#<- (Has said this before without circling back)

[cheftsunoda]

Okay hear me out: we have a Leclerc reader who is a teenage (15 or 16) and she's always struggled with mental health with the pressure of school and being charles's little sister so she thinks she has to be up to his level and he finds out? like he see's the I am sober app on her phone or see's the s-h scars on her wrists??

i got you— cl16

charles leclerc x !younger sister reader

written blurbs

being charles leclerc’s little sister was never easy. not because he made it hard — he never did. charles loved you like the sun loved the sea—endlessly, naturally, without question. but the world… the world had its expectations. and they pressed down on you like gravity. at sixteen, you were already tired. of school, of whispers, of always being almost enough. the grief for your father sat heavy in your chest, a quiet echo no one talked about anymore. and while charles raced across continents, worshipped by millions, you were quietly falling apart. this is the story of how he came home. how you broke. and how, piece by piece, he helped you find your way back. not to perfection. not to the old you. but to something softer. something true. to the version of yourself that still wanted to live.

(a/n) : hi my love. i hope you are doing okay. if anyone out there is struggling, just know that you are not alone. i am here and as long as i am here — each and everyone of you will have someone who loves and cares for you. reach out if you need, my messages are always open:)

obvious warnings of sh (not explicit), grief and depression.

—

You knew the moment you stepped into school this morning that it was going to be a hard day. You could feel it in the way your limbs dragged, like gravity had grown stronger overnight just to pull you under. The halls felt too loud, every laugh a little too sharp, every glance a little too lingering. You kept your head down.

It’s always the same, isn’t it? You walk through the corridors like a ghost, existing more in other people’s whispers than in your own skin.

“Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

“Bet she thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“You’d think she’d be prettier. Or smarter.”

They don’t even try to be quiet anymore. You’re used to the weight of expectation — not just theirs, but your own. The constant, impossible pressure to be enough. To live up to a name that feels too big for you. You’re sixteen and already tired of trying to be someone you’re not sure you ever could be.

You get a math test back in second period. 72%. The number circles your mind like a shark. You can barely focus on the rest of the class because all you can hear is the dull throb of failure. You should have done better. You should always do better. Because if you don’t, then who are you, really?

Not him. Not Charles. He wins Grand Prix. He speaks five languages. He makes people cry with national anthems and overtakes. You just… exist. Quietly. An echo of someone more important.

By the time you make it home, the house is too silent. It’s always silent lately. Maman is keeping her salon open late. Arthur’s busy. Charles is—well, he’s somewhere on the other side of the world, racing. Smiling for cameras. Waving to crowds. And you want to be happy for him, you really do, but sometimes you wish he’d see you.

Just once. See how much you’re slipping.

You drop your backpack at the door and collapse onto the couch for a moment before dragging yourself to your room. You sit at your desk and pull out your journal. It’s the one Charles gave you when you turned fifteen, with soft leather and your initials stamped into the cover. He said you had too many thoughts to keep inside. Said writing might help. You try. You write a sentence. Then cross it out. Then another. Rip out the page.

You can’t get it right. The words won’t come the way you feel them, and even your sadness feels like a failure.

The walls start to press in, then.

A thick kind of loneliness settles over you — the kind that feels like it could swallow you whole and no one would even notice. You press your hands into your lap, try to breathe. Try to be strong.

But you don’t feel strong. You feel like glass. You get up quietly, like you’re underwater. Like you already know where this is going. The drawer slides open with a soft hiss. You hesitate. Just for a second.

But then the noise in your mind wins out.

You just want it to stop — the pressure, the noise, the constant sense that no matter what you do, it’s not enough. You’re not enough. You’re the girl behind the driver, the afterthought, the kid sister who smiles in photos and disappears afterward.

It’s not about pain. It’s about silence. About needing something real to remind yourself that you’re still here. That you’re not completely invisible.

Afterward, you sit curled on the bathroom floor, your sleeves pulled back down, your journal beside you like a witness you never wanted.

You want to tell someone. You want someone to see you. But you don’t know how to ask. So instead, you cry quietly into the crook of your arm, trying not to make a sound. As if even now, you’re trying not to be a burden. And outside your window, the sun sets softly over Monaco, like it doesn’t even know you’re breaking.

—

You must have fallen asleep at some point, head resting against the wall, the journal open but blank on your lap. But when the door clicks open downstairs, your heart stutters. Maman.

You wipe your face quickly, instinctively, as if you haven’t been crying for the past hour in silence. As if she won’t know the moment she sees you. You’ve always been soft in her hands — too transparent to hide anything for long.

You hear her heels on the floorboards, her purse dropping onto the kitchen counter, keys jangling against the door. Then quiet. You hold your breath. But then, soft footsteps on the stairs. Not rushed. Not loud. Just… steady. Measured. Like she knows.

Your door opens without a knock. And she stands there — tired eyes, hair pinned back messily. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes flick over you quickly. The red around your eyes. The tremble in your shoulders. The way you’re still trying to pretend you’re fine.

“Ma chérie,” she says, voice a whisper.

You look away. Your throat burns. It would be easier if she was angry. If she demanded answers or told you you were being dramatic. But she doesn’t. She just kneels beside your bed and reaches out.

You let her take your hand.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, but your voice breaks, and the tears come again — hot and slow, running down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting for this moment to fall.

“I know,” she says gently, brushing hair back from your face. “You don’t have to explain right now.”

She guides you up with a soft tug, and you follow her without thinking. The hallway is dark, the house quiet. You pass Charles’ empty room — the door still open from the last time he stayed — and then you’re in her bedroom.

She helps you into bed like she did when you were little, like you were six years old with a fever and needed her there just to breathe right. She doesn’t ask about the journal. She doesn’t ask why your sleeves are so long. She just lies down beside you, pulling you close with one arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders.

Her heartbeat becomes your rhythm. Steady. Unmoving.

“You don’t have to be anything more than who you are,” she whispers against your hair. “And you are enough, ma petite. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

You don’t answer, but your hand curls into the fabric of her blouse, clutching it like a lifeline.There’s a silence between you, but it’s not heavy this time. Not full of guilt or shame. Just quiet. Gentle. And after a while, your breathing slows. Your muscles ease. The tears stop.

You fall asleep to the sound of her humming a lullaby you haven’t heard in years — something she used to sing to Charles when he couldn’t sleep before races. Tonight, it’s for you. And for the first time in days, you don’t feel so alone.

—

The light filters in through the pale curtains, casting a soft glow over your mother’s bedroom. For a moment, you’re not sure where you are. You blink up at the ceiling, unfamiliar and familiar all at once — the scent of lavender, the quiet hum of traffic outside, the weight of warmth beside you.

Then you feel it. Fingers in your hair. Gentle, looping around strands and brushing them back.

You turn your head slowly and find Arthur lying on top of the covers next to you, sideways, his cheek resting on a pillow, his hand still tangled in your hair.

He offers a crooked little smile. His eyes are tired too, but kind. Always kind.

“Maman had some errands,” he murmurs. “She asked me to stay with you. So I did.”

You swallow, throat dry, blinking the sleep from your eyes. Your body feels heavy, like it’s been fighting all night in your dreams.

Arthur lets his fingers fall away, folding his hands beneath his chin.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks gently.

You nod before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Fine.”

His brows lift just slightly, the way they always do when he knows you’re not being honest.

“Really?”

You force a smile. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. He’s always been quiet, always the observer — the one who notices even when you think no one’s looking. Maybe it’s a Leclerc thing, you think. The ability to see too much.

“You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not,” he says softly. “Not to me.”

Your chest tightens. You look up at the ceiling again, the morning light suddenly feeling too bright.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You hear the slight shift of the mattress as he turns onto his back, lying beside you the way he did when you were younger and afraid of thunderstorms. He doesn’t push.

Instead, he says quietly, “I used to lie too, you know. When I was your age. When Papa died.”

You blink hard.

“I told everyone I was okay because Charles was already holding too much. And Maman cried every night. I thought if I just smiled through it, maybe it would go away.”

Your breath catches.

“It doesn’t,” he continues. “But it gets lighter when you let someone carry it with you.”

You turn your head to face him again. His eyes are on the ceiling now, fingers resting between you, not quite touching but close enough that all you’d have to do is reach.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, before you can take it back. It slips out like a secret that’s been clawing at your throat for days.

Arthur finally looks at you again. “I know.”

He doesn’t ask what you’re scared of. He doesn’t need to. He just shifts closer and tugs the blanket higher over both of you. Then he links your pinkies together under the covers, like a silent promise.

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he murmurs.

And for the first time that morning, you let yourself breathe.

—

You hear the front door open before you even leave your room. The unmistakable thump of Charles’ suitcase being dragged inside, the jingle of keys, and then his voice — soft, lighter than usual.

“Bonjour?” he calls out into the quiet house.

Your heart lurches.

You haven’t seen him in almost three weeks. Three weeks of pretending you were okay through texts and rushed phone calls, of sending him little thumbs-up emojis when he asked how school was going. Of telling him you were “tired” and “just busy.” Of lying — not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know how to let him see the truth.

Now he’s here. And suddenly, you don’t know where to put your hands.

You step out into the hallway slowly, pulling the sleeves of your jumper down further even though the air in the apartment is warm. Too warm. Your palms feel damp.

Charles rounds the corner just as you reach the top of the stairs, a soft smile already on his face. He opens his arms immediately.

“Ma petite.”

You let him hug you, burying your face into his shoulder. He smells like travel — cologne and airport air — but under it is something familiar. Something safe.

He holds you for longer than usual.

“I missed you,” he says into your hair, voice low.

You nod against him. You don’t trust your voice not to crack.

When he finally pulls back, he holds you at arm’s length. His eyes scan your face — the quiet exhaustion around your eyes, the stiffness in your shoulders. You’re still smiling. You think it looks convincing enough. It usually is.

But his gaze flickers down to your sleeves.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Instead, he gives you a soft nudge toward the kitchen. “Come on. I brought croissants. The good kind. Not the sad airport ones.”

You follow him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling in your chest.

The kitchen smells like orange peel and sunlight, like Maman had been burning a candle again. Arthur’s gone — probably out running errands or giving you space. Charles sets the bag of pastries on the counter and opens the fridge.

“Want juice?” he asks casually.

You nod.

He pours two glasses, then hands you one and leans against the counter across from you. For a moment, you both just eat in silence. The kind of silence that feels full — not awkward, not rushed. But you know Charles. You know when he’s watching.

When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He nods. But his eyes don’t leave yours. There’s something different in them now. Something cautious. Careful. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“I saw Maman this morning,” he says. “She looked worried.”

You take another bite of croissant to avoid responding. Your hands tremble slightly as you set it down.

“She didn’t say much,” he continues. “Just asked me to spend time with you today. Said you could use your big brother.”

He’s fishing — but gently. Not accusing. Not pushing.

You offer a small smile. “I always need my big brother.”

Charles smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment before speaking again, voice low.

“You know I’ll always be here, right?” he says. “Even if I’m not always… here.”

Your chest tightens. The words are too kind. Too understanding.

“I know,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker once more to your sleeves, but he still doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out, gently resting a hand over yours on the table.

“I’m not going anywhere today,” he says. “Just you and me.”

And for the first time in a while, you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold it all in forever.

—

third person pov

Charles closes the door to his apartment with a quiet click, exhaling slowly as he drops his keys in the bowl near the entryway. The weight of the day settles into his shoulders — not from the flight, or the media duties, or the late night debriefs from earlier in the week, but from something heavier. Something more complicated.

Something he doesn’t yet know how to name.

“Mon cœur?” Alexandra’s voice calls from the living room, light and expectant.

He finds her curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, glasses perched on her nose and a book open in her lap. Her face softens when she sees him. She sets the book down immediately.

“You’re back early,” she says, rising to her feet. “Everything okay?”

Charles nods, but the gesture lacks conviction. He steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I saw her,” he says quietly.

Alexandra’s hands move to his chest instinctively. She doesn’t need to ask who he means. “How is she?”

Charles exhales again — slower this time. “I don’t know.”

He pulls away slightly, just enough to look her in the eye. His voice drops, heavy with something tight and aching.

“She’s not herself. Quiet. Closed off. Wearing long sleeves even though it’s twenty-six degrees.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She smiled, but it didn’t feel real. You know when someone’s smiling just so you won’t ask questions?”

Alexandra nods, the crease between her brows deepening.

“I offered her croissants,” he continues, trying to chuckle but failing. “She barely ate half of one. She kept looking at the table like she didn’t want to be there.”

Alexandra leans against the arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s been distant with me too,” she admits quietly. “I thought maybe it was just me. I texted her a few days ago to come shopping — you know, our usual little girls’ day — and she turned me down.”

Charles looks up sharply. “She never turns you down.”

“I know.” Alexandra swallows, her voice suddenly softer. “She said she wasn’t feeling well. That she had schoolwork. But it didn’t sound like her. She didn’t even use emojis.”

Charles lets out a low breath, sinking onto the couch beside her. “I hate this.”

“She loves you, Charles,” Alexandra says gently. “She’s just hurting. And whatever it is… she doesn’t know how to bring it to you yet.”

He nods slowly, staring ahead at nothing. “I keep thinking—what if I missed something earlier? What if she’s been like this for months and I’ve been too busy giving interviews and chasing podiums to notice?”

“You’re doing your best,” Alexandra says firmly, reaching for his hand. “You’ve always loved her more than anything. That’s never been the problem.”

Charles finally looks at her, eyes a little glassy now. “She’s my little sister. I’m supposed to protect her.”

“And you still can,” Alexandra whispers. “You still will. But you can’t fix something she hasn’t shown you yet. You just need to keep showing up.”

Charles swallows hard and nods, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep trying until she lets me in.”

And Alexandra leans her head on his shoulder, heart breaking a little — for him, for YN, for the weight she’s carrying in silence.

They sit there quietly, wrapped in the kind of love that doesn’t fix things right away — but waits patiently outside the door, hoping it will be opened.

—

back to 2nd

It’s just past noon when your name is called over the classroom speaker. Heads turn. You keep yours down as you pack your bag, already bracing for the whispers and stares. Your stomach twists — no one said you were being picked up early. No one tells you why. You step out into the sun and blink against the brightness. And then you see her.

Leaning against the school’s front gate, sunglasses perched in her hair, arms crossed casually — Alexandra. Smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi, love,” she says, voice soft, like she already knows to be gentle with you. “Hope I’m not pulling you out of anything too thrilling.”

You blink in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I called Maman this morning. Got permission to borrow you for the afternoon. Thought we could use a little break.”

Her eyes scan you quickly. Noticing the sleeves. The weight in your shoulders.

“Nails?” she offers. “And pastries after?”

You almost say no. The idea of trying to hold a conversation, of pretending you’re okay for hours — it feels like too much. But then there’s something in her face. Something quiet and kind. She’s not asking for smiles. She’s just… here.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

The nail salon she takes you to is tucked into a quiet side street. It smells like citrus and lavender and something clean. The chairs are soft and the lights are warm and low, not too harsh.

Alexandra picks a pale lavender shade for herself. You scan the shelves and choose a soft, muted blue. Something calm.

“Good choice,” she says. “It reminds me of that cardigan you wore in Milan. You remember? The one Charles hated because it had tiny clouds on the buttons?”

You almost smile. Almost.

You sit side by side in silence while the technicians begin. She talks a little — about one of her heels snapping mid paddock walk, about a stray cat that keeps showing up on her terrace, about how Charles nearly fell asleep standing up at a media day.

She doesn’t ask anything heavy. Just lets the air fill with soft things. You don’t say much, but you don’t pull away either. Your shoulders loosen, barely, and you rest your hands in the warm water when she motions for you to relax.

It’s not peace, but it’s close.

Afterward, she drives you to a little patisserie near the harbor. You’ve been here before, but today it feels different — quieter, like the world has been turned down a few notches just for you.

You choose a raspberry tart. Alexandra gets two madeleines and a tiny espresso. You sit by the window, watching people pass with their sunglasses and shopping bags and lives that seem light.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just breaks off a piece of her pastry and nudges the plate toward you, even though you have your own.

Then, finally, her voice comes — soft, like it doesn’t want to spook whatever part of you is barely holding it together.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?”

You stare at the spoon in your hand. You want to lie — it’s easier. You’ve done it a hundred times already. But the way she says it — sweetheart — makes your chest ache.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She hums, stirring her espresso with one of those tiny spoons you’ve always liked. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. She just lets the silence be soft.

“I miss you,” she says, after a moment. “The real you. Haven’t seen her in a little while.”

You swallow hard. Your eyes sting a little, but you blink it away.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

“I know,” she replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you believe her. Even if you don’t say everything — even if the hurt is still sitting heavy in your chest — for a little while, sitting across from her with raspberry on your tongue and sunlight on your hands, you feel like maybe you’re still reachable. Like maybe someone is holding a light for you. Just until you can find your way back.

—

The air is too heavy in your bedroom. Too still.

Even with the window cracked and your favorite playlist humming quietly in the background, the walls feel like they’re pressing in, like they know all your secrets and they’re tired of holding them.

So you slip on your sneakers, grab a hoodie, and step outside without telling anyone.

Monaco at night is quieter than people expect — empty streets lit by golden lamps, a kind of soft glamour lingering in the rain-washed pavement. You walk without thinking. Past shuttered cafés and quiet fountains, past the old bookstore where Charles used to buy your Christmas gifts. Your sleeves are pulled over your hands, head down. The hood shadows your face.

It starts to rain slowly. First just mist, then light droplets that cling to your eyelashes and dampen your sweater. You don’t turn back.

Some part of you thinks: Maybe this is what I deserve.

Another part whispers: No. You’re just tired.

The sky is dark, the kind of navy that swallows stars. A car turns the corner down the street — quiet, expensive, too familiar.

You barely glance up until the headlights flicker, and then a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“YN?”

You freeze.

The car pulls over fast. The window rolls down. It’s Charles.

He’s in a hoodie, hair messy like he’s been running his hand through it, worry written all over his face. His eyes are wide when they meet yours.

“What are you doing?” he says — not harsh, not angry. Just… scared.

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to. The rain picks up, drizzling down the back of your neck, cold against your skin. You feel your breath hitch, your throat tighten.

Charles is already out of the car.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scold.

He just moves to you, quick but careful, and holds his hand out. Palm up. Open.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.”

You stand there for a second, rain dripping off your sleeves, chest full of something tangled and aching. But then — you take his hand.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders instantly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

The passenger door swings open and you slide inside, shivering.

Back behind the wheel, Charles glances at you. The rain is tapping on the windshield, steady and slow.

“I couldn’t find you earlier,” he says quietly. “Maman said you went for a walk. But it was dark. I just… I had this feeling.”

You stare down at your hands.

“I wasn’t running away,” you whisper. “I just needed to breathe.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

Neither of you says anything for a long time. The sound of the engine hums beneath the storm, the city lights painting golden streaks across the wet roads.

Then, just before he pulls back onto the street, Charles speaks again — barely louder than the rain.

“You can always come to me, you know.”

You don’t respond. But you reach over, just slightly, and your pinky brushes against his on the center console. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word — but he lets it stay there. And somehow, even in silence, you feel like you’re not so alone anymore.

—

By the time Charles pulls into the underground garage, the rain has slowed to a mist. It still clings to your sleeves, your hair, the corners of your thoughts. You don’t say much as he walks beside you, but he keeps a hand lightly on your back — not to push, not to control. Just to remind you…I’m here.

You expected him to take you home. But instead, he swipes his key card and leads you into his building.

“I thought… maybe a change of scenery would help,” he says, voice hesitant. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere safe.”

You blink at him, unsure of what to say, but you nod. You’re too tired to protest. Too tired to fight the softness he’s offering you. When the elevator doors open, the smell of cinnamon and chamomile greets you first.

Then Alexandra — standing just inside the apartment, barefoot in one of Charles’ hoodies, her hair tied loosely back. The moment she sees you, something in her face melts with quiet relief.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says gently, stepping forward.

You shift awkwardly, rain still dripping off your sleeves, chilled to the bone — but she doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around you, warm and steady.

“I made you some tea,” she murmurs against your damp shoulder. “And I laid out some clothes for you. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I put options.”

Her kindness wraps around you like the blanket you didn’t know you needed.

You nod into her. “Thank you.”

Charles disappears into the kitchen, giving the two of you space as Alexandra guides you down the hallway, her hand gentle at the small of your back.

“I put everything in the guest room,” she says, her voice light but careful. “You can shower, or just change if you want. No pressure.”

The room smells like lavender and clean cotton. On the bed lies an oversized sweater, a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks, and a folded towel. Your favorite tea sits on the nightstand, still steaming.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Take your time,” Alexandra says. “We’re just out here. No questions, okay?”

You nod again. And this time, you mean it. When you re-emerge twenty minutes later, dry and warm and tucked into her clothes, you find them both on the couch. Alexandra looks up first and smiles. She pats the space between her and Charles. You sit. Not quite leaning into him. Not quite pulling away.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You give the smallest shrug.

“Different.”

He smiles faintly. “Different is a start.”

Alexandra tucks her legs beneath her, watching you both with eyes full of something quiet and protective.

“We can just sit,” she says. “You don’t have to talk. Not unless you want to.”

And so you sit. The tea is warm. The lights are low. Charles stays close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you, and Alexandra’s hand rests near yours on the blanket — not touching, just there. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you don’t have to carry everything alone. Just for tonight, it’s okay to rest.

—

The next night, Charles wakes you gently just after dinner, voice quiet and warm.

“Come with me,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

You don’t ask where. You just nod, pull on a hoodie and sneakers, and follow him out into the Monaco evening. The rain has passed, leaving the streets damp and glimmering beneath the streetlights. The air smells like salt and stone.

You drive for a while in silence. He plays soft music — nothing distracting, just background to the hum of the tires and the thoughts neither of you say out loud. When he turns off onto an old road near the cliffs, you know where you’re going before he even parks.

You haven’t been here in years.

The overlook isn’t anything special to anyone else — just a narrow gravel path with a wooden bench, half-overgrown with ivy. But to you and Charles, it’s sacred. The place Papa used to take you both on Sunday mornings. Where he’d sit with a thermos of coffee and hum old songs, pointing out boats and clouds and the kinds of things that don’t matter to most people but meant everything to him.

And to you.

Charles kills the engine. He doesn’t move to get out right away.

“I come here sometimes,” he says, still staring out the windshield. “When I feel like I’m losing him.”

You look at him — really look at him — and something in your chest cracks.

“I feel like he’s already gone,” you whisper. “More and more every year. Like I forget what he sounded like. Or how his hands felt.”

Charles doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for your hand.

You sit on the bench together, wind cool on your face. The sea stretches endlessly below, dark and alive. Monaco twinkles behind you, but it feels far away here. Safe. Still.

“I’m not okay,” you say suddenly, voice sharp in the quiet.

He turns toward you, brows drawing together — not in confusion, but readiness. He’s been waiting for this. Letting you come to it yourself. You take a shaky breath.

“I miss him so much, Charles. I still can’t believe he’s gone. I think about him all the time and no one talks about it anymore, and I’m still stuck there. I feel like I’ve been frozen since he died.”

Tears start to fall, quiet at first.

“And then there’s you,” you go on, a sob catching in your throat. “You’re so good. Everyone loves you. Everyone expects you to win, and you do. You’re everything they want, and I’m just—”

You stop. Gasp a breath. The words press harder now, rising to your lips like they’ve waited long enough.

