sarcastic laugh that falls from your lips.

“No.” Every bit of defiance is burning in your limbs, and you refuse to say anything more to the man who can’t seem to spare a minute of his day for you. Garrick stands there his eyes searching yours, though you know there is nothing but anger and emptiness behind your gaze. Your lungs begin burning as the fury rushes through your body.

His hand comes up to your face as if he wants to comfort you and you instantly slap it away. Garrick’s eyes flare at the action and you feel a slight satisfaction in the way the gold in his eyes seems to turn to worry. There isn’t any reason to worry though, not anymore, you think to yourself as you boldly stare back at him. 

“What happened?” Garrick’s tone has softened as he’s realized that there’s more to your actions than just simple aggravation. 

“If you have to ask, then you aren’t paying attention.” You snap; your tone refuses to soften after how many times this man has left you wondering your importance.

“Please tell me. I can’t fix anything if I don’t know where I went wrong.” The pleading in his voice tries to crack through the hurt that’s been living in your mind for months, but it just isn’t enough anymore.

“At this point, there isn’t anything to fix. You have your priorities and I’m not one of them. So, think of this as a boon. You now have more time to focus on your more important duties, Section Leader.” The sharpness of your voice cuts like a blade as you lay the final strike to your relationship. 

You watch as his gaze cracks, the hard exterior he always wears fractures and shows you the broken man he is becoming at your words. Part of your heart wants to reach out and comfort him, but the harder part of you, tired of being left behind wins. 

Taking advantage of his shock at your words, you quickly leave the gym, leaving the man that you used to think was your everything behind. The future that you had deigned to let run through your mind nothing but tattered shreds of a painting that was never allowed to form.

A few days later, you open your door, and your breath catches as you see Garrick’s frame standing outside, hands braced on either side of the threshold and a wild look behind his eyes. 

“What do you want Tavis?” Your impatience is on full display as you take in the mussed look of the man in front of you, the complete reverse of his usual calm and poised demeanor. His curls are wilder than normal, showing how many times he’s run his hands through them and there is no mistaking the pallor of his skin and sunken state of his eyes. 

“Why can’t I get into your room anymore?” He breathes as if it is the most urgent question he has. 

“Simple.” You reply, your tone remaining cool and detached. “We aren’t together any longer, so there is no need for you to have access to my room.”

His hand moves to reach for you, but he immediately recoils at the wards that encase your door.

“Let me in, please.” The pleading in his voice and eyes would’ve cracked your resolve once, but now it just steels your heart. Though it’s impossible to completely dismiss the sweep of your stomach.

“No. You lost that privilege.” You refuse to let him claw his way back in, tired of always feeling second best. “Why don’t you go crawl back to Xaden, maybe he’ll let you in with him and Violet, because I’m done.”

As if caught off guard, he backs up a step leaving enough room for you to stride out and begin down the corridor.  

“Wait.” His hand wraps around your wrist as you finally make your way out to the courtyard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You scoff at his question but turn around and look him in the eyes with every ounce of disappointment you’ve ever felt. 

“Did you know I was in the infirmary a week ago?” You watch as his eyes blow wide at the revelation, but all it does is fuel your rage.

“Precisely. Do you know why I was there? Oh, that’s right, you didn’t even know I was there so why would you know the reason?” You continue as you stalk towards the man. Even though he towers over you, the shadow of your bitterness is taller than any height he has on you.

“Are you alright?” He has the audacity to blurt as he looks your body up and down looking for injuries. The laugh that barrels out of you is nothing but cynical.

"Obviously.” You sneer. “No thanks to the man that supposedly loves me.” You don’t miss the way he flinches at your words.

Another sarcastic huff leaves you as you continue. “I was tortured by two lieutenants – alone - for three days, and in the infirmary for an entire day after that. But did the man that claims I’m his whole world show up?”

“No!” The roar that leaves you is louder than you expected, but your anger has exploded, and you can no longer keep it contained. Continuing to stalk into his space, you jab your finger into his hard chest.

“And I can see by the look on your face you didn’t even know.” Your bitterness is on full display now. “I always knew your allegiance was to Riorson and now by extension, Sorrengail. But I never thought it would be at the cost of even knowing I was fucking missing.”

“So, yes, this is the end of our road Garrick. Feel free to sow your fucking oats with anyone in the stables of Basgiath. I’m done. Finished. I refuse to be put last in the list of priorities for the man who claims that I’m his whole world.”

“I didn’t know.” The words leave his lips in the barest whisper as his stunned silence continues. 

“How would you when you’re constantly following Xaden like his loyal pet? And now Violet. Sure, every single marked one has her on their radar, but at what fucking cost? When do any of you get to have your own lives?” The control on your words has completely left you as you continue to barrage the man in front of you with every ounce of bitterness in your heart. “I understand you owe him everything, but is it at the expense of having a life yourself? At what point do you get to make someone else your world? When do you get to live for yourself?”

You’ve never seen the man in front of you speechless, but it seems like you have rendered his tongue from his mouth at his continued silence. You shake your head as you begin to step back from him. 

“Maybe this will help you in the long run, but no one is going to stay when they constantly must play second fiddle, even though a man claims you’re everything to him. Perhaps in another life we could’ve been happy, but I’m tired of always being your last priority.”

With that you let your feet carry you away from the man that you thought was your forever. You head to the flight field and only hope that you can outfly your own emotions. 

Weeks pass and you don’t miss the glances that Garrick is always throwing your way. You have done your best to put distance between the both of you and being in a different wing, it works, for the most part. Every time your name is called to the mat, you don’t miss the way Garrick steps up and watches your every move. 

In one particularly brutal match, you don’t miss the way that he goes to step in when you take a brutal punch to face. With blood spilling from a cut to your cheekbone, you turn away and stand on the other side of the mat an empty look on your face. 

Trying to get in and out of battle brief without getting trapped by him becomes almost impossible. It’s as if he has become a sentinel at the door and refuses to move until you go in and out. On one particular day, the short fuse on your temper has been tested all day and it takes every ounce of control you possess not to rip into him as you try to get into the class. The minute it’s over, you are the first one out the door before Garrick can even blink. 

The rawness of the day has taken every ounce of your control, so you find yourself walking out to the river in a bid to find a least a little slice of solace in this tumult of a life you’ve found yourself in. Sitting in the tall grass near the bank of the Iakabos, your head falls back on one of the stones and your eyes close relishing in the warmth of the sun on your face.

You let your mind wander as you try to let the warm glow of the setting sun and calming flow of the water become the only sounds and feelings left.

Unfortunately, it’s short-lived when you hear heavy footfalls behind you. Turning, your senses rise when you can’t see anyone behind you, but there is no mistaking the way the hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand at attention. 

“I know you’re there.” You call out to the copse of trees behind you, heartbeat erratic at what you aren’t sure is a threat or not.

In the next few seconds, your fear turns into annoyance as you register the person who has broken your solitude. 

“I’m not interested in company, Durran. Least of all from any of Garrick’s loyalists.” You snap in irritation, turning back to face the river.

Bodhi continues his trek undeterred by your words, if the sounds of his footfalls are any indication. Aggravation begins to peak as Bodhi stops next to you and joins you to sit on the forest floor. You let out a heavy sigh, laden with annoyance before turning your head to look at the man sitting next to you.

Silence stretches as you turn your head back towards the river and watch as the sun makes its final arc before setting.

“Why are you here?” There’s no way to hide the exasperation in your voice, tired of feeling like the one that always has to back down from your own anger. 

Bodhi slowly turns his face to you, as if he’s just registering your presence for the first time. But it’s the sad smile on his lips that has your own expression faltering. 

“I think you know why I’m here.” Bodhi finally pipes up, though his voice is subdued. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Garrick fall apart like this.”

His tone does nothing to quell the nerves that have seemed to bundle in your stomach, though you narrow your eyes in suspicion. 

“Garrick is a big boy. I’m sure he’ll be just fine. He just needs to find an open bed and he’ll be right as rain.” Your anger flaring at the possibility of this conversation.

Bodhi hums in acknowledgement of what you’ve said, though his entire posture remains in an unusual state of sadness.

“You’ve inserted yourself into a family of sorts, you know.” He continues, now glancing out towards the river, his composure turned thoughtful. “After the apostasy, we became brothers. The group of us clinging to each other to hold on to a sense of normalcy.”

“Though, Xaden took most of the burden. Which in turn, I suppose you could say, made him our de facto leader, not that he wasn’t before that.” Bodhi’s head falls slightly and begins to shake. “We’ve always let him deliver the orders. Let Xaden command us – but something you said to Garrick must’ve hit him hard.”

“He came to me the day after he tried to get into your room and failed.” He continues matter-of-factly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Garrick so worked up. Sure, he teases and ruffles people’s feathers, but I don’t think he’s ever had someone put him in his place so well. Never had someone to put things into perspective.”

You turn and look at Bodhi again, contemplation taking over your own features. “I like to think I’ve been patient. That I’ve been understanding, because I know about everything that has happened to your families. But I refuse to be the last priority for someone that claims to love me.”

At this point Bodhi turns and looks at you, the sad smile gracing his features again. “I know. And so does Garrick. You see the issue is not that you’re wrong. Because gods, even Garrick knows that you’re more than right. It’s really that this is the first time any one of us in Xaden’s circle has ever had to confront it.”

A dry chuckle leaves his lips. “I’m sure you’re aware that Xaden’s close circle isn’t known for their stellar relationship skills.”

You can’t help the sardonic huff that leaves you at the comment. 

“So that means you’ll also realize that you were the first one to push through the ranks and become the first outsider in our mismatched family.” Bodhi leans in and gives you a knock into your shoulder. “The first one to really stay that is.”

“I’m not sure your fearless leader would agree with that.” You murmur with a raised brow.

Bodhi’s nose scrunches, trying not to show feelings about his cousin. “He’s not exactly the person you should gauge that from.”

You scoff again and Bodhi gives you a knowing smile of his own. 

“But before you, there wasn’t anyone that any of us needed to prioritize outside of our own circle. Hell, most of the time we don’t even prioritize our own selves if there is something that Xaden demands.” You hum in acknowledgment knowing that you’ve seen that yourself.

“And you know Garrick, loyal to a fault. If someone asks, he’s there, possibly eating you out of house and home, but always there.” You both snicker at the mention of Garrick’s insatiable appetite. 

“Knowing that, you should know how torn up he is. Not only did he fail to know you were missing and hurt, but he let you fall through the cracks. Honestly – he’s probably pacing in his room right now beating himself over all the cracks that he created himself.” Bodhi continues, your chin drops to your upturned knees, and you let yourself rest on them. 

“I needed more than words.” You murmur quietly, tired of holding back everything. “I wanted him to show up for me. To show that I wasn’t last on his list for the day.”

“You’re right.” Bodhi agrees as he begins to stand. “It’s up to you if you are willing to listen to him or give him a chance at all to explain. But I wanted you to know that prioritization of our partners is something we will all need to learn, maybe even the hard way of losing the one we love. Though at the end of the day, we’re going to war, and no one knows if they are going to come home the next day – even Xaden needs to realize that.”

“And yes, Xaden is important to a lot of us, and we love him and the Sorrengail situation has added complications on top of everything. However, we can’t continue to exist on only protecting him and his interests over every relationship in our own lives.” Bodhi reaches his hand out and you bring yours up, allowing him to pull you to your feet as well. “If we stand any chance at happiness, we need to stand our ground for our own partners too.”

“So even if you never reconcile with Garrick, thank you. Thank you for saying what needed to be said, for vocalizing something we all need to realize.” With that Bodhi begins to walk back to the citadel. 

You begin to follow after him, but let yourself linger, taking the time to try and absorb every single word. 

‘Perhaps the cousin should be the leader. He seems to understand you humans better.’ You let out a snort at Stòlda’s comment.

‘Bodhi does seem to have a level head on his shoulders. At least he seems to realize that people have feelings.’ You comment though not really focusing on the conversation with your dragon.

As you get closer and closer to the citadel, you can’t help but feel the loom of the fortress settle in your bones. As tired as you have been since your latest torture session, you haven’t been sleeping well, phantom pains and hands keeping your mind running at night. 

Arriving at the second-year floor, you take a heaving breath, the tiredness of the day beginning to settle into your bones. For some reason though your feet begin to feel even more sluggish than before, every step taking an immense amount of concentration and physical strength.

‘Something isn’t right.’ You send down your bond with Stòlda, but everything about your connenction with her seems fuzzy. 

Before you can take one more step your world goes black and muffled voices ring through your mind, but you can’t make out a single one. 

__________

Waking up to an uncomfortable pull between your shoulders, you try to bring your arms forward but as you tug, the rough pinch of rope jerks at the skin of your wrist. Letting out a hiss of pain, you open your eyes and all you find is a room of roughhewn stone in front of you. 

Scanning the room, the only light emanating in is from a small window that is halfway to the only door. Confusion is the only thing that registers, aside from the pain between your shoulders and the rub of the rope on your skin. 

Distant sounds of roars and the clash of metal has your head spinning, eyes darting left and right, though there is nothing for you to see being strapped to the chair you are in. Suddenly you register the loud pound of boots outside the door and your eyes focus, waiting for whatever danger is lurking.

A reverberating kick to the door has it splintering and you close your eyes to the onslaught of wooden shards.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” An all too familiar and cruel voice drawls from in front of you. 

Drawing your gaze forward, there’s no way to hide your sneer of disgust. Your head rises as the menacing figure drawing forward, but you don’t back down from holding your head proudly.

“I never thought we’d have the marked one’s whore for a target.” The masculine voice continues to sneer as he comes face to face with you. There’s no mistaking the disdainful visage in front of you, not since you’ve spent more than enough time trying to rid yourself of him. 

Kol. Second Wing’s resident menace that has caused more than his fair share of deaths in the quadrant. A bully who came to the quadrant for gore and power, not the ability to help anyone.

“I never thought I’d be subjected to your disgusting face, but here we are.” The words barely leave your mouth before the burning sting of a hand bursts across your face, head thrown to the side from the impact.

The coppery tang of blood coats your tongue and you gather everything you can and spit it directly in his face. His eyes flash and you pull on your restraints again trying to stop him as you register his fist coming up to punch you in the face. Unfortunately, the bindings have no give and the only thing you can do is take the blow. A strike of pain, hot as a branding iron flashes over your eye socket causing a moan to escape as your vision begins to blur.

“Not so tough now when your personal guard isn’t around, are you?” Kol mocks as he begins circling the chair you’re tethered in. 

Even with your right eye swelling fully shut, you stare at him through blurry vision not willing to back down.

“Must be tougher than you since you had to wait until I was tied up to attack.” You taunt, though clearly that was the opposite of what you should have done. 

Rage burning in his eyes, Kol unsheathes the dagger at his waist, and you rear back as he drags the tip down your arm. A muffled cry climbs your throat, but you refuse to open your mouth and let the sounds become any louder. 

“I’m going to have a wonderful time breaking you, inch by inch. You’ll be begging me to stop before I’m finished with you.” Your eyes flash at Kol’s sadistic words, but you refuse to back down and succumb to his incessant taunts.

Concerning quiet has suddenly settled over the room you’re in and it brings Kol’s focus back to the door he had come through. Brows furrowing, you try to place if you did hear another pair of boots or if it was just the ringing in your ears. 

“Now where were we?” Kol jeers as he slowly draws the dagger across your face. “Ah, yes, I believe we were just about to get started.” The vicious gleam in his eye has your fear ratcheting, but you refuse to let it show. 

“And I believe you’re about to die.” The voice breaks through the quiet so low and menacing you feel like you may have dreamt it. 

Turning your head from Kol, you squint with your good eye trying to make out the figure in the doorway, but all you can register is the man’s tall frame. 

The sinister smirk that graces Kol’s face makes you realize it could only possibly be one person.

Garrick strides forward and the glint of sunlight catches on his sword as he holds it out in front of him. You try to get a clearer picture, but no matter what you try, your vision remains blurred. A jolt of panic rises through you as the familiar clink of blades meeting makes your pulse begin to race. 

Here you are, tied to a chair with no access to your power or dragon, so you’ll be absolutely nothing but a liability. 

“No, Garrick! Just go. You don’t need to worry about me any longer.” A male grunt registers, but the clash of steel still sings through the air. 

There’s no response from either man as you hear the continued grunts of a fight and clang of metal. Though your worry grows when you hear a groan of pain and the unmistakable tear of flesh. 

“Garrick!” You heave, trying to control the panic rising, continuing to pull on your restraints. “Are you alright?”

Another grunt is heard before the decisive thump of a body hitting the floor is heard. Your heart beating erratically and your breathing shallow, you continue to pull on your restraints even through the burning pain that has rubbed your skin raw.

Booted footsteps sound and your shallow breathing continues as you can only pray that Garrick is the one approaching you and not Kol. A slight whimper leaves your lips as familiar fingers trace your jawline and come to rest on your chin. 

Without removing his hand, your wrists are freed and your shoulders sag at the sudden relief. Before you can take stock of the rest of your body, you feel yourself being picked up and cradled into a strong chest. 

“You don’t have to carry me. I can take care of myself.” You retort, but there’s no bite to the words. They fall short of their aimed target.

“I am more-than-aware that you can take care of yourself.” Garrick replies with a softness in his voice you’ve never heard before. “But no matter where we stand, I will always want to take care of you. Even if my previous actions may contradict that statement.”

You don’t reply to his words, unsure in the moment of what to say, so you let you let your words drift to safer ground.

“How did you know I was here? How did you find me?” The words come out quieter than you expected.

Garrick takes a considering pause before replying, a soft huff leaving his lips. “If you think after the last month that I don’t know where you are at every moment of every day, you’re fooling yourself.”

A sardonic scoff leaves your mouth at this words, but you won’t deny that the conviction in his tone doesn’t have you intrigued. 

“Seems silly to keep tabs on someone that you aren’t with any longer.” Your lips thin as the words slip out before you can stop them.

Your body slightly jostles as Garrick comes to a stop. “I know you may not believe me. Honestly, after everything, I wouldn’t expect you to, but you haven’t stopped being the singular most important person in my life.”

You try to focus on Garrick’s face as he keeps speaking, but your vision still refuses to clear. “This isn’t the time to have the whole conversation that I want to have with you. But I need you to know that if you will let me prove to you that you are my priority, I will not let you regret it.”

Without waiting for your reply, Garrick begins walking again and soon the warmth of the sun greets you. The swift kick of the wind licks at your face, as well as the sounds of wing beats. It’s the sudden realization of everything going on around you that causes you to gasp.

“I can’t feel Stòlda.” You murmur to Garrick, unsure of if anyone else is around. 

“What do you mean you can’t feel her?” Garrick questions with clear worry in his voice.

“Exactly that. I woke up tied to that chair and unable to feel our bond.” Garrick’s grip tightens on you as you hear the distinct sound of wings getting closer and closer.

“Let’s get you to the healers as soon as possible and I’ll find out what’s going on.” Garrick confirms, clearly beginning to mount Chradh.

“Are you sure Chradh is alright with you carrying me?” You can’t help but question, trying to pull out of his grip.

“Of course he is. He knows how much you mean to me. And besides, Stòlda ordered him to bring you to safety.” As he finishes, Garrick carefully plants you in the seat on Chradh’s back in front of him. 

Wrapping his arms tightly around you, he grips the pommel in front of you, not letting you jostle in any way. You close your eyes at the onslaught of the wind against your battered face, turning your head as far into Garrick’s shoulder as you possibly can to conceal yourself, to push away the sharp sting of the wind. You try not to breathe in the familiar scent of the man that has you wrapped in his arms, but its impossible to ignore the scent of leather, steel, and something distinctly him, a comforting presence that you loathe to have to give up again. Involuntarily, you take a deep breath, inhaling him and the strength that he radiates, every inch of him a balm to your frayed nerves. 

Even though every movement he makes is completely controlled, there is no way to mistake the rapid heartbeat thumping through your ears. You don’t let yourself get wrapped up in the thought, because its most likely just from the adrenaline from the fight. Soon enough, you feel the pull of Chradh’s wings as he begins to slow and land. 

Garrick unwraps his arms and you go to begin to lever yourself off of Chradh, but before you move two steps, you feel the way the brown dragon begins to shift even further to the ground. Unsure whether to move or not, you stand still until Garrick’s caloused hand is gently guiding your arm down. 

Vision still blurry, its impossible to truly make sense of the people standing around you, but the next voice you hear is unmistakeable. 

“Tavis, take the egg. I need to check on Sorrengail.” Xaden’s voice booms over the chaos that is breaking out around you, his strides towards Garrick carrying a weight that you never miss.

“No.” Garrick’s voice carries an edge of steel, firm and unyeilding, something that you’ve never heard before, especially not directed at Xaden, his best friend and superior officer. “Get Graves or Scharf to deal with it.”

There’s no missing the look of venom Xaden sends Garrick’s way, even with your terrible vision. “I said take the egg, that’s an order from your Wingleader.” Xaden’s voice hardens, an edge that dares Garrick to defy him. The air between them turns charged, the tension building like a storm cloud.

Not wanting Garrick to be punished or let this get out of hand, you start to maneuver your legs out of Garrick’s hold, but instead of letting you down, he only holds tighter.

“Stay right where you are.” Garrick directs at you, tone gentle, though his focus never leaves the glaring Wingleader. 

“She’s more important than that damn egg.” Garrick continues, his tone never losing the steel, the tone of immovablility. “And this time my priorities will be clear. Sorrengail is your responsibility, as Y/N is mine. I’ve come to heel regarding Sorrengail too many times at her expense. I won’t do it anymore.”

Without waiting on Xaden’s response, Garrick’s steps continue towards the fortress, controlled and measured. Each click of his boots a smattering of both pressure and relief.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Garrick. I can get someone else to take me to the healers.” Your tone is quiet, tired, beaten down. The adrenaline and energy from the battle beginning to drain from your body. 

Looking up to Garrick’s face, you can see the muscle in his jaw feather as his footsteps begin to slow. Your arms drop from around his neck as you try to move away from him, but before you even have an inch between you, Garrick’s grip tightens again. His hands keeping you firmly tethered to his side, his eyes coming down to stare into your own.

“You aren’t getting anyone else to take you. You aren’t leaving my side. And I don’t give a fucking shit if Xaden never talks to me again.” His feet begin moving again and before you have the chance to reply, the familiar scent of the Healer’s Ward comes floating through the air. 

Garrick walks confidently to the nearest open cot, before he steps away to beckon the nearest healer. 

“Oh my dear.” A sweet female voice floats through the air. “I didn’t expect to see you in here again so soon. Though I’m glad there’s someone with you this time.”

You give her the semblence of a tired smile, but there’s no warmth there. Nothing happy fills you as you wait to hear the retreating footsteps of Garrick’s boots. 

She stands in front of you checking you from head to toe, taking time to put a salve on your swollen eye. “I’m going to get Nolon and see if he can assist with taking away some of the inflamation so you can at least see out of one eye.”

“Before you leave, can you also ask if there’s something that was given to me before war games?” Your tone comes out pleading, the silence in your mind between you and your dragon weighing on you. “For some reason I’m unsure of, my bond is gone. Or it feels like it has been severed somehow.”

The healer looks back at you, a look that says she knows exactly what you speak of and that she doesn’t agree with it one bit.

“I’ll get everything you need while I find Nolon. We’ll get some of your vision back in order and you’ll have your dragon back in no time.” She says with a confidence you don’t feel.

Shaking your head in acknowledgment, you let your head fall back to the pillow behind you, eyes closed to keep away the blur of your vision. Taking a deep breath, you try to keep the emotions roiling inside at bay. There’s no reason to cry, or to rage, you know that it won’t fix anything in your failed relationship. 

The quiet of the ward greets your ears and you try to breathe through the hazy thoughts of the day, but warmth gliding over your hand has your eyes popping open. 

Mouth widening slightly, you look up to see the blurry figure of Garrick standing over you, his fingers intertwined with yours, stroking the back of your knuckles. 

“You – you can go.” You confirm, your voice small, even to your own ears. “I’m sure you have more important things to tend to.”

The stroking on your knuckles comes to a quick halt and you close your eyes, not wanting to watch Garrick turn his back on you again. But your eyes open again when you feel the bed next to you dip and a warm, calloused hand cup your cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Garrick’s voice is quiet, subdued in a way you’ve never heard before. “I heard everything you said. And I saw everything you didn’t.”

He starts, but stops in a way that indicates he’s unsure on how to continue.

“I failed.” He exhales. “Failed you spectacularly in every single way I could.” He shakes his head as if unbelieving of his own actions. The movement causing your throat to catch, unsure of where this conversation is headed.

“I took advantage of the fact that you’ve always been able to take care of yourself. Always been strong, even before you were mine.” He scoffs, irritated with himself. “But I took your strength for granted. Made it mean that you didn’t need me, not really. Not in the way that mattered.”

“I chose to make our relationship secondary. To let you bleed to the back of my life, when in my mind you were always the front.” Garrick’s thumb begins to stroke your cheek as his voice becomes reflective. “In the end though, my actions spoke far louder than any of my words. I told you that you were my world, and you still are. Always will be. But I never treated you that way. I never put you before what I considered my duty.”

Rising from the bed, Garrick begins pacing, as though the words can only come if he keeps moving, if he keeps himself in the reflective moment he seems to be caught up in.

“I’ve always followed Xaden. Always been his right hand. Just like my dad was Fen’s. But never once did I ever stop and really look to see what that meant. How the rest of the people in my life fit into that dynamic. Never had to.” He pauses, eyes coming back to find yours.

“That was until you came around.” He says coming back towards you. “Not until you made me begin to question things. Question what I was trying to prove, why I was always the one following orders, not giving some of my own. I let my own life fade into unimportance, everything that wasn’t detrimental to the mission quickly forgotten.”

“You taught me that. The way you left me standing in the courtyard, devastated that the one piece of my life that truly mattered slipped through my fingers at my own doing.” The way his eyes glaze begins to pull at the ropes tied tightly around your heart. “Every single moment of happiness that I’ve experienced with you drowned out by the realization that I tore everything apart. The weight on my chest from not knowing you were hurt, not knowing that I could’ve lost you and I would’ve been none the wiser. I’ll never forgive myself.” 

Its then that the healer comes strolling back in, causing Garrick to step back away from your cot.

“Sorry to disturb.” An aged male voice greets as you see Nolon walk into the room behind the healer. “But I’m sure you’ll both be glad to get back to the rider’s quadrant quickly after this. After all, I believe there will be raucous celebrations tonight.”

You give him a tight smile as he stops when he’s flush with your cot. “I’ll be able to calm some of the inflammation, but the bruising will still be there for some time. But before we begin, go ahead and take this.” Nolon finishes as he brings a small vial forward with a clear liquid. 

You nod your head in understanding and take the vial from him. Knocking the liquid back, you swallow and lay your head back down and he raises his hands to your face. The power of mending begins to pass through your body and there’s no way to stop your body from tensing through the pain. Your jaw clenched, your hands fall to the sheets below you, and you grip them with white knuckles. 

The feeling of a large palm covering your hand has you releasing its tight grip, but soon regaining it intertwined in Garrick’s hand. You try not to squeeze too hard, but as the zip of mending continues the pulsing pain around your eye, you can’t help the whimper of pain. Though instead of your hand tightening further in Garrick’s, his curls around yours harder as if trying to take the pain for himself. 

A few more minutes tick by before the magic around your face begins to fade and you are able to open your unaffected eye with clear vision. As you blink the sting of tears away, you are finally able to see Garrick clearly and you can’t help the way your breath catches at the sight.

Gone is the stoic leader who exudes power and strength, in his place is a man that looks wrecked from sleepless nights and personal torment. It’s impossible for you not to reach for him, your hand that he still has in his pulling him forward. Your other hand rises as he shifts to his knees next to your cot and goes to his face, cupping and stroking his stubbled cheek. Garrick surprises you by leaning into your touch, his eyes closing at the tenderness you’ve given him. 

Your vision narrows to the sorrowful man in front of you, your eyes unable to move from his dim ones. Eyes that normally shone a bright gold and flecked with greens as deep as emeralds. The color has now dimmed to a dull honey, every single speck darkened to almost black. 

“How did we get here?” You voice comes out as a rasp, a sound unlike your normally smooth tone. 

Garrick’s eyes close as if overcome with emotion from your question. 

“Letting anyone or anything come before you will always be my greatest regret. I just hope that someday, somehow you will be able to let me atone for every way I’ve failed you. Failed us.” The spark of hopefulness in his words put a sad smile on your face. 

Garrick continues to burrow his face in your hand, a man starved for the only touch he’s been craving. 

“What about Xaden and Sorrengail?” You ask, the question the thing that keeps you from willingly folding into the arms of the man in front of you.

“I’ll always try to protect them both, but I refuse to do it again at the expense of you. As I told Xaden, you are my responsibility. The only person I want to take care of.” He exhales the breath he seemed to be holding. “Never again will you feel like you aren’t my priority. Never again will you think you are less than the most important person in my life.”

Your hand snakes around the back of Garrick’s neck and you pull his face to yours, resting your foreheads together. 

“Then take me back to my room, Section Leader.” There’s no mistaking the way Garrick tenses in your arms, his entire body ready for a blow that you know will never come. You can feel the way the wind whooshes out of him, an exhale believing that you are completely lost to him. 

Garrick slowly nods and begins to stand. He holds his hand out and helps you rise from the cot. Wincing as the pull of the mending tugs at you, but you hold steady on your feet. 

The silence between you grows thicker and thicker as you both continue back to the riders quadrant. Garrick’s footsteps click, though you can hear the hesitation in even those. As you ascend the stairs, his hand tightens on yours, the last seeming vestibule of your relationship that he is trying in every way not to lose. 

Entering the landing of the second-year floor, you trudge to your door, pulling along a hesitant Garrick. You let your hand turn, the click of your lock unmistakable and Garrick pulls in a shaky breath behind you. A small smile gracing your lips, you pull him forward, his brows pulling in with confusion. 

“I’m giving you a chance.” You state with conviction, turning as Garrick continues to grip your hand as a vice. “One chance. Prove yourself. Prove that you will put our relationship and yourself before the weight of the rest of the world, because at the end of the day, the world will only crush you if you let it.”

Before you have time to blink, your breath leaves your lungs as you are tugged against a hard chest. Garrick’s arms encircling your waist in a punishing grip, his face buried into the top of your hair.

“I will spend every day proving that you are my priority. You are my one love, my partner and the singular person I will drop anything and everything for.” The words rush out of Garrick, the singular conviction in his tone obvious.

Backing up one step, you are caught off guard again when Garrick’s lips slam into yours. The kiss claiming in a way that you’ve never experienced before. The desperation, hope, and utter happiness leaching through every movement of his lips on yours. 

He lifts you up by your thighs and your legs instinctually wrap around his waist, his strong arms balancing your weight with ease. A smile breaks out over your lips and as you part, you don’t miss the dimple, that is your undoing, making an appearance. 

Your hands stroke his cheeks as you watch the light slowly climb back into his eyes, the tension seeming to melt from every pore. Smiling back at each other, you refuse to focus on anything but the hope that has settled in your bones. 

Hope for Garrick’s commitment. Hope for peace. Hope for your future. And finally, the hope that you will never be without the man you’re wrapped around ever again.

Divider: @empyreanevents

Taglist: @ilovetomtailor @nevermoresworld @nastylicious @iambored24601 @mysticalfuncollectorus @sadpieceofbread @alwayshave-faith

[nymphoniah]

hellooo :33 i've been thinking about old man!logan lately.. could you do something nsfw (specifically overstimulation?) with him and a crybaby!reader? thank uuu!! 💌

pretty when you cry | logan howlett

pairing: old man!logan x crybaby!reader

AN: you absolutely read my mind, anon..! the way in which i need old man!logan is actually concerning to feminism. like im gonna actually go feral. but anyways, hope you enjoy this little self indulgent drabble! <3

content/tags: nsfw, minors DNI, overstimulation, spit as lube, oral sex (female receiving), daddy kink, implied age gap (logan is over 200, reader is in their 20's), afab!reader, swearing, pet names (princess, babydoll, etc.), porn without plot, dacryphilia

there he is kneeling at the edge of your bed—salt and pepper beard glistening with your arousal, his lips placing wet, sloppy kisses against your clit.

he ate you out like a starved man; his tongue was flattened, lapping adeptly between your folds, occasionally pulling away to catch his breath, then continues to work at your cunt.