“I hurt myself,” you say suddenly. “I didn’t even mean for it to happen at first. I just… I needed something. Something I could control.”

Charles stills. His entire body goes quiet beside you, like the wind itself has paused to listen. But his hand doesn’t let go of yours. He just tightens his grip.

“I thought maybe if I could feel something else, I could stop feeling everything,” you whisper. “It’s not… it’s not a cry for attention. I don’t even want anyone to see. That’s why I hide it. I hate that I even did it.”

Your voice breaks. “But I did. I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Charles doesn’t speak for a moment. You think maybe he’s frozen. Maybe you’ve ruined everything. But then— He pulls you into his arms. And you break.

You scream into his chest. Loud, guttural, the kind of sound that doesn’t care who hears. It’s not graceful or controlled. It’s rage and grief and heartbreak. You feel your whole body shake, your fists gripping his hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. He holds you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers over and over again. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels endless. Like years of pain pouring out of you, all at once. Your throat is raw, your lungs burn, your hands ache from clenching. And still — Charles holds you.

When you finally go quiet, chest hiccupping with shallow breaths, he leans back just enough to brush your hair out of your eyes. His own are shining with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall.

“You are not a failure,” he says firmly. “And you are not ruining anything. Do you hear me?”

You nod, barely.

“You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You’re sixteen, YN. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You look at him through blurry eyes. “But everyone expects me to be.”

“Well,” he says, voice soft and sure, “they’re wrong.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “You’re the bravest person I know. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Not the grief. Not the pain. Not the scars.”

You shake your head, tears falling again, softer now. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You just have to let us help.”

And in that moment — on a quiet cliffside, above the sleeping sea and under a wide-open sky — you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe him.

—

It still feels strange, sometimes — walking into that softly lit room, sitting on the couch with the box of tissues always slightly too close, and knowing you’re supposed to talk about the hardest parts of yourself. But lately… it’s been getting easier. You don’t cry every time. You don’t flinch when you speak your truth. You don’t hide your hands anymore.

The weight’s still there, but it doesn’t crush you the way it used to. It sits beside you now. Familiar, but manageable. And that — that’s progress.

Today, you arrive a little early. You know Charles will call in any minute. Even with it being a race weekend, even with his schedule bursting at the seams, he hasn’t missed a single session since you asked him to come.

The first time you whispered, “Will you be there?” he said yes so fast it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

And he’s kept that promise every single time. Your therapist smiles at you gently as she sets her notepad down, just as the screen of her tablet lights up.

Your heart softens at the sight of it.

When his face appears, he’s wearing his race suit, zipped down just a little, his hair damp like he’s just come from a meeting or a track walk. His background is chaotic — PR people walking behind him, someone calling his name — but his eyes are only on you.

“Salut, ma fille,” he says, that gentle voice that always feels like home. “You okay?”

You nod, tucking your legs up on the couch. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He smiles — a real one. The kind that reaches all the way to his eyes.

Your therapist asks how the past week has been, and you talk. Not because you feel like you have to, but because you want to. Because little by little, you’re starting to understand yourself. Starting to forgive yourself. Starting to heal.

You talk about sleeping better. About journaling again. About the day Alexandra took you shopping and you didn’t feel like a burden. About how you caught yourself smiling in the mirror and didn’t immediately look away.

Charles doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, his image flickering a little on the screen but his focus never shifting.

When the session ends, your therapist thanks you both and signs off, but Charles stays on for a moment longer.

“You’re doing so well,” he says softly. “I’m so proud of you, YN.”

You swallow hard, blinking back tears — the good kind, the kind that come from being seen.

“I’m starting to feel better,” you whisper. “Not all the way. But… I don’t hate being here anymore. I don’t hate being me so much.”

Charles presses a hand to his heart on the screen.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “Not just being around you. You. The real you.”

And you smile — small, a little shaky, but real. “She’s coming back.”

He nods, eyes a little glassy now. “Tell her I said welcome home.”

You laugh under your breath, and for the first time in months, you believe the worst may truly be behind you.

—

You haven’t been to a race weekend since before everything broke. Back when you were still pretending well enough for it to fool people. Before the long sleeves. Before the silence. Before the weight in your chest made the world feel like it was closing in.

But now—now it’s different. It’s not perfect. You’re not cured, or whatever people like to think when the crying stops. But your feet feel steadier. Your breath comes easier. Your thoughts are quieter.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you want to show up for someone else. You want to show up for him.

So when Alexandra asks gently, “Would you want to come with me to Austria this weekend?” you don’t hesitate.

You say yes. Not because you owe him anything. But because you remember the way he held you at the cliff. The way he sat through every therapy session — even if he was halfway across the world, squeezed into a media pen with earbuds tucked beneath his race suit. The way he never once made you feel like you were too much.

He was there. Always. And now, you want to be too.

The paddock is loud, alive with color and movement. Engines rumble in the distance. Journalists, engineers, VIPs — all buzzing around like clockwork. You grip Alexandra’s hand a little tighter as you walk through the gates, your badge swinging gently from your lanyard.

No one really notices you — you’ve made sure of that. Hat low, hoodie up, sleeves pushed up now without fear. You didn’t want the cameras, the noise. Just him. Just Charles. He doesn’t know you’re here.

You’re tucked behind one of the hospitality walls when he walks by — completely in race mode, jaw set, focused. Alexandra nudges you gently.

“Go,” she whispers. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

Your heart pounds. You take a few steps forward, just past the edge of the McLaren garage, and call out —

“Charles?”

He turns immediately. And freezes. His face goes still in a way that almost breaks you. His eyes widen, disbelieving. He doesn’t move for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined you. Then he’s running. Straight to you.

He pulls you into a hug so tight you almost lose your breath, your face buried into his chest, his hands trembling slightly where they hold the back of your head.

“You’re here,” he says, voice already thick with emotion. “You’re really here.”

You nod, tears already burning behind your eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. And to say… thank you. For everything.”

He pulls back, but only just — enough to look you in the face, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers.

“Yes, you did,” you breathe. “You stayed. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You sat through every session, even when you were in a different country. You never made me feel like I was a burden. You made me believe I could come back.”

His eyes shimmer. He’s not trying to hide it.

“I meant it,” he says. “Every word. I’d do it all again.”

You manage a shaky smile. “I’m doing better. I promise.”

He hugs you again, even tighter. “You’re not just doing better. You’re incredible.”

You laugh against him. “You’re going to mess up your suit before quali.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately. “Let it wrinkle. Let them fine me. This—” He pulls back to look at you again. “This is everything.”

Alexandra snaps a quiet photo behind you — the two of you wrapped up in each other, tears on your cheeks, Charles’ smile cracked wide with love and pride. Later, after qualifying, he’ll post it. And the world will love it. But this moment — this one right now — is just for you. For the sibling who never stopped loving you, even when you couldn’t love yourself. For the girl who almost didn’t make it — and now stands, whole and healing, at the edge of the grid.

—

[sixosix]

a/n so i took the whole "aether is an alien" thing and ran away with it (aka aether has a strange way of expressing interest and you just think he's weird)

aether x reader, ayaka&reader&yoimiya, plus my yoimiya bffs w paimon agenda

special feature: earthtooz beta reading the fic, “aether you're so weird back tf up.”

"This is from... Miss Ying'er, you said?" Ayaka turns the bottle in her hands, her grip careful, deliberate—with the grace of a princess. Like she's trying to recreate the procedure in her head.

Yoimiya holds her perfume by the neck and inhales a lungful. "Wow, this smells amazing! Are you sure I can just have it?"

You laugh, amused as Yoimiya dabs it all over her body enthusiastically without even waiting for your reply. "Yeah, don't worry. She just offered me a bunch of samples. You like it?"

Ayaka nods approvingly, still fixated on the miniature vial. She seems endearingly fascinated. "This scent is phenomenal. I might have to ask you to deliver me a box of this next time you go."

You busy yourself with teaching them the best points to apply the perfume, the scents heightened by the dewy atmosphere of the forest. As you sit in a circle on the grass, you share laughter and stories from your extended trip to Liyue. Nothing could ruin this relaxing moment. Yet just as Ayaka offers for you to try on her perfume, Yoimiya gasps and sits upright.

"Oh, oh! I just remembered—Aether is coming over today!" Yoimiya claps eagerly, buzzing with energy. "It's been a while since he's visited Inazuma."

You frown. "Oh."

Ayaka gasps lightly. "He returns today? We should welcome him back."

"Honestly, he should be at the city right now." Yoimiya gathers herself, dusting off blades of grass as she rises to her feet. Without warning, she reaches for your wrist and begins pulling you off the ground.

"Wait, wait, wait." You pull away from Yoimiya's grasp. "I never said anything about joining you."

"Why not?" Yoimiya mirrors your insulted expression. "Hold on, do you have beef with the Traveler?"

Ayaka's fingers press to her mouth, eyes alight, like she's just heard the gossip of the century.

"No, no, it's nothing like that!" you burst out frantically. "We're just not close. Like—um, how you guys are with him, I assume."

"Did he do something?" Yoimiya asks, seriously concerned.

"He's just a bit strange."

"Hm." Ayaka taps an index finger to her chin. "I'd say he's more polite than strange."

Your nose wrinkles involuntarily, memories of your first impression of him flashing back. "Polite?"

Yoimiya exhales dramatically. "Alright. I don't know what's going on, but we're not leaving you here—not after it's been months since we last saw you! You're coming with us."

You turn to Ayaka for help, but she already has her gaze casted away as if expecting it. Accepting defeat, Yoimiya cheers, hooking an arm under yours as she hauls you off before you could sag to the ground. Ayaka follows after, smiling as Yoimiya practically drags you back to the city, her trail smelling like freshly-picked Liyue-exclusive flowers.

It doesn't take long to find the Traveler's whereabouts—practically everyone is gushing about his presence and how lucky we are to catch him before he goes! You three discover them walking around the streets of Tenryou, lugging a cart full of street food and packages of what you could only assume are gifts handed by the locals.

"Hi, Yoimiya, Ayaka!" The little floating creature next to the Traveller waves her hands around excitedly. "It's been a while!"

"Hi, Paimon!" Yoimiya exclaims, doubling the energy and stretching her arms for Paimon to barrel towards her chest with a thud.

As you and Ayaka watch the two spin around like separated sisters with fond smiles, you don't notice that Aether has pretty much snuck up behind you until you can practically feel his presence.

You damn near shriek, jumping away as he grins and crowds your space like it's not entirely improper.

"We meet again," he says cryptically.

"Archons," you mutter, terrified.

Yoimiya smacks her fist to an upright palm, as if she's just solved a year-long agonized riddle. "So you have met!"

"You didn't believe me—"

"Yeah! We met Y/N before!" Paimon whizzes over to your personal bubble as well, circling around your head a few times. "Back when we were in Liyue before we left to Sumeru, the Traveler wanted to strike up a conversation."

"Seems like it was very one-sided," Ayaka muses, unforgivably entertained by your distress.

"Yeah, Y/N was a little…" Paimon said with a grimace, missing the way you inch away as Aether eyes you, like he's fascinated by seeing you in a completely different environment.

"Anyway!" Paimon claps once. "What were you guys doing? Not to be weird, but, Yoimiya, you smell so different!"

Yoimiya waves her hand dismissively, appearing coy. "Oh, please."

"No, seriously, you smell like Liyue," Paimon says. "Like you rolled around Silk Flowers. It smells really good, though!"

Ayaka giggles. "Y/N brought home a box of perfume handmade by Miss Ying'er from Liyue, that must be why. We were trying them out."

"Really?" Aether pipes up, not even bothering to address Ayaka directly.

It feels as though your face erupts in flames as Aether angles close enough to dip his head close to the side of your neck.

Your brain seems to have melted out of your ears, warmed his proximity. "Hey—"

"Smells good to me," Aether says, the words holding the same warmth one would give to a five-star meal. Like Ying'er was awaiting his approval.

Yoimiya shares a confused glance with Ayaka. "Y/N's... not wearing any perfume."

Aether doesn't appear deterred by that, unashamed and virtually all over you the same way he was when he found you bored, eating alone at one of Liyue's outdoor stalls.

"Aether is acting weird again," Paimon sighs, like it's an everyday occurrence. "Paimon swears he acted like that last time, too—like giving a dog a bone. Can't snap him out of it."

Yoimiya and Ayaka conceal their laughter behind their palms, though fruitless by the curve of their eyes.

"Must be an alien thing," Yoimiya says, not sounding pitying in the slightest. "Poor thing."

a/n hi guys i swear i didn't get weird while i was gone this has always been my niche </3 i haven't played since natlan update but i still adore these characters, so i thought why not ease back into it with the sixosix favorite: aether

[kuruptt]

BILLY HARGROVE X READER

That’s My Girl Pt.2

Click here to read Pt.1 first !!!

**SUMMARY - After rescuing Billy from the Mind Flayer and relocating to Hawkins to be with him, you embrace life with your new family. El showcases her abilities and spies on Billy. Assuming his words of affection were for another girl, you grow distant. Seeking solace, you attend Tommy H's party and drink uncontrollably, only to confront a disturbing figure from your past, Oliver Miller, your recently released from jail, abusive ex boyfriend, prompting Billy to intervene and protect you. Angry Billy, Protective Billy.

**TRIGGER WARNINGS - Heavy Violence, mentions of trauma and abuse, flashbacks of abuse, abusive ex boyfriend, controlling behaviour, swearing, kissing, mentions of drowning, heavy, uncontrollable alcohol use. This fic is not for the faint heart, please proceed with caution. I do not take responsibility if this triggers you, it is your responsibility to read the trigger warnings, they are there for a reason.

WORD COUNT - 8k

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY !!!

I do not own the rights to the following characters, other than Tiffany Anderson and Oliver Miller, who I created myself, all other characters are created and owned by the Duffer Brothers- Stranger Things.

I do NOT consent to have my work posted , translated or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere but here, it has been posted without my permission.

Requests open !!!!! :)

—————————————————————————————-

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, painting soft stripes across the rumpled sheets. Last night felt like a dream, a reunion so tender it still tugged at the edges of your heart. You were cocooned against Billy, his arm was a heavy, comforting weight around your waist and the other was propped gently under your head. The air around you was thick with the lingering scent of his unique, almost musky warmth of his skin, a scent you had missed more than words could say.

Billy, on the other hand, seemed to of barely slept. Dark circles smudged above the creases of his under eyes, but they sparkled with an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

As you shifted slightly, his grip tightened almost immediately. You were wearing his white, lifeguard sweater, the faded print barely visible, but the soft cotton was like a second skin. It had ridden up in the night, exposing the curve of your hip and the pale expanse of your back.

Billy's fingers traced a lazy pattern along your spine, each touch sending shivers down your skin. He chuckled softly, a low rumble that vibrated against your ear and you got the feeling that he was teasing you about the sweater. You snuggled closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck, legs wrapped tightly around his torso and arms swung lazily over his broad, muscular shoulders, while you breathed in the familiar scent that had haunted your dreams for so long.

Opening your eyes felt like surfacing from a deep sleep, your eyelids heavy and your mind still hazy with the remnants of dreams. The first thing you saw was Billy's face, his gaze already fixed on you with an adoring expression. There was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken words that hung between you. A slow smile spread across your face, mirroring his own and you knew, in that moment, you’d never leave his side again.

"Good morning, Princess.” Billy said through a warm smile.

“What time is it?” (Y/N) yawned.

Usually, you woke up before Billy, so you were surprised to see him already awake.

"Ten thirty. How’d you sleep?" Billy asked.

Your confused expression melted into a smile.

“So good!” (Y/N) said through a full bodied stretch.

“How did you sleep?” She whispered, while returning the question.

"Perfect.” Billy replied, through a delicate smile that sat softly on his face.

You knew he was lying, his eyes were bloodshot red and his hair was neatly in place. He'd been watching over you for the entire night.

“Mhm.” (Y/N) teased.

“I need to get you to Hopper's today, so you can get settled in. I'll give him the rundown on everything. It's his day off, but he could get called in for work at any point. You can stay here a few more nights after we’ve worked everything out, just until my dad comes home.” Billy explained.

“H- Hopper?" (Y/N) asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"Oh, shit, sorry, uh- El, you remember the girl, from last night with the uh- the- the powers? Hopper's her dad, well, kinda.” Billy clarified.

(Y/N) tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Kinda?" She questioned.

"It's a long story. He took her in and adopted her, that's all you need to know for now, I’ll explain the rest when you’re settled in.” Billy promised.

The sound of approaching footsteps flooded your ears and just a short second later, Max swung Billy's door open without so much as a courtesy knock.

“(Y/N)” She called, voice low and soft.

“Jesus... What now!" Billy snapped.

(Y/N) playfully pinched Billy's bare chest, silently telling him to be nice to Maxine and turned back to her with a warm smile painted across her face.

“Yeah?” (Y/N) responded.

"Uh- I was wondering if you could help me... I'm having girl problems." She whispered behind the palm of her hand, gesturing for (Y/N) to follow her.

“Yeah, of course! I’ll be right out.” (Y/N) said, voice riddled with concern.

You turned to face Billy, a sudden impulse drawing you closer and gripped his chin between the soft tips of your index and thumb, feeling the slightly rough stubble beneath them. You brought his face forward and kissed him on the cheek a handful of times, each press of your lips a small, deliberate act of affection. Billy lowered his lashes until they eventually fluttered shut as he received them. He felt your palm cradling his face, the soft pressure grounding him in the moment. Feeling your touch, your presence, made him fill with a love that was both overwhelming and indescribable.

“I’m gonna go and help Max and then I’ll get ready, go take a shower, I’ll be done by the time you get out.” (Y/N) said, convincingly.

You unfolded the bedsheets, the crisp cotton rustling softly in the quiet room. Pushing yourself up from Billy’s bed, you felt the slight dip from where you had been laying, the warmth lingering faintly beneath your hand. You stood, the wooden floorboards a sharp, icy cold, shock beneath your bare feet and reached up, you gathered your hair, the strands cool against the back of your neck and quickly tied it into a messy bun, a quick tug and tuck and you were done. You slowly made your way to the door, each footstep echoed faintly in the otherwise silent house and left Billy to his own devices.

You headed for Max’s room. The door was slightly ajar, a slither of light spilling into the hallway. Inside, Max was sat at the edge of her bed, her leg bouncing nervously.

"Hey, Max.” (Y/N) said, her voice soft in the doorway.

“Oh, hey, uh- so here’s the thing, I don’t do all of the thoughts and feelings crap and I know you already know that, but I missed your stupid ass and I wondered if you wanted to hang out with me and El today, just the three of us?" Max asked, her words tumbling out in a rush.

"Thought you were having girl problems, huh?" (Y/N) said with a smile, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Yeah well, I didn’t wanna ask in front of Billy, he’d of tried to keep you to himself, he’s like a rash, a smelly, annoying rash." Max said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“Okay, okay, fine… Let’s do it.” (Y/N) said through a slight chuckle.

“I’ll go and throw some clothes on and then we’ll get outta here, sound good?” (Y/N) questioned.

“Sure.” Max replied, a smile painted across her face.

You rushed back to Billy’s bedroom, a sense of urgency driving your steps. But as you glanced around, reality hit hard, you had no extra clothes with you, nothing, other than the ones you wore last night. And those clothes… they reeked of a smell you couldn’t quite describe, a mix of damp and something vaguely otherworldly, a lingering souvenir from the Mind Flayer, they looked like costume from a bad dream, they had definitely seen better days.

Panic began to settle in. You pivoted sharply, your bare feet sticking and peeling against the wooden floor, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. Every second felt like an eternity as you charged down the hallway, desperate to escape the smell of evil. Reaching Max’s door, you paused, catching your breath before cautiously poking your head inside.

“Uhhh- sooo, I have no clothes.” (Y/N) blurted out, a nervous laugh escaping her lips.

You needed to borrow something, anything, and fast.

Maxine returned your giggles with a playful smile of her own, understanding the urgency in your situation. She scurried over to her wardrobe, a vibrant collection of colors and patterns and began rifling through the hangers. After a moment, she turned heel and greeted you with a pair of well worn denim shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt, the fabric soft and inviting.

"Here, these should work.” Maxine said, handing them to you with a reassuring smile.

"Thank you, thank you, you’re a life saver!" (Y/N) exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine gratitude.

With the borrowed clothes in hand, you darted back to Billy’s room, trying to be as quick as possible against the clock.

Reaching the room, you wasted no time in pulling the t-shirt over your head, the soft cotton a welcome relief against your skin and started tugging the shorts up, the denim clinging to your waist, you felt a sudden presence behind you. Your heart skipped a beat as you snapped back, eyes widening in surprise.

Leaning against the door frame, Billy stood there, a captivating figure against the well lit room. His body was still glistening from the shower, water droplets tracing paths down his perfectly toned muscles, highlighting the sculpted contours of his chest and arms. His hair, usually a wild mane of unruly waves and a riot of volume, was now a look of defined spirals that clung close to his head, almost dry from the rough towelling.

A soft, white towel was draped casually around his neck, adding to the effortless allure of his presence. He was wearing his signature black shorts, the ones he always wore to work out in, the dark fabric complimenting him perfectly against his sun kissed skin.

A moment of silence hung in the air, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breathing. His gaze was intense, unwavering and filled with an undeniable admiration. A subtle smile played on his lips as he spoke, his voice a low, husky murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

"You're beautiful.” He stated simply, the words carrying a weight that resonated deep within you.

You offered Billy a shy smile and a quiet ‘thank you’ before crossing the space between you. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you looked up as he framed your face with his large, warm palms.

“So, I uh- I’m going to spend the day with Max and El. That okay?" (Y/N) questioned.

Billy scoffed playfully.

“Jesus, that little shit's obsessed with you. You’ve barely been here two minutes and she's already trying to take you from me.” He said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Soooo… That a yes?" (Y/N) pressed.

"Sure, whatever. I'll hang with Tommy while I wait. Just call me when you're ready. Max knows the number, you'll be fine." He reassured.

"Okay, yeah." (Y/N) replied, unable to suppress an excited grin.

"But we’re talking to Hopper first. I need to make sure you have a place to stay when my dad gets back." Billy's tone brooked no argument.

"Okay, Billy.” (Y/N) agreed easily.

Moving to Hawkins hadn't been on your radar. Back in California, you had a solid group of friends, nights blurring into mornings with parties and laughter, a deliberate escape from the fractured reality of your life. You'd lived with your friend, Tiffany Anderson, for years, ever since your parents got divorced and had left you adrift. The move wouldn't raise any eyebrows or cause concern. You were used to relying only on yourself, Billy knew that.

He dressed quickly, sticking to his signature denim on denim look, his commitment to it almost consistent. A denim jacket with equally favoured denim jeans, the texture of both pieces slightly worn but undeniably stylish. He paired the look with his black boots, that clearly showed signs of age but still looked great and grounded the outfit, while the black belt, its buckle understated, cinched at his waist and finally, beneath the layers of denim, a crisp white tank top completed the look.

Seeing Billy in his usual attire sparked an idea. You remembered that you couldn't wear his denim jacket from the night before because it needed a good, long wash… Either that or it needed to be tossed in the trash.

"Can I borrow another jacket? Mine, well… Yours, still smells like shit, it’s bad. From last night, I mean.” (Y/N) joked, hoping he wouldn't mind.

“Yeah, sure, don't need to ask me, baby. Help yourself next time.” Billy said casually.

He grabbed another denim jacket from his wardrobe, one he hadn't worn in a while since he'd outgrown it and slipped it over your shoulders.

Looking up at him after thanking him, you blurted out a very quick, "I love you, Billy."

Billy met your gaze directly and then latched hungrily onto your lips, his tongue swirled against yours for a good few seconds, followed by a playful nibble at your bottom lip. He pulled away gently, a wide smile lighting up his face along with your own.

“I love you too, baby.” He responded softly. "Come on, let's go before we miss Hop, you can keep the jacket.” He finished.

You quickly pulled over and laced up your white Converse shoes and hurried down the hallways and into Max's room.

“You ready?" (Y/N) asked, after knocking lightly on the door.

"I was born ready.” Max replied, a phrase she used quite frequently before opening the door and stepping out to meet you.

The three of you made your way towards the front door, you and Maxine sharing giggles that echoed slightly in the confined space of the thin hallway. Billy trailed behind, a soft scoff escaping his lips, not because he was angry at your enjoyment, but from a yearning to reclaim the time lost during your year apart. Today, your first day back with him, felt as though Maxine had unknowingly stolen the time he could’ve had with you.

Billy held the door open, gesturing for you and Maxine to pass him. As you did, a sharp, playful slap landed on your rear, eliciting a quick turn of your head in surprise. Your jaw hit the floor and your eyes pierced through his. Billy's smirk was full of mischief as he shut the door behind him. The three of you hurried down the weathered steps and settled into the plush leather seats of Billy’s car.

“Ready?" Billy asked, tucking a cigarette between his lips.

A chorus of approvals followed.

“Yeah.” (Y/N) replied, with Maxine adding an impatient, "Yes, go!"

With a flick of his lighter, the cigarette was lit, Billy turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, filling the air with its powerful vibrations. Shifting the car into gear, Billy navigated the streets at a reckless speed and headed for Hopper’s place.

——————————————————————————-

“It’s nicer inside, I promise.” You heard Max say as the three of you fixed your gaze onto Hoppers cabin.

Billy looked over at you in the passenger seat.

“It’s temporary, I promise.” He reassured.

The car crunched to a halt on the gravel. You climbed out, leaves rustling below you and headed for the front door, Billy guiding you and Max trailing behind. The old wooden steps of Hopper's cabin groaned and creaked with every footstep. Before Billy could even raise his hand to knock, the door swung inward, revealing Hopper's imposing figure.

“Hargrove.” He greeted, his voice a low rumble, "what brings you here?" He finished.

A flicker of excitement lit up El's face as she peered from behind him, her eyes locked onto you.

“(Y/N)!" She exclaimed, waving with excitement.

You returned her smile, a sense of nervous anticipation swirling inside you.

“Got a minute?" Billy asked Hopper, a hint of urgency in his voice.

“Sure, but make it quick. I'm on a tight schedule, it’s supposed to be my day off.” Hopper replied with a slight huff, his gaze shifting between Billy, you and Maxine.

After a hurried explanation from Billy and El, Hopper's stern expression softened. He relented, agreeing to let you stay with them and take you in as one of his own. Questions about your parents and previous living situations hung in the air, but upon understanding your circumstances, a sense of protectiveness washed over him. He saw someone in need of a home, just like El.

El, meanwhile, was overjoyed at the thought of having a sister, a normal, sister, someone new to share her life with, someone she could trust.

A visible weight lifted off of Billy's shoulders as he gave you a reassuring nod, a silent promise of safety.

El, bubbling with excitement, grabbed yours and Maxine’s hands, pulling you towards her room. As you stepped inside, a wave of nervousness hung over you, but a shout from Billy stopped you in your tracks.

“Hey, call me when you're ready to leave, okay?" He said firmly.

“Yeah, sure, see ya later.” (Y/N) replied, offering a small smile.

A fleeting pang of disappointment crossed Billy's face as he realized he wouldn't receive a proper goodbye, your usual kiss on his cheek and a tight hug, but he masked it with a nod, understanding your eagerness to bond with your new sister.

Hopper, after a few more passing words with Billy, announced that he had to leave for work. Promising to be on your best behavior, you watched him disappear into the woods, heading for his truck, leaving you alone with El and Max.

An hour passed in a flurry of conversation, as you delved into the depths of El's life in Hawkins. But El's attention soon drifted, her thoughts consumed by Mike, her now ex boyfriend. Max, too, was grappling with a recent breakup with Lucas, the aftermath of a petty argument.

“Oh, don't worry about it.” Max said, trying to lighten the mood. "He'll come crawling back to you in no time, begging for forgiveness. I guarantee you, he and Lucas are probably wallowing in self pity, going, 'Ohhh, I hope they take us back.'" She giggled. “God, what I'd give to see their stupid faces.” Maxine added.

Max's attempt at humor fell flat as El's eyes widened, an idea forming in her mind. You and Maxine exchanged a silent, questioning look before turning back to El.

Seizing the opportunity, El grabbed the old radio, its static filling the room and blindfolded herself. With a deep breath, she focused her powers, attempting to tap into the world of Lucas and Mike.

“Is this really going to work?" Max asked, skepticism lacing her voice.

"Holy shit, this is insane!" She exclaimed, but El quickly silenced her.

“Max!” She hissed.

“Right yeah, got it, quiet.” Max replied.

For a few minutes, the room was filled with nothing but the crackling of the radio and El's focused concentration, but soon after, giggles erupted as she relayed snippets of Mike and Lucas’s conversation, followed by their gross, typical, boy behaviour.

“Oh, wait, spy on Billy!" Max exclaimed, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she looked in your direction.

Eleven nodded her head in silence and focused for the second time and a thin, trickle of blood escaped from her nostril.

“What’s he doing?” Maxine asked followed by uncontrollable giggles that escaped your lips.

“He’s… Talking. To a- a boy.” El said, her brow furrowed in concentration under the soft fabric of the blindfold.

You knew it was Tommy H. Billy had already told you he’d be spending his time with him until he picked you up. But a strange pang of… something… resonated in your chest.

“What’s he saying?” (Y/N) asked, trying to sound casual.

“He wanted, to spend, the day with her… but. It. Is. Not. Fair on (Y/N).” El said, parroting Billy’s words, her eyes darting around under her eyelids as if the words themselves were moving objects.

“What, who? Me?” (Y/N) asked, glancing over at Max in confusion.

Max shrugged, the same confused look on your face, now on hers.

“I think so, I don’t know.” She said.

“He says, he did. Not. Think. That he was ca- capable of feeling like this again. She. Changed. Everything.” Eleven continued, her voice strained.

El lowered the blindfold and looked straight at you, her expression unreadable.

“What. Is. Capable?” El asked.

“It means power, like he didn’t know he had the power to feel like this again.” Max blurted out, a little too quickly. “What was that about?” She asked you, her eyes searching your face for an answer.

“I don’t know.” (Y/N) responded, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

Another half hour passed. You all made Eggo’s and started to watch a movie. Billy's words echoed in your mind, stirring a confusing mix of emotions and Max, kept glancing over at you with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Hey, why don’t we uh… Why don’t we go to the mall? Get you some new clothes? Anddd, I heard Tommy H is having a party at his place tonight. You should go, get to know everyone, make friends.” She stated, a little too brightly.

“We- are, her friends.” El said, her voice laced with a hint of anger and jealousy. She didn’t like the idea of sharing you with anyone else.

“Yes, we are, but we’re practically sisters too. She needs to meet people her own age.” Max said, her tone softening.

Hopper knew Maxine was coming over and had already put a sum of money in the cupboard under the sink, just in case her and El decided to go somewhere. You had your own money too, the money you entered Hawkins with. It wasn’t much but it was enough to get you from A to B. You’d taken it from your old denim jacket and stuffed it into your new one before you left his house. So, you were more than prepared to go to the mall.

The journey began with a dash to catch the departing bus. A flurry of laughter and shared excitement filled the brief ride until finally, Star Court Mall emerged into view, signaling the start of an exciting outing.

——————————————————————————-

The hours you spent at the mall evaporated in a flurry of fabric and laughter. You'd managed to score a couple of new outfits and something perfect for Tommy H's party tonight. Max and El, on the other hand, had stocked up on snacks and sweets, but they hadn't neglected their own wardrobes, each selecting a stylish outfit for the both of them.

The three of you pooled the last of your funds for a bus journey back home, where Hopper, having left work early, greeted you with a warm smile as you entered. You were the last to be welcomed and as you stepped inside, Hopper turned to you.

“Hey kid, settling in okay?" He asked, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

A warmth bloomed within you, a sensation unfamiliar and comforting. You'd never known a father figure before and the feeling was both new and welcome.

“Yes, thankyou.” (Y/N) responded, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Is it okay if I call my friend? Just to let her know I'm okay?" (Y/N) inquired, gesturing towards the wall mounted telephone.

“Sure kid, it’s right there.” He replied, pointing towards the wall and turning back to the tv.

You picked up the receiver and punched in the familiar digits. Your friend, Tiffany, answered almost immediately and the next five minutes dissolved in a burst of excited chatter. You gave her your new home's phone number and she promised to stay in touch. Tiffany's hatred towards Billy was more than clear and she strongly disapproved of your decision to leave her and your friendship behind for him. The call ended abruptly and you turned back to Hopper, a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.

“Everything okay?" He asked, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Yeah, uh, could I maybe get a ride, back to Billy's place?" (Y/N) asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought he was picking you up?" He replied, his gaze questioning.

“Yeah, uh, plans kinda changed.” (Y/N) said, avoiding his eyes.

“Yeah, sure kid, come on.” He agreed, his tone softening.

He rose from his seat, finished the last of his beer and grabbed the keys to his truck, opening the door and waiting for you to pass him.

“See ya later, wish me luck!" (Y/N) called out to El and Maxine, a nervous energy bubbling within her.

“I'll be back soon, you won't even notice I'm gone. Max, I'll take you home in an hour.” Hopper added, his voice firm but reassuring.

And with that, the two of you were gone and the rumble of the truck engine faded into the distance.

——————————————————————————-

Back at Billy's, the dress you'd chosen along with heels, for Tommy H's party were sprawled across Billy’s bed, the other options left behind at home. You'd let yourself in through his window, a familiar act he wouldn't mind, though you knew you should have probably given him a heads up first.

You began shedding your old clothes and slipping into the new ones, the tight, black mini dress that molded to your figure almost perfectly. Suddenly, you heard the distinct growl of Billy's Camaro rushing down the street and pulling up outside.

You were stood in front of Billy's mirror, putting the final touches on your hair, when you heard him enter the house. His boots echoed down the hallway, a loud, thud that grew louder with each step until he stepped into his room.

“Jesus, (Y/N)! What are you doing here? Why didn't you call me? I've been waiting for hours.” Billy exclaimed, his voice laced with confusion and annoyance.

Assuming his words that El had repeated back to you were meant for someone else, you ignored him, focusing on your reflection. You decided on a half up half down hairstyle, with two strands left to fall that framed your face.

“Hey, do you hear me? I said-" Billy reached out, palm up and hand open as he gently aimed for your arm, only to be cut off swiftly.

You brushed past him before he could make contact and grabbed the little black heels from his bed, slipping them on and buckling them up at a quick pace.

Billy’s eyes shifted to his bed, noticing the bag that you put Max’s clothes back into.

“Did you go to the mall?" He asked, his tone switching to curiosity.

Again, you ignored him and his frustration grew.

“At least tell me what you're getting all dressed up for.” He pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation.

"I'm going out, Billy. Give it a rest.” (Y/N) spat, her voice sharp.

He sighed and ran his palm that was now covered in sweat, over his face.

“Where? Wit- With Who?” He pressed, his questions tumbling out in a rush.

You scoffed and pushed yourself off of Billy’s bed, straightening your posture as you did it.

“Billy, stop.” (Y/N) demanded, her voice firm.

You snapped around and headed out of the bedroom, your heels clicking against the creaky, wooden floorboards and Billy trailing close behind.

"What the fuck is going on with you, Huh?" He demanded an answer, his voice rising in anger.

Remembering Max's directions, you knew Tommy H's house was within walking distance, even in the heels you were wearing. You opened the front door, the hinges groaning slightly and stepped out into the evening air.

"Jesus, are you at least going to call me when you need a ride this time?" Billy called out, his voice laced with sarcasm and worry.

"I'm not coming back here, Billy. I'm going back home. I'll see you when I see you, I guess.” (Y/N) replied, her words dismissive.

You started walking away from Billy's house, the sound of your heels crunching against the sidewalk echoed in the quiet street. Anger at your boyfriend lingered, but his number, memorised from your California days, was the only number in Hawkins that you knew, you’d have to call him for a ride at some point, you knew that, but Billy didn’t, he assumed your new father, would pick you up and take you home.

"When will I see you again?" He shouted after you, his voice filled with uncertainty.

Again, you offered no response and continued your walk, leaving Billy standing in the doorway alone, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt until finally, he snarled and slammed the door shut. He wanted to rush after you, to stop you in your tracks and demand answers, but he also wanted to give you the space, not only that, he had to wait in for Maxine to get home.

The walk to Tommy H's stretched on for what felt like an eternity, clocking in at a solid twelve minutes. As you neared the house, the thrumming bass of the music intensified, a strong vibration that spilled out onto the street. You paused, a flicker of doubt crossing your mind , the attraction of retreating home was strong. But you plucked up the courage, straightened your shoulders and headed for the front door.

Upon entering, an unfamiliar face greeted you.

"Hey, (Y/N), you're Billy's girlfriend, right? The new girl in Hawkins? I'm Nancy, Nancy Wheeler, Mike's sister.” She said softly, her tone warm and welcoming.

“Oh, yeah, hey! It's so nice to finally meet you, I've heard so much about you!" (Y/N) replied, genuinely pleased.

"All good things, I hope.” Nancy said with a smile, her eyes briefly scanning your outfit. "You look amazing. Let's get you something to drink." She added.

Nancy smoothly guided you through the crowded living room, introducing you to a few of her friends. Among them was Steve Harrington, recently single after his breakup with Nancy in favor of Jonathan Byers. Steve's eyes lingered on you, a moment longer than necessary, a spark of interest flickering within them. As the night progressed, you found yourself drawn to Steve's easygoing charm and quick wit. Laughter flowed freely between you, and you discovered a shared sense of humor that felt instantly comfortable. A connection sparked and a bond was instantly formed. In that moment, amidst the pulsating music and swirling bodies, you and Steve silently acknowledged that you had found a new best friend in each other. Although Steve had a crush on you the second he laid his eyes on you.

You tossed back the last of your oddly sweet drink and allowed Steve to lead you back onto the makeshift dance floor.

Steve was aware of your relationship with Billy. Infact, everyone in Hawkins knew. During your time in California, Billy had made it clear to anyone who dared show interest that he was still devoted to you, that no one could ever replace you in his heart, but it didn’t stop Steve from spending more time with you, it was a connection he couldn’t ignore, even if he couldn’t ever, address it.

Just as you were about to flag Nancy down for a refill, a voice cut through the music, calling your name.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N), it's for you." A slightly sweaty individual thrust the cordless phone into your hand.

Your face tightened and scrunched with annoyance as you snatched the receiver, holding it to your ear.

“Billy, I told you-“ (Y/N) began, but a voice on the other end swiftly cut her off.

"Heyyyy, pretty lady."

A cold dread washed over you, constricting your throat. A knot of fear twisted in your stomach, mirroring the one that tightened in your chest.

"Wh-who is this?" (Y/N) asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Come onnn, you know who I am…" The voice was laced with a chilling familiarity. "Thought you could get away from me, huh? Lock me up and throw away the key?" The words hung in the air, heavy with menace and the party atmosphere seemed to fade away, leaving you standing alone in a spotlight of terror.

Oliver Miller.

He was your first boyfriend, before there was Billy, there was Oliver.

Oliver had been in jail for the past three years due to his abusive behavior towards you, his sister, and his own mother. His animosity towards women was evident throughout his many relationships.

After a six month period, his relationship with you ended when he was taken into custody, marking the final instance of physical violence against you. Billy, aware of Oliver's actions, harbored a desire for retribution but was unable to act due to Oliver's imprisonment. Billy vowed severe consequences should Oliver ever be released.

“What do you want, Oliver, how did you get this number, how’d you know where I am.” (Y/N) questioned, voice laced with fear.

Until suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Tiffany's betrayal cut deep. Spitefully, she revealed your new location in Hawkins to Oliver, choosing to inflict pain for your choice of Billy over her. Tiffany's call to your home was answered by El, whom she manipulated with a false urgency, extracting your whereabouts at Tommy's place. Max's unwitting shout of the number and address sealed your fate.

"See you soon, pretty girl.” Oliver's voice lingered in your mind, a chilling promise.

Uncertain if he was truly nearby, you initially dismissed the threat. The distance to Hawkins seemed impossible, a full day and night's journey. Besides, you reasoned, your new father was the chief of police and Billy, despite your unresolved doubts, would undoubtedly defend you.

Seeking solace, you retreated to the kitchen, each step triggering a fresh wave of painful flashbacks. You poured one drink after another, the alcohol numbing the edges of your fear. Half an hour blurred by and you stumbled, losing your balance against the counter. You were way over your limit, but just as you braced for a fall, strong arms encircled you. You tilted your head to face the person who just helped you and there he was…

Oliver.

Disbelief clashed with terror. How could he be here so soon? Where was he staying? From where had he called? How did he find you? Panic seized you, your heart hammering against your ribs, your breath catching in ragged gasps. Tears streamed down your face as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you out into the garden in an attempt to get you to catch your breath, before explaining his presence.

After a few frozen moments outside, you managed to steady your breathing enough to understand his words, though each inhale still hitched with suppressed panic.

“So, where’s Billy, huh? Your little boyfriend not here to protect you?” He chuckled, the sinister sound grating against your raw nerves.

“You know he’d beat your ass if he was, Oliver.” (Y/N) stated, trying to project a confidence she didn't feel. It was a desperate attempt to regain control, to remind him and herself of her strength.

“Hey!” He shouted, his grip tightening on your arm, the sudden force pulling you uncomfortably close. The pressure was a sharp, painful reminder of his physical dominance.

The flashbacks crashed over you again, a tidal wave of traumatic memories. Each detail, each sensation, flooded your senses and your eyes welled up for the second time, blurring your vision. A cruel smirk played on Oliver’s lips as he witnessed your distress.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I scaring you?” He said sarcastically, his tone dripping with false concern. It was a calculated move, designed to undermine your resolve and increase your fear.

“Let go, Oliver, please.” (Y/N) pleaded, the words barely a whisper. Her voice trembled, betraying the depth of her vulnerability.

Oliver’s grip remained tight, his gaze locked onto yours, his eyes like cold, predatory stones. He got off on your fear and drew power from your helplessness.

“You didn’t think I’d find you, huh?” He questioned, his voice a low, menacing rumble.

“Why are you so bothered about me? Why not someone else?” (Y/N) asked, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

You sought any explanation, any reason to break through his obsession.

“Because you, belong, to me.” He hissed, each word a possessive claim, a brand burned into your soul.

“No. I, belong, to Billy.” (Y/N) retorted through gritted teeth, the defiance a fragile shield against his increasing control. It was a declaration of independence, a refusal to surrender yourself to his twisted desires.

The comment made Oliver’s blood boil to an extreme temperature, he shoved you against the brick wall of Tommy H’s house with a force that felt like a battering ram and seized a fistful of your hair, sending you crashing down to the ground. Your face slammed against the floor, the impact so violent that a sharp, sickening pop resonated from your nose. Agony erupted as blood flooded your senses, swirling your vision and choking your gasps. A scream, born of sheer terror, clawed its way out of your throat, a desperate plea in the face of unimaginable horror.

“Nancy, Steve!” You cried out, voice cracking as you did.

Oliver loomed over you, his shadow swallowing you whole as his hands clamped onto your face. His grip was tight, unescapable, enough to leave a burning, florid imprint on your skin. You were trapped, a helpless puppet in his cruel game.

“Now you listen to me and you listen to me good, you bitch-“ Oliver, foaming at the mouth with anger, was abruptly cut off as Steve, with a surge of adrenaline, yanked him away from you and slammed him against the floor.

Before Oliver could react, Tommy H was there, adding his weight to Steve's, making sure Oliver stayed pinned in place.

The screams tore from your throat as Nancy wrapped her arms tightly around you.

“Oh my God, (Y/N), are you okay? Someone, please, call Billy, NOW!" She urged, her voice laced with panic.

"Get off me!" Oliver yelled, his voice muffled.

Steve, fueled by anger, silenced Oliver with a sharp punch to the jaw. He and Tommy H dragged him well away from you and across the other end of the garden, the sound of his clothes scraped against the concrete along with his groans that filled the sudden silence, they created a safe distance between you and your attacker.

Moments later, the roar of Billy's Camaro echoed through the entire house and garden. He burst in, slamming the door against the wall on entry, unsure of the situation, only knowing that you were hurt. Billy moved through the house as quickly as he could, his breaths heavy and uneven.

“(Y/N)!" He called out, his voice filled with urgency.

“Over here.” Nancy responded.

Billy snapped his head to the sound and burst through the towering glass doors, his haste evident. He scanned the frost kissed garden, the manicured hedges and empty flowerbeds, bare under the night sky. His eyes darted around until he spotted you, nestled in Nancy's arms on the unforgivingly cold ground. A wave of relief washed over his face, quickly followed by a surge of concern. He rushed towards you, his footsteps quickening as he closed the distance.

Reaching your side, he knelt, his breath misting in the bitter air. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently touching your arm. His gaze flicked between you and Nancy, seeking answers. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the stillness broken only by Billy's ragged breaths and the distant gusts of wind. The weight of the situation hung heavy.

Billy’s eyes fell to the pool of blood that spread across the floor. He looked down at you, your face streaked with tears and fear, your hands clutching your nose, blood seeping through your fingers. Your new dress was ruined, your skin stained and your hair matted. You finally looked up to meet Billy’s gaze and lunged forward into his arms, seeking safety in his embrace. Confusion clouded Billy's eyes. You sobbed, gasping for air against his chest and he held you close, while cradling your head.

“Baby… Who, the fuck, did this to you? Huh, Tell me.” He demanded, gently pulling your head back.

You coughed and took in a shaky breath.

“O-Oliver, he's here, Billy, he's here.” (Y/N) cried, fear gripping her voice.

“Who? A guy hurt you? A guy, did this to you?” Billy's said, his voice edged with fury.

“Oliver Miller, my ex, he's out of jail and he's here.” (Y/N) managed to say.

Billy released you instantly and turned, ready to hunt down and confront Oliver, only to see him right there in front of him, laid on the ground, pinned down by Tommy H and Steve Harrington. There he was, the man he had fantasised about unleashing his darkest thoughts onto, for countless nights.

Billy stormed over, fuelled by pure, uncontrollable anger radiating off of him like heat from a furnace. His eyes, usually a vibrant blue, were now dark pools of fury, that reflected the rage within.

“Motherfucker!" He roared, the word tearing through the air like a jagged shard of glass.