“so fuckin’ wet for your old man,” he groans out against your womanhood, his hips thrusting into the mattress to feel any sort of friction against his cock. “feels good, huh princess?”

logan teased your entrance with the tip of his tongue, licking a stripe from your sopping hole to your clit, then back downwards. he’d continue this motion, making sure to nudge his nose against your clit every so often.

“s’too much logan,” you whine out, gripping at the tufts of his hair, his beard prickling the soft plush of your inner thighs.

“she can handle another orgasm,” he mumbles against you, speaking to your cunt. he pulls away to admire the mess he’s making of you, and a smirk forms across his face. “isn’t that right, babydoll?”

hastily, he spits on your clit, and his stern eyes watch the way his saliva leaks downwards on your cunt. “such a dirty fuckin’ sight” he grunts, moving his face a mere centimeter away from your womanhood.

he blows air gently against your cunt—the cool breeze of his breath contrasted the ever raging heat you felt down below, sending a shiver down your spine.

your eyes tighten as you hiss out in frustration. logan notices this and lets out a small chuckle, seeing the way you squirmed underneath him.

the calloused pad of his thumb runs between your folds, collecting his spit, bringing it back to your clit. he rubs lazy circles against your bundle of nerves, paying sweet attention to how you writhe.

“can’t do it lo,” you whine, tears forming at the the corners of your eyes from how tight you were shutting your eyelids.

“‘course you can, darling” he encourages you, his broad arm stretching over your torso to reach your face. he cups your cheek with his free hand, his thumb brushing away the tears that continued to fall down endlessly. "y'look so fuckin' perfect like this, all ruined for your old man"

“i know you got another one in you, doll.”

at this point, your brain is all fuzzy; you couldn’t form a coherent thought, and you could only babble logan’s name—or rather, the words daddy… s’too much… fuckin’ can’t…!

“make your daddy proud, darlin,” logan coos, his thumb now rubbing tighter, faster circles against your clit. his mouth finds its way back to your entrance, and he’s now fucking you with his tongue.

as his nose bumped against your clit, along with the added pressure of his thumb, you were a whining mess beneath him. all you could think about was how badly you needed to cum, regardless of how fuckin’ bad it would hurt.

tears rolled down your cheek, leaving splotches of gray against the silky white pillowcase you lay your head on—eyes shut so tight you could see stars floatin’ around.

with a couple of more flicks of his heavy tongue, all of a sudden, that pain transformed to an insurmountable amount of pleasure. “logan..!” you whined, pulling his face closer to your cunt.

“what d’ya want from your old man, huh?” he grunts against you, rutting his hips faster against the mattress, trying to chase his own release. “ask like a big girl for daddy”

“need to fuckin’ cum…” you whimper out, “please daddy, please let me..!” logan smirks against your folds before pushing his tongue deeper, hitting that sweet spot that pushed you past your breaking point.

your velvet walls tightened around his tongue, and he lets out a primal growl at the feeling. your slick coated his mouth, his beard—fuckin’ damn near his entire face.

his thrusts eventually came to a halt, but he continued to lap at your cunt, making sure not to waste even a single drop of your arousal.

as he finally withdrew his face from your cunt, he rested his cheek against your thigh, his gray sideburns tickling your soft skin.

his hazel eyes bore into your own. the intimacy of the silence allowed you to take in the moment and collect yourselves.

letting out a deep sigh, you run your fingers through his silvering hair, tangling the strands between your manicured fingertips.

“knew you could do it,” he murmurs, his tone of his voice deep and sultry. “now doll… what do you say to daddy?”

you let out a little giggle before the words slip from your lips. “thank you, daddy.”

[justabigassnerd]

A Different Man

Pairing - Tim Bradford x reader

Word count - 5,241

Warnings - inaccurate hospital scenes, mentions of needles, drugs, medicines, angst, fluff

Summary - after an incident with Lucy, Tim wonders if it's time to be honest about his marital status

A/N - hey y'all I'm back with another anon request which I hope I did justice! we all know I love writing for my pookie Tim so I had a blast writing this. I won't ramble but as per y'all please send in requests, feedback, and enjoy!!!

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If it was up to Tim, he wouldn’t be at work right now. But the Vice President chose to visit Los Angeles meaning he had to go to work when he would rather be relaxing at home. Now, Tim was patrolling LA with his rookie Lucy Chen, keeping a careful eye on their surroundings as they drove around. Eventually, the duo are directed to a homeless encampment where Tim makes an announcement that all the people living there have to pack up and move so that the stretch of road they were living on was going to be used for the visit. As they all packed up their belongings, a fight broke out between two women and Lucy was quick to step in yet her best efforts still got her caught up in the tussle, when the women dragged each other, and Lucy, to the ground, Tim was quick to step in, handcuffing one woman while Lucy got up and handcuffed the other. As Lucy got to her feet, Tim glanced over at her, stopping when he noticed something.

“Chen. Stop. Don’t move.” He instructs, watching as she looks at him confused before following his gaze down to the used needle sticking out of her thigh. At that moment, it was like Lucy could focus on nothing but the needle and all the diseases it could bring if it had actually embedded in her leg. Noticing Lucy’s distant gaze, Tim instructs other officers to take both women away so he can focus on making sure Lucy is okay and gets taken to the hospital.

“I didn’t see it,” Lucy mutters, looking up at Tim with a terrified expression.

“I have to pull the needle out. Stay still.” Tim says, feeling bad upon seeing the expression on his rookie’s face but he knew he couldn’t show any signs of worry because that would only panic her further. Tim pulls on a pair of gloves and grabs a box to put the needle in and he crouches down alongside Lucy, carefully extracting the needle from her leg and trying not to react when he sees the small traces of blood on the tip of the needle from where it had clearly made contact with her leg.

“What’s the protocol for when an officer is exposed on duty?” Tim then asks, straightening up after putting the needle away. He already had a good idea of how worried and panicked Lucy was and he needed to keep her focused on her job to stop her from spiralling. When he clocked that Lucy wasn’t focused he calmly gained her attention and got her to tell him what it was they needed to take as next steps. Lucy wasn’t used to Tim being so calm and gentle towards her but she appreciated it nonetheless.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” Tim asks after Lucy tells him what protocol is for an incident like this.

“Shaw Memorial,” Lucy replies, getting a nod in return from Tim before he turns to another officer, making sure they know to keep an officer posted in the area while he takes Lucy to the hospital. Tim drives Lucy to the hospital and when he’s parked the shop, he escorts her to the first nurse desk he can find, letting her approach the desk herself.

“I need to get my blood tested. I got stuck with a used hypodermic needle.” Lucy says, trying to keep her voice steady as the nurse begins to look around, apologising before he grabs a clipboard, holding out to her.

“Just fill this out for us and take a seat in the waiting room. A doctor will be with you shortly.” Gino says with a friendly smile.

“You must be new. She’s got a weapon, so what if someone tried to grab her weapon? The hospital protocol dictates that an armed officer be seen immediately. So set her up in a room right now and find a doctor.” Tim says, an authoritative tone to his voice as Gino straightens up, nodding nervously before leading Lucy and Tim to a private room so she can safely fill out her information and wait for a doctor while he goes to grab one. Gino heads straight to your office, knocking on the door and entering with permission.

“Gino, what can I do for you?” You ask with a sweet smile, removing your gaze from your computer to Gino.

“Doctor Bradford, there’s a police officer who’s been stabbed with a used needle and needs bloodwork done,” Gino explains, watching as you nod, shutting off your computer and getting up from your seat.

“I’ll go and get acquainted with my patient if you could get the equipment I need. And Gino? Please call me y/n, Doctor Bradford is too formal.” You say with a slight chuckle as you follow Gino to the door of your office.

“Sorry.” Gino apologises as you both step into the hallway.

“No harm done.” You say dismissively, waving your hand loosely, turning in the direction of the room Gino tells you your patient is in.

“Oh just a heads up, the police officer's partner is a really grumpy guy,” Gino warns, and at the warning, you had a feeling you knew who was going to be in that room.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Bradford.” You introduce yourself as you walk into the room, smiling sweetly at the woman sitting on the end of a bed, not missing how her eyes flicked between you and your husband who was standing across the room, his arms across his chest.

“B-Bradford?” Lucy asks, eyes widening slightly as Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes at Lucy’s miraculous mood switch.

“Yes. Tim’s my husband.” You say with a soft laugh as you pick up the completed form from alongside Lucy, eyes scanning it and inputting the information into a file for Lucy.

“Sorry, that was so rude of me. I’m Lucy Chen. I’m Officer Bradford’s rookie and I just didn’t know he was-”

“Chen,” Tim said simply, making Lucy stop talking, apologising as she relaxed slightly.

“Don’t apologise Lucy. In fact, excuse me one second.” You say, walking over to Tim, taking his hand, leading him to the corner and glaring at him.

“What?” Tim asks, looking at you, confused.

“Do you seriously talk to everyone like that? Even the rookie’s you’re teaching?” You scold, watching as Tim sighs lightly.

“I gotta be tough. That’s my way of teaching. It’s how I learnt in the Army and how I learnt when I joined the force.” Tim says, explaining himself.

“I get that Tim but in the hospital? The poor girl is probably terrified and thinking of all the worst-case scenarios possible. Just tone it down a little.” You ask, eyes flicking over to Lucy who was wringing her hands nervously, eyes flicking all over the room as she takes deep breaths. At your words, Tim lets out a soft sigh, nodding lightly.

“Okay. I’ll tone it down for now.” He agrees quietly, getting a nod in response from you and a soft squeeze of the hand before you drop it focusing back on Lucy just as Gino enters the room with all the stuff you need to draw blood.

“Thank you, Gino.” You chirp happily, taking the tray from him and beginning to prep yourself.

“You can go back out to the desk, I’ll page you when I need you to run this down to the labs.” You then say, glancing over your shoulder to smile at Gino who nods and exits the room.

“He’s new, isn’t he? He didn’t know the rules about what to do when an armed officer needs to see a doctor.” Tim says, sidling up alongside you as you pull on gloves, sitting on a stool in front of Lucy and rolling your eyes.

“Yes, he’s new. I take it you were the one who made sure he knew the protocol?” You say glancing over your shoulder at Tim before focusing back on the needle as you prep it.

“I think he would’ve found a room for me if Gino hadn’t corrected himself,” Lucy says with a soft laugh.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Tim’s always been one to find his own solutions to things.” You say, smiling fondly at the many memories you have of Tim fixing situations himself when he wasn’t satisfied with the options he had.

“You must have some great stories about Tim,” Lucy asks, making your eyebrow rise as you catch on to what she was hinting at.

“What kind of story would you like? I’ve got some good ones from when we first started dating.” You say, making sure the needle is in Lucy’s arm and drawing blood.

“Hey, no.” Tim attempts to cut in and you just hold a hand up, silencing him quickly which makes Lucy giggle at how quickly her training officer was silenced. At first, Tim pulled a slight face behind your back when you held your hand up, but when you looked over your shoulder and blew him a little kiss, Lucy saw how quickly Tim melted at the gesture. Even if he was trying to be his normal, tough self, she could see how he had a huge soft spot for you.

“Tim, could you go and get Gino for me? I’m almost done. Ooh and could you grab me a snack from the vending machine?” You say sweetly, smiling over your shoulder at Tim before you pop one of the last vials of blood into the holder.

“You better not start gossiping the moment I leave.” He says lightly in response, a small smile on his face as he crosses over to you to give you a quick kiss on the top of your head before exiting the room.

“I’ve never seen him act like that before,” Lucy says as you finish putting things away before focusing on cleaning Lucy’s arm and giving her a cotton ball to put on the puncture wound to stop any extra bleeding.

“Seen him act like what? A big softie?” You ask jokingly, smiling at Lucy.

“Well I mean he was nicer than he usually is when the needle first pricked me but he’s like a whole different person with you. He actually listens to you for starters.” Lucy says, explaining herself while she thinks of the man who had put her through so many Tim Tests.

“This conversation doesn’t leave this room, okay? He’s a tough nut to crack but he’s strict because he knows you can handle yourself. He wants you to be the best police officer you can be. I’m not involved in the work aspect of Tim’s life. He likes to keep it that way and I just guess he feels he doesn’t have to put up a front when he’s with me.” You explain with a small shrug. You remembered what Tim had been like when you first met. He was closed off and it took you a while to even talk to him enough to form a friendship, and then it took another year and a half before you both had the courage to act on your romantic feelings for each other. Before Lucy could reply, Gino entered the room again to take the bloodwork to the labs to be run through tests to see if the needle infected Lucy with anything. After Gino left and there was still no sign of Tim, you continued to chat with Lucy.

“It’s nice to see him so relaxed with you. It’s like he’s a whole different person with you.” Lucy says, smiling softly.

“That’s the Tim I’m used to. I’m sure with time he’ll learn to be a little less military towards you.” You say softly, smiling at Lucy who nods lightly.

“I hope so. There’s only so many Tim Tests I can handle.” Lucy says with a gentle laugh.

“Oh, he’s told me all about them. I don’t think I would be able to handle them.” You say with a chuckle, and before either of you can say something else, the door opens and Tim enters the room.

“You took your time.” You tease lightly, swivelling around on the stool to face him.

“The nearest vending machine didn’t have your favourite so I just kept looking until I found one that did,” Tim explains, holding your favourite snack out towards you while you smile softly, taking it and standing.

“You didn’t need to do that. I would’ve been fine with anything.” You say softly, smiling up at Tim who smiles back.

“I wanted to,” Tim says, his voice matching yours in softness as he pulls you closer for a kiss.

“Aw, you two are so cute!” Lucy gushes as you pull away from the kiss, giggling lightly as Tim looks over at Lucy.

“Chen, this doesn’t leave this room,” Tim warns, pointing a finger at her as she frowns, caught out in her plans to tell Jackson and Nolan.

“Okay fine. But I need to go to the restroom.” Lucy says, standing and crossing to the door. You bid her a quiet goodbye before turning to Tim.

“I should probably go back on my rounds. You and Lucy are welcome to keep using this room until I get her results from the lab. I’ll come back when I have the results, promise.” You say to Tim, taking his hand and squeezing it softly while your other hand tucks the snack Tim had bought you into your pocket.

“Take care of yourself, won’t you?” Tim asks softly, trying to hide his worry. He knew some patients could get rough with doctors and he always worried about whether someone was going to hurt you.

“I’ll be okay. We have security and if I really need help, I do have my handsome, strong, police officer husband around.” You say softly, your smile widening slightly as Tim raises an eyebrow, hands drifting down to your waist.

“Handsome, huh?” Tim teases, moving to kiss you again as your hands move to his shoulders, one hand resting on his shoulder while your other moves around to the back of his neck, cupping it as you deepen the kiss before your brain kicks in and reminds you of what you’re supposed to be doing.

“As much as I’d love to stay here with you. I have to go. I love you.” You say after pulling away from the kiss. You wished you could stay with your husband but you knew you had a job to do.

“I love you too,” Tim says, giving you one last quick kiss before letting you leave the room so you could go on your rounds.

You visit the various patients that you need to check in on, checking their progress and giving out advice that they need to aid their recovery. You loved checking in with your patients. Sure, there were some who were permanently grumpy and barely acknowledged you or the work you and the nurses were doing for them, but the majority of your patients were sweet and made the job worth it. As you finish up with a patient who was in recovery from a surgery they had the day before, you exit into the hallway and see a few nurses gathered by a door as they cart a woman out on a gurney. You head towards the gathered group and just as you approach the room, Tim and Lucy step out of it.

“What happened? Are you both okay?” You ask worriedly, reaching to grab Tim’s shoulders, eyes scanning him worriedly, checking him over for any injuries.

“y/n, I’m fine. We’re both fine.” Tim says softly, reaching up to his shoulders to gently lift your hands off, holding them in his hands and squeezing softly.

“What happened?” You ask, eyes flicking between both Lucy and Tim waiting for an answer.

“I bumped into this woman in the restroom, she told me about her brother who had been involved in a car accident and after she left I noticed a bottle of bleach on the floor. She was going to inject her brother with it to kill him. She claimed he wouldn’t want to live like how he is now but I just couldn’t let her go through with it so I had no choice but to tase her.” Lucy explains, her voice was shaky as she recounts the events.

“Is everyone okay?” You ask, glancing behind Tim at the room.

“The patient is being checked over now but thanks to Officer Chen’s swift actions, the sister never pushed the plunger,” Tim says, smiling over at Lucy who smiles back weakly.

“I was just doing what needed to be done,” Lucy says with a shrug.

“Look, Grey’s called me back to the station,” Tim says, looking between you and Lucy.

“Do you need me to come with you?” Lucy asks, looking up at Tim who shakes his head.

“No, you stay here and wait for your results. I’ll come back when I’m done. If you need anything I’m sure y/n will help you.” Tim says as you nod.

“Of course. Lucy if you need anything at all while you’re waiting, just shoot me a text.” You say pulling your notebook out of your pocket and scribbling down your phone number to hand to Lucy who takes it with a nod.

“Thank you,” Lucy says gratefully, tucking the paper away in her pocket before you both look over at Tim.

“I’ve got to go. I love you.” Tim says, giving you a quick kiss and hug before turning to Lucy.

“Chen, take care of yourself.” He then says, patting her shoulder before excusing himself, heading down the hallway and disappearing around a corner.

“I said it to Tim earlier but you’re welcome to keep using the room Gino put you in until I have your results.” You say softly, reaching to rest a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before quietly excusing yourself so you could continue your rounds until the lab results came back.

As it pushes into the afternoon, you finish your rounds and take care of some appointments you had booked for the day and eventually you get paged by the lab and you head down, picking up Lucy’s blood test results and reading them over before heading back to the room Lucy had been using. However, when you entered the room it was empty, so you walked to the waiting room to see if she was there and you soon found her sitting alongside another police officer.

“Officer Chen.” You say softly, getting Lucy’s attention as she shoots out of the seat, the other officer following suit, resting a supportive hand on her shoulder.

“Yes?” Lucy says watching you as you smile softly.

“I have your results. Would you like to follow me to my-”

“No, sorry, can you just tell me now please?” Lucy asks, cutting in and watching carefully as you nod, eyes moving down to your clipboard to flip through the paperwork.

“So your initial tests came back negative for any viral infections like HIV or hepatitis. But your bloodwork indicated the presence of a staph infection.” You explain, seeing how Lucy relaxed at your first sentence before she grew worried again.

“What does that mean?” Lucy asks, her eyebrows furrowed as she worries about what it could mean for her future.

“It just means we need to get you started on some intravenous antibiotics right away. Some strains of staph infection are drug-resistant so we’ll monitor the wound for any abscesses or cellulitis.” You explain to Lucy, watching as she releases a big breath before turning to the police officer standing behind her.

“Go. I’ll call Tim. He’ll be here for you by the time you’re out.” He says softly before Lucy pulls him into a hug, thanking him quietly before she releases him and turns to you with a small smile and nod.

“If you just follow me.” You say, gesturing with your head for Lucy to follow you to your office which she does and while you settle in your office chair, Lucy eases herself down on the chair opposite your desk. You copy the bloodwork data onto Lucy’s file and print out a prescription, informing her of how to best care for her wound, when to take her medication and where she can pick it up from. After talking her through everything and checking Lucy’s wound over just to be sure it was okay for now, you stood in front of her with a small smile.

“I’ll walk you out, I’m sure Tim’s here now.” You say softly, leading Lucy back to the waiting room where Tim was waiting, rising from the seat he was sitting in when he noticed the two of you approaching.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Tim asks, looking down at Lucy who nods, finally able to relax for the first time since the incident.

“Everything’s good,” Lucy replies, smiling at Tim who nods lightly, a small smile of his own on his face.

“If you have any concerns about anything Lucy, you’re free to give me a call whenever.” You say, making sure Lucy knew that you’d help her no matter the time.

“Thank you for everything, Doctor Bradford.” Lucy thanks you gratefully.

“Please, call me y/n.” You say with a small laugh, not missing how the police officer stood behind Tim gasped lightly with widened eyes as he realised what Lucy said.

“Sorry, did you say-?”

“Yes, she said Bradford. Tim is my husband.” You say, moving to stand next to Tim, taking his hand in yours as you smile up at your husband.

“If I find out you and Officer Chen have been spreading this around later Officer West, I will put you both through the most intense Tim Tests I can think of and it’ll have you questioning whether you want to even continue in the LAPD,” Tim warns lowly.

“Jackson and I would never do that,” Lucy says quickly, standing up for her friend as you sigh lightly.

“Tim, surely you’re tired of dancing around everyone. I don’t mind if people know about me. In fact, I’d like to get to know your colleagues. They’re part of your life too.” You say softly, turning to face Tim as he mirrors your actions.

��Are you sure?” Tim asks quietly, watching you nod.

“I’m sure, Tim. I’d love to get to know the people you work with. I’m your wife and I would like to be more than just a secret.” You admit, watching as Tim’s eyes drop to the floor briefly before looking back up at you. You understood why he had been so hesitant to tell people about you, he was worried that he’d somehow get involved in a case involving a dangerous person which could put you at risk. But you were capable of making your own choices, and you knew that even if you were at risk, knowing Tim’s work friends would make you feel safer.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to keep you safe.” Tim mutters softly, taking your hands in his.

“Don’t apologise. I know you wanted to keep me safe and I appreciate that. But you can’t hide me forever.” You say, squeezing hands softly and reaching up to press a kiss on his lips.

“Okay, I’ll stop trying to hide you,” Tim replies after you pull away from the kiss, his smile soft as you glance over to Jackson and Lucy.

“I think you two are safe.” You say with a laugh watching as they exchange a quick fist bump.

“I won’t give you any Tim Tests yet,” Tim says, releasing your hands and turning to face the two.

“You won’t give them any unless it’s part of training.” You say, nudging Tim in his side as he lets out a small grunt of pain at the jab.

“Does that mean we can tell Nolan?” Lucy asks, testing the waters and watching Tim’s reaction carefully. When you hear Tim let out a small huff of a sigh, you speak up.

“You can tell Nolan but only Nolan. Let Tim do the rest.” You say. You didn’t know who Nolan was but you could only guess he was the third rookie that had joined the LAPD alongside Jackson and Lucy.

“What she said. Anyone else knows before I tell them, you know what the punishment will be.” Tim says, raising an eyebrow as both Jackson and Lucy nod hurriedly, aware of what Tim Tests he could potentially put them through.

“I should probably get back to work.” You mutter, noticing the time on the clock behind the nurse’s desk.

“Yeah, I’ve got to take Lucy back to the station,” Tim says with a nod, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

“I’ll see you when I get home.” You whisper softly smiling up at your husband before watching him leave with Lucy following close behind while Jackson stays put.

“I know you have to get back to work but it’s honestly incredible how different Tim is with you,” Jackson speaks up quickly, catching your attention as you laugh softly.

“Funnily enough Lucy said a similar thing.” You say with a soft laugh as you shrug, making Jackson let out a gentle laugh of his own.

“I won’t keep you. I should probably find my TO.” Jackson says, nodding with a soft smile as you smile back.

“If your TO is Angela, tell her I say ‘hi’ will you?” You say, beginning to back away and shooting Jackson a quick wink when his jaw drops before turning around and making your way back to your office to continue with the rest of your shift.

By the time your shift came to an end, you were just about ready to drop. It had been a long day and when you got home you were greeted by Tim who pulled you into his arms almost the moment you walked through the door.

“Tim. I love you but I need a shower.” You giggle as you feel Tim press a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’ll get dinner sorted then.” He replies softly, releasing you from the embrace and letting you go off and shower and change into something comfier. By the time you had finished showering and changing, you could smell the dinner Tim was preparing.

“It smells good.” You say as you enter the kitchen, sidling up alongside Tim and winding your arms around his middle as he turns the stove off.

“I could’ve had a career as a chef.” Tim jokes lightly, welcoming your embrace. When you release Tim from your embrace so he can finish up the food, you begin to grab some plates and cutlery for when Tim is ready to plate up the food. Once the food is plated up, you sit at the table and eat your dinner, conversing the whole time. When you finish your meal, you both tidy away everything before retiring to the sofa, cuddling into each other while Tim finds a tv show to put on in the background.

“Are you really okay with telling people about us? I feel like I put you on the spot.” You mumble, resting your head on Tim’s chest and looking up at him.

“I’m more than okay with telling people about us. You’re right. You deserve to know my colleagues, and I don’t know how much longer I can go hiding you. You deserve to be shown off.” Tim replies, squeezing you tighter as a smile crosses your face.

A week later, you pulled up outside the Mid-Wilshire police station, parked your car, and stepped out. You headed into the building with a smile as you met Tim in the reception area.

“Hey.” He greets you with a smile, capturing your lips in his for a soft kiss as he pulls you into his arms.

“That’s a nice welcome.” You say with a smile as you pull away from the kiss.

“Only the best for you,” Tim mutters softly.

“You big softie.” You say with a laugh as Tim rolls his eyes.

“y/n!” You hear Lucy’s excited voice say as she rushes over to you, hugging you close as you reciprocate the embrace, smiling widely.

“Hey, Lucy. How have you been?” You ask. Since Tim had started telling people about you, you’d met various people from Mid-Wilshire station as you swung by the station every so often but Lucy had been the one you’d formed the closest friendship with.

“I’ve been doing well! But between you and me I think you need to stop by more. Tim’s always happier after you visit.” Lucy says, muttering her words lowly so Tim doesn’t hear her as you laugh lightly.

“Well, hopefully, these make everyone a little happier.” You say with a smile, holding up the bag of various cakes you had gotten from a bakery you and Tim frequented.

“Oh yes! I knew there was a reason you were my favourite Bradford!” You hear Jackson exclaim as he approaches you, making you laugh as you hand the bag to Nolan who also joins the group as you glance over at Tim who rolls his eyes and shrugs at Jackson’s comment.

“Everyone’s going to love that you’ve done this. You and Tim have been talking this bakery up for a week now.” Nolan says, opening the bag enough to peek in at the goodies inside.

“I just got things I thought everyone would like.” You say, watching as the three rookies take it in turns peeking inside the bag and trying to figure out what each thing is. As you watch them discussing their theories quietly, Tim walks up alongside you, wrapping an arm around your middle and tugging you into his side.

“I can’t believe I have to share you with all these guys now,” Tim mutters, and this time it is your turn to jokingly roll your eyes.

“Well, just remember, I married you. So you don’t need to worry about someone ‘stealing’ me away.” You joke, leaning into Tim’s side.

“It’s relieving to hear that.” Tim jokes in return, chuckling lightly.

“I hate to do this so soon after arriving but I need to head back to the hospital. I don’t want to see any of you guys in there as patients. Got it?” You say, pointing at Tim and the three rookies who all nod hurriedly before you turn to face Tim.

“Stay safe out there.” You whisper before giving him a soft kiss.

“Always,” Tim replies after you pull away, letting you say your goodbyes to the rookies before walking you out to your car and giving you one last kiss before watching as you get in your car and drive away to head back to work.

Since you had made friends with the people he worked with, Tim found himself more willing to be friendly with those around him at work. Most of the time he was still the tough training officer that everyone was used to, but you had taught him not to burn all his bridges too soon, and that it was okay to have friends at work.

And with you making the effort to know those he worked with, Tim was sure he fell in love with you all over again.

[megalony]

It's Me

This is a new Bobby Nash imagine, requested by a lovely anon. I hope you will all like this, please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10

Evan Buckley Masterlist

Summary: Bobby likes to keep his personal life private, therefore he doesn't tell the team his girlfriend works with them. But the truth comes to light when (Y/n) gets shot on shift and they have to call their Captain with the news.

Enjoy.

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"Morning sweetheart," A grin settled on Bobby's face as he walked up behind (Y/n).

Both hands settled down on her waist and his chest pressed down into her back while he pecked the back of her head. His fingers skimmed up and down her waist while he closed his eyes, keeping his lips merged into her hair.

When a small hand curled around Bobby's sleeve and gave a little tug, he opened his eyes and leaned his head around to look at the toddler huddled up against (Y/n)'s chest.

"Morning buddy." He curved his left arm around (Y/n)'s lower waist and moved his right hand to cup the back of Jack's head.

The four year old leaned into the touch and smiled up at Bobby with that matching grin and vibrant, bright eyes that matched Bobby look for look. Jack didn't like to feel left out.

When he started to riggle in her arms and stretched his arms out, (Y/n) turned around so Bobby could take him instead. He curled up against Bobby's chest straight away with his arms bound tight around his neck and he stretched up to kiss his dad's cheek.

Bobby smiled brightly when his boy tucked up into the crook of his neck while he had (Y/n) curved into his left arm with her cheek on his shoulder. It was as if Jack thought he hadn't seen his dad in days when really, it had only been a day since Bobby got home last night after the four year old went to bed.

"Morning." (Y/n) wrapped her arms tightly around his torso and squeezed him into her chest. Her fingers danced across his belt and the top of his trousers just to watch him tilt his head down at her with one brow raised. She felt his hand squeeze her hip as if giving her a warning sign before he leaned down and stole a kiss.

It almost looked strange to see Bobby in his everyday clothes when both their shifts had lined up at the station and (Y/n) was used to seeing her partner in uniform.

(Y/n) was happy to steal a few moments with Bobby this morning before she went to work. She was on the morning shift and would finish before tea time tonight, whereas Bobby's shift started at lunch since he had been on the late shift yesterday. At least they both had a few days off together after this shift.

It was getting hard to be at work and play professional. (Y/n) didn't like walking past Bobby and not being able to wrap her arms around him or steal a kiss or brush up close against him. All she could do was give him a subtle wink or rest her hand on his arm just a bit too long when she walked past him.

(Y/n) hadn't long transferred to the 118 and although head office knew she and Bobby were in a relationship, the 118 staff didn't. They wanted to keep things professional and not have anyone make remarks or think Bobby was favouritising his girlfriend or giving (Y/n) preferrential treatment.

Bobby pecked her lips again before he looked down at Jack who was strangely quiet and it made him wonder if his little boy was still tired and possibly half asleep. But when he looked down at him, he noticed there was a distant look in Jack's eyes like he was drifting off in his own world.

"Are you spending the morning with me, hm?" He jostled his boy in his arm and moved to make him a drink when (Y/n) finally unravelled from his chest and finished making the mugs of coffee that had been forgotten on the counter.

"Mummy work?"

"Afraid so."

(Y/n) snook a glance over her shoulder but she grinned when she watched the way Jack looked up at Bobby with that beaming smile and kissed Bobby's cheek. It was more routine for Jack to spend the mornings with (Y/n) and see his dad go off to work. Bobby was the Captain, he had more demands to his job and a lot of the time he had to go in for office time rather than actually being on the station floor.

So it was nice for Jack to be able to spend the morning with Bobby and have some one to one time with him.

Once he'd made him a drink, Bobby held the beaker out to Jack and headed over to sit down at the kitchen table. He loved the way Jack snuggled down into his chest and squirmed to get comfy with him. His head slouched against Bobby's arm with his cheek pressed into his bicep and his beaker clasped between his hands.

Tilting his head down, Bobby pressed a kiss to the top of his boy's head. Sometimes, it still seemed unreal that Bobby was having this experience all over again. That he had a family, a loving partner and a little boy to look after.