Without hesitation, Billy's boot connected with Oliver's stomach, the force of the blow causing Oliver to double over instantly, a strangled cough escaping his lips. Steve and Tommy, sensing the volatile situation, wisely retreated, creating a buffer of space around the unfolding violence. Billy, relentless, continued his assault, each kick a brutal punctuation mark in his furious rant. Finally, he knelt, seizing Oliver by the scruff of his neck.

“You think you can lay your hands on my fucking girl?" He hissed, his voice a venomous whisper that promised unspeakable pain.

Billy unleashed a series of hard blows, each one a hammer strike against Oliver's face. Over and over, the punches landed with sickening thuds, an unstoppable barrage of torture. No one dared to intervene, paralyzed by the sheer intensity of Billy's rage. Even you, usually the voice of reason, found yourself rooted to the spot, unable to break through the fiery, red haze of his fury. He kept punching Oliver, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing in the tense silence, until he suddenly stopped and stood up. He bent down, grabbing Oliver by the collar and dragged him towards the shimmering surface of the pool. With a grunt, he rolled Oliver onto his front and plunged his head into the cool water.

“You like abusing women, huh? Makes you feel tough?" Billy spat, holding Oliver's head just above the surface for a torturous moment before dunking it back under.

Bubbles erupted from the depths as Oliver desperately fought for air, his limbs flailing weakly. Billy yanked him out, rolling him onto his back, Oliver coughing up water as it spilled from the corners of his mouth.

“I get it, I. I. I get it, man, just- just stop, okay.” Oliver pleaded, his voice trembling with fear and pain.

“Stop? You want me to stop? Did you stop when my girl asked you to? Huh?" Billy roared, punctuating his words with several more brutal punches to Oliver's face.

A quick glance, a silent exchange that passed between Steve and Tommy, a mutual understanding dawning in their eyes. They knew that if they didn't act fast, Oliver might not survive, and Billy, would face the grim consequences of his actions. The duo rushed forward, grabbing Billy and dragging him away from Oliver's battered body.

“No! Let go!” He screamed, his body writhing against their hold.

“Billy!" (Y/N) called out, her voice laced with desperation.

He snapped his head towards you, his eyes momentarily clearing, replaced by a flicker of recognition.

“Please stop, that's enough now.” (Y/N) pleaded, her voice soft but firm.

The fight seemed to drain out of Billy as he rushed towards you, scooping you into his arms as if you were a lifeline. He turned to Tommy, his face hardening once more.

“Deal with him.” He ordered, before carrying you away through the gate at the back.

And with that, Tommy had Oliver pinned and Steve, ever the responsible one, had already contacted the authorities. The wail of sirens grew louder, piercing the night as police cars arrived on the scene. You were now safely nestled in Billy's lap, the soft blanket a small comfort against the lingering fear. Billy's Camaro seemed like a haven as he held you tightly.

Hopper arrived with the urgency of a man who loved you. He crouched at the car door, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lasting harm.

"What the hell happened here, (Y/N)? Hey, kid, look at me. I’m here, okay? Tell me what happened." His voice, though laced with anger, was grounded in a deep well of concern.

For the next fifteen minutes, you recounted the events, each word a painful reminder of the terror you had just experienced. Hopper listened very closely, his pen scratching furiously against his notepad. With each detail, his expression darkened, his protective instincts rising to the surface.

Finally, after quite some time, Oliver was led away in handcuffs. Hopper, his face grim, turned back to you.

“I’m going to put him in jail for as long as I possibly can.” He vowed, his voice low and dangerous. "I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he’s in the worst place imaginable."

A glimmer of hope flickered within you.

“Can you really do that?" (Y/N) asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Hopper's eyes hardened with determination.

“I can do anything I want, kid. I’m chief of police… Take her away from here, Billy, far away. Get her cleaned up. Bring her home in the morning when I’m back. I’m going to make sure this little..." He paused, struggling to contain his rage. "I’m going to make sure he gets what’s coming to him. Go.” He finished, his voice softening slightly as he looked at you.

Billy, his jaw tight with suppressed anger, gave Hopper a thankful nod. He carefully settled you into the passenger seat, his bloody and bruised hand lingering on yours for a moment before starting the engine.

As he drove away, Billy held your hand tightly, his silent presence a reassuring anchor in the storm of emotions swirling within you. The rhythmic hum of the Camaro and the steady pressure of his hand were the only things that were keeping the darkness at bay.

——————————————————————————-

Arriving at Billy’s, he carried you through the front door, down the hallway, and into his bedroom, cradled in his arms. The scent of his familiar cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood filled your senses. He sat you upright on the edge of his bed, the worn fabric of his blanket soft against your legs. Billy rushed to the bathroom, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence, and returned with Susan’s first aid kit. He tried to be as quiet as possible with Max being asleep in her bedroom. Kneeling at your feet, his eyes were filled with a concern that warmed you despite the throbbing pain in your face.

“This is going to sting a little, alright sweetheart?” He said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

He took out an alcohol wipe, the sterile smell sharp in the air, and began gently wiping away the blood from your nose. Each touch sent a fresh wave of pain through you, and you winced, tears streaming down your face.

“Do you still love me?” (Y/N) blurted out, the question laced with insecurity.

Billy paused, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“What, why wouldn’t I, baby?” He questioned, his voice thick with a hint of hurt.

“We spied on you, Mike and Lucas too, but Eleven heard you say that you wanted to spend the day with someone else and that it wasn’t fair on me, that you didn’t think you were capable of feeling like this again an-“ Billy cut you off, his hands gently framing your face.

“No, no, baby, no! I was saying that about you! I wanted to spend the day with you, but I knew it wouldn’t be fair to keep you to myself when I knew you wanted to hang out with Max and Eleven. And I told Tommy I didn’t think I’d feel like this again because I never thought I would. Then you came back and changed it all, all of it was about you, baby, every word, you. No one else, never anyone else.” He reassured, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt.

Tears welled in your eyes, relief washing over you in a tidal wave.

“I thought tha-“ (Y/N) started, but he wouldn’t let her finish.

“No, don’t ever think that again. I love you, only you, do you understand me?” He asked, his voice firm but tender.

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Billy leaned in, landing a soft kiss on your lips, careful to avoid contact with your nose. The kiss was a silent promise, a reassurance that cut through all the noise and doubt.

He continued to clean up the blood from your face and neck, his touch gentle and soothing until finally, he guided you to the bathroom, the cool tile a sudden shock to the warmth you felt under the bridges of your feet. The water turned a shocking red, a miniature whirlpool carrying away the last remnants of the fight down the drain. He dried you off with a soft towel, his eyes never leaving yours, and then carried you back to his bedroom.

The room was lit by the lamp that stood tall next to the bedside table, along with the overhead light, casting long shadows that danced on the walls. He helped you undress, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He gently guided you into one of his oversized shirts, the fabric soft and familiar against your skin as it swallowed your frame.

Billy pivoted and started to undress himself, his movements slow and deliberate, until he was stripped down to only his shorts. He turned off the overhead light, leaving only the warm glow of the lamp, knowing you wouldn’t want to sleep in complete darkness tonight and settled beside you, pulling you close until you were pressed tightly against his chest.

“You’re okay, baby, I’m here, okay, I got you.” He reassured.

Billy played with your hair, his fingers tracing patterns on your scalp until your eyes fell heavy.

“I love you, baby, I love you so much.” He whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too, Billy.” (Y/N) responded, her voice barely audible.

Shortly after, you fell into a deep sleep, safe and secure against Billy’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a peaceful slumber. Billy stayed awake for most of the night, his eyes scanning the room, his mind racing, going over and over the same part of the night, but staying alert to any sign that you might need him. He was your protector, your safety blanket, and he would do anything he could to keep you safe, Infact, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do, to make that happen.

Part 3 anyone???

Click here to read Pt.1 now!

@i-crav3-blo0d @letmebe0k @shes-an-odd-bird @nelo0wesker @m3i1sthest4r @aryannavspx @alagalaska @alexissuave @amys-small-world @alagalaska-makes @broadwaybabe18 @biasedtoncrackt @bryandechartisasmolbean @bunnyfamily @bugs-n-roses @cheezbot @coleys-a-nerd @chandlerlovesme @cannibalhellhound @daphnexxlovee @dilutedbanshee @dayandnighthyuck @distinguishedsaladphantom @daisy-rome @empath-bunny @everythingsgucci98 @enmoana33 @eddies-acousticguitar @efty @fearlessxlaurin @fandom-princess-forevermore @flamewriterr @fatherfood @funkydino @gunlikesgirl @gwinamlvr @grazihilario6 @gabrielleqz @hgvbnkjhdccg @hauntedhouseofhargrove @hopefultyrantbread @hunnybuncounsumers @heav3nly-cupid @ich-liebe-dich-mehr47 @impossessedbyjeongyeon @isanaakira @ireallydgafsblog @jessica778me @julievirgen @jazzlynn29

[xiletay]

Hurtful confession

Part 2 here

TW: unrequited love, emotional neglect, feelings of worthlessness, mild dissociation, emotional breakdown, implied mental health struggles, implied suicidal ideation

Summary: after so long, you finally told billie how you felt. she didn’t push you away. but she didn’t really hold you either. and somehow, that hurt more.

You can’t really pinpoint the exact moment it all began to shift, not in a way you could circle on a calendar or explain to someone else. It wasn’t some sudden earth-shattering realization. No, it was quiet. A slow unfolding, like the first breath of dawn, barely perceptible until the light has fully broken through. One moment, you were just friends with Billie, laughing at each other’s jokes, trading late-night texts, talking about everything and nothing. and the next moment, you still were… but something underneath had changed. A feeling had taken root, soft at first, like a whisper. But over time, it grew louder, undeniable, impossible to ignore.

No one ever tells you that love doesn’t always arrive like thunder. Sometimes, it comes like dusk. Gradually. The light fading so slowly that you don’t realize it’s gone until you’re standing beneath a sky full of stars. You don’t fall in love in a single day. Not if you’re someone like you. You fall in fragments. In small, unnoticed moments that collect in your chest like dust until one day, you breathe in and realize you’re full of it.

And somehow, it was always Billie.

Maybe it was always going to be her.

Maybe your heart was already drifting in her direction long before you even noticed the current.

Because honestly, how could you not fall for her?

There’s something about the way her smile fills a room, how her laughter feels like home, how she holds people with a kind of warmth that you thought the world had long forgotten. Her hugs aren’t just hugs. They’re moments of stillness in a world that never stops spinning. She speaks and you listen not just because of what she says, but because of how she says it: soft, honest, unfiltered. You told yourself, back when this friendship began, that it would stay just that: a friendship. Safe. Solid. Uncomplicated. But looking back now, you realize that was never really a promise you were equipped to keep. Deep down, you always knew, you knew you were lying to yourself.

In the beginning, it was easier. Before the feelings, everything felt light, uncomplicated. The hugs were just friendly, the time spent together, watching movies, making playlists, trading thoughts at 2 a.m. was just casual. The texts were harmless little moments throughout the day, anchors to each other’s lives. You were just two people getting to know each other, with no expectations, no weight.

It started in the way she looked at you — not just at you, but into you. Like she saw the things even you tried to hide. Her gaze would linger just a little too long. Her smile would soften just a little too much. It cracked something open in you. Something raw and human and aching. And she listens. Not just to words but to the things behind them. Billie was a lyric stuck in your head. A poem without a page. Like the sky just before nightfall: beautiful, aching, and impossible to hold.

She made life feel poetic again. Not perfect. Not painless. But meaningful. Bearable. She gave you a reason to keep trying. Not because she demanded it, but simply because she existed. Because she was there. You found yourself wanting to be okay for her. Wanting to be someone worth staying for.

And there were days when it seemed like maybe — just maybe — she felt it too. The pet names, the soft confessions, the way she talked about holding you, falling asleep next to you, dancing under the stars as if it were some far-off dream the two of you could make real someday. It wasn’t just the words. It was how she said them. Like they were meant for you.

And you believed her.

But those moments were always fleeting. For every hour of warmth, there was a day of coldness. She would pull away, suddenly distant, sometimes sharp in her tone, not cruel, exactly, but indifferent. Dismissive. Like she had shifted into another version of herself, one that you weren’t meant to touch. You tried to rationalize it. You knew her life hadn’t been kind. She was carrying things that no one should ever have to. So you let it slide. Over and over. Until your own softness started to bruise.

You became her outlet. Her comfort zone. Her emotional safe space. The one place where she could unravel, say the things she wouldn’t dare say elsewhere, release the weight without needing to carry yours in return. And while part of you was honored by that trust, another part started to crumble under the imbalance. Because even though she leaned on you, needed you, she never quite held you. Not in the way you held her.

Still, you stayed. You stayed because letting go felt more painful than the way she treated you. You stayed because of hope: fragile, naïve, desperate. The hope that one day she would see you the way you saw her. The hope that the version of her who whispered sweetness into your messages late at night was the real her, not the cold, distant stranger who sometimes showed up in her place.

Hope was fragile, foolish, and burning like a candle that refused to go out. You stayed because what if?

What if she just didn’t know how to say she felt the same

═══════✦═══════

Eventually, the weight of it all became too much to carry in silence. Your feelings needed air. And it was one of your friends who finally said what you had been too afraid to admit: You have to tell her.

And you did. Not because you were brave. Not because you were ready. But because it hurt too much to keep pretending.

It wasn’t some grand plan. It wasn’t carefully thought out. It was more of a collapse. A rush of emotion, a desperate moment of now or never. And while you wanted to blame your friend for pushing you, the truth is, it was always going to come to this. You needed to believe that maybe, if she only knew, everything would finally make sense.

You had imagined saying it in person, a hundred different times. But deep down, you knew you never would. Because looking her in the eye and saying the words would’ve left you too exposed, too vulnerable. You couldn’t risk seeing the shift, the disappointment, the discomfort, the rejection. That kind of pain would’ve stayed with you forever.

So instead, you sat in your room, phone in hand, message typed out. A confession made of shaking fingers and racing thoughts. Just one tap away from unraveling everything.

Your body was buzzing, your leg bouncing uncontrollably, your palms slick with sweat. You felt like you might be sick. Like your body wasn’t quite sure whether it was bracing for impact or floating in space.

You: Hey… I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I feel like I just need to be honest with you, even if it’s not the perfect timing. I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, and I don’t want to make things heavier for you, but… I’ve realized I have feelings for you. I’m not expecting anything from you, truly, I just couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t feel this way. You’re important to me. And I’m sorry if this changes anything.

You stared at the message. Finger hovering. Then… sent. Your heart beat in your ears. Legs bouncing, breath short. And then you waited. The reply came after a while. Not too soon. Not too late. That uncomfortable in-between where you know someone is thinking more about what they should say than what they feel.

Billie: Hey. Uh… thanks for being honest. I appreciate that. I don’t really know what to say, but like… I hope this doesn’t make things weird. I still want things to stay how they are, from my side at least.

And that was it. No real reaction. No echo. You had handed her your heart and she’d responded like she’d been handed a receipt.

You: Thanks… I get it. I really don’t want to make things uncomfortable.

But something inside you still needed to understand. You thought about all the times she’d called you baby. About the softness. The moments. The suggestions of something more.

You: Can I just ask… when you said all those things. The pet names, the cuddles, the plans we made was that just teasing? Friendly stuff? I’m not mad. I just need to understand.

There was a longer pause this time. You could feel her stepping back without saying she was.

Billie: I mean… I say stuff like that sometimes, I guess. I never meant to lead you on or anything like that. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.

And that was when the silence inside you began to scream.

It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t rejection. It was… emptiness.

You had opened your chest and she had responded with a shrug in sentence form.

You: No, it’s okay. I just wanted to understand. Thanks for being honest.

You: If everything’s a lot for you right now, we don’t have to keep talking about this. I totally get it.

Billie: No, it’s fine. You don’t have to pull away unless you want to. I just don’t really have the headspace to think about that kind of stuff right now. But I don’t want you to feel bad.

Billie: Your feelings are valid. I just… don’t really know how to react.

You: Totally. I didn’t want to pressure you. I just didn’t want to lie anymore.

Billie: Yeah… I get that. I don’t think differently of you or anything.

Billie: I should probably try to sleep though. Got stuff early tomorrow. But yeah… thanks for telling me. Sleep well.

And that was the end of it.

No let’s talk tomorrow.

No how are you feeling now?

Just… a soft exit. A polite door closing.

You read it. Once. Twice. Three times. Trying to find the part where it touched something real. But it never came.

Words that wore the costume of kindness, but not the weight. Words that danced around your heart like it was something to be acknowledged, not held. It was like she didn’t hear you, not truly. Like she had read what you wrote and decided the safest route was to say something, anything, as long as it didn’t ask too much of her.

And that’s what shattered you. Not that she didn’t love you back. But that she didn’t seem to feel anything at all.

You gave her something real. You peeled back your chest and offered her the raw, messy truth of your heart. And she gave you… politeness. An empty gesture. A wall made of pretty words.

Now you sit there, phone in hand, the silence around you loud enough to drown in. There’s a ringing in your ears, that thick, fuzzy kind of silence that makes everything feel far away. Your hands won’t stop shaking, and your throat is tight, as if all the things you didn’t say are lodged there now. And inside your chest, it feels like something’s collapsing.

There is no calm in this silence. Only a void. A black hole of emotion, swirling with pain and confusion and the aching question: What now?

You’re not heartbroken because she doesn’t love you.

You’re heartbroken because you made her your reason to live. And now that reason is gone. And you don’t know what’s left.

The world feels quieter. Duller. Like someone turned the color down on everything.

And you?

You’re just trying to remember how to breathe without her name in your lungs.

═══════✦═══════

A/N: honestly this is messy and feels off. i’m tired and stressed with exams and i don’t think it turned out the way i wanted. might delete later.

[starkeymeow]

# RAFE WORLD — racer!rafe who . . .

main masterlist | series masterlist

smells like gasoline, sweat, and leather. he always has motor oil under his fingernails no matter how many times he washes his hands.

cracks his knuckles before every race like it’s a ritual, then cracks his neck, grins at you, and says, “ready to watch me ruin their day, baby?”

probably bites down on the inside of his cheek when he’s focused. and you can always tell when he’s about to floor it by the way his jaw tightens.

leaves one earbud in while working under the hood of his car, the other tucked under his shirt where you left a red lipstick print earlier.

lets you sit on the handlebars of his dirtbike while post-race announcements happen, one hand on your thigh, fingers tracing circles.

always parks his bike crooked and fast just to get out and help you off of it like he’s your own personal bodyguard.

leans against his car before street races, helmet dangling from his fingers, and waits for you to come to him so he can pull you in by the waistband of your shorts.

tells you “kiss for luck?” with a smirk every time. he doesn’t even need it. he just wants to see your lipgloss smeared on his cheek while he wins.

doesn’t ask you to wait for him at the finish line. he expects it!! and when he wins (because he always does), he rides back slow just to find you first, and only smiles once you’re in front of him.

likes when you clean his hands off after races. you tug off his gloves and wipe the dirt from his knuckles, and he watches you like you’re the prize.

has your name scribbled on the underside of the dashboard of his car, carved into the back of his helmet visor, stitched in red on the edge of his gloves. yeah this man is WHIPPED. he never talks about it either. never lets anyone touch those things.

doesn’t hook up with random girls after wins, even when they try. because you’re there, arms crossed, leaning on his hood, giving girls that don’t even try smile while he shrugs you into his chest and says “let’s go, baby.”

once had to physically step between you and a girl who touched his arm too long. he didn’t even say anything, he just laughed and said, “she’s gonna kill you. leave.”

talks the most shit right before a race, but shuts up completely when you lean in and whisper, “bring it home for me.”

calls you his “lucky charm” when he’s feeling soft, but “my prize” when he’s feeling cocky.

kissed you against the hood of his car after a beachside date once, hands bruised from a race earlier that day and rough on your waist, sand in your hair. probably whispered “you make me feel like i already won,” then kissed you harder like he hated that he meant it.

takes you for post-race drives in the dark with music low and your hand on his thigh, thumb circling, not speaking, just cruising.

“no one else gets this version of me,” he said once, windows cracked. “you’re the only one i don’t have to pretend with.”

doesn’t label it. he never calls you his “girlfriend,” but everyone knows not to touch you, speak about you, or look at you without expecting rafe’s name to be behind the bruise they earn for it. and you? you’d burn every one of his bikes to the ground if another girl tried to ride with him.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts

[camficdiner]

I’m loving all the pieces you’ve written, thank you thank you 🥹 can I request 1.1 2.10 3.6 4.10 💘

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 039

🍒 Thank you for your kind words angel — I’m so glad you’re loving the pieces! This one’s for you — hot, heartfelt, and wrapped in a plastic ring. Hope it gives you butterflies.

Enjoy your meal love, come back soon

-your favorite server

💬 “Say It Back, Mr. Hughes”

✨ Description and prompts:

 Character: Jack Hughes

Prompt:  jealous Jack drunkenly marries you in Vegas

 Word Count: 2.5k

 Type: fluff + smut + hurt/comfort + endgame

🔗 ko-fi.com/camsficdiner

Slide a coin to your server, babe — tips keep the diner open and the fics hot 🍒

🛼🍒✨🧁

⸻

You didn’t want love. He gave it to you anyway.

⸻

It started quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that means temporary. The kind that means deliberate. Careful. Needed.

You met Jack Hughes through mutual circles — agents, events, places where no one was ever really alone but everyone always felt a little lonely. You talked, flirted, made each other laugh. He was cocky but kind. You were guarded but curious. One night turned into two. Then into a pattern.

No labels, you said.

No drama.

No headlines.

No “Jack Hughes’ girlfriend spotted—”

You didn’t want that life. You’d seen what it did to people.

Jack nodded when you said it. Agreed. You could almost believe he meant it too — except his eyes always lingered. His hand always found yours under tables, under covers. He never looked at anyone else.

“I’m fine with whatever you need,” he told you one night in a hotel room you never let him call ours.

“Just let me be near you.”

And for a while, that was enough.

⸻

It wasn’t supposed to follow you to Vegas.

You were both there for the All-Star break — you with friends, him with his brothers, and a strict no-public-crossing policy. You texted during the day. Slipped into each other’s rooms at night. Pretended not to notice the way fans on TikTok zoomed in on identical bracelets or glimpses of matching hotel sheets.

“They always speculate,” Jack muttered, scrolling his feed, chin on your thigh.

“They’re not wrong,” you replied, brushing his hair back.

“They’re not right either.”

He nodded. “Because we’re not anything.”

You didn’t answer.

⸻

The night it happened was loud.

You hadn’t planned to run into each other at the bar. But when some guy — some cocky, beer-sticky nobody — leaned in a little too close to you, Jack showed up like a fucking storm.

His jaw was tense. His grip on your wrist, tight.

“I’m taking you home,” he said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You argued in the elevator. You argued in the hallway.

And then — halfway to your room — he stopped walking.

Turned to you.

Eyes dark. Voice low.

“You won’t even call me your boyfriend. So I’ll call you my wife.”

You laughed. “Jack—”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I still mean it.”

You stared at him, something twisting in your chest.

And maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he already knew your answer. Maybe you just wanted, for once, to be his without hiding.

So you nodded.

“Then let’s get married.”

⸻

You don’t remember the chapel name. Or the vows verbatim. But you remember this:

Jack’s thumb brushing your cheek when you fumbled your “I do.”

Him whispering “you’re so fucking beautiful” as he slid the plastic ring on your finger.