After losing Marcy and the kids, he didn't think having anymore kids would ever be in his future. But Bobby didn't realise how much he missed and needed this until that first moment when Jack was placed into his arms. He would take all the sleepless nights, playdates and nursing Jack through sickness bugs, Bobby would take it all with a full heart and a smile.

He murmured a quiet "Thank you," when (Y/n) placed a coffee down on the table beside him and her hand gripped his shoulder so she could lean down and kiss his temple.

"What will you boys be doing this morning then?" (Y/n) sat down opposite them and reclined in her seat. She nursed a cup of coffee between her hands and stretched one leg out so she could brush her foot against the inside of Bobby's leg which made him grin in her direction.

"Baking?" Jack lifted his head to look up at his dad with those big round eyes that could get him anything he wanted.

"You wanna do some baking? What about a cake for mummy?"

A grin spread across (Y/n)'s face when Jack nodded and clapped around his beaker. She had a feeling he wouldn't be smiling this afternoon when Bobby had to tell him that he would be spending the rest of the day with Lola, the babysitter. As much as Jack got along with the elder lady, he wouldn't like Bobby leaving him. (Y/n) had a feeling Bobby would have a hard time getting to work on time and tearing himself away from their boy.

"What time are you coming in?" (Y/n) lifted her foot a bit higher until she could prop her ankle on his thigh next to Jack. And when she did the same with her other leg and reclined in her chair so she was effectively laying out across Bobby, he laughed.

He took a sip of coffee and looked down at his watch to see what time it was now.

"I'll be in around one, think you can stay out of trouble until I get there?"

"Hm, I'm not too sure about that."

Four hours unsupervised, that didn't sound great. (Y/n) knew the rest of the team didn't particularly like it when they had to be on shift without Bobby or when he was only at work for his audits and he didn't join them on calls. It was like marching into battle without a leader.

Whenever Bobby wasn't at the station, there was always someone appointed as shift lead to try and keep a sense of balance and command. But everyone secretly preferred Bobby to be there.

(Y/n) felt safer when he was around. Not that she didn't trust the team or that she didn't think them capable, it just always felt better with Bobby there in charge. His presence was calming and he seemed to give off a natural wave of authority.

Bobby tilted his head back and his eyes followed (Y/n) when she sighed and got up from her seat after a few moments. He watched her walk towards him and seat herself happily on his right thigh while he kept Jack tucked into his left side.

She pressed a kiss to Jack's temple to make him smile before she looped both arms loosely around Bobby's neck. She felt his firm hand pressing into her lower back and his head angled up in her direction, his lips curved into a smile that broadened when she pushed down into his chest.

"Four hours without you, I could get into a lot of trouble, you know." (Y/n) whispered the words against the shell of Bobby's ear before she pressed a tender, shallow kiss to the tip of his jaw.

"Try not to, please. Wouldn't want to reprimand you in front of the team." He began feathering his fingers up and down her back while he felt one of (Y/n)'s hands move to cup his face. He loved the feeling of her thumb tracing his cheek and the way she grinned down at him like he was the only person worth looking at.

The way she kissed him made him smile against her lips and groan at the thought of her leaving him in precisely ten minutes.

It was easier when their shifts lined up. It meant they got to see more of each other both at work and at home and it was easier for arranging child care for Jack. They didn't have to have one parent with him and then switch to another, they could just get Lola or (Y/n)'s parents to watch him after nursery or daycare until they finished shifts.

It also meant they didn't have to miss the other and say goodbye like this. Although, when they headed to work together, they tried to make sure it wasn't obvious they were arriving together. They both trusted the team, but it was easier, for now, not to tell anyone they were involved romantically.

"Oh no?" (Y/n) whispered into his mouth before she captured them completely in a searing kiss.

"Hm, no. That would have to wait until we got home." His hand travelled further south until his hand held her bum. While Jack cuddled up into his arm, oblivious as he faced the other direction to look out the window.

"I'll have to cause some mayhem then while I wait for you."

She felt Bobby tutting against her lips and shaking his head in her hand before he leaned up and captured another kiss. He dreaded to think what sort of mayhem would ensue while he spent the morning at home with their boy.

It didn't bear thinking about.

"Alright, let's get back so we can grab some lunch."

"You know you'll have to cook, right? Cap probably won't be in until later." (Y/n) moved her hands to her hips and tilted her head to one side as she looked up at Buck.

Her words weren't strictly true. She knew for definite that Bobby wouldn't be back at the station yet. She knew he would be coming in at around one o'clock which meant that he wouldn't be back at the station or there in time to cook them lunch, since he seemed to be the designated chef. But she couldn't go telling the team that unless she wanted them to ask how and why she knew Bobby's exact schedule.

It would be down to Buck to make lunch, as he was the next person besides Bobby who showed an interest in cooking.

Buck groaned and rolled his eyes in a teasing manner but he nodded, he was more than happy to cook. He just wanted to eat.

"So, what are you cooking for-" Eddie's teasing voice abruptly cut off when a horrid crack pelted through the air.

A gunshot.

For a second when the noise hit their ears, almost everyone closed their eyes and shuddered. None of them knew where it had come from, but they all found themselves cowering down and curling in on themselves in case they got hit.

But when Eddie opened his eyes, panic was all he could register as he looked across at (Y/n). She had been standing right across from him. Her body turned slightly to the side as if she were trying to look around and find out what was happening. It didn't look like she registered that it had been her who took the bullet. She didn't seem to be feeling any pain or shock or terror, just pure, unfiltered confusion flooded her eyes.

It made Eddie unsure whether he was just seeing things, whether he was imagining the blood that was starting to soak through her dark blue cotton shirt.

But then she stumbled.

Everything seemed to hit (Y/n) all at once. Her feet bent beneath her, her upper body tilted backwards and she seemed to lose her sense of balance. As soon as her back hit the floor, a steady trickle of blood flowed from the exit wound in her back and created a dark, sticky puddle beneath her on the concrete road.

Another shot rung out through the air and had all the team cowering down together, trying to get as small as possible so they too didn't receive a bullet.

Eddie felt Chimney's hands on his shoulders, pulling him towards the truck to keep him safe and hidden from any other shots. He could see Hen was crouched near the back of the truck, hands plastered to the metal and her head bent down near her knees.

And poor Buck was being pinned to the floor by the Captain of the other team that had been here on the scene with them.

No one was with (Y/n).

She was on her own, bleeding out right before their eyes and there was very little her team could do for her.

"Shots fired! Repeat, we're being shot at! Firefighter down, back up needed now. Send help!" Eddie screamed into the radio clipped to his shoulder while he hunkered down closer to Chimney. He repeated his words again and shouted their location down the radio, waiting impatiently for some sort of response to let him know someone had heard them.

All of their eyes kept going back to (Y/n). They couldn't just leave her there in the middle of the road. If she took another bullet that would be it, she would be a gonner. And laid out, struck down and unmoving like that made (Y/n) a lot easier of a target to hit again if the shooter fancied aiming for her.

She was the newest one on the team, she had been with them a few short months. They couldn't lose her so suddenly and quickly when she had gelled with them and become part of their team. They couldn't have their newest friend be shot down and lost on the job like this.

"I- I'll get her!" Buck army crawled beneath the truck, scraping his chin against the floor to stop from bashing his head up against the metal.

"(Y/n)! Hey, I got you." He poked his head out from under the engine and took a quick look round for the shooter but he couldn't see anything. His vision was blurred and hazy and his eyes were moving too rapidly to take anything in. All he could see was (Y/n).

Blood was forming a river beneath her chest and her dark blue shirt was turning black from the rouge blood dribbling down it. She had been shot in the chest, but she was still conscious. Her head slowly lolled to the right to look at Buck and he saw the manic fear and the pain dwelling in her eyes as a meek 'help' bubbled past her lips.

"It's okay."

He didn't know where to grab her or how to reel her back but he had to be quick. His fingers dug into her shirt just near the collar and his right hand pressed into the floor to steady himself when he started to pull.

A violent scream tore from (Y/n)'s lips when her chest ignited like knives were ripping through her skin. Tears blurred down (Y/n)'s face and her wet lips parted to let out another tepid, meek cry when the tarmac scraped against her back that felt like it was on fire.

When (Y/n) was under the truck with him, Buck took a split second to try and breathe and think how they were going to get her down to the hospital from here. His arm was shaking and the muscles were tightening from dragging her with one arm, but he couldn't stop now. He had to keep moving, they had to get her in the truck and down to the hospital before she bled out here on the road.

It was a relief when Buck felt Eddie leaning under the truck with him and he grabbed onto (Y/n) so the pair of them could hastily drag her back to safety with them.

"Everyone in the truck!" Chimney pointed his thumb behind him and swung the back door open.

If they were doing this they had to move now, (Y/n) needed their help and they were going to lose her at this rate.

Trembling took over (Y/n)'s body and she could feel her head spinning around in large circles. She could barely register Buck's voice in her ear telling her to keep her eyes on him and Hen hurrying over, reassuring her that they would look after her. She just wanted the pain to stop.

A burning scream pounded through the air when Eddie leaned over her and lifted her up. He looped one of her arms around the back of his neck, gripped her thigh tight and heaved her up onto his shoulder and chest.

The moment her chest pressed into his shoulder, (Y/n) scratched her nails down his back and screamed, spitting and dribbling onto his shirt as tears poured from her eyes. Her fist weakly bashed into Eddie's back and he groaned as he turned and grabbed the door to help get himself up.

He wasn't sure what (Y/n) was trying to say, her words were muffled and blubbering into his back and she scratched him deeper as he climbed up the steps into the back of the truck. While Buck got in the driver's seat and both Hen and Chimney followed Eddie into the back. The three of them were medics, they would look after (Y/n) as best as they could.

"Sorry (Y/n)." He mumbled as he lowered (Y/n) down onto the row of seats and moved to kneel in the footwell.

Her body writhed and jolted up and down like she was starting to have a seizure and her eyes rolled to the back of her head when it became harder to get a deep breath. All she wanted was to rewind time. She wanted to go back home; go back to this morning and be with her boys where she was safe and the agony was non-existent.

Relief overtook Chimney when he noticed the medic bag was still sat on the backseat, unused and ready for action.

They left the truck door swinging open as Buck got the truck into gear took a sharp turn and jolted the truck to life, juttering down the street to get away from the scene.

"Let's take a look," Chimney sounded awfully calm, too calm for this kind of situation, but (Y/n) could barely hear him. She couldn't even look at him properly when he opened up the medic bag and grab the scissors. He cut a long strip up (Y/n)'s shirt and tossed each loose tendril of fabric over her shoulders to expose her injury.

The black bra (Y/n) wore was starting to soak through with blood and all three of them tried to force calm expressions on their faces. This wouldn't be nice for (Y/n), having her team see her partially undressed, but they had to help her.

The gunshot wound was two inches below her bra on the left side and it was pouring blood like a tap. Blood coated all her chest, trickled down her abdomen and started to pool beneath her on the seats. It was lathered all over Eddie's shoulder and chest too and made him feel sick.

A horrid grunt left (Y/n)'s lips when Chimney pressed a handful of gauze against the wound so deeply it was like he was trying to give her CPR. Her chest shuddered and pushed up from the seats like she was being revived by a defibrilator. When Hen held her hand out, (Y/n) weakly flapped her hand out and took it, gripping as tightly as she could which didn't seem to be very tight at all with how low her energy levels were becoming.

Spit bubbled past her lips and her blurring eyes locked on Hen who leaned over her and tried to smile to keep her calm.

"You're okay, we're taking you to hospital now."

"I sh- I'll be in t-trouble," The words coughed past (Y/n)'s lips so quietly all three of them had trouble figuring out what she was trying to say. And her words confused them. They shared worried looks before determining that it was the confusion and bloodloss making her say that.

(Y/n) told Bobby she would cause mayhem while he was at home, but this isn't what she meant. This isn't what she had in mind.

Bobby was going to be so upset when he found out. (Y/n) was going to be in a Hell of a lot of trouble when her partner next saw her. He told her not to cause trouble and to be good while he wasn't there to supervise and look what had happened now. She had gotten shot. She hadn't been aware of the situation and didn't move in time and now she had been injured, possibly fatally.

"I c- ca…" (Y/n)'s fingers pulled at Hen's hand and her eyes closed when she tilted her head back into the leather seat and pushed her chest out. Her breaths turned to struggling gasps and her body started to convulse up and down, unable to take a proper breath.

"Lung's collapsing, she's breathing into her chest cavity."

Eddie leaned forward, pushing in between Hen and Chimney so he was level with (Y/n)'s torso. He rummaged around in the medical bag until he found a puncture needle and tried to steady himself. He never did this in the back of the ambulance, let alone in the fire truck that was swerving side to side and shaking like they were driving over an earthquake.

His fingers pressed down on two of (Y/n)'s ribs and with a deep breath, Eddie imbedded the needle in the space between her ribs just a few inches to the right of the gunshot wound. He saw the moment he had pushed it deep enough because (Y/n)'s chest inflated up and her lung popped back up to maximum capacity again.

Hen pressed her free hand to (Y/n)'s neck to try and check her pulse which was thready and faint, but at least she was back to breathing now.

All of them winced when they watched (Y/n)'s chest convulse and a cough spluttered past her lips. But it was the blood dribbling down her chin and tainting her lips that made them all feel sick to their stomachs. They could lose her. They could lose the newest member of their team because some stranger decided to take a shot at them in broad daylight.

When (Y/n)'s eyes started to roll up and her head lolled to the side, Hen patted her cheek and tilted her head back.

"(Y/n)? Hey, you stay with us alright? Talk to us."

"Think of your boy, come on, tell me about him. What's his name?" Eddie grabbed some more gauze and packed it against her wound which caused (Y/n)'s chest to slam back down into the chest and start to jutter.

He knew she had a son, she had mentioned him once or twice, considering how private (Y/n) seemed to keep her life. Eddie gathered her boy was a few years younger than Chris and he had seen the lockscreen on her phone which was of her kid.

They had to keep her awake somehow and talking about her family and thinking of them might be enough to push (Y/n) through this and keep her awake and talking to them.

"Jack," (Y/n) gulped and murmured his name again, but tears started to trickle down her face and mingle in with the blood coating her lips and chin.

Was this morning the last time she would ever get to see her baby boy? What had been the last thing she said to him? Was this morning the last time she got to see Bobby too? Was she going to die here, with her team, without her partner beside her? If she was dying, (Y/n) wanted Bobby to be here to hold her hand and see her through this.

She didn't want to die.

"I wan- I want… my…" The words wouldn't pass her lips. All (Y/n) could do was splutter more and more blood while her head felt like it was going to explode from the pressure building up inside of her.

She wanted Bobby. She wanted someone to ring him and get him to her, she wanted him to be the one holding her hand and his face to be the last one she gazed at if this was going to be her last moments.

"We'll call your family for you, don't you worry." Chimney patted her thigh and handed Eddie some more gauze. If (Y/n) wanted her folks at the hospital they could arrange that. They would find out her emergency contacts and get her family to be waiting at the hospital for when she was out of surgery.

"We're here!" Buck jumped down from the truck and slammed his hands against the side of the truck before he pulled the door wider and waved them all down.

Chimney hopped down from the truck and held the door wide open for Eddie and Hen to get (Y/n) out.

Eddie slid his arms beneath (Y/n)'s frame while Hen held her neck and pressed down on the wound to try and prevent anymore blood loss. They carefully climbed down from the truck just as a stretcher and three doctors ran out to meet them. They got the call to be on standby, and they were ready.

He carefully doubled over and settled (Y/n) down as one of the doctors applied pressure back to the wound and another got her head stuck in a neck brace.

"Gunshot wound to the chest, her lung collapsed on-route and she began breathing into her chest cavity. She's lost roughly two pints of blood already."

The team hurried inside after the stretcher but they all faltered when (Y/n) was wheeled through the no-admittance doors. She would be taken straight to surgery. They couldn't go with her, they couldn't reassure her or tell her she would be okay. All they could do was sit and wait around like useless ornaments.

They all seemed to share panicked looks while Buck knotted his hands together behind his head and Chimney stood to one side, hands on his hips and panic in his eyes.

Hen looked between the three men as a thought suddenly dawned on her. "Does anyone know her partner?"

Blank faces stared back at her and the men all shook their heads. (Y/n) never mentioned a boyfriend or a husband. She said she was in a relationship, but she never mentioned a name or a job or a contact number. None of them were close enough to (Y/n) to know that information. They didn't even know how old her son was.

"Who do we contact?"

"I- I'll call Bobby, he'll be on shift soon. He should know her emergency contacts, right?" When the team nodded back at him, Eddie fished his phone out his pocket and took a few steps to the side to be out the way of reception.

Bobby would have (Y/n)'s emergency contact details on file if he too didn't know who her partner was. They could leave it down to him to give the bad news and bring her family down here.

"Cap? We have a problem… we need your help."

"A problem, why what's happened?"

Bobby tilted his head back on the sofa and leaned his elbow on the back of the cushion. While his right arm gently dragged up and down Jack's back to try and keep his boy calm and asleep. He was having a power nap since they had finished baking.

At the moment, Jack was curled up like a little bunny, his arms coiled into his chest with one hand scrunched up in Bobby's shirt. His face was burrowed down into Bobby's chest and he had a pacifier in his mouth as he breathed softly, now sound asleep which was the way Bobby wanted to keep him.

What kind of problem were they having? Bobby had exactly twenty minutes before the babysitter would be here and he would have to say goodbye to Jack and meet the team on shift. Couldn't they wait half an hour for him to get there?

"We were on a call, some crazed idiot nearby had a sniper, he started firing at us. We're down at the hospital, (Y/n) got shot, but none of us know her family or who to call. Can you find out her emergency contacts?"

"(Y/n)?" Her name drolled past Bobby's lips so quietly he wasn't sure he even heard himself, let alone if Eddie did or not.

That couldn't be possible. She couldn't be hurt. Not (Y/n), not Bobby's girl. Not while he wasn't there to protect her.

***

Bobby's frantic eyes scanned around the waiting area while his hands twitched and curled into fists at his sides. He could barely contain the anger and panic surging through him in large waves as he tried to find his team. He was two seconds away from rushing over to reception and slamming his hands down on the desk until his eyes landed on the familiar sight of his team.

They were sitting in the otherwise empty waiting area, right over in the corner.

"Where is she?" The words tumbled past his lips with such a dangerous tone that all four members of the team jumped, unsure who was talking to them for a minute.

Buck slouched back in his seat and started to run his hands up and down his thighs to rid himself of the excess energy rattling through him in great waves. He wasn't the best at sitting still and doing nothing and at the moment, all they could do was sit and wait.

"They took her straight to surgery, we haven't heard anything yet."

They had a long wait ahead of them and none of them were going to hear anything until after surgery was complete and the doctors knew whether (Y/n) was stable or not. The longer the surgery took, the better (Y/n)'s chances. If a doctor came out now, they knew the only news they would receive would be devastating.

"What happened?" Bobby looked across at Chimney who had his hands entwined together behind his head like he had done for the last hour.

Someone had to tell him what on Earth they had been doing for one of their own to get shot.

Being shot at on the job was never something that they feared. Only if they went into a hostage situation with a shooter or someone was armed in a robbery. And they rarely got dispatched to those kind of scenes. This just wasn't normal for them.

"We were about to leave the scene, just a routine call… we were outside and shots got fired."

"We couldn't even see which building they were shooting from. We couldn't do anything," None of them had even seen anyone in a building or noticed someone close by with a gun. They couldn't see anything until (Y/n) collapsed and more bullets bounced off the truck. It was like they had been ambushed but they didn't have any knowledge why.

"(Y/n) got hit… bullet tore through her left lung, clean through. She went straight to surgery, they'll come get us when it's over." Eddie could barely believe it. This could have been him. Or Buck. They had been closest to (Y/n). It could have been either one of them who got that bullet, but fate seemed to decide (Y/n) would take the hit.

Bobby felt like he was going to pass out.

He should have been there. He should have gone in early. He should have been on the scene, maybe if he was, (Y/n) would have been standing somewhere different. She could have been standing beside him rather than in the line of fire. She could have gotten hit, but Bobby being there would have made some sort of difference.

He would of helped her, looked after her, brought her here himself. He would have taken the bullet instead of (Y/n) if he could. Why did it have to be her who got hurt?

"Bobby, did you manage to get hold of her partner? We didn't know who to call for her." Hen rung her hands out together in front of her as she took a step closer to their Captain who seemed to be drifting into his own world.

He was looking at the far wall like it was a movie screen he was so interested in. Both his hands were balled up into fists at his sides and his chest was rising and falling so deeply his lungs might be at risk of bursting.

"Yeah."

"Is he coming down? Hey, who's gonna be with her kid?" A depressed look flooded Buck's face as he straightened up in his seat. Who would be looking after (Y/n)'s little boy if her partner came down here? Who would tell her son that she had been hurt?

"It's me."

Bobby didn't bother to look at any of them while his quiet yet gritty voice filled the air.

What was the point in hiding it now?

Formality had been tossed out the window the moment (Y/n) got shot. Bobby couldn't hide this from the rest of the team any longer. He was (Y/n)'s emergency contact. He was her boyfriend, the father of her child. He was the one who needed to be here and had to speak to the doctors once they knew what was happening.

Bobby was the person who had to deal with this, the one who needed to hold (Y/n)'s hand when she woke up from this mess and who would be looking after her.

He wouldn't be able to hide his worry or his love for (Y/n) from the team if they were waiting with him for news. They would find out sooner or later and it seemed like it had to be now.

"What is?"

"I'm her partner."

Panic flooded each and every one of their faces when they looked up at their Captain. His eyes were hollow. His jaw was set firm, his upper lip was curled and his arms and shoulders were now trembling.

He was (Y/n)'s partner? Why on Earth hadn't he said anything? She had been with the team just over three months now. Why had neither of them told the team this news?

"You?" An edge of hurt layered into Buck's voice as his brows furrowed and his jaw dropped. "Wh- why didn't you tell us?"

"I'm the Captain. It might look like favouritism that I'm dating someone in my own firehouse." His response was snappy and he didn't look over at Buck as he spoke. He thought it was pretty obvious why he and (Y/n) hadn't said anything until now. They didn't want the drama of anyone trying to accuse Bobby of favouritising (Y/n) or picking on her because of her relationship.

But when Buck looked over at Eddie, something seemed to dawn on them, like they had both had the same sudden thought. Their eyes cast down to their attire and Eddie took a deep breath while Buck gulped and grimaced.

They were both drenched in (Y/n)'s blood.

Bobby craned his head to the right when he noticed Eddie take a step away from him. He thought for a moment Eddie was irritated at not being told this news, but Bobby suddenly realised why Eddie was stepping back. Both Eddie's hands scratched at his left shoulder and fisted around his shirt as he looked from his shirt back up to Bobby with panic written across his face.

Once Bobby's eyes locked on Eddie's shirt, his throat tightened and his stomach clenched, threatening to spill his guts all across the floor. That was (Y/n)'s blood. His girlfriend's blood was drenched into Eddie's shoulder, down his chest and lathered over his hands that were cracking with dried blood. And he was dismayed to see the same dark rouge colour lathered on Buck's shirt and caked on the back of his hands too.

Bobby's hand moved to cover his mouth and he scratched his nails into his cheek, dragging his hand down his face while his other hand curled tightly around his hip and he turned away from them.

"So, her little boy… he's yours?" Chimney knitted his hands together in front of him as he took a step closer to Bobby. He wanted to reach out for him and try and comfort him or calm him down, but he didn't know quite what to do.

Bobby nodded and closed his eyes as he tried to gather his thoughts, but it wasn't working so well.

"I took Jack to her parents."

After Eddie's phone call, things had been a bit scattered. Bobby gathered Jack's things and called the babysitter on route to tell her she didn't have to come down after all. He had no idea how long he was going to be here at the hospital, but Bobby suspected it would be all night.

He took Jack to his in-laws who had tearfully took him in when Bobby explained the situation and promised to ring them when he had any news about (Y/n)'s condition. They were prepared to look after Jack all night until Bobby could come and get him in the morning and take him to nursery.

He had called the Chief on the way down here to explain the situation and find cover for the rest of the shift and for the next week so Bobby could be here with (Y/n).

But he had no idea if he would be here at the hospital or not. Bobby had no idea how badly (Y/n) was hurt or if she was going to make it through this.

He couldn't lose another partner. He couldn't raise Jack on his own.

Bobby couldn't manage that.

***

It was usually one of Bobby's skills and traits to remain calm and under control in tense situations. It was part of the job of being in charge of a fire house and running a team on his own. He had to be level-headed and always think clearly under pressure.

Not today.

Today, Bobby couldn't sit still. He had gone from sitting next to Hen in the waiting room, to pacing around the length of the ward to then sitting in the corner with his rosary beads wrapped around his wrist and the cross clutched between his fingers.

He had spent a good hour or so praying that everything would be okay. He asked God not to do this to him again. He would do anything, Bobby would give anything for (Y/n) to be okay. God couldn't take her from him and render Jack motherless at the age of four. That was unholy and beyond cruel. Bobby had lost enough people, he couldn't face losing another.

He had gone back to pacing the waiting room with his rosary beads clasped tightly in his hand to try and keep himself grounded and calm.

He would have to ring (Y/n)'s parents soon and check on Jack and tell them he was still waiting for news.

For the last hour, Chimney and Hen had been sat nursing cups of coffee and speaking in hushed tones to pass the time. And Buck and Eddie were sat worriedly with one another. The pair of them had rushed to the toilets and spent almost twenty minutes scrubbing (Y/n)'s blood from their skin before they dared to face Bobby again.

"Family of (Y/n) (Y/l/n)?"

Bobby wasn't so sure he wanted to know this outcome, especially if this was going to be bad news.

But the moment (Y/n)'s name flooded his ears, something tore at his heart and he pelted towards the doctor while the rest of the team straightened up and leaned forward in their seats. They didn't want to eavesdrop, but they too were tired of waiting.

"How is she? Please tell me she's okay."

"A vein burst during the repair and she haemorrhaged a lot, but we managed to stop the bleed. The shot went through her lung which we've managed to repair, it was a clean shot between the ribs. No nerve or bone damage and surgery went well, she's in the ICU for recovery."

He could feel his knees quivering, desperate to cave in beneath him and let him flop to the floor in relief and prayer all at once.

She was in recovery. They hadn't lost her during surgery. There were no lasting complications they needed to worry about. She could get on the road to recovery now and then Bobby could bring Jack and her parents down to see her.

Tears started to flush Bobby's face again, although he felt like he had cried enough to flood the Atlantic ocean by now. But the relief he felt came with such an adrenaline burst that he wondered if he was about to pass out.

"Can I see her now, please?" Bobby jingled his wrist to loosen the rosary beads which felt like they were constricting his blood flow. And he tucked them back into his pocket. They had served their purpose now, his prayers had been listened to and answered, for once.

The doctor looked up at Bobby before leaning around him and peering into the waiting room where the rest of the team were anxiously watching. "Only immediate family, two at a time for now please."

With a glance over his shoulder, Bobby locked eyes with the team as a silent exchange passed over them. They would wait out here for a few minutes then poke their heads round (Y/n)'s door to get a glance of her and see for themselves that she was alright. None of them ever left a friend in need without seeing for themselves that they were okay. Once the doctor was gone, everyone would check on (Y/n) and then try and get sorted out.

They could all see from Bobby's expression that it was good news and he was sure that Buck was straining hard enough to hear a few words of the conversation.

Bobby followed the doctor down the hall, through the double doors on the right and into the intensive care unit.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been down in this unit, or who it had been for. He hadn't been here for a family member in such a long time, it was usually when something happened to one of the team and he stuck around to make sure they were okay.

(Y/n) had never been in the intensive care unit before. She had never needed surgery before. The only time she had been in hospital was when she gave birth to Jack, and that had been in the maternity unit.

Bobby quietly thanked the doctor when he showed him the right room and opened the door. He was glad the doctor left him alone, he didn't want someone hovering in the background as he checked on his girlfriend and sat with her.

He took his time dancing his eyes all over her frame while he dragged the blue chair closer to the bed and sat down.

(Y/n) had an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, an IV taped to the back of her right hand and monitors stuck just beneath her collar bone. And he could see there was a needle taped into the crease of her right elbow where she was receiving another blood transfusion. He didn't dare imagine what her chest would look like beneath the hospital gown. And he didn't need to look to know that there would be blue and white stickers stuck to her chest in case of a cardiac emergency.

Reaching over, Bobby gently took (Y/n)'s hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed the back of her knuckles and brought her hand up against his cheek, unable to fight off another fit of tears.

"Hi sweetheart, are you with me?" Bobby rolled his lips together and reached his right hand out to glide his fingertips along (Y/n)'s cheek when he noticed her eyes starting to flicker.

His thumb continued to stroke her skin encouragingly and he managed a teary smile when (Y/n)'s drowsy eyes finally landed on him. Her hands squeezed his and she dug her nails into the back of his hand as a croaky noise vibrated past her lips. But when her nose scrunched, Bobby could tell she realised she had a mask over her mouth. She wouldn't like that.

He carefully moved his hand from her face and reached out for her other hand, pushing it back down at her side before she could take off the oxygen mask. She had been through trauma which had damaged one of her lungs, she needed as much oxygen as she could get along with the blood transfusion she was on which would all boost her system and make her recover better.

"You need that on for a while, sweetheart. It's okay."

(Y/n)'s head slowly flopped to the left and she tightened her hand in Bobby's while she tried desperately to open her eyes and look at him.

Shivers tore down (Y/n)'s spine and made her arms jerk at her sides when she thought about where she was and why she felt so groggy. Her right hand tremored as she tried to ghost her fingertips across her chest but she pulled back before she could touch the sore patch beneath where her bra should have been.

"Got… got shot." Her voice was quiet and very croaky as if her throat was as dry as the desert and it made Bobby frown. He hated the panic mingling with pain that he could see across her face and it made him squeeze her hand.

He reached his free hand out to card his fingers slowly through her hair which seemed to help relax her a little. And he loosened his left hand in hers so he could slide his fingers in between hers and hold her hand better. It felt good to feel (Y/n)'s fingers pressing down between the grooves of his hand and have her fingertips tapping against his knuckles.

"I know baby, you got hurt, but you're gonna be just fine. I can't leave you alone for a few hours, can I?"

(Y/n) leaned her head into Bobby's hand and nudged her nose against his wrist as she tried again to blink and clear her vision so she could look at him. His eyes were watering, but his lips were curved into a lopsided smile while he turned his head to kiss the back of her hand.

"Am I i-in trouble?"

Bobby wasn't sure if she was joking with him or not until he saw the tears beginning to trickle down her face and how she bit down on her lower lip behind the mask to stop herself from crying out.

He pushed up from the chair so he could sit down on the side of the bed, leaning against her hip. He moved their entwined hands to press against his chest while his other hand cupped her cheek near the mask and he leaned down to attach his lips to her temple. He breathed softly against her skin and took a few moments to listen to her breathing, reassuring himself that she was here and she was going to be okay.

"No, sweetheart, you're not in trouble. You didn't do anything wrong, whoever hurt you is the one who needs to be afraid." Bobby couldn't believe she thought he or anyone else would be upset with her.

She hadn't been bunking off shift or messing around or doing anything wrong to warrant this. (Y/n) did everything she was supposed to on shift, she just happened to be stood in the wrong place at the exact wrong time to end up getting hurt. Whoever decided to shoot at her was the one who needed to be afraid because when Bobby found them, they would have Hell to pay.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there with you." It seemed awful timing that this happened while Bobby was supposed to be on the afternoon shift. If only he had gone in with her this morning, then he would have been there for her.

(Y/n) leaned into his touch, relishing in the feeling of his lips against her burning temple and his hand periodically squeezing hers. the sight of Bobby was enough to calm (Y/n) down. She thought she might just die without having him by her side and she had wracked her brain to try and remember how he and Jack looked when she last saw them.

Seeing him now calmed down her raging thoughts because if anything else happened, at least she had Bobby by her side, holding her hand.

"Jack?" It was hard to form proper words when her chest kept tightening and tensing and talking made her lungs hurt. But she wanted to know what was going on. If Bobby was here, then where was their boy?

"I took him to your parent's, he's fine sweetheart. If you're feeling better tomorrow I'll bring him down for a visit. Besides, the team want to meet him."

(Y/n)'s heart jumped and she wheezed as she looked up at Bobby with big, round eyes.

"You t-told them?"

"Yeah," His fingers tangled in her hair again as he leaned in to kiss her temple once more. "They wanted to call your partner, I had to tell them he was already here waiting for you."

[makeupbychio]

THE suit // logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

Summary: Now that you are officially part of the x-men team you need a suit. After the help from Hank and Charles to make the suit you kept the final result as a secret to Logan until he saw you in your first mission in THE suit. More than one time you needed more than one suit, not just because Logan will rip off a lot of them, but for other reasons. 

Warnings: Jealous Logan and being a little bit of a brat, Hank and Charles cameo, insecurity towards your body and powers, use of your powers (ecokinesis), Logan being the best protective and comforting boyfriend, mentions of smut, suggestive language, mentions of pregnancy.

Words: 1.9k 

A/N: So thanks for the anon for the request!! Once again, a reminder that english is not my first language. I put angst, fluff and mentions of smut so I hope you like this. Also, reminder that this is a safe place for all body sizes so that's why I don’t mention specifics measurements for the suit. ALSO, you can read this with my previous Logan fic TRAINING SEASON, this is them days after you are officially an x-men. Enjoy, love y’all!! <3. 

italics = past. 

— — —

“Hold on, wait. Hank is going to do your suit?” Logan stopped the conversation. You two at the cafeteria grabbing a late night snack. You took the pause to give a bite to your apple. 

“What about it? The Professor told me Hank did all of them” you answered him without any worry in your mind and didn't  understand why he had that frowning look on his face.

”I think Storm should be in charge since your powers are related to nature too”. Logan suggested, trying not to be an asshole. You understand where this was going when he sighed. 

“But Lo, the Professor designed the suits, Hank is just going to sew it and for that he needs to take the correct measurements” you refreshed Logan’s mind, like if it wasn’t obvious that a suit was not going to sew it itself. 

So after that Logan just stopped insisting about it. He trusted Hank of course but something was itching his brain. If he knew you already had an appointment with Hank last week to take the first measurement and the Professor explaining to you how he designed it for you and your powers. 

“So, Y/N. If you didn’t know, Hank came up with the idea to make the suits bulletproof and for your powers we needed to incorporate more resistance to heat changes in case your whole body is on fire or ice. So we needed to play with all of the opposite and different scenarios of the element you were going to manipulate or become, please try it on”. Charles explained to you the work behind your suit. You just nodded, but the Professor can read your mind and know your excitement when you ran to change your clothes and came back with the suit on.

“So you can basically turn into stone one moment and then disappear like air, so we create something that can resist that range of changes, and also of course something to be comfortable for you”. Hank added, proud of the technology he put in the suit while you looked at yourself in the mirror. “You can try it and test what I’m talking about”. 

So you did it, always careful not to hurt them. They were so happy with the final results and you couldn’t thank them enough and can’t wait any longer to wear it. 

“See you next week, Y/N”. The Professor reminded you about the final meeting to correct some details. 

So after that late snack, you both went to bed and before your appointment with Hank, Logan just stopped by his office and greeted him with a casual smile. 

“Logan, how can I help you? Y/N is not here” Hank thought he was there to be with you once you tried on your suit. 

“Don’t worry, she’s still in bed sleeping in our room” Logan gave a cocky smile and highlighted the ‘our’. “Actually I’m here to help YOU. In case you needed help with her suit, just to let you know that I made you a list of her measurements” Logan handed him a piece of paper with the different sizes of the clothes you have. He really thought that was going to work. “You’re welcome, so you don’t have to take the measurements yourself” He smiles proud of himself. 

Hank laughed and didn’t want to ruin Logan’s intention. He just thanked him, if Logan knew the suit was ready in the lab for you to try it and make the last changes. 

“Oh! I almost forgot” Logan turned to Hank before leaving his office. “She’s the smartest person I know, don’t get offended so I’m pretty sure she’s going to give you some ideas for the suit” he made a pause imagining you giving instructions to Hank. “And her favorite color is purple” Logan finally leaves the room without letting Hank answer. Heading himself to the dining room proud of his work. 

Hours later, you went directly to the lab where Hank and the Professor told you to meet. “Okay Y/N so tell us how you feel it, if you want to change something” Hank looked at you looking in the mirror. 

It was really comfortable even when it was really tight to your body. You felt so much confidence, you saw the x mark on it, that wasn’t on the suit the last meeting you had. Also it made justice to your figure and your beautiful curves. 

“Thanks again, it fits perfectly. But Hank I just wanted to ask you if it’s possible if you could add something to the suit…” Hank is paying attention to you. “If there could be like- I don’t know- something for you guys to know which element I’m manipulating or about to, so you don’t get yourself hurt out there during a mission” you asked him nervously because they are the experts.

”Mmmhh, it’s a really good idea but the enemy can use that information too against us to advance an attack” Hank really liked the idea but they had a surprise for you. 

“So dear, we also wanted for you to try this suit too” the Professor went to reach the suit he was talking about. Hiding it inside a box that was wrapped like a gift. 

“Guys, what is this?” you were in total awe when you opened the box. They know how easily you get emotional. Tears are already forming in your eyes. 

“We wanted for you to have your own suit, something that will be just for YOU…” Hank started explaining. “All of us have something that characterizes ourselves and our powers, so someone told us your favorite color is purple and it contrasts perfectly the green that represents your powers…” Hanks kept talking because you went speechless. “I know it sounds cliché to add green for your ecokinesis, if you don’t like it we can change it” he suggested.

You just ran to hug them because it was perfect. “So for your ideas you gave us, we design this…” the Professor handed you another box, but this time smaller. You opened it so fast. “We created these gloves for the changes of elements. So you can use it in the field or on a daily basis” you tried on them immediately and it blew your mind the technology it has, how it’s connected to you to change the colors related to the element, it sparkles so that makes them AMAZING.

“The gloves are more for the missions, because with the suit you hold your powers in case you are not conscious. Also the gloves help you to give your attack a precise target. We’ll learn more about both items while training” Hank explained. 

So when you first wore the x-men suit, you were so nervous about the mission, about everything so you changed clothes in your room. Thinking if this was a good idea. Literally everyone was waiting for you to step into the plane. 

“I’m going” Storm was about to go and search for you when you stepped into the ship. “There you are! K’ let’s go” Storm yelled at Scott to go.

Logan almost fainted, his claws making an appearance without previous warning. He quickly put them back, he was so excited he couldn’t resist to stay close to you. His flirting helped you to stop your nerves. “Sugar, you look amazing…” he gave you a kiss on your check, sitting next to you on the ship. He came closer to your face, whispering “I hope they made like a hundred suits because as soon as we're back in the mansion I’m going to rip it off. God, I can’t wait” You tried to hide the redness of your face, you warned him to behave. 

“Logan, I’m pretty sure the Professor can read your mind, I don’t want to be kicked out of the missions. Or give us separated missions. Do you want me to be paired with Scott instead?” you asked him with a teasing smile. 

“I’m sorry, love. But did you see yourself in the mirror before coming?” Logan really insisted but not too much. “Don’t worry, you’re going to kick asses today and I’ll protect you till the end of times” 

Like I said before, Logan after that would take any opportunity to join you for fittings. Especially if something is different. Logan would be there next to you when you are not comfortable with your body. If you are not comfortable with your powers every time you discover something new about them. After years, he will always be there for you, sitting in front of you looking at you with awe and comforting you even when you’re were not feeling it. 

The only time you skipped a mission was when your suit was not crossing your figure. You tried on your x-men suit and your own suit they made you and it was not stretching enough. The team was on a rush so they let you stay at the mansion. 

Logan asked you when they were back about what happened and you just told him you were feeling under the weather. The Professor already knew the real reason. You distracted Logan enough for you to go to Hank's office. 

“Hi, Hank. Can I ask you something?” you stepped into the room worried. Hank welcomed you worried about your absence in the last mission. “I had a problem with the suit, actually both suits. Is it possible for the fabric to be even more stretchable?” you asked him. 

Next day, after telling Logan the truth about you expecting and how suddenly a big bump you had appeared. That time he almost fainted too. So both of you were in the lab, the Professor and Hank giving you the congratulations when Hank was taking notes of your new measurements for your suits.

“Be careful there, big boy” Logan growled at Hank when he put the measuring tape around your belly. Logan was so protective over you and now your baby. You laughed at him telling not to worry, Logan looking at you with charming eyes while you rub your belly looking at yourself in the mirror. So this was really happening, starting a family.

Hank explained to you your new suits, which were going to be more comfortable for you considering the bump was going to grow even more. But the only thing Logan could think about is to protect you even more out there in the field. 

“Lo, look at me. I can do this” you hold his face when back in the room he told you to reject some missions that were too dangerous just to be cautious. He was scared that if you got injured really bad in your state. He was not going to stop you from going to the missions, because he knows you are one of the strongest and with a single snap you can beat your enemy but he can’t help himself from worrying. “And if I’m not feeling good or at my best to fight I’ll stay here”. you kissed him to calm him down. 

“I know, mama. You are the baddest out there. They could never beat you even if they tried” Logan kissed you back and kneeled to kiss your belly. “I wonder which powers our baby is going to inherit”. Next time Logan went to Hank’s office was to ask for a tiny x-men suit to surprise you. Hank couldn’t say no to Logan because he found a really cute gesture from him even when he had a lot of work left to do. 

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xi)

ZERO CROSSING—The moment everything inverts, and the axis breaks.

summary: Joel is too far from home, travelling and surviving once again, for a purpose.

a/n: buckle up, this is a looooong one. I wanted to share all the journey and the loss in a single chapter, initially, I wanted to break it into two, but it only made sense here to have it done with. Please take this with a grain of salt, and understand the world of TLOU is difficult and irredeemable. bad shit happens, you can't stop it. okay, let's do this!

word count: 19,000 + [ I had an ask from a sweet anon who wanted this included. hello! I hope you can estimate your reading time now, thanks for letting me know :) ]

DAY 1: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. FOURTEEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, SOMEWHERE PAST SALT LAKE CITY.

Regrets and worries. Joel knew now—they weren’t the same. Not even close. Two different beasts, pulling in opposite directions. One stalked behind you, the other ahead. He had both nipping at his heels.

Regret caught up fast enough. It had already happened, and there was no undoing it. Hated that shit to the core. And worry? Well, he was so used to seeing its back before him now, just waiting for it fuck up. Together, they twisted in his gut. Frayed wires, snarled and buzzing, so tangled he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

Not here, not now—lying on the splintered floorboards of some half-collapsed home, walls paper-thin against the hiss of falling snow outside, air cold enough it bit the inside of his nose when he breathed too deep.

The cabin was barely standing. Roof half gone, one wall caved in, and wind came through the boards like breath through teeth. It was shelter in the loosest sense—four walls and a place to keep his back to. That’d have to be enough.

The stew sat like lead in his stomach. Came out of a battered can, label long gone. Might’ve been beef. Might’ve been dog food. Probably expired a decade ago. He didn’t care. Shoved it down like punishment. Energy was energy. Didn’t matter how it tasted going in—only that it stayed down. Now, though, his gut churned like it disagreed. Violently.

With the rifle close at hand, Joel sat with his legs stretched out, boots frozen stiff with slush, snow melting slowly off his jacket shoulders. He hadn’t bothered stripping out of his gear. No point. Cold like this, alone out here, you didn’t sleep long anyway.

He’d been riding for fourteen hours. Maybe more. He’d stopped keeping track somewhere past hour ten. Through rough terrain, past the last of the patrol lines, past roads that weren’t really roads anymore, just veins through snow-covered land that didn’t feel real. The map crumpled in his jacket wasn’t worth shit now. Just paper soaked with sweat and hope.

And fuck this snow. It wasn’t just cold—it was fucking brutal. It soaked through seams, dulled the edges of his vision, and turned the horse into a slipping mess of nerves and bone. He couldn’t wait to hit the open heat again—past Vegas, past the mountains, back where the sky turned gold and didn’t bite.

Vegas. Jesus, he’d be riding past it soon. What a weird thought. He’d never liked that place. Clinking noise and vice and strobe lights that didn’t mean anything. Still, the thought of it almost felt like an assurance now—like anything would be better than this stretch of cold emptiness.

The sun had set and risen without his permission, and the horse was starting to limp. He’d have to rest it come morning. If there was a morning. This part of the country didn’t feel like it had days anymore—just gray stretches of silence between dusk and deeper dusk.

And still, sleep wouldn’t come.

He rolled something between his fingers—small, brass, worn, warm from the heat of his palm. A button. Not from anything he’d owned. Probably from a coat someone lost before the world went to hell. Maya had picked it up off the road during the summer, on their way back home from dinner at Tommy's. He remembered her squealing when she spotted it, stubby fingers plucking it out of the dirt like gold, and handing it to him later, bestowing him a treasure, her tiny gummy smile vast as anything.

He’d kept it ever since. Didn’t matter what it came from. The button was hers, then his. It hadn’t left his pocket since.

He squeezed it between his fingers, thumb brushing the grooves, meeting his lip just once, and tucked it away again.

He hadn’t said much when he left. Tommy met him in the barn before sunrise, lit only by a lantern swinging from a nail. The horses had been restless. Cold was coming in through the slats, and Joel had cinched the saddle like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy had offered to go—thrice. Said it didn’t sit right, Joel riding out alone. But Joel had shaken his head.

“You stay here. For my girls.”

He didn’t trust anyone else to watch over them. Not the way Tommy would. “Just make sure they eat and sleep. That they know I'm doin' fine. You hear me?”

Tommy didn’t argue after that. Just handed him the reins and clapped his shoulder once. It was enough, maybe more than enough.

He’d ridden out before the light touched the mountains, the sound of the gate swinging shut behind him like a period at the end of a sentence.

Just yesterday—just yesterday—he’d been home. His home. The big white house, on the edge of Jackson with the bramble bushes out back and Leela’s cursive handwriting on the walls in pencil, tiny indelible equations scrawled between coat hooks and door frames.

Maya had held onto his finger compliantly, in her too-thick coat, dragging her plastic basket across the frost-hardened ground, and crouched beside him in the garden beds as they picked out what her mama had wanted for dinner. Carrots, lumpy and sweet. A head of cauliflower. All collected in her basket, while Joel wondered out loud to her, that maybe Leela was making that spicy stew of hers, with sumac and saffron.

And that night—he’d had Leela’s breath in his ear, her hand latched around his. They’d curled up together under that white duvet, head resting close, her thumb drawing soft, slow circles into his palm until he drifted off.

Now here he was.

Cold. Dirty. Bone-tired. Alone. Chasing ghosts toward a city he hadn’t seen in decades.

He leaned back until his head tapped the wood behind him, and let out a breath. It fogged up in front of him and vanished.

“Screw it,” he muttered.

The backpack was by his side, half-buried in snow-dust. He pulled it closer, unzipped it with numb fingers. Inside, wrapped tight in old linen, was Leela’s notebook—the one with her proofs, her ideas, the kind of math that gave him a migraine. The one he was risking everything to deliver.

Tucked beneath it were two small tape recorders. But—there were two of them, same make, scratched from use. He’d grabbed both in a rush. One of them had her logs, her working thoughts on the Riemann Hypothesis. The other… who knew.

It didn’t matter. He needed her. Her voice. Even if it was just numbers and theorems he didn’t understand. Even if it was her being brilliant in a way that left him in the dust. Something to make the world feel less far.

Joel held one to his chest a moment. Closed his eyes. Thumb hovering over the play button for a moment before he pressed it.

The machine clicked. The static cleared. A brief hiss.

And then, for a second, all Joel could hear was the wind scratching at the seams of the broken-down cabin. Then came her voice—soft, unsure.

He smiled, exhaled, and let the recorder rest on his chest. Ready for sleep.

X

L.REED MAYA INFANCY DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #9

(Click. The soft static of the recorder kicks in. There's a rustling sound, like someone adjusting a blanket or shifting in bed. Then, Leela's voice—gentle, low, a little breathless, like she’s just settled in beside someone small and wriggly. Maya.)

“You wanna say 'hi'? Hi?”

(Maya hums. Coos softly before saying—) “Hah.”

(Leela laughs.) “Close enough. Okay, so. It is August the seventeenth. Time is… very late.” (A soft snort.) “Um, two-twelve a.m. Bedroom. Maya, age eight months.”

(A soft, gurgling coo interrupts. Then a thump-thump—like a baby kicking her feet against the mattress. Leela exhales a smile into the mic.)

“Baby girl is vocalizing consistently. Her consonant-vowel chains are stronger. Lots of ‘ba-ba’, ‘ga-ga’, ‘ta-ta’, occasionally ‘da’. This morning, I caught her mimicking Joel yawning and singing. She’s watching his lips more, listening to intonation. Repeating the pitch, if not the structure.”

(More babbling now. Higher-pitched. Happier. Leela’s voice quiets slightly, as if leaning in.)

“But just now…” (a pause, soft disbelief flickering in her voice) “…she said ‘Mama.’”

(There��s a quiet moment. A little sniff from Leela, then a huff of a laugh.)

“I was holding her, rocking her. She had her hand on my lips, just as I taught her to express ‘I love you’. Looked me dead in the eye. And said it.”

(Maya giggles, wet and delighted, then says it again—muffled but distinct) “Mamamamama.”

“That. Right there. Did you hear that?” (Leela’s voice wavers, thickens with emotion she’s trying not to name.) “Omigosh, baby.”

(We can hear Maya closer now, her soft breaths, her curious coos.)

“You wanna say that for me, please? Can you say 'Mama' one more time?”

(Soft, adorable, Maya speaks.) “Mama.”

(Leela giggles.) “Yeah?”

(She's excited, seeing her mother smile.) “Maaaa!”

“Maya's first word. Not just a sound. Not just noise. She meant me.”

(Another pause, the rustling of blankets. Leela’s voice softens even more, almost like she’s speaking to herself now.)

“My baby is growing so fast, learning, laughing daily, and it's all Joel. He speaks to her so much, it's no wonder she wants to talk right back at him. But I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I’ve studied this a little from that old baby book Mom had lying around in storage. I know the milestones. The phoneme acquisition timeline. But hearing it…”

(She stops. A breath. Then, quieter—) “It made me feel real. Like I didn’t just survive her. Like maybe I was meant to be her mother after all.”

(Maya babbles in the background, then lets out a little sigh and flops back against the mattress. Leela chuckles softly, tired.)

“She does this cute thing with her hands when she’s trying to form new sounds. Presses her fingers to her mouth like she’s shaping the word. Like she’s building it.”

(A beat. Then Leela's voice dips into playfulness—dry, teasing, a rare glint of humor.)

“She’s smarter than me, I know it. It’s totally fine. I’ll just be the one who cuts up her fruit and explains Hilbert spaces until she’s old enough to tell me to stop.”

(The door creaks open. Joel’s voice enters the room, low and gravelly, but softened with affection.)

“You still up, darlin'? Jesus, go to bed already.” (His boots thud quietly against the floor as he steps in. A pause. Then the sound of a kiss—quiet, slow. A press of lips to Leela’s temple.) “Doin’ experiments with the poor kid again? Hi, baby girl.”

(Leela hums, leaning into him whilst Maya squeals in excitement at Joel's arrival.) “Infancy development log for future purposes. Joel, come sit. Listen, listen. Maya said her first word.”

(There’s a beat. Joel exhales like he’s trying to hide a smile. He shifts closer—more rustling, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he sits beside them. Maya lets out a soft coo.)

“Yeah?” (His voice is quieter now, touched with awe.) “What’d she say?”

(Leela pauses. Her voice is a little breathless when she finally answers.) “She said 'Mama.'”

(Joel is quiet. Then—he laughs under his breath, low, warm and a little stunned. A laugh that carries years in it.)

“Course she did. Trouble and a traitor.” (A kiss, this time to his baby’s head.) “Smartass, just like you.”

(Maya babbles off-screen—happy nonsense, punctuated with a triumphant little—) “Mama!”

(Leela half-laughs, disbelieving) “Hear that? Again and again. No prompting, Joel. Just—‘Mama.’ Like she knew.”

(Another tiny voice from the baby.) “Maaaaaama.”

(Joel sighs like a man personally betrayed.) “Wow. She’s on a roll.”

“You seem jealous.”

(Joel, in mock offence) “Psh. Jealous, schmealous.” (Then addresses Maya directly, lowly.) “You know how many nappies I’ve changed for you, trouble? How many times I’ve walked you around this house at two in the damn morning?”

(He leans closer, pitching his voice hopeful and coaxing.) “Say Da-da. Come on, baby girl. Just once. Da-da.”

(Maya hushes. Then lets out another cheerful—) “Mama.”

“She’s doin’ it on fuckin' purpose.”

“She’s a baby.”

“She’s my baby. Which means she’s bein’ a pain in my ass on purpose.”

(The static is filled with the sound of Joel scooping her up, lifting her overhead with ease—Maya giggles, squeals, kicks her feet.)

(Joel playfully threatens.) “That it? You say 'Mama' one more time and I swear to God, I’m throwin’ you in the trash.”

(Maya hiccups out another: “Mama!” then laughs like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Leela bursts out laughing behind the recorder.)

“Right, you're with the raccoons now. C’mere, you lil’ menace.” (He smothers a chuckle with a deep kiss against Maya's cheek.)

(Leela's teasing does not cease.) “Go ahead. She’ll climb back out.”

“She’s got your damn mouth. And your attitude.”

(Leela’s voice, still recording, drops into a whisper—proud and fragile.) “Cannot believe she picked me.”

(Joel snickers.) “Yeah, baby. But we’re all hers now.”

(Click.)

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SIX HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON.

You know how when you're completely alone, and there’s nothing left to look at but the walls, nothing to hear but the ticking of your own breath? When there’s no noise, no job, no person, no purpose to pull you away from the one thing that's been haunting the edges of your mind?

That’s where Joel was. No goddamn purpose except forward.

The road stretched ahead like a savage scar across the earth—silent, broken, endless. The only sound was the dull rhythm of hooves on packed dirt and the occasional creak of the saddle under Joel’s weight. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

No talking. No laughter. No baby cries. Just him, the horse, and the wind. It was in that kind of silence—complete, bone-deep—that the memory found him. The quiet made space for things he didn’t want.

It wasn’t even something big. Not some major milestone, holiday, or sweet, cinematic moment he could cling to like a lifeline.

Just a soft thing. A quiet day. It had been raining since morning, their first wave of summer storms.

It was not hard, not a downpour, just that steady mountain drizzle that turned everything gray and soft, that blurred the windows and hushed the world, made the house smaller and cozier. Inside this cushy room he'd made for his little girl, the air was scented of old cotton, wood, and whatever Maya had wiped on his shirt earlier.

Joel had stood in the nursery, one arm braced on the crib’s rail, the other setting down a freshly folded onesie on a small, lopsided pile. The window had been cracked, just an inch, enough to let in petrichor and the patter of water on the roof. The rhythm of it folded itself into the room like background music—so familiar he barely noticed it anymore, like a breath or heartbeats.

The laundry was warm from the dryer, and the little pink crib had become a makeshift laundry basket—tiny socks, soft bloomers, onesies with Leela's sweet embroideries of bears, owls, stars, and moons, all heaped together like a colourful cloud.

Maya, just a hair past eight months, sat squarely in the middle of the pile, the clean laundry heaped around her like a nest. She had one sock in each hand, neither matching, and looked at them like she was weighing philosophical truths. Her dark curls were sticking up in fuzzy snares. Her legs were crossed, her posture oddly regal—like she’d appointed herself queen of the sock mountain.

Joel glanced at her, then down at the onesie in his hand. It had a bear on the front, kind of wonky, with one eye stitched lower than the other.

He let out a soft huff through his nose. “I keep meanin’ to ask your mama to patch that bear’s eye. Looks like he’s been through some shit, right?”

Maya blinked at him, then looked back at her socks, utterly unbothered.

Joel folded the onesie and stacked it. “Yeah. Damn garden’s gonna be drowned if this rain keeps up,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “See, I told Mama not to put that basil down near the low spot, but she won’t listen. You’ll see when you’re older—ain’t no one listening to the man with the shovel.”

Maya scrunched one of the socks in her hand, held it up, and gave him a look like, Is this even a sock or is it something greater?

Joel chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Socks. Don’t make no sense, huh?”

He reached over and gently tugged one of the matching pairs out of the pile. “This your big contribution?” he asked. “You fold this one? Looks like it got run over by a possum.”

Maya made a quiet noise—something between a hum and a grunt—and waved both socks in the air like streamers. Joel looked up again, and this time, he softened.

“I see you, baby girl,” he murmured. “Workin’ real hard.”

She blinked at him, pleased with herself, and stuck one sock on her foot over the other one she was already wearing.

“That’s it,” Joel hummed. “Yeah, two socks on one foot. Tyra Banks, you are. You’re gonna revolutionize the whole town.”

And suddenly she was a firecracker of excitement in her double-layered socks. She was up on her feet, squealing, “Da-da-da-da!”

Her little bare feet thudded softly on the crib mattress as she twirled, arms stretched out like wings. The flannel dress—a new one, made by her Mama, cut from one of Joel’s old shirts—fanned out around her like a pinwheel. The plaid knots at her shoulders bounced with every turn, and the fabric spun around her legs with a gentle swish, like the hush of wind through leaves.

Maya made a breathy sound with each spin—a little “hah!” like surprise was bubbling out of her chest. Her curls, puffed up from the static, lifted with each whirl, a halo of chaos above her head. She looked like joy personified: loose, unselfconscious, free.

Joel, sock still half-folded in his hands, couldn’t help but watch. Something about her face in that moment—the pure glee, the trust in the world—grew a warm ache. The kind you didn’t know how to carry, because it was too good. Too fleeting.

“Look at you,” he said, quiet. “You like that dress, huh? That’s Daddy’s old shirt, you know.”

Maya squealed but didn’t answer, too caught up in her spinning. Until her balance gave out. She toppled sideways into the cloth hill with a wild, delighted shriek, caught herself on her hands, and let out a giggle.

He opened his mouth to warn her to slow down—when the thunder cracked.

It came like the snap of a tree limb overhead—sharp, sudden, alive with force. The windows rattled in their frames.

The sound wiped the joy clean off her face. Her arms dropped. Her breath caught in her throat. She pivoted toward the window, her expression one of stunned betrayal—like the world had just raised its voice at her for the first time.

Then she moved.

Ran straight at Joel, flung herself against the crib rails, fingers latching onto his jeans like she could climb up into his skin. She didn’t cry, not yet. But her whole body was taut and trembling. Her face was still turned toward the glass, mouth parted, trying to understand the sky.

He saw the tiny tremble in her lower lip, the way two fingers picked at them nervously, the way her eyebrows drew tight, a wrinkle forming between them like a shadow.

Another thunder roll followed. This one longer, deeper. It crawled over the house like a prowling animal, ploughing into the roof.

Maya let out a whimper—not loud, but helpless. She looked up at him, big eyes wide, uneasy, and in a voice cracked with fear, she whispered, “Da-da, mhmm. Up, pease.”

Joel didn’t answer. He moved first.

In two strides, he was at the open window. He reached up and slammed it shut with the heel of his palm. The muffled silence afterward was almost a relief, just the soft percussion of rain on the roof.

“There we go. Nothin', it's gone now.”

Then he came back to her, crouched down, arms open before she even reached him. She crashed into his chest with a panicked little cry, climbing up him like he was a tree, tiny fingers clawing for purchase in his shirt, breaths shallow.

“I got you, honey,” he murmured to her as he stood, lifting her up against him. “You’re alright. I got you, baby girl.”

Another boom rolled over the mountains—long, low, rumbling—and she whimpered, her face pressed into his neck, her whole body trembling against his.

He gathered her up and lowered himself slowly to the rug. Sat cross-legged, grunting, settling herself in the crook of his chest. He curled himself around her like a shelter, drawing her in until she was tucked fully against his chest. Her bare toes nudged under his arm, one arm trapped between their chests, the other clutching his collar in a death grip.

“It’s just the sky talkin' to you,” he said, soft against the crown of her head. “Ain’t nothin’ but the sky being all big and loud for its favourite little girl.”

Another crack of thunder, and she jumped.

“Ahh, no, no, no da-da!”

“Okay, okay. Ssh.”

That’s when Joel gently brought his hands up to her ears—those big, calloused palms, rough from years of labour but soft now, careful as he cupped her tiny head. He didn’t press, didn’t smother—just curved them over her ears like a living shield. Just enough to hush the worst of the world.

“There,” he whispered, voice tucked low in his throat, like a secret just for her. “That better, baby?”

She only sagged into him, her whole weight melting down like her bones had gone soft. Her breath came fast, shallow little gasps against his neck, her cheeks hot and wet where her tears were soaking straight through his shirt.

Joel’s chest clenched.

“Shh, hey now,” he murmured, rocking her gently, like he’d done when she was still small enough to fit in one forearm. “Ain’t no storm gonna touch you. Not while you’re right here with me.”

He pushed a kiss to her temple—warm, lingering—then rested his cheek against her curls, letting himself sink into her warmth too. Her curls were soft against his stubbled jaw, but still quivering like a frightened baby bird. Every flinch of hers felt like a blow to his own ribs.

The next clap of thunder rolled in, less sharp now but still loud, echoing through the valley.

She flinched again—hard—and bowed into herself even tighter, like she was trying to disappear inside his chest. Her lip quivered, her little shoulders jumping beneath his hands.

Joel tucked her closer, wrapped himself around her, every muscle taut with the instinct to protect. To cover.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, peppering kisses wherever he could. “Almost over, sweetheart.”

His hands moved—slow, pacifying—one cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades. He could feel her heart racing under his palm, tiny and frantic. Like a hummingbird. But with each pass of his hand, it began to slow, just a little.

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. Softer now. Farther away. Tired, fading.

Joel didn’t move his hands. Just kept holding her, kept being the still point in the storm, the rock she could anchor to.

“You hear that?” he said, reaching down to brush his thumb against her eyes and wipe the tears away. “Storm’s gettin’ tired. Runnin’ outta gas.”

And as the rain gentled on the roof, Maya’s breath began to slow. Her tiny fists, once knotted in his shirt, loosened, fingers going slack. Her lashes fluttered against his collarbone like moth wings. Not asleep—but safe. Settled.

After a minute, she shifted. Pulled back just enough to sit upright in his lap, still nestled between his knees. Her legs folded beneath her, toes peeking out under the hem of her dress. She didn’t say anything—just found one of the buttons on his shirt and started turning it slowly with her fingers, brow furrowed.

Then she looked up. Big, brown, still-wet eyes. A pout like a petal turned down, cheeks sticky with the last of her tears. Her curls were a damp halo, and her bottom lip wobbled, just a little.

Joel leaned in, forehead leaning gently against hers. Let their warmth meet in the middle.

“Hey. Doesn’t stand a goddamn chance against you and me, right?” he asked in a whisper.

Maya blinked up at him. Then touched her fingers to her lips—soft and sweet—and pressed them to his. That little 'I love you' trick again. She gave it off so freely sometimes, to Ellie all the time, to Maria, even Tommy, who bugged the hell out of her.

He gave a breath of a laugh, quiet and rough-edged. His eyes closed as he felt her tiny hand against his mouth.

“I love you too,” he murmured, catching her little hand between two cautious fingers, rubbing the bare lines there. His fingertips barely spanned her palm, this tiny little thing that trusted him to hold her through her first storm.

Let it thunder, he had thought then. Let it break the whole damn sky. It wouldn’t get to her. Not here. Not while he was breathing.