The way he kissed you — deep, certain, like he already knew it wouldn’t be undone.

The Elvis impersonator cried.

You both laughed until your eyes stung.

Then he took your hand and ran with you back to the suite.

⸻

You don’t even make it to the bed at first.

Jack pushes you up against the hotel door the second it shuts, hands greedy on your waist, lips crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for months — which, in a way, he has. His breath is hot, messy, tasting like tequila and everything he didn’t say before you said yes.

You gasp when he lifts you — arms tight around your thighs — and he groans into your neck, voice wrecked.

“You married me,” he pants. “Fuck, you actually married me.”

He carries you across the room, dropping you onto the mattress like you’re something precious and wild all at once. He pulls your dress off too fast — nearly tears it — and stares when you’re bare under it.

“Jesus, baby…” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You try to speak but all that comes out is a shaky exhale when his hands move down, mouth following. His tongue flicks over your nipple, teeth grazing lightly, then lower still — lips on your stomach, your hip, your thigh — until you’re arching under him.

“Jack—”

“Let me eat my wife out,” he says, grinning into your skin. “Properly.”

And he does.

Slow at first, teasing, tongue circling your clit until you’re squirming. Then deeper — two fingers sliding in, curling just right, mouth relentless as you sob his name. He doesn’t stop. Not when you come once, not when your legs shake, not even when you whimper “too much.”

“Can’t get enough of you,” he groans, kissing up your body. “Never could.”

He flips you over, pulls you on top of him.

“Ride me,” he says, voice hoarse. “Want to feel you take it.”

You sink down onto him slowly, both of you gasping, and for a second the whole world tilts — nothing but you and him and the tight, perfect slide of him inside you. You brace your hands on his chest and start to move, grinding down, letting him fill you deep.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chokes. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Your pace builds — fast, hungry — his hands gripping your ass, guiding you harder, and it’s all heat and breathless moans and the ring still shining on your finger as it brushes his chest. You lean down to kiss him, and he catches your face in his hands.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You bite his lip, smile.

“I’m your fucking wife, Hughes.”

That’s all it takes. He flips you again, drives into you hard, desperate. You cry out, back arching, and he covers your mouth with his, swallowing every sound.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “Gonna fuck my name into you. No one else gets to have this. Just me.”

Your orgasm hits hard — loud, shaking, tearing through you — and he follows fast, moaning into your neck, body jerking as he spills inside you.

After, you stay tangled. Sweaty. Silent.

He brushes your hair back and kisses your temple.

“You said yes,” he whispers. “You really said yes.”

You nod, dizzy with it.

“And I meant it.”

⸻

It’s silent when you wake. Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. The ring’s still on your finger. The bed is empty.

You panic.

Heart in your throat, you grab your phone. One message:

In the kitchen. Making eggs. Don’t freak. 💍

You breathe.

When you walk in, Jack’s barefoot, wearing only sweats and a stupidly soft smile.

“You stayed,” you say.

“You’re my wife.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.”

He sets down the spatula and walks over. Tilts your chin.

“I was drunk. But I wasn’t lying. I love you.”

“Even if you regret it, I won’t. I’d do it again a thousand times.”

You want to cry. You almost do.

“I told you I didn’t want labels. I didn’t want mess.”

“Then let me be the exception,” he whispers. “Let me love you anyway.”

And you let him.

⸻

But hours later — post-checkout, post-laughing in the car, post-second round in the shower — the fear creeps in.

“We were drunk,” you whisper, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What if it’s not real?”

Jack kneels in front of you. Takes both your hands.

“It’s real to me.”

“You don’t get to say that.”

“Why?” he snaps. “Because I said it out loud? Because I want you?”

You look away.

“I didn’t want to be someone’s girlfriend, let alone wife. I didn’t want to belong to anyone.”

He swallows. Then gently presses a hand to your chest.

“You don’t belong to me. But I belong to you.”

That breaks you.

You let him hold you. Let yourself cry. Let the truth settle in: you love him. You always did.

⸻

It starts with his brothers.

Luke finds the plastic ring on your finger while you’re out to breakfast.

Quinn figures it out when Jack changes your name in his phone to “Wifey 💍”

Trevor Zegras posts a TikTok zooming in on matching hickeys.

The fandom loses its mind.

But it’s the parents that get you.

Ellen stares at the photo Jack sends — a real Polaroid from the chapel — and just smiles.

“You looked happy,” she says. “That’s all that matters.”

His dad, Jim, calls to say congratulations and threatens to beat his ass if he ever messes it up.

You cry.

⸻

Weeks later, Jack brings you to a jewelry store in Soho.

“Pick something real,” he says.

You try to joke — “the plastic’s growing on me” — but your throat closes when he takes out the box.

A simple band. Elegant. Gold with a tiny engraving inside:

Say it back.

You laugh through tears. He slips it on your finger, kisses your knuckles, and whispers:

“Now you’re really mine.”

⸻

[prettiest-bloopsy]

“𝒯𝒽ℯ 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎 ︀&̶ 𝒯𝒽ℯ 𝒜𝒻𝓉ℯ𝓇 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎“

Pairings: Nerd Armin x black reader

           ∴.·:*¨ ¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

(Not my art, credit to the artists)

          ∴.·:*¨ ¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

(Content Warning: 18+ Minors DNI, NSFW, Reader is crossfaded, Armin is drunk, Armin is a virgin. Armin is a bit possessive, especially when he's drunk. Unprotected piv sex. Fingering and oral F receiving. Armin with tongue piercing.)

Summary: Armin and Reader are drunk at a college party, and Armin just can't take being patient. The reader has a spine tat, and she has a few arm tats.

NOTE: I am so sorry this took so long, I was focused on passing Regents and school, which are thankfully both over now so I bring you the next part enjoy (;

 Word count: 3.7k

Part 1 here

          ∴.·:*¨ ¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

Recap:

Trusting that Armin had good reason to pull you away from the party, you follow him, nearly stumbling. “Armin, what are yo-” You're cut off when Armin’s lips come crashing against yours as if your lips were something he was deprived of, a muffled whine is slipping past your lips, and you can't tell if it's the weed, the alcohol, or Armin that is making your knees go weak, hell it was probably all three.

Armin pulls away for a second to speak, “I need you, I need you so bad, and you, you have no clue.” Before he can say any more, you kiss him again, one hand in his hair, and the other on his shoulder for some sort of stability as you deepen the kiss. Armin didn't know what to do with his hands, but he finally settled them on your hips, thumbing circles into the exposed skin, as he slid his tongue across your lip, making you gasp before pulling away, the two of you breathing heavily. “Y-You have your tongue pierced!?” 

Shock and arousal dripping from your voice like sweet honey, it was intoxicating, and it was making Armin hot, making him needy, the alcohol was proving to be very strong in his system, along with the scent of you was not helping with how filthy his mind was at the moment, he was hard, leaking in his boxers. He didn’t process your original question but instead began apologizing.

He was red in the face, as he does, having realized his actions ”I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what took over m-.”  “I didn't ask for an apology, Armin. I asked if you had your tongue pierced.” Caught off guard, Armin nods slowly, “Lemme see.” Hesitant but complying, Armin sticks his tongue out to show you the silver ball on his tongue, “Have you… ever, ya’know?” immediately knowing what you meant by that, he shakes his head no. “Yes or No, Armin?” “No, n-never.”

End of Recap

“You wanna…try?” Your eyes stare into his as you ask and he was sucked in, as if you had stolen his soul simply by looking him in the eyes. “O-Oh… On you?” His fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt, the tip of his ears, and his face, red.

“Who else but me? I am the one asking, aren’t I? Unless you were thinking Casper the ghost,” You're giggling at your own words, but Armin… Armin didn't even process anything you had said after you said that “you're the one asking” he could feel the blood rush to his cock and the words wrapping around his brain, he was hard, undeniably so. Seconds that felt like hours go by before Armin crashes his lips back onto yours, his tongue exploring your mouth, and the taste of the alcohol on his tongue is pleasant.

 The next thing you know, you and Armin are stumbling into some bedroom, and without even fully acknowledging it, your bare back is pressed against the coolness of the door. Armin’s lips part from yours, instead gliding them down your jaw till his tongue can wet the expanse of your neck.

Your skin was- burning hot... as if you had just stepped off the sun. Armin, on the other hand, was… just as bad as you. His face was red and hot, his glasses fogged, and though the liquor was helping his courage, he still couldn't help but think, even just a tiny bit. Knowing him. So, when he reached cautiously to untie your top, he asked, still red in the face, “Is this alright?” you couldn't help the small laugh that slipped past your lips. “Yes, it's perfect, Min, just keep going.” Your laugh lingered in his brain as you spoke. Your voice had sent shivers down his spine for the nth time that night, and he was utterly entranced by you.

Not wasting a second longer, Armin has your shirt untied and tossed somewhere in the unfamiliar room, his mouth back sucking hickeys on your neck and gradually trailing his way down to your perked nipple. Innocent blue eyes lazily gazing up at you as he does, but the cloud of pure, filthy hunger behind them was making you throb. 

His other hand fumbles as he pushes your skirt up, your panties pushed to the side, as his careful finger presses circles against your clit “Oou shit- Min.” his piercing cool against your nipple as his tongue swirled the brown bud.

“Min.. keep going, more..ahh..please.” Your breath staggering as he hums, acknowledging your request.

Mouth moving away from your sensitive nipple, he kisses and licks his way down your sternum and the expanse of your belly, kissing right below your belly button before he comes back up to kiss your lips, his fingers making their way back to your pussy. “You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this.” 

His fingers grazed over your clit before 2 of them pressed into your cunt, immediately curling into your g-spot “No idea how long i've wanted to show you” Your legs tensed up and your breath was caught in your throat. His fingers were too good, too precise, like he had done this a million times before, and his words were making you drip down his fingers.

“Aahh- Armin- M’close.” The combination of intoxicants in your bloodstream and Armin’s fingers relentlessly pressing against that sensitive spot were making your brain cloudy, and your orgasm had neared a little sooner than you had expected.  His lips were back on yours, and his hand had shifted to rub your clit with his palm, your moans tried to slip past your lips but they were sucked in by Armin’s mouth on yours.

Your back arched, and your legs went weak as you came hard on his fingers, barely able to keep yourself standing if Armin didn't have you pressed against the door. “Fu-Fuck Mi-” “Get on the bed, have to taste you”

You didn’t even get to start talking for real, but you're not complaining because, without a second thought, you're on the bed waiting for him to follow suit.

He was eyeing you with filthy lust in his eyes as he walked stalked over to you. Armin practically lunged at you, caging you in between him and the bed as his mouth trailed down your torso again, kissing his way down to your thighs, and finally he planted a sloppy kiss onto your clit, making you jolt.

Still sensitive from the orgasm you just had, your legs tense ever so slightly. Trying to close together. “Relax, baby, I’m just giving you a demonstration of my tongue piercing.” “Exactly like you asked, remember?” His tone was smug. Reminding. You asked him to eat your pussy…

Without another word Armin has his tongue swirling around your clit, his hand has a good grip on your thigh as he looks up at you as he flattens his tongue against your clit making your thighs clench “O-ouh god…” As if to pray to whatever god above that you don’t cum on the spot, still sensitive. You know the moment the piercing ball on his tongue presses against your clit that you're in for a long night, your breath is caught in your throat.

Laughing cockily at your reaction he’s breaking away from your sensitive bud of nerves. His break from your clit used to push you skirt above your hips and your panties now dangling from your ankle, you didn’t have the chance to ask Armin to take off your heels as your thighs rest on his shoulders and his tongue is back circling your clit and the silver ball pressing against it deliciously. “Fu-Fuck Armin,- love” his glasses are fogged and his face flushed as he asks. “Is th-this good, baby?” “Is this how you-... wanted me” he was asking with such a teasing tone in his voice, it was driving you crazy, but it was driving your pretty pussy crazier and he knew loved that he was driving you crazy.

For someone who said he had never done this before, he had you seeing stars, your eyes brimming with tears, threatening to ruin your pretty eye makeup. The music was blasting outside the room, but you were deaf to it, too focused on the way Armin’s tongue occasionally switched places with his fingers. It was too good.

As much as you were trying to hold out for a little longer, it was getting hard, your legs were quivering, and you didn't know how much longer you could last, “Ahh, M-Min, m’close… so close.” "Already baby" "Mmhm" Armin was relentless, as he’s subconsciously rubbing his clothed cock against the bed, his pleasure consciously disregarded but his body acting on its own, too busy tongue deep in your cunt to notice his body moving without his knowledge.

“Fuck, you taste so good” And just like that your gushing, something about how he cursed had you trembling, the aggression and need behind it was mind numbing, it was wrapping around your brain and yet Armin kept going, his tongue flat on your clit as he pressed the pad of his fingers on your g-spot “Aaahhh…A-Armin, wa-wait…” You're pushing his head, yet pulling his hair to bring him closer to your pussy, actions conflicted, yet Armin continues his movement for a moment longer before he pulls away, letting his tongue, piercing and all, linger a little longer on your clit as he looks up at you, his glasses fogged, his face flushed and his chin and nose wet.

“God…” Your breath ragged as Armin practically climbs up the bed, pinning you between his arms, his mouth back on yours so you can taste your arousal on his tongue, as much as he claimed he was a virgin, he sure wasn’t acting like one, his lips were soft, but he was movements swift and calculated as he pressed his clothed cock against your bare cunt and kissed down your chest. “You're so pretty, all for me.”

“Can I?” Nearly, just nearly, back to his bashful, respectful manner despite his drunken state as the two of you eye the bulge in his pants. “Mhm” “Yes or No, use your words (Name), I know you can, with the way you were talking to Reiner, was it?” His words were sudden, completely unexpected, he was visibly Jealous now, and it made your pussy clench around nothing.

 “Yes,” “Yes, that's his name? or Yes, you want me to fuck you? Words, my love.” His voice was raspy. Needy. His head was lolled to the side as he looked you in the eyes, waiting for an answer. “Armin.. Fuck me.” Your voice is breathy as you spoke, but in mere seconds, his pants are off, leaving him in his boxers and shirt, gentle hands smoothing over the length of your hips and tummy, hands slowly reaching their way up to cup your breasts, and his fingers pinching your nipples. 

“Armin take this off” Your reaching for the hem of his shirt, lifting it and rubbing your hands down his v-line and palming his cock through his boxers, the stain.. of precum was no longer just a stain it was damn near a puddle and you just couldn't help yourself. 

So without a second thought. like you had any of those at the moment anyways. your reaching your hand into his boxers while he pulls his shirt off, your hand stroking the length of his cock getting a good grasp at how big he was, to which he was fairly big not to thick but not too slim and about a good 6 ½ to 7 inches long, simply from what you could feel.

Armin was hunched over you now, his chest heaving as you stroked him, “Y-you, auah- ya’done baby” your looking up at him with your pretty brown eyes, as he looks at you with a dark and needy look on his face as he looks at your makeup slightly ruined and he’s slowly losing his last bit of self control, you were like a drug and he was happily addicted.

 His hand grabs hold of your wrists and pushes them above your head making you lay back down, he's got you pinned to the bed and you finally get to rack yours eyes down his surprisingly built body, “You can't tease me like that baby, I’ve been too patient to cum that fast without even being inside you…” 

Armin’s mouth on your collar… Hungry, biting and sucking marks into the sensitive skin on your neck, he knows he did this a little more improperly than he’d have originally wanted, but who was he to deny you? His mouth was hot against your skin, and it was making you nearly dizzy, as his mouth caught a hardened nipple, tongue swirling around it, making your heart skip a beat. “Min.. I need you, enough playing around.” Not needing to hear another word before his boxers are pulled down just enough for him to slide his cock free from the confinements.

His tip is near red. Angry even, but the rest of him is pretty. Toned and gentle. Armin practically groans when the cool air of the room hits his precum-smeared tip. He’d been so hard for a while now, and the realization was just hitting him. “C-Condom?” His voice was hoarse and choked as he asked. 

“Shit…  no ju-just keep going” His breath against your neck, which he had buried his face in marking it some more.

His hands had a tight grip on your hips as he pulled you down the bed, his cock laying perfectly on the fat of your tummy. “I’m gonna fuck you so good your pussy won't be able to forget me” His words echoed through your body as he pressed his cock against your sensitive clit. An action he did simply to tease you before he gently presses the tip of his cock into your cunt.

You tensed ever so slightly and he was quick to relive that tension, a thumb massaging your clit while he continued to push himself in inch by inch. As soon as he grazed past that spongy spot your pussy clenched around him like your life depended on it and that as all he needed to lose his last bit of self control, a switch in his brain was flipped, and you swore you saw the restraint leave his body. If you didn't see it, you were sure about to feel it.

“God, I could cum right now, your pussy pulls me in s-so nicely.” “Wou-Wouldn’t be able to help myself” "Fill you aaha s-so nicely wi-with my cum-" The thought of him dripping from your cunt clouding your brain as he continues to speak “Got-Gotta show that brawly, brainless fu-fucker what he won’t have” He’s possesive, perhaps jealous as his thrusts get more precise, he’s pushed your leg up just enough to get a perfect angle as his tip continuously abusing your sweet spot.

“See-seems, like ur jealous… hmm” “Just don't like people trying to touch what's mine.” Quiet as Armin was, his mouth was filthy, mind melting even, he had a way with words, and his tongue, and his words were currently fucking your brain, or maybe it was how deeply he was fucking your pussy that had your mind and body turned to putty in his hands, either way you were seeing stars. 

He was bottoming out and you had to close your eyes to prevent them from rolling back, your head fuzzy and your pussy quivering. “Look- so pretty, taking me so well,”  “Wish you could see me di-disappear inside your pussy, so-so  good” Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent shaped indents in his skin.

He’s breathing heavily, a choked gasp slipping from his lips as he feels the pain of you scratching your nails along his back, pretty red scratches line the course of his back. Armin was close, and he could feel it hurdling towards him, he had practically edged himself when he was grinding against the bed earlier, and he was so close to cumming then that the build up was coming back what felt like ten times harder than it had originally. He was getting sensitive, the warmth and clench of your cunt had him weak, not to mention the sight he had before him. You.

His thrusts were getting harsh, and your other leg was quickly folded under his weight as he reached new depths of your pussy, depths you hadn't even known could be hit. It was no point in trying not to mess up your makeup now, seeing as the liner and eyeshadow you had on your waterline was smudged and slowly but surely running down the sides of your face. 

He had plenty of wet dreams about having you like this, and seeing you lying on the bed under him like this was doing crazy things to his brain. “Fu-fuck y-your so pretty like this-” His forehead pressed against yours as he kept his pace. “So pretty for me- aah-and taking me so deep- sh-shit” 

His words were pushing you over the edge while the tip of his cock kissed your g-spot, your mind was blank, yet too aware, you could swear you could feel every vein and twitch of his dick.

Armin's thrusts were getting sloppy yet they still felt so calculated, as if he had already mapped out the inside of your pussy with his cock when the second he had slid it in, his hands had a vice grip on the sheets but that just didn’t feel good enough to him, he had to have his hands touching you, so without a second to process his own movements, or thoughts, he’s got a hand wrapped nicely around your throat, thumb caressing the side, and not applying to much pressure as you go wide eyed.

Not having expected it from Armin, but not complaining, your brain was fuzzy, pussy gripping him like a vice and your back arched into him.

Your legs were going weak, and your voice was a little strained from the onslaught of screaming and moaning of his name, and in an attempt to tell him you were cumming the only thing that flys past your pretty lips is a stifled moan, your nails digging into his back “Fuck- I know baby, I- know.. Just- hold it- a’lil longer… pl-please” his voice stutters and his hips jerk as he holds out a little longer to prolong your pleasure.

He was making the both of you overly sensitive, with every thrust of his hips he was grinding his pelvis perfectly against your clit and the action had you turned to mush.

Armin is trying to ignore the pain of your nails in his back, but also trying to ignore how it's pushing him closer and closer to cumming. His hips are practically moving on their own, runting and slapping against the plush of your thighs. “m’gonna cum… not gonna last- longer” with one simple word your head is thrown back, your orgasm not able to be held back any longer. “Wh-Where… ahhg- god -fuck- baby” “I-Inside Min” your both fumbling over your words as your legs lock around Armin's waist and he spills rope after rope of cum into your pussy.

“Ar-Arminn..- fuck” your voice is hoarse and loud as you scream his name your walls clench around his dick milking him for every drop of cum he could give. The throb and twitch of his cock in your pussy making you gush around him and push some of him out, but he’s quick to push his cock back into your gooey cunt, muffling your whine as he kisses your lips Possessively. Lovingly.

        ∴.·:*¨ ¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

“Yo, where’d (Name) and Armin go? I remember Armin storming off into the crowd, but I haven't seen him since then, and (Name) was talking to that buff blonde dude over there, but now he’s standing there by himself.” Sasha asks the group as she sits down, having come back from across the room with snacks. “I don’t but if their both gone they’ve GOT to be fucking or something cause we’ve all been here and haven’t seen either of them since Armin mysteriously stormed off,” Connie says with a snorty laugh, “We should go look for th-” Jean adds “Look for who” “OUH, yall NASTY motherfuckers” Connie yells with a laugh that sounds like he can’t breath “Armin YOU? Did THAT to her?” Sasha asks with wide eyes as she stares daggers into every purplish red hickey on your brown skin from your neck, and even down to your chest.

“I-um yea…” Armin answers red in the face as he scratches the back of his neck. “Y'all talking about what he did? Look at Armin’s neck (Name), must be a vampire with the way she marked him.” Mikasa says, having wanted to add her comment.

“Oh, hush, y'all are so nosy.” “We're not nosy, y'all came out here with hickeys on each other's necks after being gone for like 2 hours,” Jean interjects. "It was not 2 hours" you say rolling your eyes. “Is that why you went storming off earlier, Armin?” Connie says, “Ouhhh I seee, Armin was jealous of that buff guy Reiner talking to (Name),” Sasha teases laughing. “Enough with this topic, I could use another drink.” “I bet you could (Name).” Connie laughs.

        ∴.·:*¨ ¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

Thanks for reading(¯ ³¯)♡

Feel free to leave feedback its always welcomed

[worldsetfree]

Save Tonight - Aizen Sōsuke x Reader

NSFW. Minors do not interact. Post-TYBW, spoiler ahead.

First time writing smut. Wish me luck. Thanks to @bleachsmutfest (shout-out to @villainsrtasty for organizing this) and @byakuyacoochie for convincing me to post this.

This started as a Day 3 drabble that turned into a nearly 1000-word fic, so I present this now for Day 4 of the smutfest: my morally-contentious selfship.

Prompts: Passage + Towels + “Just because it’s dangerous doesn't mean we don't try it”

Thirty-six hours.

Kurotsuchi said it would take thirty-six hours to craft new restraints for the man before you.

The man whom Kyoraku Shunsui, for reasons he didn't express (though his eyes glimmered quite deviously), chose to charge you with. "You've always been good at keeping him in line, right?” he'd teased, like you'd ever had any control over him at all. Like you hadn't joined the very same man in a rebellion two short years ago.

"...I heard you'd died.”

Swallowed up in a sea of darkness at the end of the world, per the rumours. From the shrinking hole in his chest and the arm that crept disgustingly back into shape, you understood their conclusions.

The comment makes his lips curl with delight that's positively nostalgic to see. "A lesser man surely would have."

You hadn't bothered to censor the scoff that left your lips. Utterly ridiculous man. Still so smug and cheshire, despite imprisonment. Yet there he was, wicked and free and radiant as the sun.

For thirty-six hours.

“I missed you, Sōsuke.”

“I knew you would, my dear.”

Finding a place among the ruins of Seireitei to hold your 'captive' proved easier than you'd anticipated (Aizen himself was strangely compliant with his situation), settling into the remains of a home. Its walls were as broken and dirty as your own body in the aftermath of the war, but it would do. You shutter what remains of the curtains while an ever-watchful eye reacquaints itself with your form.

Being near him again is like rejoining a familiar dance. It wasn't long before honeyed words lured you into his desires, his forked tongue inspiring wicked temptation. You should clean yourselves up, shouldn't you? Mayuri has to replace his seals anyway, and haven't you missed the feeling of his skin against your own?

But when your hand stretches outward to remove those barriers, questions begin to burn in your mind: Can you even touch him now? Should you really unleash a god?

Aizen catches this hesitation, and his encouragement burns with the candlelight in his eyes. “Just because it’s dangerous doesn't mean we don't try it.” 

They'll call you a fool for submitting to his will, but you're a moth to his flame, helpless against the want pooling between your legs.

Aizen doesn't move while you release his bindings, allowing you to caress his face and pet his hair once you've removed the seal covering his eye. He remains patient while you reveal your own body to him, and only then does your Lord and lover pounce.

Lost in steam and hot water that envelops the two of you like a dream, Aizen Sōsuke plays a hero and enjoys the spoils of victory without care for time. His mouth renews its claim on your throat, leaving markings that will persist long after dawn breaks. His hands retrace the swell of your breasts to pinch your nipples and pull a reverent breath from your lips.

It's not until your spine begins to arch off the cold tiles and your moans devolve into a siren song that he finally fulfills your request. He greedily takes in every minute detail of your expression as he presses himself into you at last. Oh, how you've needed him.

The slow, methodical journey of his fingertips to the apex of your thighs is deliberately maddening and completely self-indulgent. With your legs wrapped around his hips, Aizen makes you plead and beg for more than tantalizing circles around your clit. "Have you thought of me like this, my love?" he coos in velvet baritones. "Have you needed me?"

His name falls from your lips like a prayer when he begins to move. You're drowning in him, drunk on the feeling of his cock pressing against spots that make you weep. His hands squeeze your plush thighs and hold you to him while he sinks into you again and again. Your own limbs tense to pull him in closer, like you could somehow make him stay if only you held on tight enough, like thirty-six hours won't tick away while you're together.

Your skin burns against his and you begin to feel that coil in your abdomen tightening up, too fast- an ending approaching too soon. Your voice calls out to him a breathless whine. "Sōsuke..." And you feel him exhale against your shoulder. "I know," he rasps. "I know." The way his own breath shakes lets you believe for a moment that maybe he, who needs no one, craved you just as much as you craved him.

Orgasm is nearly blinding and unmakes you before him. Aizen is quick to follow, his hips chasing release before they stutter and press you harder against the shower wall. His lips find your own as he spills into you, hungry and adoring and ignorant of the world beyond you. In the aftermath, you're cradled in his arms like something precious while the water cuts off.

He lifts his head and rests his face against your own once more, obsessed with watching you fall apart for him. Long digits slip between your legs again to rub your needy pearl, and the pleasure nearly ruins you, but you dare not lose yourself without his command. Aizen's gaze captures your own before he speaks against your lips. "Come for me, dear."

The clock ticks forward in a painfully consistent march as he lays you down on the bed. Aizen's head tilts to the side as he looks down at you. Clean, satisfied, and completely his, even now. Your heart swells when he smiles briefly, softness gracing his sharp features. He's beautiful, you think. You want to burn this moment into your eyes forever. But the clock ticks again to shatter your heart once more.

Aizen seems to read your thoughts yet again, his brows furrowing as he watches you. Then he leans in and presses his palms into the mattress around your head.

"Put it out of your mind," he murmurs. "I'll not leave until I've had my fill of you, my darling."

For thirty-six hours, you'll be his, and the way he descends upon you makes you wonder if the shinigami will even be able to pull him off of you when that time is up.

[rhynestonez]

ASHES LEFT BEHIND (PART 8)

New Avengers! Bucky X Rogue! Reader

Summary: You were once Bucky’s ally. Now you’re a ghost in the dark, leaving bodies behind. When he learns you’re the threat they’ve been hunting, everything shatters—and he knows he’s the only one who can bring you in… or end it himself.

Warnings: more flashbacks, angst! That’s rlly it

HUNTED

Screens glowed faintly across the room. Maps. Satellite feeds. Blurry traffic cams from half a dozen cities. Static pulsed in one speaker. The rest buzzed with overlapping chatter—radio noise, news loops, the occasional keyword hit.

But none of it showed you.

“Still nothing.” Yelena muttered, dragging a hand down her face. She leaned back in her chair, eyes bloodshot.

“Well she has to be somewhere.” Ava said dryly from a dark corner, arms crossed. “She couldn’t have just vanished into thin air.”

Walker stood behind them with his arms folded, grim and still bandaged from his last encounter. “So where the hell is she going?”

Bucky stood apart from them—silent, eyes locked to the map he’d pinned up on the back wall. His brow furrowed, a sharp line between his eyes. He hadn’t said much since Valentina chewed him out earlier that day. Just dug deeper. Pushed harder. Refused to rest.

Yelena finally turned to him. “You know anything, Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed.

Then—he moved. Flicked the pen in his hand and drew a long, looping curve over a strip of land west of the city grid. A trail of forgotten rail lines. A cut-through point no one used anymore.

Walker frowned. “That where you think she is?”

“No-“ Bucky said. “That’s where she was. But it’s not about where she’s hiding.” He circled something else. A rusted-out industrial sector, mostly condemned, mostly off the books—one red dot dead center.

“It’s about where she’s going.”

Alexei straightened. “What is that?”

Bucky turned. His voice low, tight. “A man named Tobin Fence.I found him.” Everyone stilled.

“Interpol flagged a private aircraft flying out of Jakarta last week. Landed under a fake identity. Apparently one we’ve heard Tobin use before.” He pulled up a satellite image. A grainy but unmistakable face boarding a car. “Security detail matched. Same three guys from the Reykjavik files.”

Ava leaned forward. “You sure it’s him?”

Bucky gave a short nod. “I’m sure. He’s in the old Kestrel facility outside of Maryland. Abandoned for years. Still has a functioning airstrip.”

Walker let out a sharp breath. “She’s gonna go straight through him.”

“She doesn’t know about the landing yet.” Bucky replied. “But she will soon. We don’t have much time.” Yelena was already grabbing her gear. Alexei stood, heading for the van. “We get there first.”

Walker followed without a word. But Bucky lingered. He stared at the dot on the map just a moment longer. His voice was quieter now, almost like it wasn’t for anyone but himself.

“We stop this… or we lose her completely.”And then he turned. Grabbed his tactical jacket. His gloves. And followed the others out into the night.

-

The sun was starting to dip low behind the trees, casting long golden beams across the waterline behind Sam’s house. Everything looked exactly the same. But something felt… off.

You walked up the porch steps and knocked once—then pushed the door open like you’d done a dozen times before. The screen squeaked as it swung, but the house inside was too quiet.

“Bucky?” you called softly, stepping inside. A smile couldn’t help but creep onto your face. It had been days since you’ve seen him, and the last time you two had talked- you kissed.

“You here?” Silence answered.

Your boots thudded softly across the hardwood as you checked the small guest room Bucky sometimes used. Empty. Bed half-made. No duffle bag. No jacket on the hook by the door. Gone.

You paused at the kitchen threshold. That’s where you found Sam—standing by the sink, staring out the window with his arms braced on either side. The sound of your footsteps made him glance over his shoulder.

He didn’t smile. That’s when you knew something was wrong.

“Sam, where’s Bucky?” you asked, stepping further in. Sam didn’t answer at first. He looked back out the window, jaw set tight.

You walked up beside him, heart starting to thud faster. “Sam.” He sighed through his nose. “He left.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Packed up yesterday morning. Didn’t say much.”

“No—he wouldn’t…” You took a step back. “Why?” Sam didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stared at him, searching for something in his eyes. Some joke. Some explanation. Something to prove this wasn’t what it felt like.

But all he did was shake his head. “He just said he needed to be on his own again. Didn’t give me much more than that.”

Your throat tightened. “Okay so, he leaves and doesn’t tell me? He doesn’t even—after everything, and he just walks?”

“I don’t think it was personal.”

“Yeah? Well it damn sure feels personal, Sam.”

He turned then, really turned to face you. His expression softened. “Look, I get it. But Bucky… he’s not great at staying still. Or staying when it matters.” That stung.

And Sam saw it. You looked away fast, swallowing down the lump building in your chest. Your hands clenched and unclenched at your sides, fingers twitching for something to hold onto that wasn’t this.

“Don’t-“ you said, voice low. “-Don’t try to explain it. So-what? We kiss a few days ago And then he just—Vanishes?”

Sam stepped forward slightly. “He’s got his own damage. I’m not saying it’s right. But it’s what he does when he doesn’t know how to deal.”

You let out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. “So I’m just one more thing he can’t deal with.”

Sam’s mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not what I said.” But you were already shaking your head, blinking fast. That knot in your chest was crawling its way up your throat, and you didn’t want him to see it. You took a hard step back. “I need to go.”

“Hey—wait—” Sam reached a hand out, but you dodged it with a scoff. You moved to the door, pushing through it quickly, the screen creaking again behind you.

Sam stood frozen in the kitchen, watching from the window as you stormed out down the road, jaw clenched, face unreadable—but your hands trembled with every step.

And even from behind the glass, he could see it. You were hurt. Really hurt. And not just by Bucky. But by the silence he left behind.

The room was dim, lit only by the lamp on the bedside table. Muffled voices buzzed from the next room—Yelena and Ava quietly checking equipment, Walker pacing as he cleaned dirt off his shield, Alexei already passed out snoring somewhere.

But Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed low. In his hands was the photo.

That photo.

The one where you were kissing his cheek, your hands cupping his face, his mouth caught mid-smile, eyes on you—not the camera. He remembered that moment too clearly. He remembered the way your breath had brushed over his skin just before the shutter clicked. The way he almost kissed you right then but didn’t. The way he wanted to.

He ran his thumb over the worn edge of the photo. He hadn’t even known you’d kept it.

Let alone stashed it in a box under your bed, hidden like a secret too important to be seen.

And he’d left.

He swallowed hard, jaw working. His chest was tight in that way it got when he thought too long about the things he couldn’t undo.

You had kissed him two nights before he disappeared. Soft and certain. Like you knew something he didn’t.

And he kissed you back.

And for the first time in what felt like decades, he let it happen. Let himself want something. Feel something. Let his hands rest on your leg, feeling your warmth under his palms. Let his mouth press into yours until his heart started to ache from it.

But then—

After. You had smiled at him like he was already yours. Like the war was over. Like he could just stay.

And that’s what scared him most.

Because he didn’t know how to stay.

He never learned how.

The last time he tried, everything fell apart. People died. Missions failed. Regret piled up faster than he could bury it.

So he left.

He ran.

Just like he always did.

His fingers tightened around the photo until it crinkled slightly, and he flinched like it might tear. He didn’t know what hurt worse—how much he wanted to go back to that night, or how certain he was that you’d never forgive him for what came after.

He’d seen the look in your eyes when you talked about Marcus. He’d heard your voice shake when you said “Let me do one more. Just one more.”

Now?

Now you were bleeding, hiding, hunted—and all he had was a photograph and a sick feeling in his gut. He stood up suddenly, jaw clenched. He couldn’t fix what he broke. Not easily. Maybe not ever.

But he could still try.

He looked one more time at your face in the photo, then carefully slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket—close to his chest, like armor. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. And Bucky turned toward it.

The door creaks open slowly.

Boots scuff over the dusty floor as Bucky steps in first, weapon lowered but eyes sharp. Behind him, the rest of the team filters through in silence—Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei fanned out with practiced precision.

The place is old. Worn out. Not much to it. A kitchen with cracked tile. One couch. A broken lamp. Empty water bottles and a wrinkled city map folded open on the counter.

Yelena stops near the window, peering through the dust-caked glass. “She was just here.” she murmurs.

“We must’ve just missed her.” Bucky says, scanning the space. “That means she close by.”

Ava kneels beside the couch, flipping up the blanket that had been tossed there in a hurry. “You think we can catch up?” she says, glancing back. “She may be ahead by maybe an hour— or two.”

Bucky’s attention is already pulling toward the back room. A door slightly ajar. He walks toward it slowly.

It’s bare. Mattress on the floor. A beat-up duffel sits half-zipped in the corner—emptied. The closet is wide open, nothing left inside. A cracked mirror hangs loosely on the wall. There’s a note thumbtacked to it.

Bucky walks over. He doesn’t touch it yet.

Just reads.

“Bucky. I know you’re gonna try to catch up. I just need to finish this one, please. Then I’m done. I’ll do whatever you need me to, I’ll turn myself in. Just don’t follow me.”

He exhales, low and tense.

Yelena appears in the doorway. “She’s still going after Tobin?”

“Yeah.” Bucky says quietly.

He walks around the room, slowly. His eyes catch the faint outlines in the dust where things had once been—a boot print near the edge of the bed. A smudge of dried blood on the doorframe. A water bottle left behind on the windowsill. Something personal about it all. Lived-in. Familiar.

He crouches near the bed, fingertips brushing over the floor. Something tucked just beneath it—folded paper. He pulls it out.

A hand-drawn sketch of Tobin’s compound, with notations scrawled all over it. Patterns. Timings. A small red X marked on the roof access.

She’d been planning this for days. He hands it to Yelena behind him. She reads it silently.

“She’s going in alone.”

“Seems like she doesn’t care if she makes it out.” Bucky mutters, jaw clenching.

Alexei leans against the hallway wall outside. “Then we better move.”

Walker grunts. “She’s already gone off the rails. You saw what she did to me. We’re not going there to talk.”

Bucky turns. Hard.

“We go in to contain, not to kill.” Walker scoffs but doesn’t argue—yet. Yelena quietly steps beside Bucky, voice low. “You sure you can stop her?”

He looks at the floor for a beat. Then back at the note. “I have to.”

Engines roar to life. The team moves out—vehicles pulling away from the curb, heading deeper into the outskirts. Toward Tobin.

Toward you.

-

The golden hour hit the water with a soft shimmer, the air thick and still, heavy with summer heat and something quieter—sorrow that had settled in the bones of the house like dust. The kids were down by the dock, voices faint. Sarah was inside, music playing low through the screen door.

And you… you hadn’t really spoken all day.

You sat on the porch, curled on the top step, arms resting on your knees. You were still wearing the sweatshirt Bucky had left behind. You’d washed it twice, but it still smelled like him in moments—faint leather and pine, a trace of engine oil.

Sam stepped out the door with two cold bottles of water and took the seat next to you without a word. He handed you one, which you took quietly, offering the smallest nod of thanks.

For a long while, you just sat there together. Watching the water, the sky, the breeze pulling slow across the grass.

“You’ve been quieter lately.” Sam said finally, soft but steady. You didn’t respond. Not right away. “The kids asked me if you were mad at them-“ he added. “Even Sarah’s been checking if she upset you.”

You winced. Not because he was accusing you, but because you had noticed how gentle everyone had been. How they were giving you space without saying they were giving you space.

“I’m not mad.” you whispered.

“I know.” Another long pause.

Then you said it. “I have to leave, Sam.”

Sam turned his head slowly. He’d expected it. You saw it in the way his expression didn’t even flinch. But that didn’t mean he liked hearing it.

“Where?” He asks softly.

“My brother, Marcus- he’s got a place upstate. Quiet. Off the map. I’ll be safe there.” Sam rubbed a hand across his mouth, then rested it on his knee. He watched the water, his eyes heavier than usual.

“You don’t have to go. You know that, right?” You didn’t say anything. Because you knew it. But it didn’t make a difference. Sam glanced sideways at you.

“This about Bucky?” The way your shoulders sank gave you away before you spoke.

“It’s everything. But yeah… mostly him.”

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. Something in your chest cracked and the pressure rose fast, painfully so. Before you could stop it, your voice broke. “He just left.”

Sam didn’t interrupt.

“Didn’t even say goodbye-“ you went on, wiping a tear that had already slipped free. “He was just gone. One day we were talking like maybe there was something real, and then the next, he vanished. Like none of it even mattered.” You wiped your cheeks again, but the tears kept falling.

“I can’t breathe here, Sam. I keep doing things I’d only do if he was still around. I make extra coffee in the morning. I leave the shed unlocked like he’ll be out there fixing something. Every time I hear boots on the porch, I—” Your voice cracked. “I think it’s him.”

Sam reached over and pulled you gently into his side, arm wrapping tight around your shoulders. You let yourself lean into it, the weight of your body slumping against him like you’d been carrying that grief around like a backpack full of bricks.

“I miss him.” you whispered.

Sam didn’t tell you it was going to be okay. He didn’t feed you lines about time healing everything. He just sat there with you as the sun dipped below the trees and the porch fell into shadow. The cicadas started up in the trees and the world kept moving, but for that small sliver of time, you let yourself be comforted. Let yourself fall apart without needing to explain it.

He kept his hand on your shoulder the whole time, grounding you. Steady. Present. “You don’t have to go.” he said again, gently. “But if you do… just don’t disappear on me.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

You nodded. “I promise.” You didn’t speak again that night.

-

The table between you and your brother was scratched and worn, edges frayed from years of weathering time and use. The stew had long gone lukewarm in the pot between you, neither of you in a rush to eat. The cabin creaked softly around you. A quiet that had lasted days.

You took another bite you didn’t want. Swallowed it like it meant something. Across from you, your brother finally spoke.

“You been sleepin’?”

You didn’t look at him. “Enough.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

You shrugged. “It’s not a real question.”

He sighed through his nose and scraped his spoon against the bowl. The sound grated in the quiet, but he didn’t stop.

“You’re different.” he said after a moment. “Since you got here.” You finally looked up. Your voice came out more brittle than you intended. “What do you mean?”

“Just… quiet. Like you’re somewhere else most the time. You leave your body, or your head, or whatever.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

You set your spoon down slowly, trying to find words that didn’t make your throat tighten. “I didn’t come here to be fixed.”

“I didn’t ask you to be..” he said, a little too quickly. “You needed space. I get that.” He leaned back in his chair, but didn’t meet your eyes.

“I just—I don’t know what to do.” he said. “I’ve been trying. Cooking, training with you, pretending it’s normal. But I can’t help you with the stuff that’s in there.” He tapped his chest, his jaw tightening. “I never learned how.” You blinked hard, turning your face to the window so he wouldn’t see your eyes. Your voice came out quieter. “I didn’t expect you to know how.” He nodded slowly. “Still feels like I’m failing.”

You sat in that silence. Heavy. Familiar. Safe, in a way that still hurt. Eventually, he spoke again. “This about him?” he asked softly. You hesitated. But there wasn’t a point in lying. You nodded. Just once. “The guy who left?”

“Bucky.”

“Right..Right.”

He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were red from splitting logs earlier. Always working. Always doing. “He say why?” he asked. You shook your head. “No. Just… gone.”

“You talk to Sam still?”

“A little.”

Another pause. He scratched at the corner of his mouth, unsure of what to say next. Then:“You love him?” You blinked.

“I think.”

“He love you?”

“I don’t know.” You looked back down at your bowl. You hadn’t touched it in ten minutes. Your throat felt too tight to eat.

“I think he did.” you added. “I just… think it might’ve scared him.”Your brother nodded again. Slow. Thoughtful “Then he’s an idiot.” That almost made you smile, but it didn’t quite reach.

“If he comes back…” your brother added, voice quieter now, “I’m beating him.” You scoff “You’re gonna fight the winter soldier?” Marcus rolls his eyes “he’s got nothing on an older brother.” A half laugh half scoff escaped your lips.

You let out a breath that shook a little. “I just wish it didn’t hurt so much. Even now.”

“Yeah.” he said. “That’s the part nobody tells you about. How long it lasts. How deep it gets in.” He rubbed a hand over his face, clearly trying to hide how useless he felt. “I ain’t great at this shit.” he admitted.

“You don’t have to be-“ you said. “Just… being here helps.” He looked at you, then gave a small, uncertain nod. The quiet returned. But it wasn’t empty.

He didn’t push more questions. And you didn’t try to fill the silence. He just stood after a while, grabbed both your bowls, and said—“I’ll clean up. You go lie down.”

You stayed in the chair for a few seconds longer after he left the room, then finally stood and walked to your bed, your chest still aching—but not quite as alone.

-

The forest was thick with the scent of moss and pine, damp from a recent storm. Long shadows stretched beneath the trees as evening crept in. The world was quiet here — but not still.

A branch cracked underfoot. Yelena paused, kneeling low to the earth, her fingers brushing a faint indentation in the mud.“She was here.” she muttered, frowning. “Hours ago. Maybe less.”

Bucky crouched beside her, squinting at the print — not a full boot mark, but enough. A shift in the moss, a disturbance in the pine needles just ahead. She was light on her feet— but the ground was still soft enough to betray her. He looked around, following the uneven rhythm of the forest floor. Discarded fabric snagged on a broken branch. Barely visible. But he saw it.

Walker stomped closer from behind, shield strapped to his back. “You sure it’s her?”

Yelena didn’t even look up. “She’s not exactly a tourist, John.” Ava stood nearby, arms folded, watching the treeline with narrowed eyes. “There’s hesitation in the path. She stopped here. Changed direction.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. His gaze followed the faint track through the brush — the moment your pace faltered, your steps growing wider apart, like you were stumbling. They all looked at him. “She’s limping a bit still. That’s why she’s veering off the trail. She doesn’t want us to see it.”

Alexei, leaning against a tree, exhaled through his nose. “If she’s slowing down, we catch her before nightfall.” Bucky didn’t reply. He stared deeper into the woods, eyes distant, cold wind brushing past his face.

He could almost see you moving ahead of them — shoulders tense, breath ragged, blood from unkept wounds seeping into your clothes as you pushed harder. The memory of your voice still rattled in the back of his skull. “I’ll turn myself in after.” He stood.

“We move quiet. She’ll hear us before she sees us.” Walker scoffed. “She’s out of options, Barnes. We close in now and take her before she gets any closer to her target.”

“No.” Bucky snapped. His voice was firm but low. “We don’t spook her. You scare her into a corner, someone’s gonna get hurt. Maybe her. Maybe us.” There was a brief silence.

Yelena met his eyes, then gave a short nod. “I’ll take left. Ava, with me. Walker, Alexie- loop north.” They dispersed, boots silent against wet soil.

Bucky lingered for a second. He bent down, fingers brushing the thread of fabric on the branch again. Pale. Torn at the edge. Familiar.

He didn’t pocket it. Just looked at it a moment longer, jaw clenched, then stood and followed the trail. The woods were swallowing the light fast.

And somewhere ahead, you were still running.

[freedelusionshere]

They set up all of the stuff that was in S4 and circled back around to it.

On rewatch, Emmanuel had meds for a heart condition. So he finally does have a heart attack and Syd, she protects her relationship with her dad because it’s so precious to her.

Syd is afraid of being in love with Carmy just as he is with her. And it’s not just Carmy she names his family as part of the chaos, which is true.