That memory bloomed behind Joel’s eyes like a flame in the cold.

He blinked, slow, pulled back to reality by the enduring rhythm of the horse’s hooves. Wind whipped around his straight collar. His ribs ached with every breath.

Forever was a grandiose fucking myth. That soft, rainy day might as well’ve been a dream. A world made of cotton and woodsmoke and spinning plaid dresses. Twenty hours behind him. Maybe a thousand miles. Maybe gone forever.

And if she was scared now? If the thunder came again and she reached for him, he wouldn’t be there.

All he had now was the ghost of her breath on his neck. The echo of her trust. The weight of his baby girl he could still feel in his arms, though she wasn’t there.

Joel hunched deeper into his coat, reins pulled taut, leather digging into his palm.

Because the storm hadn’t left him. It had just moved inside.

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, JUST PAST GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO

The first thing that hit him was the same goddamn cold.

Not the kind he was used to, that stung his fingers or turned his breath white—but the kind that stole. That lung-squeezing, bone-hollowing cold that came with being slammed headfirst into a river in the middle of no-fucking-where.

It engulfed him whole.

Joel’s skull cracked against stone. He barely had time to curse before the water closed over him. It was an aggressive silence, all muffled roars and bubbles, blood rushing in his ears. His body spasmed on instinct, legs booting, hands clawing for something—anything.

His face broke the surface with a sharp gasp, just before a boot came down, hard, and shoved him under again.

He went back under with a strangled snarl, teeth bared in the dark, throat filling with river. He thrashed—unseeing, feral, like a dog tangled in barbed wire, hands scraping across riverbed rock. Something thick and ugly filled his chest—not just water, but rage. Blind, instinctual, living within his very marrow.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He didn’t even know where the trap had sprung from—just that one second he was crossing that busted-out bridge, cold wind at his back, and the next he was flying sideways, skull and ribs screaming as they hit the bank. A flash of movement, then mud, then water.

Now his gear was scattered, his rifle somewhere downstream to the Gulf of California, and the weight on his back was not budging.

Had to give it to him, the guy was strong. Not smart. Sloppy, wild. But strong as fuck.

Joel twisted, spine screaming, hips torquing. A crack of pain lit up his ribs—he didn’t have time to wonder if they were broken. He got one knee up in the current and drove it backwards—boot connected with something soft. The man grunted. Joel surged, body arching, hands fumbling. His fingers closed around something slick. A stone, maybe. Maybe a piece of his own gear. He didn’t look. Just swung it upward.

There was a crack of bone. The weight lifted.

Joel broke the surface like a corpse pulled from the deep. He choked, spat, and coughed, the sound raw and ragged. His whole body was trembling, muscles stuttering from the cold.

He had half a breath in him before the guy was on him again.

“Sonuva—” he bit out through chattering teeth.

Big, ugly, one of those loner types. Eyes wide and bloodshot. Beard crusted with something black. Stinking of rot, blood, sweat and boots that’d walked through worse places than this.

Joel didn’t waste time—got a hand on the man’s face, fingers clawing for the eyes, gouging. The other hand dropped to his belt—the knife was still there. Thank God. He drew it, fast, but his wrist was shaking and his grip was off.

He wasn’t thinking. He was moving. This wasn’t the first time someone tried to kill him. And it wouldn’t be the last.

The blade found flesh—but not where it needed to. It glanced off the bastard’s side, shallow, not enough. The guy roared and drove a fist into Joel’s temple. Stars burst behind his eyes.

His boots skidded on slick river stones. He went down hard.

The weight came again. Pinning him. Crushing.

The man’s knee jammed into Joel’s chest, ribs shrieking under the press, full body leaning in. Joel felt something crack. Pain ripped through him like lightning. The knife slipped from his hand.

Shit—

“You're fuckin' dead, asshole.”

Alright. Bring it the fuck on.

The guy was growling in his ear, teeth gnashing, breath hot and putrid. Hands clawing at his throat. Joel struggled, arms scrabbling. His body was giving out. Water dragged on his clothes. His lungs were still half-full of the river. His legs were kicking, but they felt far away.

Too tired. Too fucking slow. Too fucking old.

A knee jammed into his chest. His own vision flickering. The sky above him was a fair smudge between barren tree branches.

Not like this.

He saw her face. Maya’s. Then Leela’s. Ellie’s. Faces he’d left behind to protect. Faces he wasn’t ready to forget. Just a little more time. One more chance. Go back home, forget this whole damn thing. Just live.

Not like this, not like this, not like—

BANG.

The body on top of him jolted. A spurt of red bloomed across his shoulder, steam rising from the impact.

BANG.

Closer this time. Blood misted across Joel’s face. The man slumped. Collapsed. Dead weight, sudden and slack.

Joel lay there for a second, breath snagged in his throat. The silence came back—but it wasn’t tranquil. It was sharp. Expectant.

He eventually gasped furiously, chest heaving, struggling to pull air through raw lungs. Hands numb, shaking. His ears rang. Blinked the blood out of his eyes.

Then slowly, painfully, he shoved the corpse off and rolled onto his side. Coughing. Wheezing. The river soaked into his bones like poison. His fingers dug into the pebbles just to remember what solid ground felt like.

A third gunshot wasn't coming.

He turned his head, half-expecting a hallucination, knife still in hand—every nerve sparking. His body was coiled, heart pounding in his throat, soaked through, freezing, half out of his mind—

And standing there, staring at him with wide, shit-scared eyes—

Ellie.

Still holding the pistol two-handed, her arms locked, face pale and furious and terrified. Her breath ghosted in the cold, breathing hard, like she’d run all the way here. Snow dusted her hair, melting into her collar. Hair messy, sleeves pushed up, a smear of blood on her cheek—he didn’t even know if it was hers.

She looked like a goddamn kid again, that shock in her.

Joel stared at her for a moment that felt like the world had paused—like time itself needed a second to understand what the hell just happened.

She took a step toward him, lowering the gun.

“Joel—” Her voice broke halfway through his name.

And then, behind her, out of the trees—Leela.

Moving quick but steady, wrapped in that old worn coat of hers, fur-lined, hair tied up into a big, tight bun, eyes locked onto Joel like she’d been hunting him through a warzone. Her hand was clenched around something that looked cobbled together from broken bottles, tubing, and copper wire, rigged with metal scraps and cloth. A bomb, crude and half-melted, glass fogged with something dark and hissing inside. Acid, maybe. Of her own damn making.

A fucking acid bomb.

He stared at them both, still on his knees in the water, stunned, soaked, heart clawing its way back into his throat.

For a split second, he thought he was dreaming. Thought maybe he’d finally cracked. That maybe he died in that river, and this was what his mind made up on the way out.

But unfortunately, no.

Ellie was still holding that pistol, shoulders tense. Leela was here, real as anything, her breath catching when she saw the blood on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel rasped. He staggered upright to his feet, knees buckling, one hand pressed to his broken ribs. His voice was hoarse with cold and panic. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Ellie didn’t answer. She was staring at him like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug him or shoot him for leaving her like that.

Joel was still dripping, clothes ungainly, cuts stinging on his hands and face. His fingers flexed around the knife hilt, but he let it drop, slowly. His voice, when it came again, cracked with cold and fury and fear.

“Have you lost your goddamn minds?!”

He didn’t care how raw he sounded. Didn’t care that his legs were shaking. Because what the hell were they thinking?

Jackson was safe. He left them there for a reason.

Joel turned his gaze to Leela, eyes wild. Still couldn't believe this shit. No, he was definitely imagining this.

“You—you brought her out here?” he rasped to Ellie, the words stumbling out, shredded at the edges.

His voice cracked with wrath, but beneath it was something else. Something jagged and terrified. He wasn’t yelling at her—he was yelling because if he didn’t, he might fucking break.

But Leela didn’t move. Just stood there. Still as a statue, wet snow clinging to her sleeves, her mouth parted like she couldn’t speak. And her eyes—no.

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize what she’d found. Like she’d expected someone else. A stronger man. One who wasn’t half-drowned, bloody, and shaking from the cold. A man who didn’t have someone else’s blood running down his neck.

She’d come all this way, and this was what she got.

He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore. This was the whole reason he’d left. So she wouldn’t have to see this version of him. The one he tried to keep locked up in the dark.

The bleeding one. The broken one. The furious one. The one who failed and lost—over and over again.

Joel’s lungs seized. His ribs ached like something inside had torn loose. Not broken, just bitterly bruised. He didn’t know if it was the pain, the grief, or just too many nights without sleep.

“I told you to stay the fuck back,” he growled, staggering forward, fury spilling out of him just to cover the terror underneath. He took a step forward, wet boots dragging in the muck. “Do you even know what the hell I’m walkin’ into? You think this is a joke? You've just killed yourselves!”

He wasn’t shouting at her anymore. He was shouting at the world. At himself.

But Ellie’s voice cut through the fog like a blade. “He would’ve fucking killed you. How about a 'thank you'?”

“Coulda blown my goddamn head off,” he grunted.

“You scared the shit out of me, Joel! You just—” she rubbed her wrist against her nose, to quiet a sniffle, “When she came to my door with the kid, crying her head off, I thought you were... God, you're such a fucking asshole!”

Joel stopped.

Her hands were shaking. The gun still hung in her grip, barrel down, smoke curling from the muzzle. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. Ellie never cried, not where he could see it.

He wanted to argue. Tell her she shouldn’t have been here, that she was reckless, that she’d risked everything—

But he couldn’t. Because she was right.

So instead, he looked away. His jaw clenched. Hands flexed uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. The cold came creeping back in.

He didn’t know what the fuck this was anymore. Didn’t understand how they’d followed him this far. Didn’t even understand why. All he knew was that the two people he’d tried to protect by walking away were now here—wet, cold, bleeding. Standing in the wreckage of his silence.

And for a second, it felt like the whole damn universe had flipped inside out.

Then he muttered, hoarse and quiet, almost to himself, “I ain’t sure what’s what anymore. Stupid kids.”

He barely had time to let the words settle before Leela moved. Past Ellie. Past the smoking pistol still loose in her hands. Past all the invisible lines she obeyed—the ones built of silence, of distance, of dignity too scarred to name.

She moved like he had finally broken open inside her. And all he wanted was to just bring her close, sink her into his chest, all her warmth and strength, be grateful she had come all this way, and she was still alive. His good arm opened to do just that.

Until she hit him. Hard.

Joel didn’t even register the motion. Just the crack—a sharp, ringing pop against his cheekbone, like someone had fired a shot next to his ear. His head snapped to the side, mouth open in dumbfounded silence. The cold air lit up against the raw skin like fire on ice.

He barely managed to turn his head, blinking, confused, lips parting to speak—the fuck—to find her eyes, to demand something, anything—

When the second slap landed. Harder.

Across the opposite cheek, this one sent him a half-step back. His balance rocked. His knees gave a warning lurch. His vision blurred at the edges.

Ellie, though, came through with a hollow, “Jesus.”

The ringing in his ears drowned out everything. Even the birds had gone still. The only sound was that awful, hollow rush of blood in his head. His jaw ached. His mouth tasted of copper.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or stupidly impressed.

Leela was small. Smaller than him by a long shot. But she had those arms—those long, welder’s arms. He’d seen her rip stubborn rusted bolts loose like paper tabs, carry piping half her weight over her shoulder, hold Maya in one arm and stir sauce on a pot without breaking for a full hour. All that strength—he felt it now, blistering across his jaw. Twice.

She stood before him, chest rising and falling too fast, few loose curls clinging wet to her cheeks, lips parted like maybe she was about to say more—but didn’t.

And Joel just stood there, wordless.

The cold didn’t exist anymore. The bruising in his ribs didn’t matter. His back could be broken for all he knew, and he still wouldn’t have felt it.

Because all that existed now was her.

Leela. Storm-eyed. Livid. Trembling. Hot, if he might brainlessly add. And something else—something behind all that rage. A breaking point.

He had never seen her like this. Not once. Not even in the worst moments. Not even when Maya was screaming from frequent colic at two in the morning and Leela hadn’t slept in days. Not when the generator blew and she spent a week hauling scrap in snow up to her knees to get the lights back on. Not even when he'd practically roared at her for taking up that supply run with Tommy all that time back.

She always held the line. Quiet, astute, controlled. Too benumbed, sometimes. Too in her head to react. Never like this.

Then—her hand was on him again.

But this time, not to strike, but he did flinch though. Her slaps hurt like a bitch.

Her fingers curled into his scruff—rough and fast, like a wrench clamping down on rusted metal—and she yanked his face back toward hers.

He tried to look away. Tried to drop his gaze, tried to vanish into the pain, the shame, the damn noise in his skull—oh, she didn’t let him.

Her grip was iron. Her eyes locked with his, and what he saw wasn’t just rage. It was worse than rage.

It was finality.

“Listen good, Joel. I left my one-year-old daughter behind to travel for two days through stinking shit, trying to find your dumbass. And when we get back to Jackson after this,” she said, her voice low and flat, steel cooled just before it cracked. “I’ll make sure you never touch a goddamn hair on Maya's head again.”

She let go, just like that.

Her fingers unhooked from his chin like she was cutting a rope, severing the last thing tethering them together.

And he—well, he didn’t fall, not exactly. But his spine bent, his head dipped, and his shoulders slumped like something inside had gone slack. Like the immaterial weight he carried every day had finally doubled, and he’d just let it.

She stepped back, stiff, her breath catching now, arms trembling—whether from rage or the cold or the crash after adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. The acid bomb still dangled from one hand like a fucked-up metaphor—glass, cloth, something sharp—as if she didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn't force another word out.

He stood there in the destruction of it—soaked to the bone, shaking, cheeks stinging red, the blood of a stranger drying on his collar. His pack and rifle, drenched. His bearings were lost. Everything that had once made him sure of the next step.

And now—that one sentence—rattling around his skull like a bullet in a spent chamber, louder than the gunshots, louder than the river, louder than the slaps.

Leela meant what she said. And there was no fire, no flood, no click of a rifle or scream of infected that disturbed him more than those words.

He’d lost her for good. Not in some hypothetical, not in a nightmare. He lost her, in truth. In the cold light of consequence.

And he was losing Maya too. Not to death or sickness.

To himself. To the choices he made, trying to keep them safe.

He swallowed hard. It felt like glass going down. His eyes, dull and sunken, drifted sideways—to Ellie.

She hadn’t said a word through all of it. Just stood there, in the dying light, watching. Her eyes were too sharp, too old for her age. Her mouth set in a line like she was biting down on something jagged to keep it from spilling out.

She didn’t say I told you so. Really didn't have to.

Joel straightened up, rolling his shoulders. Slowly. Felt every snap and creak in his spine. His breath shuddered through cracked ribs. His jaw clenched once. Twice.

Then he did what Joel always did. He put it all in a box—every shattered piece—and shoved it deep, where the other shit festered, where it couldn’t get in the way. Where it couldn’t slow his hand if the trigger needed pulling. Where it wouldn’t matter.

Because they were still alive. And that meant the work wasn’t done.

So he cleared his throat. Almost a cough. And nodded once at Ellie. Then, he spoke in a voice low, steady, already shifting back into the man he had to be.

“We gotta get movin’.”

Ellie blinked at him. Leela didn’t turn.

The stinging wind picked up around. Joel looked toward the trees—branches swaying. The river was still coursing around him, still loud in his ears, but fading now.

He adjusted the straps of his pack on his shoulder and shook out the water from the rifle. Pocketed the revolver and a knife he couldn’t remember drawing.

He didn’t ask if they were ready or reach out. He just started walking ahead.

Because there were still threats out here. Still ground to cover. Still two people behind him who might not want him anymore—but they needed to make it back home.

And if that was the last thing Joel could give them, then by god, he’d give it. Even if it broke him for good.

X

Now, Leela knew everything.

It wasn’t about how much she knew—it was how deep it cut. And worse, how much she must hate him for it. There was no middle ground left. No soft place to land. Whatever warmth she’d once kept lit for him—whatever delicate belonging he’d built with her and Maya—it was probably gone. Extinguished.

They made camp off a deer trail, tucked under a collapsed ridge where the wind didn’t bite quite as hard. The sun was long gone, dragged under by the tree line, and the cold had come thieving in.

A fire snapped to life with Ellie’s careful work, dry bark and pine needles catching under flint sparks. It cast a low amber glow, flickering over ash-stained hands, over their little circle of silence. They were three bodies, orbiting the same silence. One fight too many.

Joel sat against a stone, one knee bent, the other leg stiff with bruises. He pressed the heel of his hand into his ribs—each breath was a blade. A cracked rib, maybe two. It'd heal in some time. His cheek throbbed where Leela’s palm had landed square beneath the eye. There was still the taste of blood in his mouth from the split inside his cheek, and he didn’t spit it out. He kept it there. Felt like something he owed.

But the rest—the real pain—had nothing to do with flesh.

His knuckles were broken open again. Skin peeled back, raw and crusted with blood. They hadn’t been torn like that in months. Not since Maya. Not since he swore to himself that those days—those versions of him—were done.

He found a patch of old snow, tucked in the roots of a fallen tree, and jammed his hand in it without thinking. The sting cleared his head for a second. Not long. But long enough. Better that than thinking about what he'd lost in the last twenty-four hours.

Across from him, just past the fire’s reach, Leela sat hunched against the bark of a maple, her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her silhouette was tense. A wire pulled too far. Her face was turned away, but he could still feel the gravity of her silence.

She hadn’t said a word since the fight. Since the slap. Since she told him he’d never touch Maya again.

Joel didn’t blame her.

He couldn’t look at her too long. It felt like staring at something holy that you’d already shattered with your own hands. Like the moment before a deer bolts—only this time, the deer had every reason to tear you apart instead.

Ellie passed around rations—some real food for once, not the dog-food shit Joel had been choking down since he left Jackson. Canned venison. A half-stale biscuit. Dried apples.

Leela barely took a bite. Just lifted the fork, stared at it, waited for the appetite that wasn't coming, and handed it back to Ellie with a quiet shake of her head.

“C'mon, Leela,” Ellie tried. “You can't just—”

“It's okay. You need more energy than I do,” she reasoned. “I'm really fine, honey. Thanks.”

Of course, she wouldn’t eat it. She wasn’t built for this kind of hunger. She could stomach a hundred theorems, burn through chalk and paper and sleepless nights like they were fuel, but this—this fire pit, this blood-caked survival shit—he never wanted her to have to endure it. He’d promised her safety. Comfort within their big, white house with walls thick enough to keep the world out.

But he’d dragged her right into it.

Joel watched her movements like they were coordinates. Markers of the damage. Not one bruise on her skin, but she looked like she’d been through hell. Not the kind he was inured to. The parent alone kind. The watching every shadow in case it takes your child kind. And he’d left her in it.

He cleared his throat. The words scraped coming up. “You two ate somethin’ on the way?”

Leela didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch.

Ellie glanced between them. Her voice filled the space like a thread trying to stitch up a wound that wouldn’t close. “She foraged,” she said. “I had rations. We got by.”

Joel nodded, though it didn’t ease a damn thing. Getting by wasn’t the point. One day was enough. One day without Maya, not knowing where she was—what she needed. Whether she’d cried herself to sleep. Whether she’d asked for her dad.

His hand throbbed inside the patch of snow he’d buried it in, and he left it there. A self-inflicted punishment that didn’t go deep enough.

He glanced across the fire again.

Leela hadn’t moved. She looked fossilized—ancient and delicate, trapped in amber. Beautiful, brittle. Ready to break under the wrong kind of breath. He wanted to go to her. Kiss her palms. Her feet. Kneel, grovel even. Say anything.

I’m sorry. I did this for you. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m here now. I’m here. Take me back.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t trust his legs. Didn’t trust her to want him near. Didn’t trust himself not to ruin something worse.

“Who’s got Maya now? She okay?” he asked instead, softer this time. Barely a whisper.

Ellie shrugged. “Tommy has her.”

Yet, something in Leela shifted.

She turned her head toward him slowly, like a hinge rusted from disuse. Her eyes gleamed amber glass in the firelight—not soft, not tearful. Eyes that used to flinch from cruelty now dared it.

“Oh, you care so much all of a sudden?”

Joel shrank back. Not from the words—he could handle words. It was the disgust behind them, the truth he could hear in the marrow of her voice.

“Of course I fuckin’ do—”

He stopped himself. The old Joel—the one with fists and fury and pride—wanted to bark something back. But the man in front of her now? All of that had caved inward.

“It’s all I care about,” he said instead, quieter, shriveled on the way out. “She’s all I care about.”

Ellie glanced between them again, saw the scene for what it was, and without a word, she got to her feet with a grunt.

“I’m gonna go scout the area,” she sighed, a quiet, nonsense excuse. Her voice didn’t carry judgment—just tired understanding. And wise enough to leave broken things alone until they stopped bleeding.

Joel barely heard her leave. His eyes were on Leela. On the streak of dried dirt down her neck. The way her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

Leela’s glare didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. Her mouth twisted, barely restrained.

“If you did care,” she continued slowly, “you wouldn’t have left her, you lying coward.”

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs ached with every breath. His hand stung. But none of it compared to that.

Coward. That one fit. And still, all he could think was—you deserve it. Every word. Every second of this.

“You nearly cost my daughter her father,” she went on. “The one you promised you’d be. All for your self-righteous, noble bullshit that I never even knew about.”

Our daughter, he wanted to say, but it caught in his throat. It rose halfway up his throat before dying there, stuck in that place where pride and sorrow went to rot. Because maybe it wasn’t true anymore. Maybe that word—our—was already gone.

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles ached. But none of it hurt like her voice.

“I left to protect what is mine,” he muttered. “I left because—”

“Because what?” Leela cut in. “Because you didn’t think I could handle it? Because you thought sneaking off in the middle of the night was kinder than just letting me choose with you?”

Joel blinked, and it hit him in the gut: she wasn’t exclaiming because she didn’t need to anymore. Because maybe she was done needing anything from him at all. It was worse this way—each word a clean and precise incision, a scalpel gliding through flesh. Pain wearing the skin of rage.

Grief had taken root behind her eyes, and it had teeth.

“I don’t care that you didn’t tell me about LA sooner,” she said. “I don’t even care that you thought you were loving me by keeping it all to yourself—because you’re a dense, selfish, sad, angry bastard, Joel, and I knew that from day one. I chose you anyway.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Hollow. Stupid. Like a man reaching for an apology after the fire’s already burned down the house.

“I hate your goddamn nerve,” she spat. “I hate that you thought you were sparing me. I hate knowing that if you died out here, I wouldn't even know where to bury you.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. That calm—that cutting calm—was worse than rage.

Joel tried to speak again, defend himself, make her understand. Nothing came. Just breaths. Just fire.

“I hate that you thought you were protecting me,” she said. “You always think that you know what’s best. That you can carry it all on your own. That if you just bleed enough, it counts as love.”

Joel leaned forward. His cracked rib barked in protest, but he barely registered the pain. “I wasn’t tryin’ to—”

“Yes, you were,” she snapped.

She turned her face back to the fire, as if looking at him hurt worse than the memories. “You don’t get to decide what I can survive, Joel.”

His hands shook now. Tremors he couldn’t hide anymore.

“I do,” he rasped. “I fuckin’ do. I’m the only one who does.”

Leela laughed. Not from amusement—but something bitter and jagged that barely passed for a laugh at all. “You think that makes it better?”

Joel looked down at his hands. At the crusted blood, the swollen joints. The man they belonged to.

“You haven't seen what I've seen. Fought, bled, and starved with this shit. Leela, there are slavers out here,” he said, eyes dropping to the fire. His voice was unraveling. “And if you get away from that, there are people who try to eat you. Hunters. Raiders. Rap—”

He stopped. The word stuck like a bone in his throat. A single syllable, too heavy to lift up. Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.

But they both heard it anyway.

Leela flinched like she’d been struck. In half a moment, her shoulders straightened, eyes steel again.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, sharp as shrapnel. “I have been living with it in every breath I take.”

Joel wanted to disappear. Not walk away—vanish. Just cease. Be unmade.

“I left because I thought I could do something for you,” he said, voice low, cracking open at the seams. “Find someone. Anyone. Get them your proof. Make it count. That way, maybe everything wouldn’t just sit there in the dirt and rot, like you said. That is what you wanted.”

The fire popped. A spark shot upward, fizzled, and died in the cold air.

Leela stared at him. And in that look was every sleepless night. Every muffled sob she’d buried in Maya’s curls. Every second of silence and solitude he’d forced her to carry alone.

“You think I needed you to go fix it for me, Joel? What are you, my partner or some god?” she asked. Her voice was raw now. Stripped to the bone. “You don’t get to disappear and say it’s for our own good. No. You don’t get to wrap your guilt up in goddamn sacrifice and act like it’s some kind of gift.”

His lips parted, then closed again. His throat constricted like it was physically rejecting words.

Because what was he going to say? That he did it for them? That he didn’t tell her because it would’ve broken her heart that he kept from her this long?

That he thought maybe—just maybe—if he made it out to LA, if he delivered her precious legacy, if he gave the Fireflies her working theory, maybe then he wouldn’t have to carry the guilt anymore?

He was supposed to carry it. That was the deal. That was the role he’d carved out for himself after all the blood, after every goddamn life he'd taken and every one he'd failed to save.

But Leela didn’t see it that way.

All she saw was the door closing. The boots gone from the threshold. A child wailing at night with no arms strong enough to lift her.

And all Joel could whisper—quiet, hollow, useless—was: “I needed to do the right thing for you.”

She stood. Slow. Heavy. Like her joints were made of stone. The firelight curved around her, throwing shadows under her eyes, painting her tired skin gold and gray.

“I needed you to stay. To talk to me, to trust me.”

And that was the kill shot. It landed clean.

Presence over preemption. That was all it was to her, only he realized too late.

“I didn’t need some far-off maybe or prove yourself to someone who knows you,” she said. “I needed you. Here. I needed to step outside the house without worrying if she’d choke or fall or cry herself raw. I needed her dad to hold her so I didn’t have to do it all alone. I needed someone to watch her grow with me. Because that is what is real, Joel.”

Joel closed his eyes.

And he saw her—Maya—small and warm in his arms. Her tiny fist tangled in his shirt collar. Her big, bright, brown eyes blinking up at him. The way she said Dada like it meant safety.

He’d traded all of that for an empty road. A mission. A maybe.

And now here he was—blood dried on his collar, ribs cracked, knuckles split, and heart hollowed out like the carcass of some roadkill he hadn’t even seen in time.

He’d gone looking for hope. Thinking he could trade blood and sweat and scars for redemption. For Ellie. For Tess. For Sarah. That if he walked far enough, bled hard enough, proved his love with enough miles and silence and pain—he’d earn something back.

But Leela was right. He’d dressed his guilt in duty. And called it love.

And now all he had to show for it was this—The wind in the trees. The crackle of dying fire. A man lost.

He wanted to go to her. To hold her back, take her hand, press his forehead to hers, say the words he couldn’t ever seem to find.

But he didn’t move.

He just sat there, broken and burning, his only fallback left to survival. The fire crackled on, spitting cinders into the dark.

And Joel—protector, survivor, fool—just watched it, and hated the man he’d reverted to.

X

DAY 3-5: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. SIXTY HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

“We're seeing this through. So I'm not leaving, and neither is Ellie,” Leela had finalized for him outright.

“Look, I can't—”

“I don't need you to. I said I'm not leaving, Joel.”

Stubborn fucking mama.

And Joel didn’t fight them on it anymore.

He should’ve. He told himself that. Told himself it the morning since they saddled up and rode out together—that if he were the man he used to be, he’d have grabbed both of them by the arm, dragged them back into Jackson, forced them to stay where it was safe.

But Leela had made her choice. And the truth was, he didn’t have it in him to push her away again.

So now, they rode.

The world around them unspooled like a reel of forgotten film. Dry plains gave way to rocky scrub, sagebrush rustling under the winter wind. They passed old highways cracked wide with weeds, a rust-eaten railroad bridge swallowed half by floodwater, a small burned-out town swallowed whole by silence. The road south stretched endlessly ahead, its shoulders littered with bones of the old world—billboards sun-bleached to blankness, gas stations gutted, houses like open, parched mouths.

The cold had let up somewhere past Idaho. By the fourth day, they’d started peeling off their outer layers, stripping down to threadbare flannel and undershirts. The sun was sharp now, almost springlike in the way it bore down around noon. Nights were still bitter, but the frost no longer clung to their boots come morning.

Ellie named every strange cactus they passed, tried to make him laugh by pointing out skeletons shaped like they died mid-dance. One, half-buried in the sand, was hunched like it was tying its shoe; another leaned back, arms splayed, the skull twisted toward the sun.

He gave her a few hums in response, nothing more. His attention kept drifting behind her—to the woman riding pillion, quiet as a shadow.

Leela didn’t speak much. Not to him. Just to Ellie. She wasn’t angry anymore. That was the worst of it.

Anger had a shape, volume—one he could understand, parry, push back against. This silence was weightless and permanent. Like the ash after a burn.

At night, she curled in close to the fire, wrapped in her own coat. She didn’t sleep easily, just like old times. Joel noticed the way her body stayed curled too tightly, like she was bracing for something. And sometimes, when it was his turn to take watch, he’d hear her stir behind him, restless, breath catching in her throat.

She’d wake with a sharp noise, legs thrashing, hand flying to her side like she expected something there.

Joel would glance over, pretend he hadn’t noticed. But he always did.

One night, she jerked upright so fast her hood fell back. Her breath came fast, shallow, and she folded forward with her arms around her knees, head ducked low like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

“Darlin’, you alright?” he had tried to call to her once.

“I—I wasn’t sleeping, just...” she drawled off, voice dry with exhaustion.

He nodded. “Okay. I'm right here.”

Joel turned his gaze back to the dark horizon, giving her that thin veil of privacy she always clung to. But when he heard the rustle of her coat, the soft scrape of her boots in the dirt, he realized she hadn’t lain back down.

Instead, she stayed awake beside him. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there with her arms folded, eyes watching the fire.

This happened more than once. Sometimes she’d wake from those dreams and never return to sleep. Other times, she didn’t even bother lying down—just sat with whoever was on watch, a silent shadow, her eyes rimmed red and distant come morning.

Joel didn’t ask. He wouldn’t push her, not about that.

He knew the ghosts that came back louder in the quiet. Knew how the wilderness could turn remembering into something sharper, hungrier. How it could whisper the worst things back to you in your own voice. And even if she didn’t say it, he knew exactly what kept her awake. What she was afraid of.

Sometimes he wondered if she thought Maya would be safer if she’d stayed behind. If she questioned the math, the risk. If she blamed herself, the way people like them always did.

But even like this, she was still… same old Leela. Which meant she was still incredible.

She knew how to move through this land, the way a bird knows when to migrate. He caught her one afternoon scaling the knotted side of a tree that had grown wild across the ruins of a collapsed overpass. She gripped the bark like she was born to it, legs coiled beneath her, moving with deft efficiency. She tossed down a fistful of small, yellow apricots, slightly underripe, and a few wild pears with bruised skins that thudded onto Joel's waiting jacket. Later, he watched her dig up something near the riverbed—root veg, maybe burdock or wild carrot—and clean it carefully, rubbing the dirt off with her sleeves, pressing them to her nose, testing if they were sweet or poisonous.

Joel lowered himself beside her with a grunt, his knees stiff. He held open her pack as she added more roots, careful not to crush the fruit she’d wrapped in a handkerchief. Woodsmoke wafted through the air from the fire that Ellie had just started uphill.

“You always know what to look for,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The stuff that won’t kill us, I mean.”

Leela didn’t look up. “You get good at it when you’re tired of throwing up pine bark.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Pine bark?”

She picked up another root, brushed the dirt from its ridges. “Good for the heart.”

Joel nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I'll take some of that when we get back home.”

She doesn't say anything more. His sentence hung in the air, almost shaping into a misreality.