Her life with her dad is very chill. She didn’t want Carmy at the hospital on one level and on another probably did for herself but she’s protecting her dad from their chaos. And you can tell this isn’t what Emmanuel wants, for her to be afraid and put her life on hold for him, but she has and then thrown in pretty much everything else she has left over into work.

Syd does have friends and she doesn’t prioritize them, and is starting now to realize, like Carmy she needs a life outside of work, too, because her dad isn’t going to be there with her forever. That’s why she chooses to stay because the Berzattos are also her family, even though they’re messy.

Her running and being chased in her dream by a bear and trapped in this very white cooking show where she’s dressed like Martha Stewart (or young Donna, take your pick) is her feeling stuck. She even gets the same red/blue lighting mix of hot/cold.

Carmy tells her she’s The Bear because he doesn’t want to be it, but he knows she loves this and it’s important to her, and the restaurant is a source of life with her in it, and he’s messed up. However, patterns and Carmy are such that he’s now reenacting what his father did to his mother. Which is what Donna kinda warns Syd about at the wedding. It’s what Lee warns him about himself.

Carmy spends most of the season trying to be better and also focusing on his past, Mikey in particular. As I said on another post, Carmy and Richie were destroyed by the mask wearing and the toxic masculinity they were around. No one was ever emotionally honest. People wore masks.

Carmy was always pretending and trying to be someone more than who he was. He had all the professional success and it wasn’t enough for him which is what Tina hits on. So when you take that away of course he says he doesn’t know who he is inside the restaurant and like Syd, he never bothered to make a life outside the restaurant or try until recently with Claire.

He doesn’t think Syd will see him as anything without being the guy who is great and so good at this and he’s burnt out trying to be that. He wants more and up until she yells at him, “You’re my partner!” I don’t think he believed that she wanted that from him or thought of him like that as anything but related to their work relationship, because she won’t let him in closer.

And he says he’s her friend which is of course a throwback to that “friend that’s a girl” conversation because he’s been trying to be a friend and not the other thing he was trying to be for once. He told her in the first episode he liked being there with her and she said it sounded depressing and by the time he goes to apologize to Claire he’s already decided what he’s going to do.

He also finds out Syd very likely was never going to sign the partnership agreement and she wasn’t telling him about Shapiro so all he had left to give her was the restaurant but without the thing fucking it up which was himself. And he’s right. But also, he needs to stay and fix the mess he made. Which, it will keep coming up all season that he doesn’t do that and leaves when things get hard. So he starts trying to do emotionally hard things.

But Claire is also stuck and has some kind of darkness in her past and it’s not going to work because he’ll realize without people growing around you, you will stop growing. Carmy has already run before. He wants to find himself outside of cooking and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his family or Syd. Claire literally tells him he can’t run away like that from her and then he immediately makes plans on running.

He turns to Claire because she knows his family is chaotic and it’s a source of shame to him, he is embarrassed by them, Richie is correct. He’s learning not to be and just accept them as flawed people, like he is, which will help him to stop busting his own balls.

Claire’s residency is up so she’s also free to leave. But Claire sends Carmy digging around into his past (like she did for that green sweatshirt in Mikey’s closet of secrets) and all season he’s like in the worst part of Groundhog Day where he realizes he didn’t know Mikey at all, that he’s been holding onto anger and resentment, that he’s not the best at his job it’s the woman he’s in love with, and that he’s terrible and has gotten in her way.

But he hasn’t made it yet to the part of the movie yet where he stays to fix the chaos and in doing so fixes himself. He hasn’t gotten to the part yet where he wakes up and the clock radio plays a different song.

However, that fight in the last episode and them all actually being honest with each other and realizing that if he wants to leave he’s going to have to come up with a plan and that he’s not just getting to bail and get off easy is what he agrees to.

Syd is also a part of their family now she stopped running away from that, and like they said at the wedding once you are a bear you are always a bear.

That’s what is set up for S5.

[liobi]

Finish the Job, a Mafia AU bad end

okay so for context, I was working on some lotus eater machine stellaron stuff for @thedeerus's Time Is Running Out au which involved Stelle having a dream where there were no super powers and she and Caelus were in college and everything was fine, and Haris jumped off that with an idea that Nanook and Akivili ran a crime syndicate and the stellaron hunters were there to probe some rich kids who probably didn't know what their parents got up to for information to make that organization collapse.

That led to "well, rich kids and arranged fiances, right?" So Dan Heng and Sparkle got in the mix, (then the bullet points for this ending made us so sad that we legitimately started shipping Stelle and Sparkle so there's also a happily after ending titled (Don't) Finish The Job where Sparkle and Stelle do something about their growing feelings for each other and Stelle acknowledges she has two hands and both Kafka and Sparkle are happy to share her)(Dan Heng and Firefly uhhhh sure do. get along extremely well with Caelus in the biblical sense.... absolute bunny shit). I'll probably put all this stuff on AO3 eventually once i clean it up/make it less like the fanfic equivalent of a sketch by my standards, same with Time is Running Out. So yeah Mafia au is an AU of the Time is Running Out au and I hope you enjoy the bad end, without further ado..... Title; Path of Destruction

The socially mandated date nights between the heirs to Nanook’s “art dealing business” and their arranged fiancees were generally uneventful. Dinners at nice restaurants, box seats at sports games or theatrical productions, maybe a red carpet or two, the usual things that rich brats with nothing better to do did with their arranged future marriage partners. These dates were public affairs so business was kept firmly separate unless absolutely necessary. But this time business was intruding on Stelle’s date whether she liked it or not.

One too many phones pointed in their direction, a car that had circled the block twice, rain had begun to fall hard enough that her range of vision had shortened, and most crucially her parentally mandated tail had vanished. 

“What's wrong, grey hair?” Her fiancee looked at her quizzically when she slowed on their run for cover, not having noticed yet. Sparkle was better than Stelle at navigating people, but Stelle was better than Sparkle at navigating situations and this one reeked. So Stelle made a beeline for the nearby alleyway, holding tight to Sparkle’s arm despite her protests, to where a beat up pewter goblet had been placed to collect coins from sympathetic passersby.

“Are you troupe?” Stelle stood over a rambling homeless woman holding a wet cardboard sign that said “repent” as a futile shield against the rain. The woman didn't stop her ramblings but she gave the slightest incline of her head, and that was good enough for Stelle. “We might be fucked, get her out of here.” 

The speed in which the woman showed her goblet, stood, and readied at least six different weapons under her clothes impressed and frightened Stelle. Sparkle was affronted by Stelle’s disregard. “Grey hair if you don't tell me what's going on-”

“Just some stuff me and my guys have to take care of. I'll be back soon.” Stelle interrupted her, turning over Sparkle's arm to the incognito Mourning Actor. Sparkle started to say something else but the sentence was silenced by a kiss that was rough, joyless, exhausted, and tasted like deceit.

It was not the usual kiss of obligation, not the occasional kiss between politically arranged spouses that belied the unspoken seeds of affection between them in their private moments, this was the kiss of farewells. “See you later, Hanabi.”

Without a moment to spare the troupe member hustled Sparkle down the alleyway despite her protests. “Asshole! Grey hair! Stelle!!” 

And then she was out of sight and Stelle walked deliberately step by step into the road in front of the oncoming car before it could circle the block again. She sent a text to her brother as the car slowed to a stop.

I’m probably fucked.

Woof, me too.

That wasn't exactly comforting but at least she knew she had company in her misery. Occasionally Stelle and Caelus would have double dates and she was kicking herself that tonight wasn't one of those nights. As long as they were together they were basically invincible. As it was now, she only had her knife for company.

But then she got a text in the family group chat. It was from Nanook, and it was only one word.

Run.

They were turbo fucked.

.

.

.

.

“Did you text the kids?” A voice from upstairs called over the loud sloshing noises. Nanook snapped their old flip phone shut and climbed the villa stairs to see Akivili splashing kerosene onto every potentially flammable surface. “I already got the East and West wings, and I sent the staff through the escape tunnels. I think I’ll be done in abouuuuut ten minutes if I’m being careful, and three minutes if you decide fuck it we ball.”

Nanook took in the house. The family portrait of the two of them and their children, the halls full of so many memories, the life that they and Akivili had managed to build for themselves despite being orphans that came from nothing. Granted, what they built when they came to this country was a criminal empire, but every family had its own quirks.

“Whoever is attacking us is using a PMC, and they turned some of our guys.” Nanook sighed. The gunfire was steadily getting closer, the intruders had made it past the security gate because someone from the inside had opened it. “I guess I wasn't thorough enough with our housecleaning.”

Akivili stepped closer and laid their head against Nanook’s chest. Nanook rested their chin on the crown of Akivili’s head. The two of them basked in the relative silence and kerosene fumes as the distant gunfire drew closer. Akivili broke the silence. “We had a good run, didn't we Nano?”

“Do you have to call me that right now?”

“Awww, are you pouting? I remember when you were sooooo much smaller than me, just a little kid taking care of some rich asshole’s horses to make barely enough to buy some bread scraps.”  Akivili leaned back to meet Nanook's gaze with a tired, defeated smile.

“And I still remember the teenager who had more in common with a raccoon than a person, who hid in a haystack while they were running away from the local thugs they'd pissed off.” the corners of Nanook’s mouth turned upwards despite themself. “As long as the kids get to your Nameless network they should be safe.” 

“And as long as they're with their betrothed, they won't risk a fight. So they'll be fine.”

.

.

.

.

“I don't think it's a good idea for us to get separated. I think it's an even worse idea for you to get out of the car.” Dan Heng said as Caelus directed the driver to pull into an upcoming gas station and immediately leave as soon as he left the car. “We can lose whoever is following us, Qingni is one of the best drivers the Loufu jituan has.”

“The car up front is some sort of custom model, heavily armored, and I can already tell has more power than we do.” Caelus was mentally kicking himself. They'd gone to the opera so he'd left his knives and gun at home like an idiot instead of leaving them in the car like a reasonable mafioso. As it stood, all he had was his phone, his credit card, and a lighter. “Their plan is probably to wait until we’re in a less populated area and run us off the road with that monster.”

Dan Heng refused to break eye contact. “I’d rather we risk that over you facing whoever is pursuing us alone and unprotected.”

He was so sweet. That was why Caelus had no choice but to ignore his wishes. Dan Heng was the child of a clan steeped in politics and business, not crime. The last thing he needed was to be wrapped up in the legitimately dangerous bits of Caelus’s life. Caelus shot a look to Qingni in the mirror and she nodded.

Caelus was already opening the door when the car rolled to a stop. Dan Heng tried to protest, but Caelus swallowed it all with a kiss. 

“Don't worry, I'll be fine.” He said, pulling out his phone. He pulled up a photo from a day prior, a pregnancy test with two pink lines on the indicator, and showed it to his half panicking fiance. Caelus grinned at the understanding dawning in Dan Heng's eyes. “I’m extremely invested in staying safe after all.”

“Is… it mine?”

“Wow, way to trust your fiance.” Caelus laughed at the blush spreading across Dan Heng's face all the way to his ears. “To be honest I have no clue, the only time I haven't used protection was when it was both you and Firefly at once.”

“Ah, well, that was-”

“We were all drunk, it's fine.” Dan Heng was looking away sheepishly and Caelus took the opportunity to slip out of the car. He shut the door and knocked on the roof and it drove off before Dan Heng could offer any more protests. 

Caelus made the insane preparations that he could in the time he had, but not thirty seconds later, eight cars pulled into the gas station and surrounded him, the nightmare car leading the charge. All Caelus had managed to cobble together was an idea with a lighter and the gas station itself but he wasn't sure exactly how useful it would be against that mobile tank.

From seven of the cars, a swarm of people in nondescript black suits emerged, their firearms poorly concealed in their jackets. From the driver's seat of the custom car a woman wearing a helmet climbed out before coming around to open the rear door for the vehicle’s single passenger and offered a hand.

A woman with long purple hair, dressed in designer fashion and finery, stepped from the vehicle ever so lightly taking the hand of the woman in the helmet. Caelus recognized her, she was in interviews and magazine covers often enough. Jade, the CIO of the International Peace Corporation, a conglomerate big enough to rival the combined might of the Xianzhou jituans. A man in shades with a sword emerged from the crowd of goons and stood next to her, and the woman in the helmet visibly relaxed at his presence.

“Come here often, miss?” Caelus was grinning but his mind was racing. If they were here to just kill him then he was out of luck, but if there was a different angle he was sure he could play his cards right to get out of the situation. “I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting an IPC executive before.”

Jade brought her hand to her mouth, giving a polite laugh. “Before we get into any more of this lovely banter, let me just make it clear. We have no intention of harming you, we just need you to come with us for a while.”

Ah, a kidnapping. Caelus was relieved he'd sent Dan Heng away after all.

.

.

.

.

Kafka watched Stelle’s eyes dawn in realization when she stepped out of the car with Topaz. Six other cars had partially surrounded her in a loose semicircle, and Topaz’s goons were already out with their hands on their concealed weapons. Kafka’s own guns were in plain sight in her shoulder holsters.

“Ah man.” Stelle said with a great heaving sigh looking at Kafka’s guns. “I thought I was good at spotting incognito IPC folks. You're on a whole ‘nother level Miss Kafka.”

She was surprised that Stelle addressing her formally stung as much as it did. Until this moment, she had gotten close enough that Stelle just called her Kafka even at school. “I'm not IPC, but semantics don't really matter all that much in this situation, do they Stelle?”

Stelle's eyes were full of something between exasperation, anger, and grief as Kafka could see her sizing up the gathered forces. She was probably figuring the odds of if she could either fight her way out or flee in a way that got her clear of the whole affair. Kafka wanted to say something, anything to dull the tired malice in Stelle’s gaze, but before she could Topaz cleared her throat.

“You must be Stelle. I’m Topaz, a strategic acquisitions project manager for the IPC.”  Topaz’s red umbrella was like a warning light against the black cars and black suits of the IPC goons. “I’ve heard a lot about you and I would love to hear more from you directly. Would you be so kind as to come with us?”

“So this is a kidnapping, not an assassination.” 

Topaz paused, then began to laugh. “Why on earth would we kill the daughter of an art dealer?” With a slight twitch of her finger, her team began inching closer and closer towards Stelle. “We would just like to discuss a brand deal for our fashion sector, your engagement photos made quite the splash online after all.” 

Kafka remembered the photos. Stelle and her brother wearing collars and muzzles standing next to their seated fiancees who had them on leashes. They had sparked things in Kafka. Igniting her libido for her target was one of them, but they'd also caused a pang in her chest she didn't quite understand. 

Stelle was a target for her job, not someone she was interested in. Her job just happened to be aided by hooking up the cute university student she was probing for info.

“We all know you aren't here to offer a brand deal, just like I know my brother is probably surrounded just like this.” Stelle finally said, still sizing up the approaching goons closing in on her. “My brother and I are mafia princes of the Caos family, we should all just be honest.”

“So you do know. When Kafka said it was only a possibility you might know the truth, we had to build some contingencies into our plan.”  Topaz took out her phone and typed something that Kafka couldn't see. “The brand deal is real, for the record. Who knows? After everything is finished you and your brother might just take us up on it.”

Stelle sighed, turning her weary eyes to Kafka. “So if you aren't IPC, what are you?”

“My group specializes in small-scale espionage and destabilization.” Kafka’s heart was pounding as Stelle’s eyes pierced her soul. Her adrenaline was spiking but she didn't know why. “We’ve taken similar jobs for other groups, this was just another one.”

She took a step towards Stelle, and then another. Kafka could see every single muscle of hers ready to bolt or fight, the younger woman just hadn't decided yet. “Come with us Stelle, come with me. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Stelle looked at the goons. She looked at Topaz. She looked into Kafka's eyes. She let out all the air in her lungs almost as if she was deflating. Stelle looked up at Kafka with a defeated smirk. “Can I at least get one last kiss? You're supposed to give those to people you betray.”

Kafka took the last step and then she was next to Stelle. She cupped the younger woman’s face as Stelle leaned into it, looking at her with her big golden eyes. She really was cute.

Their lips met, their breath mingled. Stelle's breathing hitched as Kafka's tongue pressed against her lips, her teeth, and at last her tongue. When Kafka came away they were both breathless and wearing Kafka’s pink lipstick.

And then Stelle pounced. Before Kafka or any IPC personnel could react, Stelle grabbed Kafka and spun her around. One of her arms wrapped around Kafka pinning her arms to her side, preventing her from pulling her own weapons out, while her other hand pulled a knife from god knows where. The sharp edge of the blade was cool against Kafka's neck. Stelle raised her voice. “Let me go, or else your very talented espionage specialist is going to bleed out in the gutter.”

The IPC goons froze, Topaz didn't. She pulled out her own gun and immediately shot Stelle in the shoulder. Kafka felt the impact. Blood splashed onto her face, hot against the cold rain. Stelle stumbled backwards and Kafka got clear.

Topaz stepped forward and fired again, this time hitting Stelle in the chest. Stelle fell to her knees and Topaz took one final step, leveling her gun at the Mafia daughter's heart. “Sorry things turned out like this, kid.”

And then Topaz shot Stelle one last time and walked back to her car. Kafka watched the younger woman fall back, dark red blood mixing with the flowing water on the street. Stelle’s eyes were half closed when they met hers, their usual vibrant golden hue now a dark yellow as the light was leaving them. “Why do you… look so… sc…”

Stelle’s final words were cut short as her body went limp and all life left her.

“Are you coming?” Topaz called from the car. When Kafka didn't respond, Topaz sighed dramatically enough to be heard over the rain at a distance. “I'll send a car when you call for one.”

Following their project manager, all the other goons got into their cars and drove off into the rainy night.

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Sparkle heard the gunshots before she made it to the mouth of the alleyway. Her arms and knees burned and bled from the falls she had taken running away from her guard, but she kept running until she burst out into the open. Kafka was standing there, and Stelle was lying in the street with her blood washing away down the gutter. Sparkle dove for Stelle, scraping her knees all over again on the wet asphalt as Kafka stared dumbly. 

“Hey, grey hair! Get up, we have to go!” Holding Stelle, she felt how warm she still was. There was a hole in her shoulder and two in her chest and yet she was still so warm that Sparkle could have lied to herself that Stelle was faking, that they were about to go home, maybe climb into a bath because they were so wet and cold. Then they would curl up together in warm pajamas and blankets to watch one of Stelle’s old movies, because Sparkle chose the restaurant, which wouldn’t have subtitles and Stelle would translate every line of dialogue with an exaggerated Italian accent, and would probably throw some fakes in there to fuck with her.

That’s what was going to happen. That was the plan for the night. “Anata… Stelle… please…”

Kafka just stood there in the rain, silent but for the sound of her breathing. Stelle’s lips were stained pink with the remnants of Kafka’s lipstick. Sparkle brought her forehead to Stelle’s, and when she came away she too had the same pink-stained lips. Kafka cleared her throat, and Sparkle saw it then. The traces of emotions not known to Kafka but written on every inch of her face.

“What are you scared of, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Scared?” The “spider woman” as Sparkle had called her what felt like ages ago now had a dawning light in her eyes. “Oh. That’s what this feeling is.”

It started as a chuckle, then a bark. Then Sparkle laughed despite herself. She laughed and she laughed and she laughed and laughed until her voice was hoarse and the tears were streaming down her face. She held Stelle’s cooling body close. 

“I was ready to give her to you. Wasn’t that enough? Her love, her adoration, all of that was yours to have freely. So why did you have to take her life? The one thing she had to give me, the one thing that was mine and mine alone.”

When Kafka didn’t speak, Sparkle couldn’t help but fall into another grief-stricken laughing fit. “I’m sorry.” Kafka finally said.

Through her laughter, Sparkle managed to get her handbag open and find what she was looking for. She pulled out her snub-nosed revolver, and Kafka quickly pulled her own guns on Sparkle. She laughed again. “Relax, this isn’t for you.”

Sparkle loaded a singular bullet into the cylinder. “I told her I’d follow her anywhere she went no matter what. As a mob wife it’s only right, after all.” And with that simple proclamation, before Kafka could do anything, Sparkle put the gun under her jaw. “I’ll tell her you said hello when I get to hell.”

She squeezed the trigger.

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.

And Kafka was left alone with two dead bodies in the rain.

She stayed like that for god knows how long, watching as the blood from the dead women mixed with the rainwater, separate blood trails joining as one as they meandered their way into the gutter and towards the storm drains. Maybe that’s all hell was, the storm drains where your blood finally mingled with those you couldn’t have.

Maybe that was the thought that finally broke her. Kafka pulled out her phone, dialing Silver Wolf’s newest phone number without having much conscious thought at all.

“You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t find an umbrella or something.” a sardonic voice said without preamble. 

Of course Silver Wolf was watching somehow. She had once bragged to Kafka how even though she rarely stepped outside for anything other than moving safe houses, she’d been to more places in the world than Kafka, Blade, and Firefly combined. “Do you want me to tip someone off to come get their bodies?”

“Are you done making the exit plan file?”

“You mean the one that’s a threat that guarantees us our safety from the IPC after this job so they don’t treat us like loose ends to clean up? Yes I’m done making it, I was done making it like a week after we took this job. If anything, I’ve just been tweaking it as I find more and more dirt on them. At this point it’s more of a hydrogen bomb than it is an exit plan.” Silver Wolf’s dry, sarcastic tone faded as warriness crept in and took its place. “Why?”

“I just…” Kafka didn’t know why she was about to do this, but somehow it was the only path she could see out. She felt sick to her stomach, she was hyperventilating, and in all likelihood this new emotion of hers was sending her into shock. “Give it to her brother, tell him I'm sorry. She wasn't supposed to die, none of them were. They're all more useful to the IPC alive than they are dead, and yet…”

The pause on the other end of the line seemed to last forever, until finally, “Are you really sure you want to do this? It might fuck us all.”

When Kafka didn’t respond, Silver Wolf sighed.

“I’ll send it. Depending on what happens I might not talk to everyone for a while, I'll contact you when it's safe again.” The line went dead, and Kafka knew that whatever she had done couldn’t be walked back any longer.

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The first thing Caelus had done when they pulled up was to swipe his credit card at the gas pump, the second was to pull the nozzle from its nest, and the third was to grab his lighter. Firefly appreciated that her childhood friend turned situationship’s first instinct was to improvise a flame thrower when out of better options. 

She hadn’t removed her helmet yet, as she didn’t want to make things any more awkward or uncomfortable than they were already going to be. Once they took Caelus in she’d ask for some private time with him, explain that, while yes she was in fact part of a group that came to covertly extract information from them, she hadn’t realized that he or Stelle had known what it was their parents did for a living. 

Regardless, the original plan was that she and her friends were going to ensure that nothing bad happened to either of them while they were in IPC custody. They’d be taken to safe houses far, far away from here once the whole destabilizing a crime empire business was finished.

If she played her cards right, she might even come out of this whole situation with her childhood friends having a positive opinion of her. As long as neither of them were harmed in the whole affair, she was reasonably sure she stood a chance.

“Why don't you put the gas hose back where it belongs, and I'll promise neither you nor your sister will be hurt.” Jade said after a moment.

“Ah man, you guys are after her too? What guarantees do I have that you'll keep your word?” Caelus was clearly eyeing all the IPC mooks and probably doing his own risk assessment. 