He kept looking at her hands—fast, continued, precise. She wasn’t being cold. Just simple. Honest. It was a fact of the earth, same as everything else she pulled from it.

Evidently, she hated canned food. Always had. Joel remembered how she used to nudge the tins aside, which he'd brought her from patrol, grimacing at mushy peaches and synthetic meat stew like they were poison. So now, she gathered what she could. Built fires. Let the fruit and roots roast slowly over the open flame.

That night, he found three apricots—peeled, pitted, still warm from where they’d sat on a flat rock near his sleeping bag.

Didn’t let him go hungry.

And in the morning, when he stirred against the half-deflated camping mat, shivering from the cold ground, ribs smarting, there it was—her jacket draped across his shoulders, fur tickling his nose. That puffy green one she always wore, the one patched at the elbows. Smelled faintly of smoke and lavender soap. She must’ve covered him sometime before dawn, when the fire died low and the frost crept back in. His fingers curled over it without thinking, bringing it to his nose. He didn’t want to let it go.

Didn’t let him freeze either.

“Take care of your own damn self out here,” he muttered to her that afternoon, when Ellie had wandered off to check a sound in the brush. “I’ll be fine.”

Leela didn’t answer. Maybe she’d heard it too many times before.

Soon enough, they were moving through the shell of a city—some old Vegas township gutted by time and flame. Dust coated everything like it had fallen just yesterday and never stopped. Storefronts with sun-bleached awnings sagged in silence, windows cracked or blasted clean through, their displays long since picked over—or left to rot. An old jewellery store stood crooked between a payday loans kiosk and a shuttered vape lounge, its signage hanging by one rusted chain.

Joel didn’t like it. Too many angles. Too much open space.

Ellie pushed open the busted glass door.

“Gimme a sec,” she called over her shoulder. “Might be something useful in here.”

Joel stayed out on the sidewalk, scanning the street, back set against the tilt of the wind. Leela had wandered across the way, squinting up at a streetlamp that had snapped clean in half and was tangled in telephone wires like a dead limb. Her coat tugged in the breeze, hair pulled back tight today.

Joel kept half an eye on her, the other on Ellie.

From the inside, Ellie’s voice floated out through the cracked window. “Ooh, now this is romantic. Joel, check it.”

Joel let out a harshened sigh. “Don’t, kiddo.”

“C’mon,” she said, grinning, holding up an old velvet ring box missing its jewel. “Little shiny thing like this? She’d probably cry.”

“She doesn’t want all that,” he muttered, eyes tracking the rooftops. “Doesn’t want anything from me. The way she's goin' about this, I might have to move out again when we get back.”

Ellie snorted, still rummaging. “Sure, that’s what she says. But I dunno, man—if I survived the apocalypse and the kind of shit you two been through? I’d want some credit. Maybe a bouquet of barbed wire. Something symbolic.”

Joel gave her a flat look through the broken window. “You done yet?”

Ellie wiggled the ring box again, then tossed it onto a dusty counter. “You’re no fun. What happened to carving rings from bone for her?” She held up the sign of the horns. “Disgusting, but metal as hell.”

Joel huffed through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Leela turned back then, catching his eye from across the street. She didn’t wave. Just nodded—barely—and returned her attention to the crumpled lamppost, fingers brushing the wiring like she was piecing something together.

And then came the gunfire.

No warning. Just the sudden crack-crack-crack of it, echoing off old brick, and Joel flinched sideways as the sharp hiss of a bullet splintered stone inches from his ear.

“Down, down, move!” he roared, rifle up in a second.

Ellie hit the floor, crawling fast toward the back exit, already firing through the jagged window glass. “Joel!”

Joel ducked behind a rusted truck frame, adrenaline flattening his breath. The street flared with gunfire, loud and close. Somewhere to his left, Leela had disappeared from the sidewalk. Goddamnit, where was she? Where was she?

“Ellie,” he growled, crouching low as he swung around the corner of the car, “head down, c'mon!”

“Yeah, I got it!” she shot back, sharp with focus. “You see Leela anywhere?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. His heart punched harder. Maybe she found cover nearby. Dammit, that stupid ring joke didn’t feel so funny now.

Ellie ducked and returned fire without hesitation, pushing herself into the side of a rusted-out car. Joel followed suit, rifle up, stock tight against his shoulder.

“Fuckin' ambush,” he grunted. “You see that? Two o’clock—rooftop. Gotta be fast, kiddo.”

Ellie scoffed. “I know, I ain't blind, old man.”

They’d walked right into it. Fucking scavenger crew—hunter types, the kind that circled ruined cities like vultures. Not Fireflies. Not FEDRA. Just the kind who didn’t blink at killing for shoes or rations.

Shots tore through the air like thunder cracks. Joel’s head snapped to the sound—figures ducking behind a flipped bus, another peeling off to circle left. Four, five, six—too many.

His gut tightened.

“Ellie, no. Stay down!”

“I got it, Joel!”

She broke cover, darting low. But she didn’t get far.

One of them—tall, fast—slipped out from the wreckage like a fucking shadow, got behind her, arm around her throat, dragging her back behind a wall.

Joel stopped breathing.

Everything else—gunfire, shouts, the pounding of his own heart—fell away. The world narrowed to that one point: Ellie being taken.

He saw red. And he pushed forward.

Not tactical. Not planned. Just rage and instinct.

He exploded from cover with a snarl caught in his throat, moving like he had a purpose and a goddamn clock ticking down. His revolver barked—once, twice. The first man went down with a bullet in his chest. The second—gutshot—dropped screaming. Joel didn’t blink.

He was already on the third.

The one with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s throat.

Joel hit him from behind, slamming him into the wall with bone-cracking force. The man grunted, tried to turn, but Joel hooked his elbow and wrenched—shoulder dislocated with a wet pop—and drove a knee into his spine, once, twice, until he dropped Ellie with a choked gasp.

She hit the ground, coughing.

Joel didn’t stop.

He fell on the bastard like a dog on a carcass, knife already in his hand. It wasn’t quick. He didn’t want quick.

First strike—base of the neck, just above the collarbone, angled down to sever the artery. Second strike—lower, ribcage, a twisting motion that made the man buck and scream.

Blood sprayed warm across Joel’s chest, his hands, soaking into his shirt. His knuckles were already skinned raw from impact. He drove his boot into the man’s hip when he tried to crawl. Then the knife again, this time straight into the chest.

Between the ribs. In and out. Faultless. Practiced.

Joel didn’t stop, grunting, letting the man bleed, until the man went still.

And even then, for a moment, he just crouched there—knife dripping, chest heaving, the silence crushing.

Then he heard it. Not Ellie. Not gunfire.

A gasp.

Joel’s head whipped up.

Leela.

Ten feet away, half-shadowed by the remains of a splintered awning. Her boots frozen mid-step in a puddle slick with oil and blood. She wasn’t crouched, wasn’t armed, wasn’t anything but exposed. Frozen. Not moving. Not blinking. Her hands had lifted halfway—toward her mouth, toward her wide eyes, he couldn’t tell.

Not just the scene. Not the blood. Not the body crumpled beneath him, throat torn wide, chest leaking into the cracked pavement.

Him.

Joel. The man who traced the outline of her ribs under cotton sheets. The man who kissed her slowly as breakfast sizzled on the stove, called her ‘darlin’’ until she broke out a grin, danced slow with her in the living room to the record player, Maya on his hip, all honey and drawl. The man she let in, trusted, after all she’d been through.

But he wasn’t that man now.

Only this was left. This feral thing she’d never seen before.

Blood up til his elbows. Wild-eyed. Panting like a fucking animal. Knife still tight in his broken fists. He didn’t know how long he’d been on top of the guy. Didn’t remember the last stab. Couldn’t even tell where the screaming had stopped and his breathing had started.

And she saw it. All of it.

Her expression—it gutted him more than the fighting ever could.

She didn’t look angry.

No, she looked like she’d just walked through a door into another life, and one she hadn’t agreed to. There was fear there—not loud, not flailing—but silent. Contained. Like someone who’d learned a long time ago that panic didn’t save you.

“Leela—” His voice was gravel, torn and rasped and nothing soft.

She flinched when he stood. Not away—just a jerk of her shoulders, like she’d been struck once and braced for the second.

And that—was the fucking worst of it.

Because Joel had seen her scared before. Seen her tense up in the dark, eyes scanning for shadows that didn’t exist. Seen her sit up from a nightmare with her hands clenched into fists, her breath short and strangled.

But she’d never looked like that at him.

He didn't get to go to her. Get to explain. He wanted to wipe the blood off his hands, off his chest, off the whole goddamn world. But it was too late. Because right then—

“C'mon, we have to go!” Ellie’s voice splintered through the space between them. She was already pulling on Leela’s wrist. “Now, now, go, go, go!”

Joel heard the shot before it echoed. Close.

He saw Leela’s fingers twitch—like she might reach for him, or maybe just steady herself. For one splinter of a second, he felt everything—her horror, her disbelief, the silent question in her eyes: Is this the man I love? The one Maya sweetly calls da-da?

And then that old, festering and terrible being in him took the reins. The hunter. The killer. The man who always fucking survives.

“MOVE!” he barked, voice cracked open by fury and urgency. A dire command.

Leela jolted. Her head ducked. Her feet moved.

And they ran.

They didn’t stop running until the city was a smear behind them—just smoke and ruin on the horizon, softened by distance and dust.

They found cover in a half-collapsed service station half-sunk into the dirt, the roof bowed like a snapped spine, windows blown out, desert wind whistling through the hollow bones of what used to be civilization.

Joel sat slumped against a concrete pillar, elbows braced on his knees, hands stained and stiff. Dried blood mapped across his knuckles, under his fingernails, along the creases of his palms like some fucked-up tattoo he hadn’t earned but couldn’t wash off. His shirt clung to him, crusted dark across the chest.

He hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Didn’t deserve the comfort of clean clothes just yet. No river around to wash off in any way, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t scrub out what was under his skin.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

She sat maybe too far away. Back to a wall. Her pack in her lap, unzipped. She wasn’t cleaning a weapon like methodical Ellie—not Leela. She didn’t carry guns. Joel would never let her.

Instead, she was threading a needle.

Or trying to.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, head bowed like he wasn’t. Her hands—usually so steady, precise—were quivering. The needle slipped from her fingers twice. She picked it up again, quietly, without swearing or sighing, and tried again. Her knees were drawn up. The strap she was stitching had only a small tear, maybe half an inch—but she worked it like it held her together.

He’d seen her sew before. Months back, she once fixed the lining in his jacket in less than three minutes with the same damned needle. She’d repaired most of Joel’s clothes back home, stitched her own strappy little tops, embroidered tiny designs into Maya's clothes, humming while she did it, threading them with ease, her fingers confident and graceful.

Every stitch is a solution, she'd say to him when he watched her, and the design is just the equation. A measure, a numeral. Now she looked like she didn’t even remember how to hold the damn thing.

Because every so often her eyes slid to him.

No, not to him. At him.

The difference. His hands. His shirt. His boots, still stained from when that last bastard had coughed blood all over the ground and it had splashed up onto Joel’s shins.

And she’d seen it all.

The way he’d moved. Not just fast. Not just angry. But precise. Like he knew the exact spots to hit to ruin a man. Like it wasn’t new. Like he’d done it before. Because he had. More times than he could count.

And she knew that now.

She’d seen what was under the soft Texan drawl, the morning coffee, the warm, calloused hands that tucked Maya’s curls behind her ears when she ate. She’d seen what that tenderness was built over.

Violence. Unapologetic, unflinching, survivalist violence.

And Joel couldn’t scrub it off. Couldn’t fold it up and stash it away before she got too close. He almost wished she had screamed and told him he was a monster. Asked how the hell he could do what he did. At least then he’d know where to place her in all of this.

Joel swallowed, jaw tight. A vein throbbed at his temple. His heart had slowed, but it still kicked, irregular, like a motor trying to start after a crash.

What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry you saw me gut a man alive? Sorry I turned into the thing you’ve spent a year convincing yourself I wasn’t?

He’d been brutal before. She just hadn’t seen it.

Only now she’d seen what he truly was. The old world didn’t raise kind men—it bred survivors. And Joel had survived every way a man could. Through pain. Through blood. Through choices that never stopped echoing even now.

The only thing he managed to say, finally, low and gruff and barely louder than the wind scraping across the station floor, “We’re still a full day out. We’ll keep movin’ at first light, so get some rest.”

X

And look, Joel was trying to rest. Trying and failing, but still.

His head was a goddamn mess. Static. Replay. A loop he couldn’t break. Blood. Breath. The sound that bastard made when the knife went in—wet and sudden, a choke of surprise right before the silence.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose. Closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the cracked concrete wall, cool against the sweat on his neck.

And then he heard it. Soft at first. Half-whispers. Barely there.

“I’m Leela.” A pause. A breath. A shift of cloth behind the shattered doorway of what used to be a bathroom. “Leela... no. Leela. I want to tell you—no. I have solved—my parents and I have solved—no.” A frustrated exhale. Then, quieter, “I am Leela… dammit. C’mon.”

Joel opened one eye. Turned his head.

The light in the bathroom was dim—barely a glow from some scavenged flashlight she’d propped up near the mirror. He couldn’t see her, but the words carried, echoing off tile and porcelain. She must’ve thought she was whispering. Must’ve thought no one could hear.

Across the room, Ellie was propped up on her elbow, her face lit faintly by that same flicker. She was grinning, eyes alight with mischief.

“Been goin’ on for ten minutes,” she snickered, voice hushed, like sharing a secret. “It’s adorable. I think she's nervous to meet these Firefly folks.”

Joel didn’t smile. Just raised an eyebrow. Looked back up at the ceiling.

Adorable. Maybe. Or maybe it was a bad sign. A red flag waving itself stupid in the middle of the dark.

Practicing your own goddamn name. Stumbling over words like they were bricks in your mouth. That wasn’t adorable. That was pressure. That was fear, chewing at the edges. That was a person so wound up she didn’t trust herself to say hello without screwing it up.

His jaw tightened.

There was a part of him—a stupid, reckless part—that wanted to get up. Walk over there, nice and quiet. Knock on the doorframe just once. Let her know she wasn’t alone. That she didn’t have to rehearse anything. That if she needed to talk, he’d sit there and listen, no matter how long it took.

But the other part—the bigger, meaner part—kept him pinned down.

Because he still hadn’t earned the right. Not after what she saw. And the last thing she needed was him looming over her, making it worse.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Exhaled slowly. He was a complete fucking idiot.

“You’re an idiot, Joel.”

For a moment, he thought he had been the one to say it out loud.

He blinked and turned his head again. Ellie. Still watching him. Smirking now, like she’d been waiting for him to figure it out.

He grunted. “Not in the mood, kid.”

“You’re never in the mood,” she shot back, flopping onto her bedroll. She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it—just the kind of tired, familiar sass that came from too many nights like this. “Doesn’t stop you from being a total dickhead.”

He gave her a look. One of those long, dead-eyed stares that usually shut her up. The kind that said, Don’t push me.

Not tonight.

She just grinned, hands behind her head. “You really think she came all this way—through all those cities, with people trying to kill us every ten miles—just to tell you to fuck off?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

“She cares about your hardass, just as much as I do,” Ellie muttered.

So, maybe Ellie saw all the things Joel didn’t let himself see. Or maybe she was just better at hope.

Because he had thought it.

More than once, he’d pictured it—that she’d reach the Fireflies, hand off whatever math magic was burning a hole through her skull, nod her thanks, and go. Cut the thread. Return to Jackson. Return to their—her daughter. Back to her life before he bulldozed into it like he always did with anything good. Maybe she’d have the decency to leave a note at the door when kicking him out.

Joel, please just leave us alone. I don't want a psychopath raising my daughter.

Maybe he deserved that.

He sat there a moment longer, thumb working absently along a notch in the stock of his rifle, tracing the smooth edge over and over. The kid was right. She had come all this way. Across states, through wasteland, through gunfire and ash, and sickness and silence. She’d fought beside them. Saved his life once. Slept with one eye open, traded warmth for distance, wore her grief like it was stitched into her coat. All of that. And not just for some cause.

She left Maya behind.

The thought hit like a hammer to the sternum.

Maya. His baby girl. His sweetheart, who barely fit in his arms anymore, yet so small she could tuck her frightened face under his chin when it thundered. He’d seen it. Seen the way Leela held her now, so different from all those months back—no fear, just pure maternal instinct. Even when she was dead on her feet, her touch was protective. Fierce.

You don’t leave that kind of love behind unless you got no goddamn choice. Unless whatever’s out there—the person, the reason—is worth the risk of not coming back.

He ran a hand down his face. Felt the rough scrape of beard under his fingers. Closed his eyes for a second. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Goddamn.”

Because no matter how many times he tried to tell himself she’d come for the Fireflies, for the math, for the cause—every time he looked at that bathroom door and heard her voice cracking around his name—he knew better.

She’d come for him.

A tangle of shame and wonder and raw, stupid hope in his chest made him feel like a little boy again. A dumb, dangerous feeling.

But his eyes slid back to the thin light under the bathroom door. The edge of her pack catching a sliver of glow. The sound of her voice still faint, repeating those words, again and again, as if she was willing herself into belief.

I am Leela.

Joel sat up.

His joints popped in protest, old aches coming to life as he rose slowly to his feet. The room tilted for a second—blood loss and no real sleep—but he steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

“Wipe that smile off your face, you little shit,” he hissed to Ellie.

“Whatta marshmallow,” Ellie mumbled, just watching him go, her smirk softening.

The door wasn’t fully closed. He nudged it open with two fingers.

The bathroom was dim and damp, smelling faintly of rust, infection and old mildew. A cracked mirror stretched above the sink, fractured down one side like a spiderweb frozen mid-snap.

Leela, hunched over the filthy porcelain basin, arms braced, hair falling around her face and body like a curtain. Her bare shoulders, under that black tanktop, rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths. She hadn’t heard him yet. Or maybe she had and didn’t move, too far gone in whatever loop she was caught in.

Joel stepped in.

Quiet, like muscle memory. Like coming up behind her at the kitchen counter, when she was at the chopping board or scribbling on paper. In that quiet way he used to do, just to let her know he was there, he wanted her near, that he didn’t need her to talk.

He slid his hands around her waist.

Her body tensed.

Not a flinch exactly—but enough. A subtle stiffening beneath his palms that made his chest cave in a little. His heart fractured in that single instinctive reaction.

He didn’t pull away. Because as it had been established, he was selfish fucker. He stayed and didn’t say anything.

Just rested his forehead against the back of her head, where her hair smelled faintly of soap and smoke and salt. His eyes shut. He couldn’t bear the mirror. Couldn’t look up and see the condition of them—this makeshift version of a life that should’ve been warm, and home, and full of sweet nothings.

He’d had a picture in his head.

Them, side-by-side at a clean sink, still damp from the shower. Brushing their teeth together while Maya babbled from their bed outside, waiting to be put to sleep. Arguing about whether to fry the rice or save the eggs for pancakes. Leela nudging him with her elbow because he always hogged the mirror.

That was the image. The one he clung to.

Not this. Not her hands shaking just barely, gripping the sides of a stained sink as she tried to convince herself she still belonged to something greater than this broken world.

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed her in—like maybe that alone could calm the blood in his veins. His hands were splayed over her powerful middle now, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She was too still. Not pulling away. Not leaning in.

So he moved slowly.

Pushed her all her thick, long hair gently over one shoulder, careful not to tug. It slipped between his fingers like threadbare silk. Then he bent forward, kissed the shell of her ear. Just once. Just enough.

“There’s a part of me that—I never wanted you to see that, darlin',” he whispered, the words nearly breaking in his throat.

She didn’t move.

Joel’s forehead pressed to the side of her head again. He closed his eyes. “That… thing. That man with the knife. That’s what’s left when I run outta reasons. When I think I gotta protect somethin’ I already lost.”

Silence buzzed in the air.

He wanted to tell her exactly that he’d do it all again to keep Ellie safe. That sometimes you didn’t get the choice to be gentle. That the world didn’t work in softness and she should wake the fuck up. But all of it sounded like a goddamn excuse, and worse—it sounded like the truth.

His voice faltered off. “If you hate me… I get it. I ain’t askin’ you to forget what I did. I just—”

God, what was he thinking? He wouldn't want her apologies anyway.

His chin lifted a little. “But I’m still me, Leela. Still Maya’s. Still yours, if there’s any part of you that wants that.”

There was no dramatic pause. No breath held in hope. He said it like a man naming his failures in the dark. Mum. Certain. Not because he thought it would change anything—but because it was true. And because she deserved to hear it out loud.

Maybe she was remembering what it meant to let something dangerous that close. Maybe this was the moment she realized she couldn’t love him. Maybe this was the moment he proved he didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t blame her.

Then he felt her shift. Just barely.

Her hand came up and back, platting into his hair. Her fingers scraped lightly at his scalp, a slow, grounding motion—not tender, not affectionate, not forgiving. Just there. Present. Real.

She didn’t say it’s okay. She’d never needed to wrap things in softness. Sadly, she knew what it meant to be ruined.

To be taken apart and put back together with pieces missing. She’d lived in the wreckage of her own skin, patched herself up with logic and reason, with equations and notebooks, trying to make sense of something that defied sense.

And still—he loved her. Not in spite of it. Not around it. Just through it. All the way through. So what if he’d split a man open like kindling? What if she’d been split first—by someone who’d never deserved to touch her in the first place?

She was here. She’d come. With her voice cracking in the dark and her hands braced on a sink like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was still herself. Still trying.

Joel let out a breath against her neck.

And then, quiet—low and splintering—she said, “I’ve been dead before, Joel. This is not what kills me.”

The words lodged in his chest like a nail. No dramatics. No trembling voice. The truth. Her fingers kept moving, dragging slow circles in his hair.

And when she turned her head—just scarcely—he saw her in the mirror. Saw the red-rimmed eyes, the taut mouth, the exhaustion etched so deep into her face it looked like it might never fade.

She met his gaze in the cracked glass. A long moment passed.

There was a change, not in her body, not in the set of her jaw or the tremble of her breath, but in the way she looked at him. Like seeing a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding and finally understanding why the bandages never worked. A clarity there he was familiar with.

Joel just watched her eyes, the way they softened and steeled in the same breath. The way grief and love could live in the same goddamn face.

He saw her swallow. Her throat worked once, twice, like the words weren’t forming—they were fighting their way up.

And then, without turning fully, she said, “It’s horrible. How grateful I am that you can become... that.”

He blinked. His heart gave a slow, brutal thud against his ribs.

“Because it means no one will ever touch her. Not Maya. Not while you’re breathing.”

And just like that, he had to bite the inside of his cheek. Hard. To keep from falling into whatever that was curling up inside him. All that shame and pride and an ache so old it had turned quiet.

Her head stayed dipped, his mouth just a breath away from her skin.

The silence between them wasn’t hollow anymore. It had mass. Weight. Like a room full of smoke that they’d both learned to breathe in.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t dare. His hand remained at her waist, palm flat, fingers barely curled. He could feel the heaves of her breathing—still tight, still not stable. But alive. Still with him.

He should’ve said something. He knew it. Should’ve said I’m sorry, even if it wasn’t enough. Should’ve said you can hate me, I’ll still kill for you. Should’ve said you can take Maya away, and I’ll still be at your back the rest of my life.

But every sentence that came to mind sounded like another wound. Another wrong turn.

So he stayed quiet. And waited. Let her have this moment to leave—if that’s what she needed. But then—

She turned. Just a little. Enough that her shoulder brushed against his chest. Enough that he saw her face not in the mirror, but right there—real and close. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips chapped from the cold, pale, parted just a bit.

There was no invitation. No demand. Just presence. And that—God help him—was what crushed him.

Joel raised his hand, slowly. Let his knuckles ghost across her jaw like he was scared to touch her too hard, like she might shatter.

She didn’t lean in. She didn’t lean away. She just stood there. Breathing still.

That was all the backing he needed.

The kiss he prompted was not soft. Not romantic like the hundred before. It was dry, cracked and laced with grief. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing the shape of her pain, and hers opened to him with something like surrender—not of will, anything but.

They didn’t move or deepen. Didn’t gasp or moan or pull or want or seek anything more.

They just connected. Two broken things, sealed at the seam for a single breath of repose in the storm.

Joel’s hand stayed on her cheek, rough thumb grazing the edge of her temple. His other hand, the one still resting at her waist, gripped just a little tighter, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go now. Not after everything. Not after seeing the worst of each other and still not walking away.

He didn’t know if this meant anything, if it was the beginning of the end. Or just a flicker of what used to be.

But when they pulled apart—slow, wistful, just inches—her eyes opened again.

Clear. Tired. Still full of all the rage and grief and brilliance that made her who she was.

“You’re still in there, Joel,” she whispered. Not accusing. Not forgiving. Just observing. Like she was taking stock of a fire that wouldn’t quite die, even after the smoke had choked the sky.

Joel held her gaze for a moment, and then dropped it—couldn’t take the weight of it. He exhaled, slow and heavy, eyes closing. His voice came low and coarse, barely brushing the air between them.

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss just below her ear. A whisper of a thing. A thank you. An imprecise I’m sorry. A Jesus, what the hell are we now?

Outside, the wind pushed against the walls of the small bathroom like it wanted in. The fire crackled somewhere in the next room, Ellie’s shadow moving quietly near the doorway, always vigilant, giving them space.

Inside, Leela didn’t speak. But her fingers—still trembling—moved to cover his on her abdomen. Held them there. No tighter. No looser.

Just there.

Joel let the moment breathe, let the silence settle. His throat worked once before he spoke again, voice barely a rasp.

“When we get to California, whatever happens… I just…” He paused, brow furrowing. “You don’t gotta decide anything yet. I just need to know I’ll still get to see my little girl.”

A flicker passed through Leela’s eyes. She didn’t flinch or draw back, but she didn’t soften either.

She looked at him like she was trying to hold him in focus through a haze of old pain and newer fractures. Behind her gaze, where he lived, there it was—subtle, distant.

Her fingers didn’t move from his. But her voice, when it came, was quiet. Neutral. Like she was choosing every word as if it could tilt the precarious balance in this world.

“Let’s see what happens first.”

That was all. Not yes. Not no. Not never. But not enough either.

Joel’s jaw worked. He almost nodded—but didn’t. Almost pulled away—but couldn’t.

Instead, he kept his hand where it was, over her belly, where Maya used to sleep once, safe and tiny. Where Leela had once felt the flutter of her little feet and hands through her skin, long before she had her pretty name.

“You don’t gotta do it for me,” he said at last. “But she’s mine too. I need both of you.”

Leela didn’t argue. Her silence said she knew. Said she’d always known. But knowing didn’t always mean trusting.

Still, she kept his hand where it was.

X

DAY 7: CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. EIGHT-FOUR HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

The sun stretched long over the broken streets of Pasadena in the Golden State, just as much, casting amber behind a veil of smog. The quiet clip of hooves on cracked asphalt echoed like a heartbeat in a place long hollowed out. Joel rode just a pace ahead, his rifle slung low, boots scuffed from days on the road. Ellie was beside him, reins loose in her hands, a sliver of calm in her eyes. Behind her, Leela fidgeted with her hair again—first the braid, then a ponytail, then nothing, then the braid again.

She’d done it twice in the last hour.

Not out of vanity. Joel knew that. It was nerves. Restlessness. That same rhythm she used to have with a pencil—tap, scribble, flip a page, start again. Always thinking. Always fighting something unseen.

She hadn’t said much since sunrise. None of them had. The weight of what might be waiting ahead pulled the air taut between them.

“Do you think we could stay for some time when we get there?” Leela asked, not looking at either of them.

“Sure thing. I wanna see the beach, too,” Ellie replied without pause, smiling and all loyal, already craning her neck for the first sign of the Caltech buildings.

Joel said nothing. But his hands tightened just a little on the reins.

Stay. Stay for what?

See, if there were scientists there—real ones, still working on things like cures and vaccines—then it wasn’t just Leela they were walking into that place for.

It was Ellie. It was the blood in her veins. That cursed miracle pulsing just beneath her skin.

His mind was running ahead of him, tearing through what-if after what-if. What if they were here? What if they had the equipment, the knowledge? What if they looked at Ellie like she was the key again? What if they asked—no, expected—the same sacrifice?

And Joel—he knew himself too well by now. Knew the panic that twisted up in his gut and tried to claw its way out. He didn’t let it show. Not in his face or voice. But it made him nudge his horse forward just slightly, pace picking up, eyes scanning rooftops and blown-out cars and anything that might look like trouble or, God forbid, hope.

They crested a slight hill, and Caltech unfurled below.

Golden light skimmed the cracked concrete and broken signage like it was trying to remember what wonder looked like. Ivy crawled up the old physics building, curling over shattered windows, draping across the once-grand entrance like a shroud. Palm trees stood like sentinels over long-dry fountains.

Joel pulled his horse to a stop beside Ellie’s, her body swaying forward slightly with momentum before sitting back straight.

For a moment, no one spoke.

They were here.

This was it.

“This is where they're supposed to be,” Joel murmured, more to himself than to either of them.

Or what was left of it.

Buildings, sure. A few were still standing proud. Brick and steel and glass, scabbed over with vines and scorch marks and time. But no movement. No guards. No posted signs or perimeter watch. No sound beyond the dry creak of trees and the hum of wind through broken fencing.

Joel felt it like a gut punch before anyone said a word.

The front of the building looked like it had been blown out from the inside—glass scattered across the steps like a trail of brittle petals, black scorch marks clawing up the stone walls. Half the Caltech signage still hung above the arched entryway, its metal frame twisted, under layers of ash and grime.

Joel dismounted first. His boots crunched over the broken glass, rifle already in hand. Ellie hopped off behind him, lighter on her feet, but just as alert. Leela stayed on the horse a beat longer, her eyes locked on the faded lettering above the entry. ‘California Institute of Technology for Advanced Research.’

She whispered it aloud like it was something sacred. “Wow. We're here.”

Joel motioned for her to stay close. Light slanted in through fractured skylights above, catching on overturned desks and moldy file boxes. Drawers like mouths wide open. A bunk with a Firefly logo stamped on the wall above it—old, faded, forgotten. Emergency cots folded and stacked like they'd been waiting for orders that never came. A faded banner still hung across the far end of the lobby, reading proudly:

‘INNOVATION FOR THE NEXT CENTURY.’

Oh, what a big fucking joke.

You try to innovate, you end up like this. You pick up a gun, you get to live. The world they lived in now.

Now, what they hadn’t expected was the smell.

The moment they stepped inside the physics building, it hit them—thick, wet, and metallic. Like mold and meat. Old rot. The kind that stuck to your tongue. He knew what it was already. Joel raised a hand, signalled Ellie behind him. Leela paused just inside the threshold, her face blanching.

“Get back outside,” Joel said to her. “Don’t need you in here.”

But Leela didn’t move.

She stared down the hall like she could still pretend it was just dust and old desks and the smell of something dead not walking.

Until the first one came.

It staggered out from a lab at the far end, skin sloughing off in ribbons, yellowing mouth open in a wet click-click-click. Ellie didn’t hesitate—she dropped to one knee and put a bullet through its eye. But the goddamn Clicker wasn’t alone. From the shadows, they came dragging, stumbling, clicking—two, three, five of them—some already burst open with fungal bloom, their faces split by time and Cordyceps.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, rifle already up. “Leela—go, get out of here!”

She bolted off. He didn’t watch where.

The gunfire echoed in the narrow halls. Joel moved with brutal efficiency—tight shots, clean execution. Ellie flanked him, nimble and fast, clearing corners. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times. Well, because they had.

But Leela was new to it. She waited outside, pacing, clutching the straps of her bag so tightly her knuckles nearly bled. Her eyes flicked to the windows, to the flashes of movement inside.

She hadn’t come for this. To watch them both die at the end.

When the last echo faded, Joel emerged from the stairwell, blood on his sleeve and a tight grimace on his face. “All clear.”

Leela didn’t answer. She pushed past him, boots scraping on tile as she made her way deeper into the building. Joel wanted to hold her hand back, tuck him into his side.

“Maybe they were Fireflies?” Ellie muttered, nudging one corpse with the toe of her boot.

Joel didn’t respond. He didn’t want to think about it, even if he knew the signs.

This wasn’t an outpost.

It was an exodus.

He pushed the doors open into the next wing—a long hallway flanked by glass-walled rooms, some still scrawled with chemical equations and 3D renderings of gene splicing. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling in lazy spirals, disturbed only by their presence. The deeper they moved in, the clearer it became: this had been a research hub. State of the art. Once.

Now it was just dust and silence.

Ellie was the first to call out. “Helloooo? It's Dr Leela here with your math magic miracle! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Her voice echoed down the empty walkway. And no answer.

“Shy buncha nerds,” she harrumphed.

“Ellie,” Joel sighed.

Leela drifted toward one of the labs as they moved up to the second floor, climbing over debris, her hand brushing against the edge of a metal table. There were still beakers here, clipboards thick with faded paper, broken monitors, glass casings. Her fingers hovered over them like she didn’t know whether to read or weep.

Joel had gotten used to failing so much, this didn't hurt anymore.. He’d brought her all this way. Let her believe.

Now, he stood in the doorway of the ruined lab like a man caught between two times—one where hope had still been breathing, and the one he was in now, where it lay stiff and cold on the floor.

Joel’s eyes were drawn, inevitably, to the skeleton, slumped against a bank of monitors, mold climbing up one arm like ivy.

It wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen. Not even the hundredth. But this one was different. There was something almost edifying in the way the figure was wilted—propped against the monitors like they’d died mid-thought, clinging to some last hope that didn’t pan out. What had they been hoping to see? A breakthrough? A miracle? A sign someone else had made it?

The bones were dressed in a lab coat, name badge still clipped to the collar. YAMADA. What was left of the face was caved in, probably from the gun still lying on the floor beside them. A personal choice, Joel figured. Easier than turning, for sure.

But it was the recorder nearby that made his stomach knot.

He watched Leela reach for it like she was reaching for her own fate. Slow, careful, fingers trembling despite all her control. She glanced back at him—asking for what? Permission? Support? For him to tell her this wasn’t what it looked like?

He gave her the nod because it was all he had.

And because he couldn’t lie to her anymore. Whatever that device held, bad or worse, he had her always. What were another hundred miles? Perhaps another boat, a storm in the ocean, another open city, another ten years on the road? He'd do it with her if she wanted to.

Leela pressed play.

As the recorder whirred to life and that ragged, weary voice filled the silence, Joel’s heart dropped to somewhere cold inside him. Every word was another nail in the coffin.

“This is Dr. Kichiro Yamada. March twenty-third, the time is four-twenty-four in the evening. If you’re hearing this, then you’re too late. Or maybe you’re lucky. Jury’s out.”

Joel stared at the monitors. The screens were dead, cracked, and flecked with grime. Whatever brilliance had once flickered there had gone out long ago. There were notes on the desk, too, curling with rainwater. He couldn’t read half of them, and didn’t understand the other half. But he recognized the desperation in the handwriting. Bold strokes turned frantic. Numbers blurring. Whole pages scratched out. A slow unraveling.

“We gave it everything. Years. Two whole decades. All of us. There were twenty-four of us here once. Distinguished faculty of professors, scholars and dedicated students—from aeronautics, biochemistry, theoretical physics to fucking art history—working toward a common purpose. Persevering in the face of extinction. Then we dwindled. Nine of us, then four. Then Dr. Connelly, now it's... just me. See, the world didn’t wait for us. Supplies dried up. People got scared. We had raiders come in once or twice, and butcher some of our best. Most of them left. Some went east, to survivor settlements. I stayed until the end. I made it this far.

Joel looked over at Ellie. She was still. Watching Leela. Watching him.

“To whoever finds this... you’re standing in the last Firefly outpost in California. Maybe the whole goddamn continent. Shit, I don't know anymore. We had data. We had hope. And then we had death. I’ve just managed to upload everything we had and researched to the central terminal. If you’ve got the brains to use it, maybe it won’t be for nothing. Help yourselves. Save yourselves.”

A long silence. He thought of how long they must’ve laboured in here, chasing answers. How much belief it took to type that much down.

“This place was supposed to save the world. We were supposed to make a difference. What a fucking waste.”

Click.

Joel let out a long-suffering sigh. Ellie hovered near the door, her jaw set, eyes wide, trying to take it all in, trying not to crumble.

Leela stood motionless, eyes fixed on the blank recorder. Her shoulders started to tremble, slow at first, then all at once—tight, pulled inward, trying to keep from flying apart.

She didn’t cry.

She just knelt down beside the desk, knees hitting the floor in a slow, mechanical motion, folding over her own legs like her body had given up on standing. Her hair—braided, unbraided, ponytailed, undone—hung limp down her back, as if it too had finally settled into stillness. No tears, no words. Just the quiet shape of someone who’d hoped too hard for too long.

Joel stood there, unsure if he’d made her kneel or if the world had.

He swallowed hard.

He’d brought Leela here. Not just her—her hope, her faith, her genius, all bundled into that same quiet determination she wore like armor. She had believed in this place. Believed in the people who’d once lived here. She’d believed him, maybe worst of all.

And now? Now it was just another tomb. Another place the world had forgotten how to care about.

Joel clenched his jaw. “Wasn't supposed to end like this,” he said softly. But the words felt hollow the moment they left his mouth.

And yet, somehow it always did.

The world didn’t care about minds like hers. It didn’t give a damn about brilliance or sacrifice or the people who tried to fix what was broken. It just… moved on. Swallowed the light whole. Buried the good with the bad and let it rot in the dark.

Behind him, Ellie spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “Hey, we should check out that terminal.”

Joel nodded once, not looking back. “Yeah.”

He moved slowly, boots scuffing against the floor. That terminal—an old monitor, half-sunken into the desk, still humming faintly—blinked as they approached. He expected nothing. Expected it to flicker out, dead and useless, like everything else.

But somehow, when he moved the mouse, it lit up.

“C'mere, baby,” he called out, trying to will what he had left into her. “Let's see what this is.”

Leela had already started typing. Her hands trembled, but she typed anyway—quick, practiced keystrokes, as if her muscles still remembered how to do this even when her heart didn’t.

Lines of data filled the screen. Pages and pages of it. He didn't know what the fuck it was. Research logs. Complex equations. Genetic markers, timestamps, decay models. Scans of buildings and servers. Plant growth charts. Vectors and resistance patterns, and computational models he didn’t understand, but recognized by the sheer significance of them.

She stared at the formulas like they were the names of the dead.

Joel knelt beside her, slow, as if any sudden movement might shatter her.

He didn’t reach for her. Not yet. Didn’t deserve to. Just stayed near, let his voice reach across the inches between them.

“You did what they couldn’t,” he said, hoarse. “You're a goddamn saviour, Leela. You did it all.”

Her eyes didn’t move from the screen. “They were supposed to be here.”

Joel glanced toward the body by the monitor, the fingers still curled like they’d meant to hit save and didn’t make it. “They left it behind for you,” he said. “They wanted it found. You found it.”

Leela turned to him, finally. Her eyes were dry—but there was nothing behind them. No fire. No fight. Just a dull, hollow ache where everything else had been scorched out.

“It’s not enough, Joel.”

“No,” he whispered. “It ain’t. But it’s all we got.”

And he couldn’t stay away any longer.

He reached out. Gently. Palms callused, hands unhurried.

This time, she let him pull her into his arms. She didn’t fall apart. Didn’t cry, or shudder, or whisper anything dramatic. She just leaned—slow, silent—against him, her face resting into his shoulder like the grief was too dense to lift her head anymore.

It wasn’t forgiveness she gave him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t even warmth. And for the first time in days, Joel didn’t feel guilt, or fear, or even that thick, choking regret.

Just the excruciating, quiet ache of being alive.

He turned his head, pressing his cheek to the top of her hair. She smelled like the road. Like leather and firewood. Like survival. Like the kind of person you meet once in a lifetime and never again.

He almost didn’t hear the footsteps—soft and measured.

Ellie, framed by the last of the sun bleeding in through the broken glass. She crossed the room slowly, past ruined dreams, past rusted lab equipment and flickering terminals, past the slumped skeleton and the shattered hope. She didn’t speak. Just knelt beside them, her shoulder bumping gently against Leela’s other side.

Joel looked at her just in time to see her hand reach out—hesitant, hovering for a second—then settle across Leela’s back.

Not in comfort or even empathy.

Recognition. Kinship. Guilt.

Leela was everything Ellie wasn’t—older, brilliant, composed—but in this moment? They were the same. Two people who gave their hearts to something that’s gone.

Ellie's fingers splayed across the jacket, tentative at first, then firmer. She didn’t look at either of them. Her face stayed turned, eyes down, jaw clenched. Simply being there.

Joel could see it in her—the way she held her breath, the way her lips were pressed into a thin, white line. That familiar cyclone behind her eyes. The echo of so many other losses.

He didn’t say a word.

Because in that lab, surrounded by failure and rot, the three of them formed something that had no name. Not victory, hope or even survival. Just austere, tangible proof that they were still here.

He looked at the recorder lying in Leela's palms like a gravestone, and as she hit rewind, that last line rang in his ears like a verdict:

“...What a fucking waste.”

Joel closed his eyes. He didn’t know if the voice was talking about the science, the building, the people, or the whole damn world.

But whatever it meant—however it was intended—it felt right now. And maybe all the brilliance in Leela’s head, all the years she’d clawed her way through loss and theory and impossibility—maybe even that had nowhere left to go.

He knew this one all too well. The one that told him some endings weren’t explosive or tragic or heroic.

No last stand. No meaning. Just a hush. A breath. A door that closed without ceremony.

Some endings just... stopped.

The storm comes, you crawl into shelter. Find something—someone—to hold onto. And when it's over, you are left to breathe in the quiet afterward.

Waiting for the next storm. The next door.

X

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[spatialwave]

"yes, sir."

pairing: pre-war!cooper howard x fem!reader word count: 3k ask: “Cooper x Reader where reader’s a girl with a kink for cowboys, and Cooper plays it up for her? Kind of a roleplay situation (smut), also if he’s into how small she is, that’d be great.” warnings/tags: mdni! smut, porn with plot, cowboy/cowgirl kink, size difference, age difference, dom!cooper, sub!reader, oral (m+f receiving), doggy-style, riding/cowgirl, edging/denial, praising, slight verbal degradation, bondage, gagging, you’re cooper’s babygirl. notes: big thank you to the anon who asked for a cowboy kink/size difference fic, hehe. i hope it was okay that i wrote pre war cooper, but when i think of cowboy, i think of him in that slutty little cowboy fit, lol.

“come on, coop, don’t be a prude,” you said with a big smile, standing in front of your partner with your hands interlocked in his, “you played a sheriff before, why can’t you do it for me?”

his lips curved into a smile as he titled his head down, his hat covering the red blush rising on his cheeks, “maybe i am turning into a prude,” he chuckled, rousing a laugh from you as you led him into the bedroom with a coy smile spread on your lips.

you’d been seeing cooper howard exclusively for a few weeks, having weaseled your way into his life a few short months after his divorce had been finalized. you were a young stable girl at the ranch where he’d kept sugarfoot, no longer living with barb in their old house meant he didn’t have the capacity to care for her on his own anymore. it was difficult, but he trusted one of the best ranchers just out of los angeles.

it was a stroke of luck to have been the one to help him the first day he stopped by your grandfather’s ranch, keeping yourself from bursting into excitement as you got his mare situated in her new home. there was immediate chemistry flowing between each other, but you knew cooper was tiptoeing around you, and you couldn’t blame him. 

you were certainly much younger than he was.

the movie star came around often, and although he’d spent most of his time riding sugarfoot, you couldn’t count on two hands the amount of times you’d caught him staring at you, covering it up by hiding his eyes behind the cowboy hat you’d always seen him wearing.

the sexual tension was mutual, so you acted on it.

you saw first-hand how incredibly pent-up he was, but you still couldn’t believe how quick he was to say yes when you offered him a blowjob a few days later. you didn’t beat around the bush when you knew what you wanted.

you led him behind one of the stables, covered up by a stack of hay bails, as you took him down your throat like the good girl you were. cooper didn’t last long, choking out a moan as he came in your mouth after a minute or two. 

since then, cooper was head over heels for you—the country girl he always wanted. someone who would say yes in a heartbeat if he asked you to go up to bakersfield with him to live on a ranch. it was dangerous territory, he was sure of it, but he’d never once felt so much fire in his heart when he was around you. you kept his spirit young.

likewise, cooper howard was everything you could’ve dreamed of in a man. handsome, kind-hearted, and eager to please.

that’s why he couldn’t say no when you asked so nicely for him to do some roleplaying with you in bed. wasn’t your fault that you had a thing for cowboys, and he just happened to be the hottest one you’d ever set eyes on.

so, there you were in his bedroom in nothing but a skimpy bra and panties set that he bought you a week earlier. red, see-through lace that cupped your perky tits and accentuated the curves of your ass. you made sure he was fully dressed, though, from a cowboy hat all the way down to the worn-in boots.

“see, baby?” you purred, kneeling on the edge of his bed like a minx, “there’s no one sexier than you, cowboy.”

it was hard to miss the flicker of interest in cooper’s eyes as you cooed at him. his cock twitching under his denim jeans that he desperately wanted off.

if this is what you wanted, then he’d sure as hell give it to you.

“don’t talk like you’re the one in charge here. i’m the sheriff around these parts,” he drawled through a smirk, his voice alone making you wet in anticipation, “so, be a good girl and listen to me,” cooper stepped forward, towering over your small frame as a calloused hand tilted your chin up to look at him, “ya’ think ya’ can do that for me, sweetheart?”

“yes, sir,” you murmured, a soft squeak escaping your lips when he pressed his lips against yours in a sudden, passionate kiss that made your stomach twist and turn in all the right ways. his tongue forced its way into your mouth, and you opened your lips for him to taste all of you, but he pulled back just to leave you craving more, “please.” you whimpered.

“shhh,” his lips pulled into a half-grin, and you knew then and there that he was enjoying this power dynamic as much as you were, “i need ya’ to be nice and quiet for me. don’t want anyone else in town listenin’ to what i do to you.”

your lips trembled as you sat patiently in front of him, heat building in your abdomen as your cunt squeezed and ached around nothing. cooper took off his hat, placing it nicely over your head—claiming you as his.

“lay back, darlin’,” he whispered, dipping his head low and following you as you landed onto the soft bed. he crawled over you, pressing wet kisses to your neck, down your chest until his lips teased around the band of your panties, “now, look at how wet you are. i barely even touched ya’,” he chuckled, leaning in to kiss your cunt over the wet fabric.

you held onto his hat, keeping it on your head, as you arched your back and chewed down on your lip to keep yourself from crying out in pleasure. 

he tongued at the fabric, finding your swollen clit and giving it attention that you would’ve preferred without your underwear on. you kept quiet, though, knowing that if you were on your best behaviour, ‘the sheriff’ would be sure to give you everything you needed.

a whimper barely escaped your lips when he tugged the fabric aside, cool air making you pulse and twitch.

“christ, baby,” he groaned, “you want my cock so bad, don’t you? i bet you wanna’ ride me until you’re screamin’ my name and beggin’ for me to let you cum.”

you were fighting for your life as cooper’s thumb pressed slow circles on your bundle of nerves, the words falling from his tongue sending your stomach into a fit of butterflies. he had never been so vulgar with the way he spoke, you weren’t sure you’d be lasting long if he kept it up.

“cooper, please,” the words spilled from you before you could stop, a moan choking in your throat, “shit—i mean, sir,” you whined.

a man of his word, cooper pulled away from you, standing at the edge of the bed and watching the way you squirmed without his touch.

“i told you to be quiet,” he clicked his tongue in disappointment, unbuttoning the blue and yellow top that looked so perfect on him. accented with leather fringes hanging off his broad shoulder, and a little golden star on the left side—just like a sheriff, “i thought you’ were goin’ to be a good girl for me,” he sighed, “suppose i need to punish you, until you learn to behave.”

he finished unbuttoning the top, leaving his chest exposed, as he reached down and undid his belt buckle with one hand. cooper pulled the leather out from the belt loops of his denim, and your mind went haywire at the sharp sound.

“lay on your stomach,” he commanded, watching with a smirk as you obeyed. his hands took your wrists, pulling them behind you so he could snag them together until his belt had them forcefully restricted. he let out a whistle, “you look goddamn’ pretty all tied up,” he smiled, large hands reaching down and massaging your ass before pulling your panties off.

you looked over your shoulder at the cowboy, trying to pry your wrists apart, but he was good with a belt. eyes settled on his exposed chest and your mouth pooled with saliva, wishing you could turn around and let him fuck you while your fingernails scratched against his abs and left reddened marks on his skin.

cooper’s hands moved to your hips and lifted you onto spread knees on the edge of the bed, just high enough so he had the perfect angle to fuck you as good as he believed you deserved. you kept your face turned to the side, breathing heavy and biting back moans as you felt his fingers rub through your folds. already you felt your knees wanting to give up, but you willed yourself to stay upright. the last thing you needed was to upset him and be edged for hours—or worse, not allowed to cum at all.

he pushed a finger inside you, heavy-lidded hazel eyes watching your expression as your tight cunt contracted around his digit. your fingers bent and dug into the leather belt as he slid in a second, roughly finger fucking you as your eyes had begun to roll into the back of your head. it was so damned good, but it wasn’t enough—you rocked your hips back against his fingers, silently begging for him to fuck you harder and deeper. 

you held back a moan, the sound radiating deep in your chest and loud enough for cooper to hear.

“now, now, babygirl,” he murmured gently, free hand holding your hips still, “once i start fuckin’ you, i promise you can try bein’ as loud as you want.”

that alone made another whimper come from you, an agonizing feeling swallowing you whole when his fingers pulled out and left you empty and exposed. 

you opened your mouth, ready to talk out of turn and beg for his cock desperately, but you were met with your panties being shoved between your lips, rightly so. a makeshift gag that would make it near impossible to get any sounds out.

“good girl,” cooper uttered, his hand brushing back hair so he could see your face, “i did say ‘try’, didn’t i?” he chuckled, taking far too much pleasure in the dominance he had over you, and by the looks of you, he knew you loved it.

he shimmied the opened shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground as he unzipped his jeans and pushed them to his thighs, so his cock sprung free. the cowboy didn’t waste time running the head along your wet pussy, watching as his pre-cum dripped out and coated your entrance. the lace gag muffled your moans as each stroke along you made your thighs quake in pleasure, leaving you a complete fucking mess.

“fuck,” he groaned lowly, holding the base of his cock with his right hand, the other holding your hip up so you didn’t collapse, “i don’t know how you’re gonna’ take this cock,” he breathed heavy, slowly pushing into your cunt, “so small… just a sweet little thing.” 

you groaned, your tongue pressing against the fabric in your mouth when tears stung your ears as his cock filled you. he wasn’t wrong, you weren’t sure how you managed to take him; he towered over you in height, and he was very well-endowed. he often fucked you so deep that your stomach bulged with each rough snap of his hips, his hand would press against your lower tummy so he could feel his cock fucking you dumb.

cooper groaned when he reached the hilt, giving you only a few seconds to adjust to the fullness you were a good girl who could take it, you’d proven that many times.

his thick cock slid through your swollen walls and stretched you with each forward push of his hips, balls slapping hard against your clit. you were gagging on the fabric pathetically, the sounds from you nothing more than muffled whimpers.

his hand tugged on the belt strapped tight around your wrists, using it as leverage as he fucked you so hard you felt like you might pass out. your eyes fluttered closed as they rolled back, body shaking in tandem with the bed as spit dripped down your chin after your panties fully soaked in your mouth.

with how tight you were squeezing around his cock, cooper knew you were close. 

“don’t cum, yet, baby,” he moaned, head falling back as he rocked hard against you, tugging harder on your wrists so you were pulled up from the bed, tits bouncing with every thrust.

you were seconds away from cumming when cooper dropped your wrists and pulled out—your cunt dripping with juices down your thighs. you landed hard against the bed, face buried in the blanket as it swallowed up the tears streaming down your cheeks from the denial. your lover undid the belt around your wrists, and you were quick to pull them apart, relishing in the freedom to touch where you wanted.

cooper bent down and pressed his tongue to your abused cunt, lapping at you wildly and getting a good taste. you pulled the gag out of your mouth just in time to let out a strangled moan, vibrating deep from your chest.

“fuck, cooper—“ you cried, hips and knees shaking uncontrollably, “you’re gonna’ make me cum, please, don’t stop. i wanna’ cum so bad.”

“you cum when i tell you, you can,” he mumbled against you, hands grabbing tight at your ass as his tongue pushed inside you.

it took everything for you to focus on holding back your climax, the way his tongue penetrated you nearly threw you over the edge, but he was good at knowing your triggers. he pulled back from you, licking his lips as he stood back up on his feet and kicked off his boots and jeans.

“ride me,” he said breathlessly, watching you crawl to your hands and knees as he moved to lay back on the bed with his head in the pillows, “you like ridin’ cowboys, don’t you?”

“yes, sir,” you mewled, chewing on your bottom lip as you moved to straddle him. cooper had never looked sexier to you, his forehead and chest were damp with sweat and his cheeks flushed a perfect shade of pink. 

with one hand, he reached behind you and unhooked the clasp of your bra, snagging the fabric from your body and tossing it off the bed. his hands were quick to massage your tits, squeezing your nipples between his fingers as you sunk down on his cock with one quick drop of your hips. 

you and cooper moaned together as he stretched you out, your body flushed hot as you pressed your hands to his chest and rocked your hips. 

he praised you often, saying sweet little nothing's and showering you in compliments as you rode him just the way he liked it. there was no better gratification than watching the way his face twisted in pleasure as he moaned your name over and over like a prayer.

“i want you to cum in me,” you said through a quick inhale, beginning to lose your breath, “please, sir. i’ve been so good for you.”

a guttural growl came from him as he grabbed at your jaw and yanked you down roughly into a hungry kiss. he licked into your mouth, and you were much too willing to part your lips and let him take your breath away.

cooper lifted his hips with his remaining strength, just enough so he could pull his cock from you and thrust back up, fucking you relentlessly. you buried your face against his neck, gurgled moans bubbling up your throat and into his ear as your body rolled toward the edge once again. his stubble rubbed against your cheek, and it was the only thing you focused on as you held back your orgasm until he gave you permission.

you had become nothing but a toy of pleasure for him, your body limp as he slammed his hips into yours, and the sound of your skin slapping together echoed louder than the headboard banging against the wall.

“you take my cock so fuckin’ good, baby. i want you to cum with me,” cooper whined into your ear, and you could hear his voice shaking, “fuck, i’m gonna’ cum,” he growled.

cooper reached a hand between you and thumbed at your clit, circling it several times in a quick pattern—all you needed for your pleasure to erupt you into a state of euphoria. you saw stars, a fucked out smile on your lips as your cunt tightened around his cock and left you babbling his name as cooper continued to fuck you. his thrusts stuttered a few times, unable to keep up the rhythm as your pulsing cunt milked out his orgasm. he came inside you with a deep-throated groan, filling you with wet, sticky cum.

his body finally gave in, and he collapsed back on the bed with you dropping to his chest. you were both covered in sweat, chests heaving as you caught your breath and gave your bodies time to be still and quiet. relishing in the aftermath of one of your kinkiest rendezvous.

cooper was the first to groan and shift in his position, his body already sore and knowing he’d be aching for a couple days. those beautiful hazel eyes of his stayed focused on your face as you leaned your head back to get a good look at him. he smiled lopsided, making you blush, as his hand brushed hair out of your face that clung to the sweat gathering on your skin.

“you’re so damn perfect,” he whispered to you in that thick southern accent, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips that made you fall in love with him all over again, “my babygirl.”

[lcriedlastnight]

Enemies to lovers with Lando. Someone says something bad / criticises Lando in front of reader and she immediately defends him without knowing he’s behind her and can hear everything. And maybe as she’s defending him she’s also unknowingly/ without realizing / accidentally admitting her feelings for him

i love this idea! thank you so much anon, love!

tw: fem!reader, swears, logan hate (do not support!), little lando hate, not spellchecked or proof read, lmk if you want me to add anything else.

w/c: 2k

you and lando had never gotten along. you’d never gotten along and you’d never tried to. it was just one of those things, you supposed. you didn’t make a big deal out of it as the two of you shared a friend group and didn’t want to cause any issues between the group. lando however, well it seemed like he had a serious issue with you.

at first you did try to get along with him, his ego was massive and that really did put you off wanting to be friends with him but you could be fake a friendship with him. a friendship out of convenience was perfectly fine with you. lando was just having none of it. he’d ignore any conversation you would try to have with him - even in a group setting. you had tried just not talking to him but even that left you on the receiving end of dirty looks and mean comments. you’d had enough with it so you stopped caring about him entirely.

well that’s what you told your friends. in reality; you cared what he thought, you looked for his reaction to any story that was told in the room and you looked to see if he laughed at your jokes. every single time you were left with blank stares and bored expressions.

your friends noticed this and tried their best to ease the tension between the two of you but because of lando’s stubbornness, there was nothing they could really do. he really did make things difficult sometimes.

you had all gathered around the drivers house to celebrate a mutual close friend’s birthday. you and you close girl friends had gotten ready for the get together at your house and headed to the party together.

“so is the vibe for tonight party or chilled?” your friend asks as you jump out of the taxi outside lando’s apartment complex. your other friend snorts in amusement before she replies.

“girl, we’re at lando’s what do you think the vibe is?”. you frown. the party vibe wasn’t really what the birthday boy enjoyed so you hoped for his sake it was more a chilled, hanging with friends vibe. you also didn’t really dress for a party, your favourite pair of jeans on as well as one of those cute baby tee’s you found on tiktok.

“i hope not. fin doesn’t really like parties.” you remind them as you press the buzzer for lando’s. it rings for a second then you hear his crackly voice through the speaker. “hello?”. he sounded sober. good start.

“can you let us in please?” you ask into the intercom. there is a pause before lando replies.

“no. we’re full.”

your friend rolls her eyes at his words, knowing all this is was because he was talking to you. if he would just stop acting like a dickhead for more than two seconds people could maybe get things done. meanwhile, you huff at lando’s words opening your mouth to complain to him but your friend cuts in. “just let us in, norris.”.

she sounds fed up enough already that lando immediately tells them to “head on up, then.” she storms ahead of you and your other friend. you look at each other with annoyed looks.

“to be fair it’s a good thing she did that because you haven’t fell into his traps in months.” she reminds you as you reach his door which was open waiting on you and your friend. you nod. it was true, ignoring lando was really going well for you… from your friends point of view anyways. your mind was still plagued with thoughts of him.

your friend walks in before you so make sure to close the door behind you.

“so i guess we were wrong. looks like it is a chill night.” you friend says as she sees your friends dotted around the place, conversing. it looked very adult. weird for something lando was in charge of planning. you didn’t know he was capable of being anything except snide and rude. maybe he could be thoughtful and caring to the people he loved. the thought makes you frown but before you can linger on it for too long your friend grabs you both a drink and you take seats on his couch.

you notice you’re the last ones to arrive and try to find your friend that stormed off earlier. your eyes rake around the room until they land on her sitting with fin, the birthday boy. they looked cosy. ‘good for them’ you think as you take a sip of your drink. you notice lando sitting with his friend, max, on the couch next to you. you glance in his direction then redirect your eyes.

after maybe half an hour of socialising and drinking, fin announces (with your other friend hanging off his arm) that he wants to play a game of truth or dare. you thought it was a bit childish but everyone agreed so you did too. you all sit in a circle and decide to place a bottle in the middle.

“this is so high school.” you say to your friend, who just laughs in agreement. you had ended up sitting next to max on one side and your friend on the other. you quite liked max, he was nothing like lando, which helped you like him a lot more.

“since it’s my birthday, i’ll go first!” fin says as he spins the bottle. it lands on max. fin grins before asking the question you know you’re going to be tired of hearing after tonight.

after a couple of rounds a few of you disperse to get drinks and use the toilet. you were pretty sure some went for a smoke break. you didn’t even know anyone where smoked. lando was one of the people that had left, he went to the kitchen to get a drink for him and max. the good thing about not being able to let anyone know you were staring at lando was that you got good at lip reading and hearing things from a distance. you also got good at seeing things out of the corner of your eye. it was during your turn when lando asked max if he wanted another drink. you felt like you were keeping tabs on the boy, you were starting to feel a bit creepy as you answered your question.

the game continues as people (lando) leave. it was your friend turn but she was a bit more than drunk and would only accept a question from fin, the man she was clinging to all night.

you can all see the wheels turning in fin’s mind as he thinks up a question. “how good of a driver do you think lando actually is?” he finally asks.

everyone perks up at the question, wanting to see if your friend had any unpopular opinions on lando’s driving skills.

“he’s shit. like- that’s him just won his first race? after racing for like five years? that doesn’t really scream future world champion does it?” she criticised, words slurred. your face is screwed up in disagreement. you bite your tongue though, knowing she was drunk and probably just wanted to start something. you’re sure you heard someone gasp.

“you don’t really mean that?” another one of your friends asks in shock. your drunk friend only nods.

“i do. he’s bad. like he’s not logan sargent bad but he’s mid at best and i don’t understand the hype. i never have and i don’t think i ever will.” she smiles a little and that’s what gets you.

“i’m sorry are you being serious right now? firstly the audacity you have to sit there, shitfaced, bashing on the person who’s house you’re inside and who bought you the drinks in the first place is absurd,” you start, bring her down a peg. you hear footsteps behind you but you’re too pent up to acknowledge them right now.

“secondly, have you even watched a race? ever? or even recently? because if you had then you would know just how good he actually is. you’re sitting there talking about him like you know exactly how hard he worked to get to where he is and to achieve that win. millions of people - who actually watch the races, by the way - have said how difficult it is to end verstappen’s win streak and lando was the first person to do so this season.” you rant, enraged that she spoke about lando like that.

her mouth opens and closes a few times before she says, almost cockily. “carlos sainz won before lando did, in australia. you act like i don’t know shit about f1.”

“lando’s win means way more than carlos’ because max was still in the race in miami. he had the chance to actually win it, whereas in australia he dnf’d. so do you actually know what you’re talking about? i, along with like a million other people like lando and think he’s going to go very far the rest of the season.” you educate her. she should really know all of this seeing as you always told her every detail about the races on the mondays following.

“bitch.” she has nothing to retaliate with so she chooses to resort to name calling. you don’t even give her a reply and stand up to go outside to get some air. you stand up so quickly you don’t see the feet standing directly behind you or the hard chest you smash into. you could tell it was lando from the scent. was it weird? maybe but you didn’t care much. you’re embarrassed that he probably heard your rant defending him and that you just smashed right into his chest so you step backwards and head to lando’s balcony to sit outside with the smokers.

you rush outside and sit down in the far corner next to the railing. you watch the streets below for a few minutes, trying to forget what you had just done and who you had done it in front of. you feel lando looming over you a few minutes later.

“y’alright?” he asks as he takes a seat next to you. you feel uncomfortable a little, you’ve never been this close to him, even though that’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted for the past three years. and he’s being nice to you. lando have never been nice to you. ever. you’d seen him be nice to others, hundreds of times before so you knew what it was like, but you could only have dreamed of being on the receiving end of it.

“yeah.” you reply. you move your head from watching the cars pass on the road to rest your forehead on your tucked up knees.

“thank you for what you did… well said i guess. it was really nice of you.” lando starts, his hand sits awfully close to the edge of your shoe. it’s not touching but if you shuffled your foot a few times towards him, it would be.

“i know i don’t really deserve it. not from you anyways. you’ve always been so sweet to me and i’ve kinda been- well a dick.” you let out a breathy giggle at his choice of words.

“yeah. you have been a dick.” lando grins as you agree with him.

“what if i said i didn’t wanna be a dick to you anymore?” he said, you’re sure you heard a hint of shyness in his voice.

you move you’re head from it’s resting place to look at him in confusion. “you don’t? how do you want to treat me then?” you ask.

lando smiles. “like i should’ve been for the past god knows how long.” you give him your own smile back.

“for the record i like you too.” lando teases, his hand coming to clutch at your thigh. you groan.

“i hate you.” he laughs that laugh.

“no you don’t.” you rest your head on your shoulder and listen to the traffic. lando’s thumb rubs across your skin. his touch is soothing. this is the first nice memory you have with lando.

[leclsrc]

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k  

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish. 

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink. 

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance. 

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue. 

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs. 

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath. 

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening. 

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close.  The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously. 

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea. 

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs. 

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?” 

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most. 

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder. 

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood. 

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt. 

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face. 

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you. 

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?” 

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick. 

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

[oaksgrove]

hi again! this is ale anon, i hope you are well 😚

i was thinking if you can write for him? maybe like reader who has been crushing on him for a long time but he is still stuck up on valeria so she gives up and he realises it too late. you can make this smut or however you like actually with a completely different plot! i'd still gobble it up hehe~

Too Late

pairing: Alejandro Vargas x Reader

synopsis: You loved Alejandro. You knew you did. But you were tired of waiting for a man who couldn’t see past his own ghosts. So, you decided to let him go. The problem? He realized it too late.

warnings: Angst, jealousy, pining, emotional tension, Alejandro being an oblivious idiot, make-up kiss, implied feelings of abandonment/insecurity, language.

word count: 758

a/n: This is my first time writing for Alejandro, so I’m a little nervous! Thank you for the request, nonnie—I absolutely loved this idea. Hope I did it justice!

Loving Alejandro Vargas had never been easy, and you knew that it would break you

It was a slow, quiet ache. A longing buried deep beneath laughter, beneath loyalty, beneath the careful facade you wore every time he looked at you and didn’t see you.

And you had waited. God, had you waited.

You had spent years standing at Alejandro’s side. 

It was inevitable, like the setting sun, like the tide pulling back no matter how much it wanted to stay. It wasn’t his fault—he never made you promises he couldn’t keep.

But he also never turned you away.

And that was the problem.

Because you stayed.

For years, you had stood beside him, through war and blood and the weight of everything he carried. Through every lingering touch that never became more, every look that lasted a second too long but never long enough.

Through her.

Valeria.

She haunted him, a ghost he refused to exorcise. Even after she betrayed him. Even after she became his enemy.

She was in the clench of his jaw when he thought no one was watching. She was in the way his fingers twitched over his gun whenever someone mentioned her name. She was in the weight he carried in his shoulders, in his bones, in his soul, clinging to him in ways you never could.

You had tried, though. Oh, God, had you tried.

You stayed when she left. You fought for him when she became his enemy. You held him together when her betrayal nearly shattered him.

And he—

He didn’t see you. Not really.

You were just there.

Always.

Waiting.

Hoping.

You told yourself it was enough just to be near him, to be his friend, his confidant, the one who always had his back.

Until it wasn’t.

Until one day, you realized you couldn’t keep giving pieces of yourself to someone who never even noticed.

So, you made a decision.

You weren’t going to be second place anymore.

Not to Valeria.

Not to a memory.

—

Alejandro noticed before he understood.

At first, it was subtle. You weren’t waiting for him after missions anymore, weren’t the first person handing him a beer, weren’t standing just close enough that your arms brushed, how you no longer leaned against his shoulder when you were drunk, how your smiles no longer lingered when they were meant for him.

At first, he tried to ignore it.

Maybe you were busy. Maybe it was stress.

Then it became obvious.

You stopped teasing him, stopped seeking him out, stopped looking at him with those eyes—those warm, open, waiting eyes.

The worst part?

You didn’t even seem angry.

You just… let go.

And it drove him fucking insane.

Physically, you were still there—still in Los Vaqueros, still standing beside Rudy, still fighting like hell.

But you weren’t his anymore.

“Ay, mi amor,” he called one evening, using the pet name without thinking. “Come have a drink with me.”

You barely looked at him. “Not tonight, Alejandro.”

It was a knife to the gut.

You always had time for him. Always.

He tried again. “Tomorrow, then. After the debrief.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Got plans.”

Plans.

Plans that weren’t him.

The realization hit like a bullet to the chest.

Alejandro stood there, staring after you, something twisting deep inside him.

He was losing you.

No.

He had already lost you.

—

The breaking point came at the bar.

He found you there, laughing at something Rudy said, your hand resting on his arm. Alejandro had never felt jealousy like that before. It curled in his gut like a snake, coiling tight.

He saw red.

He knew, deep down, that Rudy wasn’t making a move on you. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that you were happy.

Without him.

So he did something reckless.

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you outside.

"Alejandro—what the hell?" you snapped, yanking your arm back once you were alone.

He barely heard you. His mind was spinning, heart pounding, jealousy and frustration clawing up his throat.

“What’s going on with you?” His voice was rough, sharp. "You’ve been avoiding me."

You let out a hollow laugh. “I’ve been moving on.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

Moving on.

From him.

His hands curled into fists. “From what?”

You just stared at him, and in that moment, he saw it—the years of longing, of waiting, of hoping.

And the pain of finally giving up.

"From you," you whispered.

Alejandro’s chest ached.

"Cariño—"

You stepped back. “Don’t do that, Alejandro.”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Call me sweet names.” Your voice wavered. “Not when you don’t mean it.”

He did mean it.

He just hadn’t realized it until now.

“Mierda,” he swore, raking a hand through his hair. “I—fuck—I was an idiot.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. You were.”

The air between you was thick, heavy.

And then—

“Do you still want me?”

It was a desperate question. A plea.

You inhaled sharply. “Does it even matter, Alejandro?”

He stepped closer. “It matters.”

Your back hit the wall. His body was too close, his warmth bleeding into yours.

You should have pushed him away.

You should have walked away.

But when his lips ghosted over yours, when his breath fanned across your skin, your resolve shattered.

“Still want me, mi amor?” he murmured, voice low, dark.

You hated how easy it was for him.

You hated how much you wanted him.

So, instead of answering, you kissed him.

Hard.

He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, pressing you flush against him, devouring every ounce of frustration, every second of wasted time.

You bit his lip.

He growled.

And then you were lost.

His hands were everywhere—your hips, your waist, threading into your hair as he kissed you like a dying man taking his last breath.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.

When he finally pulled away, he was wrecked.

Breathless.

Desperate.

He rested his forehead against yours, his grip on you still tight, like he was afraid to let go.

“I was blind,” he admitted, voice raw. “But I see you, and I’m sorry.”

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, your touch soft despite everything.

“Don’t look away again,” you whispered.

Alejandro exhaled sharply.

“Never.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · STARRY EYES ⋆ MAX VERSTAPPEN 🦢

pairing ☆ max verstappen x museum guide! reader

summary ☆ where max has been visiting van gogh's museum almost every week because he's crushing over a museum guide there

warnings ☆ jokes about going back to your country (reader is spanish)

masterlist | letterboxd

❛ these chemicals hit my like white wine❜

yourusername 🔒 just posted!

liked by bestie1, friend2 and 103 others

yourusername too many dumb blonds here

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bestie1 shut up tourist

yourusername shut me bestie1 omw 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

friend1 you're so annoying

friend2 go back to your country we don't want you here

y/nmom que fotos más bonitas!! papá dice que te hecha de menos y yo también 💓💓 (such beautiful photos!! dad says that he miss you and me too)

yourusername te echo muchísimo de menos, ma 💓💓💓 (i miss you so so much, mom)

friend3 too many dumb blonds for you to fuck and don't have aids*

yourusername OH SHUT UP

f1gossip just posted!

liked by user1, user2 and 9,491 others

f1gossip One follower informed us that Max Verstappen was seen the other day at the Van Gogh's museum in Amsterdam with a mysterious girl who probably works there. Sources say that it's the second or even third time he's around there.

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user3 does anyone know who this girl is?

user4 the downfall of max is starting and i'm here for it

user5 it's literally just a girl, go touch some grass user6 probably they aren't even dating

user7 someone find my a pic of her face and i find her in 5

user8 there's none sadly

user9 he probably just likes the museum and was asking for directions

user10 the first time! he's an usual now

bestie1 loool

yourusername just posted a story!

[caption 1: wish me luck little fuckers] [caption 2: chin chin] (spanish expression for cheers)

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bestie1 i can't believe you're on a date with THE max verstappen and that you didn't even know who he was

yourusername 🤷

maxverstappen1 just posted on his story!

replies

user11 IS THAT THE GIRL FROM THE MUSEUM??

user12 SOFT LAUNCHING WHOOOO

user13 STOP gatekeeping her from us

user14 show her face pleasee, show it to me rachel

maxverstappen1 just posted!

liked by redbullracing, yourusername and 134,923 others

maxverstappen1 P1 at Spielberg! What a lovely race 🦁

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user15 max + his fist = perfect combo

user16 simply lovely

user17 get that 4x wdc

yourusername amazingg 💥 liked by author

user18 is this the girl? user19 i believe so user20 she's supportive i like her

user18 🦁🧡

yourusername just posted a story!

[caption: 📍MoMa]

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bestie1 bro is casually in new york

friend2 GIRL WHAT don't you have work???

friend3 i see that dates with the f1 driver went well

yourusername just posted!

liked by maxverstappen1, bestie1 and 112 others

yourusername from ny to silverstone 📸

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maxverstappen1 my woman ❤️

bestie1 damn he's fast

bestie1 i'm so JEALOUSSS

friend1 y/n come back the kids miss you

friend2 tell max to buy me a boat

friend3 wait y/n when we told you to leave we were joking

yourusername too late bitches i'm out (i'll come back tomorrow i miss you pookie)

y/nmom Que guapos los dos!! Tu padre y yo nos morimos por conocerlo ❤️❤️ (how pretty both of you!! your father and i can't wait to meet him)

maxverstappen1 @/yourusername how do you say i can't wait to meet them too in spanish yourusername HSHSHAHA 'no puedo esperar a conocerlos también' maxverstappen1 @/ynmom no puedo esperar a conocerlos también! 😊

friend4 girl if i were you i opened my account and start monetizing him just saying

yourusername omg SHUT UP LMAO

☆ request by: anon

idk if it’s me projecting but it’d be cool tk have max’s bestie be a college student who studies classical music ;) and they’re both crushing idk if that’s too vague but it’s the only idea i have 😭

a/n: i didn't do it with classical music bc i don't know anything about it, and i'm more familiar with museums. i hope you enjoyed it aswell, (i know it took too long)

[widogasted]

fhr/los diablos dashboard simulator

👾moddeddubstep78 Follow

fuck my stupid baka life Marshal Steel just fucking crushed my car AGAIN

#thank god my insurance covers rangers related accidents

rangershqofficial-deactivated Follow

just a reminder to everyone that we don't give a fuck about your health insurance

#THEY GOT OP?????? #FUCK THAT'S WHERE I GOT ALL MY PICTURES OF CHARGE

💉 booooooooost Follow

just a reminder that people fearmongering about boosting are fundamentally antivaxxers!!!!

#not to mention classist as fuck #i will not be elaborating none of you motherfuckers can read #stop sending me anon hate

🛒 unmoddedunbothered Follow

tell me why i just saw someone claim that it's classist and an "antivaxx mentality" to spread actual information about the outcomes of the boost drug

#linking the study again #this is getting ridiculous at this point #and YES it is a valid study!!!! 8 people is literally a normal amount to have

❓ rangerspolls Follow

❓ rangerspolls

GUYS STOP ASKING ME WHERE CHARGE IS. THERE IS AN OVERSATURATION OF CHARGE I'M LITERALLY LEAVING CHARGE OUT OF ONE (1) THING

#ALSO WHO THE FUCK IS VOTING SIDESTEP #THEY LITERALLY WEAR A FULL BODY SUIT AND MASK. HOT BASED ON WHAT??

🚶‍♂️ mrnormalguy Follow

omw to work and i just watched that one guy from the rangers fall on top of the car behind me. only in los diablos fr

🕴 aspiringnonsuperhero Follow

about to stick a fork in my new mod

🕴 aspiringnonsuperhero

hopital

💞 circuitheartbeats Follow

By Your Electric Love (marchal charge x reader)

summary: you get injured in one of the new villain's rampages and marchal charge finds you trapped under some rubble. charge takes you home to tend your wounds and you learn....... the secret under the mask.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: dom!charge, pet names (babygirl), f!reader, swearing, unprotected... >w<

(a/n-- thank u all for 1k follows!!! ^u^)

(story under cut ->)

#los diablos rangers #charge #rangers x reader #charge x reader #charge x f!reader #guys this one was sooooooo hot i kept blushing while i tried to finish it #i hope you like it #1k

💥 dailyblast Follow

can you guys stop fucking tagging your rangers x reader fic with official rangers tags. every time i come on this goddamn website and see the tag is trending i try to check and see what happened and it's just that one guy who can't even spell charge's OLD (!!!!) title right

#it's marshal with an s #by the way a fucking gala was robbed

🩺 ethicalscientist Follow

does anyone think it's a little suspicious that the new villain targeted sidestep's exhibit of all people? like. with all due respect they're dead and were not that important while alive. does anyone think this person might be related to them in some way?

🧬 unethicalscientist Follow

my guy did you not catch that their villain name is anathema

🐸 bugboy2 Follow

stop saying boosts and mods are cool. they're literally tools of the government and a a drug that originated with fucking DIET CULTURE that kill more people than they save. why are we glamorizing this

🍆 bleepbloop78 Follow

stop saying boosts and mods are cool. my brother literally got super fart powers when he boosted himself and i had to move house. why are we glamorizing this

[tbyfandoms]

Just Breathe | Austin Butler x Reader

Pairing: austin butler x f!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: when attending the premiere of 'Elvis', y/n suddenly suffers a panic attack. seeing his girlfriend in distress, austin's there to make sure she's okay and that she knows she's not alone (requested)

Warnings: depictions of anxiety and a panic attack

Masterlist/Request Form | Ask/Tell/Request

A/N: it's been so long since I've written an austin fic! it feels so good to be back writing for him, I missed it dearly. this request was really special to me because at times I deal with my own anxiety, and sometimes it feels like it's never ending. I worked in some thoughts and symptoms I deal with personally when having anxiety to make it more personable, so I hope that shows anyone else who struggles with anxiety or panic attacks that you're not alone. your anxiety doesn't define you and I promise it will get better! thank you to the anon who requested this, I hope you like it. as always, enjoy and lmk what you think! :)

You can feel the hum of the car beneath you as it coasts through the crowded streets of Los Angeles. Your boyfriend's hand rests softly on your upper thigh and you find yourself feeling more thankful for it than you ever have before. The weight of it essentially being your only grounding force right now.

It's not that you're petrified for what's to come, but you're also not the most relaxed at the thought of it. Tonight is the premiere for Austin's newest movie, Elvis, and to say you're starting to feel the pressure of it would be an understatement.

Sure, you've been to his premieres before. You two have been dating long enough to the point where red carpets are typically a breeze, and paparazzi are usually a forgotten thought as you get in and out of your car. But never have you been in a situation like this, one where instead of everyone's eyes being trained on a veteran star, they're going to be trained on him.

Words can't describe the insurmountable feeling of pride you have for him, but the way things have been changing so fast has your head constantly spinning. It's not your stardom to adjust to, but being Austin's girlfriend brings you at the forefront of it all, whether you want it to or not.

All day today you've tried to find some semblance of peace without having the blonde catch on to your emotions. The very last thing you want is to ruin his night or do something that would take any of the praise away from him. Austin's been waiting for a big break like this practically his whole life, and you'd be damned if you let your own anxiety get in the way of any of that.

So, as the car pulls up to the entrance of the theater—bright lights shining, red carpet laid out and all—you take a deep breath. Austin turns his head towards you and you do your best to put on the most genuine smile you can give him before smoothing out your dress and following him out of the car.

All at once you're met with sounds and sights from every angle. Adoring fans litter the sidewalks, photographers snap photo after photo, and fellow cast and crew spill out before you down the carpet. Screams pierce the air, Austin's name bouncing from left, to right, and back again as he flashes them that million dollar smile he has.

Your heart hammers in your chest over it all and you find yourself wondering what the expression on your face must look like right now. You're sure you'll be met with pictures of it in the morning, and the thought only slightly makes you cringe.

A warm hand wraps around your own and the contact has your head snapping towards the man beside you. Austin's blue eyes meet yours and you feel a bit of the chaos slip away as you melt into them.

"You ready for this, sweetheart?" he says with a smile, tilting his head down slightly to close a bit of distance between the two of you.

"As ready as I'll ever be," you chuckle. Austin does the same and you're grateful for the fact he's still oblivious to your nerves. It shows you're hiding them well. You don't want him to worry about you, and after all he's the star of this movie, not you. It shouldn't be that bad once you get through the photos and Austin finishes his interviews. You just have to get through the next thirty minutes and you'll be able to breathe again. Or so you hope.

Austin begins to lead you down the carpet and it takes all you've got to make your legs that feel like jello trail after him. Suddenly, your heels feel too tall and your dress too tight. It gives you the sense that at any moment you could trip and fall right over. Luckily, the actor comes to a stop and you revel in the way he loops his arm around your waist.

Camera flashes cloud your vision, shouts for Austin to look this way and that way get louder, and in no time it feels like you're surrounded. The blonde laughs beside you, bantering back and forth with the photographers as they send quick quips his way. He does it all with such ease. Austin's always been shy, but you believe he truly shines in situations like this, his personality far from hindered while under pressure. It makes you feel bad, feeling like this. Here he is having a good time and you're struggling to hold on.

Act natural, you urge yourself. Look at the cameras, smile. Look at Austin, smile. Be here, be present, don't let this moment consume you, but also don't let it pass you by.

"Austin, to your left!" A flash.

"Mr. Presley, look over here!" A laugh. Another flash.

""What a beautiful couple! Straight ahead!" A hitch in your breath. A squeeze in your chest. Multiple flashes.

You're fine. Austin's here, he won't let anything happen to you. Don't ruin this for him. Stop being irrational. You're having fun. Think of what this means to the both of you. What it means to him.

Smile, smile, smile—

"Y/N." Austin's voice sounds muffled. You look to your right and when he says it again, you feel like you're under water. One look at his face and you instantly can tell he knows. Of course he does. How silly of you to think he wouldn't notice. Austin knows you better than anyone, maybe even better than you know yourself.

There's a crinkle in his brow, a look of determination taking over his features. His hand brushes your back and suddenly you're moving, but if you're being honest you'd say it feels more like floating.

It's only when Austin takes you around a corner, the prying eyes of fans and photographers alike being cut off, do you realize multiple things are happening to you right now.

The first thing you notice is the way your hands are shaking in Austin's grip, then it's the short breaths slipping past your lips causing your chest to feel tight and your air supply to feel minuscule, and then finally it's the thrumming of your heart beat pounding so intensely you can practically see the rhythm in your wrists.

When Austin reaches up to cup your face in his hands, that's when you completely lose control. The area you're in feels smaller, the confused cheers of the crowd wondering where their star has gone echoes in your brain too loudly, your skin feels too hot and clammy.

This isn't right.

"What are you doing?" You ask your boyfriend as he begins to wipe away tears you hadn't realized had started falling. "You have to get back out there! They're waiting for you, this is your moment, they need you—!"

"Just breathe, baby." Austin coos softly, his baritone voice seeping into your mind and wrapping itself around you like it so often does. "Right now you need me, and that's all that matters. They can wait, it's just some pictures. You're my girl, and right now all I need to do is make sure you're okay."

Nodding your head, you tear your eyes away from the blonde, squeezing them shut tight as if it'll somehow make it all go away.

"Hey, hey, hey, focus on me. Look at me and focus on my voice. Remember how we practiced? Just breathe, in and out." Austin tilts your head back up towards his. His gaze both piercing, yet comforting as he takes in every inch of your face, trying to see where exactly you're at right now with your attack.

"Aus," you whisper, wanting so badly for everything to just stop. Someone new must've arrived to the carpet because another wave of deafening cheers fills your ears and the sound practically sends you spiraling all the way back down again.

Austin can physically feel you slipping away from him, your body shaking like a leaf and ice-cold to the touch. His heart aches at the sight and he quickly thinks of a tactic you and him have previously discussed to try and help you find your way back to him.

"Remember a couple weeks back when we were at home at you started to feel a little anxious? We tried that new method we read about and it helped your panic attack go away?" You nod your head, remembering exactly what he's talking about, even if everything's a little fuzzy right now. "Let's try it, okay? Tell me three things you can touch."

"Um—" your voice cracks a little, the anxiety causing your voice to shake and feel unsteady. You clear your throat and take a deep, shuttering breath before trying again. "I-I can feel your hands."

Your boyfriend squeezes your hands gently, lightly praising you while also giving you a slight push to continue. Letting go of one of his hands, you reach out and glide your fingers across the smooth fabric of Austin's suit. "I can feel the fabric of your jacket."

"Good, what's one more?" Lifting your eyes up, they land on Austin's face, and then suddenly your fingers follow suit, your trembling fingertips tracing over his cheekbone.

"I can feel your face." The actor smiles warmly at you as he leans into your touch, knowing how the warmth of his skin has always been a grounding feeling for you.

"Good job, baby. Now how about three things you can see?"

At first you're scared to look away from Austin. Scared that the minute your focus is shifted off him, you'll be right back at square one, but you muster up the courage to do so and spot your first item.

"I can see see that spare spotlight on the floor over there." Austin turns his head and he chuckles when he spots what you're talking about. He's impressed you were able to point out something random like that. He hopes this new method is actually working as well as he thinks it is. So far, so good. "I can also see those crew members at the other end of the carpet where we came in, and I can see part of the red carpet coming through the backdrop right there."

You point down at the sliver of red peeking through, and you surprise even yourself when you notice your hand isn't shaking quite as much as it was before.

"Good, that's good. I'm so proud of you, you got this. You're gonna be okay. I'm here, sweetheart." Austin opens his arms slightly, like he always does when he can tell your panic attack is settling. He gives you an in to let him wrap his arms around you, but also doesn't put any pressure on it, not wanting to make you feel suffocated or closed in.

Feeling a bit better, you accept his embrace wholeheartedly, wanting nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms right now. The minute Austin's arms close around you and you press your cheek into his chest, you feel a slight weight lift off of you. Your chest feels looser, and even though your breaths are still coming out a little bit clipped, you feel better than you have all day. Although you're able to calm yourself down if needed, nothing helps more than having Austin by your side during a terrifying moment like this. No one makes you feel safe more than he does, and the fact he handles it all with such grace and kindness makes you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

"Now I know this one might be a bit harder, and if it's too much for you that's okay we can skip it, but can you let me know three things you can hear?" Austin murmurs into the top of your head, the low note of his voice vibrating against your cheek through his chest. The soft rumble is comforting in a place full of chaotic ones.

You breathe in deeply, your boyfriend's cologne infiltrating your senses as you try to pick out specific noises amongst the crowd. A few moments pass, your heart rate picks up again as you start to think you won't be able to do this part, but then you hear it, a familiar laugh just barely breaking through a sea of cheers.

It's Baz Luhrmann's—the director of Elvis—and the sound causes a small smile to adorn your lips. "I can hear Baz laughing at something on the carpet. He must be joking with the photographers or whoever he's walking with."

"Hey, you're right. I can hear him too," Austin chuckles, remembering all the laughs he's shared with the very man in question. "He really is somethin', isn't he?"

"He sure is," you agree. It's silent between you two again, the blonde giving you a moment to hone in on something else. This time it comes to you a bit quicker, your senses no longer feeling so overwhelmed. "I can hear someone playing Hound Dog, it comes in and out, but it's there."

Austin strains his own ears over that one, trying to figure out where it's coming from. He looks up and the connection is immediately made. "Look at you! They must be playin' it in the theater 'cause if you look over, when someone opens the door you can hear it if you listen hard enough. Amazing job. Can I get one last thing you can hear?"

You can feel your boyfriend begin to trace soothing circles in your lower back, the action transporting you home instantly, more specifically to your couch in the living room. Many nights you'll find yourself curled up to Austin with your head on his chest, much like it is right now, and he'll trace circles in your back until you fall asleep.

Thinking back on those moments, you try to imagine as if you are actually there right now. You can feel the weight of you and Austin sinking into the couch, the warmth of both his arms around you and the fireplace you typically have going during cooler nights, and you can feel his chest beneath you rising and falling with every breath.

Then, without warning, you realize what it is that's playing a major part in making you feel so at home, so calm, so safe. It's a sound so unequivocally Austin.

His heartbeat.

It's there, thrumming beneath your ear, so soft and yet so powerful all at the same time. The rhythm is as calm and even as it is when you two are just laying on the couch. Austin has his own anxieties and nerves he deals with, but when it comes to you he never fails to be that soothing, collected man you fell for all that time ago. He's aware it's not his responsibility to help you with your challenges and be some strong person for you, and yet he does it anyways because he loves you dearly and never wants to see you go through things like this alone. Not while he's still here on this Earth. Not while it's still you for him as much as it's him for you.

"I can hear your heartbeat," you whisper so quietly you don't think Austin even heard it, but when you feel him sink into you just a little more and a soft hum travel through his chest, you know he did.

As you stand there wrapped in Austin's arms, your panic attack slowly melting away, you begin to reflect on what's just happened. You can't help the guilt you feel for taking away from Austin's big night, something you swore you wouldn't let happen. You hate the fact this happens more often than not, your anxiety taking over and bulldozing over even the best of times. Times where all you want is to feel excited and present, but your anxiety creeps up and leaves you feeling panicked and disoriented. It makes you feel like you're too much and not enough all at the same time.

Pulling away from your boyfriend's embrace, you look up at him and say, "I'm sorry."

"For what, sweetheart?" Austin looks confused, his brows pinched in concern over what it is you could possibly be apologizing for.

"For all of this. For taking away from your big night and letting my anxiety take over me again. You don't deserve to constantly have to talk me down or put your accomplishments on hold just to make sure I'm okay. I feel like a burden and It's not fair to you at all—"

"Stop, don't say that," Austin cuts your apology short, cupping your face in his hands and holding your gaze, wanting to make sure you take his words very seriously. "Never apologize for your anxiety. It's nothing to be sorry for. You can only control it so much, and I don't blame you for it, ever. You are the furthest thing from a burden to me and I want you to believe me when I say that. I love you no matter what and I'm eternally grateful I get to have you by my side during these moments in my life. If I have to miss a few minutes of it to make sure you're okay, then so be it. I wouldn't have it any other way."

This time when your eyes well with tears it's not because you're nervous or on the verge of an attack, it's because you're so full of love for the man before you, you're not quite sure how to handle it.

Letting out a breathy laugh, you reach up and try to wipe the tears away before leaning forward and catching Austin's lips in a kiss. One so gentle and full of all the words you can't quite seem to string together to tell him how grateful you are to have him in your life.

"I love you so much, Austin Butler," you say before wrapping your arms around the blonde's neck and hugging him tightly.

"I love you so much more, Y/N Y/L/N," he chuckles, squeezing you back just as tightly.

Cheers erupt beside you and suddenly you're brought back to reality. There's still a premiere to be had and a red carpet to be walked.

"You okay to keep going?" Austin asks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The action has your cheeks warming and you lean slightly into his touch.

"Yeah, I am," you nod. Because despite the cheers and flashing lights that will resume following you down the carpet, this time you feel more confident and sure of yourself. The anxiety that was plaguing you from the moment you woke up at the hotel this morning has settled and you're going to revel in that for as long as you can. "Is my makeup okay?"

Austin laughs and you swear if you could you'd bottle up the sound and keep it forever. "I promise it is, you look beautiful, baby. As always."

You smile. Even if he was lying, Austin has a way of making you feel beautiful no matter what, so mascara smudges or not, you'll take his word for it. "Thank you, Aus. For everything."

Knowing you'll both figure out this new way of life together has you more at ease. Your anxiety is an uphill battle, but it's one you know you won't have to fight alone, and that is enough to help you keep going.

You want to be here for Austin and you want to enjoy the premiere of this movie he's poured his whole heart and soul into. The way his life has changed over the past several months is a positive thing, and it's not something you want to hide from or be scared of. He deserves this and you want to be there for him just as much as he's there for you.

So, when Austin holds out his hand to lead you back out onto the carpet, you take it wholeheartedly, ready to take on whatever comes next.

You know that if you need it, Austin will always be there to remind you to just breathe.

[asarajaa]

Hola reinona, hermosa, guapísima y todos los elogios hermosos que se te pueden ocurrir. Can you please, PLEASE write some headcanons or maybe a one-shot for our baby Conner Kent?? I feel like there isn't enough of them. I just want a simple one with a lot of fluff pretty please. Maybe something in the line of reader watching him train or something like that. Thank you so much gorgeous 🫶🫶🫶.

Ps: Can I be your 🐍 anon? Every time you see a snake emoji isn't me jeje.

Of course! I hope you like it!

Warnings: gn!reader, it can be planotic or romantical (whatever you like the most), friends to lovers (?) Words: 461 Disclaimer: English isn't my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!

₊˚ෆ Conner Kent is a show off. Like please, I dare you to say that it’s not true.

₊˚ෆ He’s gonna invite you to a training session so that he can act like he’s too focused on the training to even look at you but in reality his making all the good moves he knows so that he could “impress” you. Not like he needed, but you let him be.

₊˚ෆ After some “watching him training sessions”, he would slowly but firmly starting to teach you some moves for self defense. If you already know some, he would be more than happy to train with you or help you to improve.

₊˚ෆ Kon likes to think he's just a shout away, but he knows how unpredictable life could be. That’s why he would  insist on teaching you self defense, he hopes you never get to use them, but you know, just in case.

₊˚ෆ You two would be on the training room, sparring, an speaker on full volume with a playlist both of you made.

₊˚ෆ You reached a point where he actually began to think his movements better, since you were improving so much.

₊˚ෆ Of course, you two could cheat at every chance you got, let’s be for real.

₊˚ෆ A little moment where Kon he got too distracted by your closeness? He was down.

₊˚ෆ A little moment where you felt your body burn on the part he was touching? You were down.

“Conner!” you shouted with a laugh in between, your back hitting the training mat, Conner on top of you as he began to tickle you “Tha-That’s cheating!” you said as you began to try to get him off and stop him.

“Oh, so now i’m the cheater, huh?” he teased with a little smirk, loving your laugh. “At least i’m not using a kiss on the cheek as an attack”

You couldn’t help but laugh at both his tickles and comments.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry!” you said as quickly as you felt your abdomen hurt for laughing so much, eyes watery by the laughs. “I surrender!”

“There you go, how much did it cost, you little cheater?” Conner said as his hands stopped tickling, now just caressing gently your sides, a little genuine and innocent show of comfort.

“I’m never training with you again” you huffled with a smile, relaxing by his caresses.

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, sweetheart.” he rolled his eyes, smirking at your dramatic answer.

₊˚ෆ You tend to lose, but when you win? He’s the first one to smile proudly at you, showering you with compliments, trying to get you to repeat the move and always pushing you to your limit.

₊˚ෆ At least, he can go to missions at peace knowing that you know how to take care of yourself.

So sorry ofr makeing it so short anon :(, right now i'm in my finals and I decided to write a quick hc with the excuse of taking a break. Maybe i'll add more things with the pass of the time (?), i'm not sure.

© asarajaa — Please, do not copy, translate or reuse my work without my permission.