“I never break my word.” Jade looked at Firefly and smiled. “But if it makes you feel any better, I can have my team draft up a contract and my driver here will bring it over to you.”

Firefly silently nodded. Caelus looked back and forth between the two. He finally sighed, resignation clear in his voice. “Alright, send them over.”

It only took Jade a couple minutes to prepare everything on a tablet before she sent Firefly over with it. Firefly handed it to Caelus who quickly read through it. When he was done he handed it back to Firefly.

“I still have some concerns, such as what will be our accommodations, a guarantee for the safety of our parents…” he clearly thought about something and laughed. “And a nearby toilet for me, morning sickness is a bitch.”

“What??” The word slipped before Firefly could stop it, and Caelus's head whipped towards her.

“No fucking way.” His gaze pierced her helmet, made her feel naked, exposed, and unbelievably guilty. “Please tell me that's not you, Firefly.” 

Firefly stayed frozen as his fingers gently slipped under her helmet and pulled it from her head. Her hair cascaded down around her face in a way that would have been attractive if not for the fact that Caelus wore a look of betrayal as intense as her own look of guilt. She could barely get out her choked response “Sorry.”

“Don't be too hard on her.” Jade’s voice seeped in like a sweet poison in the rain. “The IPC owns her artificial heart, and we’re the only ones who can maintain it. No other company or back alley doctor, no matter how skilled, could manage it. That's how we designed it after all.”

Before Caelus could do or say anything else, his phone chimed. He looked at Jade. “Surely you won't have me shot for checking my texts, right?”

“By all means, feel free.”

Caelus pulled it out, eyes scanning the screen. He paused, as if he was unsure what he was looking at. Then Firefly watched the light in his golden eyes go dark, any tension or defiance in his body deflated. 

In one second he went from being ready to take on the entire world to looking dead inside. He typed something on his phone before he dropped it onto the wet concrete, and with barely a pause he stomped on it again and again and again. 

Firefly, the IPC goons, and even Jade were taken aback by the ferocity Caelus used to destroy the phone. Light had returned to his eyes, but it wasn't anything resembling life. It was just white hot fury and hatred. He was panting by the time he was finished and his voice came out a snarl. “My sister, my other half, the best parts of me, is fucking dead.”

Firefly's heart dropped into her stomach. No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. The two of them were supposed to be safe. They weren't supposed to get hurt. If anything happened to either of them, her world may as well end. She couldn't bring herself to say anything, she could only stare at Caelus's face, once identical to Stelle's, twisted by rage to the point where he was almost unrecognizable.

“That… wasn't supposed to happen.”  Jade finally said.

That withering gaze slowly turned towards Firefly. She had to say something, anything. “I just wanted to protect both of you.” She managed to choke out.

“You sure did a great fucking job.” Caelus had a humorless bark of laughter. “Honestly if I knew this was going to be the end result, I wouldn't have asked Nanook to pay for your treatment when we were kids.”

She looked into his eyes, and there was no love, no tenderness for Firefly in Caelus's gaze. Only all consuming hatred. “I wish you had fucking died in that hospital.”

One of the IPC goons’ phones dinged, then another, and another after that. Then Jade’s rang and it was a never ending torrent of notifications. Some of the goons looked and their faces suddenly filled with shock and horror. Jade looked at her own notifications and her face crystalized cold anger. “Should I assume you're responsible for this?”

“Is it about a streamer leaking all the IPC’s dirty secrets? I'm glad Guinaifen already put it to good use.” Caelus now wore a grin with zero mirth.

“She's associated with the jituans if memory serves.” Jade’s own gentle, calculating smile was gone. “Firefly, come here.”

“Enjoy your board meeting tomorrow.” Caelus taunted.

Not even bothering to respond, Jade turned towards the car as soon as Firefly was by her side. “Shoot him.” 

Firefly whipped around but the IPC forces had already opened fire. The bullets rocked Caelus, riddling his body full of holes, but as he fell he looked almost at peace. He was joining his other half.

“Firefly, please return me to Pier Point. I'll have to make preparations to speak to the board.” Firefly was numb. Everything was too much, and all she could do through shock was to open the car’s door for Jade. “If that pregnancy was due to your own involvement with him, I do sincerely apologize.”

Later, Firefly would realize she couldn't recall ever driving Jade back to Pier Point. She couldn't recall much of the following days either.

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When Aventurine and his team finally managed to breach the grounds of Nanook and Akivili's mansion, they had already donned full gas masks due to the “metric fuck ton,” as he would put it, of tear gas deployed against them. Due to that, none of the team noticed the fact that the manor absolute reeked of kerosene fumes.

There was a loud clack of a flip phone being shut violently from what Aventurine surmised was a sitting room when he turned towards it to see Akivili and Nanook sitting in high backed chairs on either end of an unlit fireplace staring directly at him. “Just the two I was hoping to speak to.”

“If you're here, should we assume that the rest of our people are dead?” Nanook asked.

“You Annihilation Gang folks can sure put up a hell of a fight, especially that Celenova.” It was true, Aventurine had lost about seventy percent of his forces just getting to the mansion. “Those we could take alive we did, but that wasn't many of them.”

“That's a shame, I really admired her.” Akivili sighed, slouching over in their chair as they pulled out an old lighter to fiddle with.  

Nanook looked at them with a raised eyebrow. “You hated the way she did things.”

“That doesn't mean I didn't admire her determination.” Akivili responded simply. 

“Regardless of the tragic circumstances of our meeting, all I was hoping for was to talk to you about a real estate proposal.” Aventurine held up his hand, leaving his forces in the foyer as he entered the sitting room alone. “I do deeply regret it took all this to get to this point.”

Akivili looked at him incredulously. “You did all this… to build a mall on our turf?”

“Not a mall per se, but we do have quite a vested interest in the area.” Aventurine smiled, now standing before the two of them. “Assuming we can come to an agreement, all of this unsavory business can come to an end this instant.”

Akivili and Nanook looked at each other and sighed. Nanook turned their gaze to Aventurine, staring into his soul. “Tell me boy, do you have any children of your own?”

“Can't say that's my thing, no.”

“It was difficult for us to bring them into this world to begin with, and even then the pregnancy was riddled with complications.” Akivili looked like they would have put a hand on their spouse’s shoulder while Nanook told the story if they could reach them. “Near the end, the three of us barely held on.”

“I admire your perseverance.” Aventurine said honestly.

“Those two are our everything, our twin stars for whom we have built this entire empire to eventually gift to them.” Akivili said, turning their dull gaze to Aventurine as well.

Nanook took a deep breath in and out as if they were about to reveal the secrets of the world. “And now those stars have been extinguished at the hands of your corporation.”

Oh. Well fuck, that wasn't the plan at all. Aventurine wanted to say something to try and get the odds of the situation even slightly in his favor but Akivili spoke before he could.

“Now that our little stars have gone out, we might as well let this entire empire burn and hope the ashes choke everyone responsible to death.”

The two crime lords clasped hands across the fireplace. Akivili struck the flint wheel of the lighter and dropped it, the flame igniting the very air around it as it fell. It struck the ground, the fire spreading so fast Aventurine didn't even have time to process what was happening. When the flames found the collections of explosives Nanook had set around the house, the concussive force ripped through every last IPC member until no one was left to witness the mansion becoming a fireball climbing towards the heavens, a funeral pyre memorializing the twin stars Nanook and Akivili would have given everything for.

At last, the awful night came to an end.

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The following weeks were consequences and fallout on all sides of the conflict. Thanks to Caelus’s choice to send all the dirt Silver Wolf had given him to a streamer affiliated with one of the Xianzhou jituans, the story had been spun that their family had been embroiled in a real estate scheme managed by an IPC affiliated company. 

Many people correctly inferred it was a shell corporation and that there was more involved than that, but the majority of people only knew the narrative the Xianzhou was selling. A couple of art dealers who had come from nothing and were heavily involved in philanthropy and giving back to their communities had died in a house fire and their children had been shot all on the same night, all because the IPC wanted the real estate of the community they supported. 

They had died as heroes and shining examples of how good people could be, not as the horrifying crime lords they actually were.

Silver Wolf paid the price for supplying that dirt, though. Despite being at one of her many safehouses, they lost contact within a few days and she was found having apparently committed suicide. 

The Loufu group, despite only being involved in the political and financial worlds, had their own ways of dealing with things. They had apparently lost patience with their former member Blade the night that the fiance of one of the young scions of the clan died. So Blade vanished, and Kafka couldn’t find any trace. 

IPC stock had fallen significantly, sinking 35% in a single week. Several subsidiary companies went out of business all at once, including some supermarkets that had pushed all local competition out of the space. Their shareholders tried to replace Diamond as CEO, but for whatever reason the push for that ended the next day. 

Due to Kafka and Firefly’s potential involvement with the whole situation, Kafka had expected them to need to go underground. Much to her surprise though, whether out of recognition for their contributions or in an effort to keep them on a leash, the two of them had been offered jobs with the company. 

Firefly was offered the position of being the Board of Directors’ personal driver, a job she was guaranteed to excel in. After a long deliberation, she agreed to the position when lifetime maintenance and support for her artificial heart was included in the benefits package. 

As for Kafka, after a long and grueling session of questioning as to why immediately prior to Silver Wolf giving Caelus a nuclear warhead of scandal material she had called the woman, she was offered the chance to be a head of one of their new departments focused on “market research”. It was really just more corporate espionage and Kafka knew it. 

She rejected the offer and went into hiding, not wanting to be included in any last minute loose end trimming that the IPC may have felt it needed to perform so they could focus on stock recovery. 

Kafka would eventually go on to write a tell-all autobiography about her experiences with the espionage, the charming mafia princess, and the personal tragedies of the characters in the halcyon days before the IPC had completely consumed the city. She lived in a little cottage in the forest where no one could ever bother her unless she wanted them to, and that’s where she spent the rest of her days. She knew fear, she had known and lost love, and now she was learning to make peace with her soul.

And that was really all she could do after everything. 

They had finished the job.

[tarotapprentice]

How's Jungkook doing? - tarot reading

Emotional Balance & Inner Conflict

Jungkook is trying to reconcile two very different sides of himself emotionally and mentally.

There’s an attempt to blend opposing feelings and thoughts into one conclusion or direction, but it is not easy.

It feels like he’s saying:

“I want peace, but I also feel angry. I want to be free, but I also want to feel understood.”

There’s also a desire to be okay with things that can’t be changed. To accept the bad with the good, without letting it eat away at his inner peace.

Refusing Pressure & Protecting His Space

The Nine of Wands reversed shows a need to drop pressure, responsibility, and expectation. He wants a break from carrying everything emotionally, mentally, maybe even socially.

He’s refusing to let others put weight on him that doesn’t belong to him. There’s a clear “don’t make me feel responsible for your disappointment” energy.

This connects with the Two of Swords:

“I’m not deciding right now. I’m not giving in. I know what I’m doing and I’ll act when I’m ready.”

There’s a deep desire for comfort, stability, and celebration in a private space. The Four of Wands suggests he wants to enjoy his close relationships and protect his inner circle.

The imagery here is of people trying to peek into a house that’s not theirs, and him firmly closing the door with the two of swords and the nine of wands that stand before the four of wands:

“This is our space. This is sacred. I’m not letting outsiders in.”

Freedom & Rebellion

The Fool is his core emotional state. He wants to be free. Free of expectation, judgment, manipulation. He wants to do what feels right, even if it’s unpredictable or non-traditional.

It reminds me of his career reading I shared where I said that even if ten people tell him no, he will say yes if that is what he feels is the right answer. A bit to just be rebellious but most importantly because he knows that is the right path for him.

He’s refusing to be turned into a pet project or an object others can direct.

“I’m not your bird to cage. I’ll fly where I choose.”

This image is the same image that I got for his career reading for the second half of this year not so long ago (have not shared this one). I saw him as a bird leaving the nest and on his journey he would meet different kind of people with different intentions. Some of them will just admire him, others will try to capture him, some will offer him shelter and others will try to shoot or throw rocks at him.

He decides if and when he wants to depart on a new journey. Temporarily leaving the nest (this is the four of wands) but he for sure will always return to it.

Oracle Cards Pulled:

The Empath

The Feral

Give It a Whirl

The empath and the feral are one of the opposites I mentioned in the Temperance. Jungkook is balancing two strong emotional sides.

The Empath represents his hurt and disappointment.

The Feral represents his fire, the anger, the frustration, the rebellious shout he is holding back: “Who do you think you are to judge me?”

He's trying to take these opposite reactions and mix them into something stable. The image of the temperance is pouring water from one cup to the other. Like mixing a potion trying to get to clarity and eventually a solution.

The give it a whirl-card is literally saying that he is mixing these two energies, creating a new potion, the solution: It symbolizes a break in pattern. Jungkook is done doing things the way he has in certain areas of his life. He wants to approach things differently. This can be how deals with pressure, or people’s expectations, but also personal relationships/matters and his career/interests (there are many potions he is creating that have different combinations).

There’s also an image of him blocking out the noise (see goggles and blindfold on the two of swords). He’s filtering: letting only his inner compass and intuition show him the way.

He’s choosing to evolve on his own terms.

Jungkook’s Mental Health

Dickweed death – New beginnings are needed

The card repeats the message already here. Especially with Give It a Whirl and The Fool:

Jungkook is craving a fresh start.

This isn’t just about a new chapter post-military. It’s about reevaluating the parts of his life that felt stale, confining, or unfulfilling. He wants out. And not just in theory. He wants to do things differently and explore. Even if that means trying and failing a few times.

This card is similar to what came up in Namjoon’s reading as well: that sense of "enough with the old cycles." it’s a desire for alignment.

“No Drama Llama” – Protect your inner peace

This card aligns with Temperance:

He is finding peace and space to enjoy his life, be himself, and surround himself with his people.

Still Not Failing Enough

This card is one of the most telling.

You see a person in a lab surrounded by bottles, mixing potions and suddenly there is an explotion due to him experimenting, trying things out.

He is thinking: "If this didn’t work, I’ll try something else. It'll get messy, I’ll make mistakes, but I won’t stop trying, going for it and continue having fun”

It is also connected to The Fool. He is experimenting, not recklessly, but bravely and intuitively. Even when things don’t work the first time, he’s not discouraged. If people don’t understand him at first? He keeps going. He knows eventually it’ll click (for him, and for others).

He’s not chasing perfection. He’s chasing freedom. He is just being and trying to show his unapologetic self.

I leave you with some of the messages from the oracle cards that will add context to the reading:

Give it a whirl:

"NEW AND IMPROVED! Try something new, who knows... you might like it!

Settling into a comfort zone makes your horizon awfully dull and monotonous. Let's try a new hobby or even just walking down a different street on your way home! Being spontaneous can recharge the soul, give you a newfound passion for something, think of all the possibilities!

All you have to do is try, because if you do not you will never know what could have been. You might just be unlocking something you didn't even know you were missing out on."

Still not failing enough

"Your behaviour may be too rigid. Get wild and go make something explode. For science! "

Take care!

[edawgz]

ᝰ.ᐟ UNTRUSTWORTHY

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ tommy shelby x fem. reader. ~1.5k words.

❚ ❙ ❘ flirty. implied nsfw. borderline smut. sexual innuendos. rivals.

: ̗̀➛ In a room thick with smoke, sharp glances, and unspoken desire, you challenge each other’s control -- and find yourselves surrendering in ways neither expected. A slow burn of power, wit, and heat, where trust is dangerous and attraction is undeniable.

| masterlist. | peaky blinders masterlist. |

You arrive at the Garrison on a Monday night, dressed like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to take. Your heels click with intention against the floor, your coat tailored just sharply enough to look like armor, and your chin tilted as if the world should move aside. It usually does.

The pub is a haze of smoke and low murmurs, the kind of place where secrets get traded for whisky and the shadows do most of the talking. You move through it like you belong there -- because you do -- and spot him immediately, seated in the far booth like he was poured into the leather and told to wait for trouble.

Tommy Shelby doesn’t blend in, no matter how quiet the room is. He doesn’t need to. He occupies space the way a fire does -- slow, warm, and slightly dangerous at first glance. The second glance just confirms it.

He catches your eye before you’re halfway across the room, his gaze sliding over you like he’s assessing a fine weapon. He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just waits.

You slip into the seat across from him, ignoring the spot he gestured to beside him. That was a test, and you passed.

“Late,” he says, his voice low and even, a hint of steel beneath the smoke.

“Fashionably,” you reply, sliding your gloves off one finger at a time, making a small performance out of it. “Didn’t think you’d mind. Or are you the sentimental type now?”

He takes a slow sip of whiskey, barely a reaction, but the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth betrays some level of amusement. “I don’t. But you will, if you make a habit of it.”

“Lucky for both of us,” you say as you settle deeper into the seat, legs crossed, “I don’t make habits. I make money.”

Tommy leans back, fingers wrapped around his glass, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to solve a riddle no one else has quite understood. “Same thing.. at least, in this line of work.”

You smile with the kind of sharp edge that’s gotten you into and out of a hundred deals. “So, this is business then?”

He watches you for a moment, completely unreadable. “You said you had a proposition. Thought I’d let you make it in person.”

“And what if I told you I just wanted to see your pretty face in the flesh?” You hummed as your fingers traced the glass he had set out for you.

He doesn’t bite, doesn’t flinch.. just watches you calmly. “Then I’d ask what you’re really after.”

“Maybe I’m after your horses,” you say, lips quirking slightly as you lean forward.

“You’re not,” he replies without hesitation, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Your guns, then.”

“Closer.”

Your smile stretches, slow and deliberate, like a slow draw of a knife. “I want in on the north docks. You’ve been circling them. I already have people inside.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even glance at the map you slide across the table. “And what do you want in return?”

“A seat at the table,” you say, the words landing like a coin dropped on marble. You wanted to make sure that this exchange was sharp, clear, nonnegotiable.

Tommy’s gaze darkens with something unreadable, and when he speaks, it’s quieter than before. “You don’t want to marry into it?”

That earns a real laugh from you, low and unrestrained. “Jesus Christ, no. I’d rather slit my wrists with a broken teacup.”

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth again -- something like approval, or maybe amusement. “Good.”

The word lingers in the air like smoke. “You know... I don’t trust you,” he says, eyes steady.

“And I don’t trust you,” you reply easily, almost fondly. “But I like you.”

He tilts his head slightly with an eyebrow quirked, “You like dangerous things.”

“Only the ones that don’t apologize for it.” You shot back, tilting your head to mimicking him as your eyes met.

That earns something close to a smile from him that was brief, sharp, and gone too soon. “Only the ones that fight back,” he corrected, and it hangs between you like a match waiting to be struck.

You reach for the cigarette he offers without hesitation, and he lights it with the same casual grace he uses to order a killing. His eyes are steady as the flame flickers, the smoke curling around you both like it knows something you don’t yet.

“You always this charming to your 'rivals'?” you ask, taking a long drag.

“Only the pretty ones,” he murmurs, and the way he says it isn’t coy, he just states it like it’s simply true.

You exhale, slow and controlled, watching the smoke drift upward before you speak. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment. Even if it’s manipulative.”

He shrugs, it was the smallest motion, but somehow weighted. “Compliments usually are manipulative... just because they're said doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

“And manipulation’s just conversation,” you say, finishing his thought. “With higher stakes.”

He doesn’t disagree. He just watches you like a man who already knows the next ten minutes and is willing to play them slow.

“You still want a seat at the table?” he asks, voice like gravel rubbed smooth by time.

You tilt your head slightly. “You offering?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He stands instead, slow and smooth, the kind of movement that’s more command than invitation.

You meet his gaze and hold it. And then, without a word, you rise and follow.

The walk upstairs is quiet.. not the awkward kind of silence, it was something heavier, something full. You don’t speak, and neither does he because there’s no need.

When he shuts the door behind you, it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either... it’s just final. Like a move in chess that ends the game before anyone else realizes it.

You turn to face him, already knowing how this ends.

“This isn’t about business,” you say, though your voice is softer now, there's less armor, more heat.

“No,” he replies, stepping closer until the space between you feels like a fuse. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t kiss you like he’s unsure.. he kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling. His hand settles on your waist, thumb dragging upward, and you swear the air in the room bends around the pressure of his mouth on yours.

You respond in a hungry but measured manner, like a woman who’s known want before and never let it conquer her. But Tommy Shelby is not like the others. He doesn’t touch to take, he touches like he’s memorizing, learning, and maybe even earning.

Your coat slips off your shoulders in one clean motion, and you feel his hands on your back, slow and warm and utterly unhurried. He pulls you toward the bed, and when you reach it, he doesn’t throw you down. He just watches as you sit, your blouse half undone, breath shallow, eyes sharp.

“You still don’t trust me,” you whisper again, but the words aren’t a challenge now. They’re something more dangerous.. they're honest.

“I trust this,” he murmurs, and his hand finds your thigh.

The breath you let out is shaky, involuntary. His lips follow the edge of your jaw down your throat like he’s tracing the line of your power. He unbuttons your shirt slower than he has any right to, each one undone with a look that says he’s already undressed you a hundred times in his head.

And somehow, he still wants to take his time.

Your skin is warm under his touch, the kind of warmth that makes you forget yourself. He kisses down your chest, across the slope of your stomach, and when he finally lays you back against the bed, he does it like he’s handling a weapon.. carefully, reverently.

You’re not sure when you stop pretending this is part of the game. Maybe it’s the way his hand slips under your thigh and anchors you to him. Maybe it’s the way he murmurs your name like a secret only he’s meant to keep. Or maybe it’s the way he pauses -- just long enough to make sure you’re still with him -- and then leans in again like he plans to stay there forever.

Later, when the heat has faded and your body hums with something more electric than exhaustion, you rest your head against his chest.

You don’t speak, but neither does he.

His hand strokes slowly along your hip, almost absentminded, like he’s thinking of what comes next. Or maybe he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if this changes anything.

And then he says, voice thick with sleep and smoke and something you don’t dare name, “You’re not walking out of here thinking you’ve won.”

You smirk against his skin. “Like hell I will.”

He laughs, a soft, low sound that rumbles through his chest.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“And you,” you say, pressing your mouth to his neck, “like trouble.”

His hand tightens on your hip.

Neither of you sleep quickly. But eventually, the room grows quiet again, the city outside breathes, and for now, that’s enough.

[trazodone100mg]

I'm about to start reading the light novel version of The Summer Hikaru Died, and before I do I want to get a few questions and thoughts about the series and his character out of my head since it's been nagging me.

When did Hikaru die? I've been thinking about this recently. The start of the story takes place in the summer, six months after the 'real' Hikaru has already died. I'm going off of memory alone so the details are fuzzy, but I'd like to go back and reference the manga at some point to see if any dates are listed or months named. If the summer season spans late June to late September, that would mean Hikaru died in January to April, most likely in the winter, early spring at latest. If I remember right, it was rainy and cold when Yoshiki found Hikaru's body.

The 'summer' Hikaru died could be non-literal, as in Hikaru has been dead all this time, but the person Yoshiki knew didn't begin to fully disappear and be replaced in his heart until his suspicions were confirmed that day outside the convenience store. Hikaru didn't truly die until Yoshiki--the first person to find out--was allowed to properly grieve for him over the summer the story takes place. It gets philosophical from there; what is death, and what does it really mean to 'die' in a situation like this? Etc.

I would have a few questions if the story intends to take a more literal path, however, starting first and foremost with, "If Hikaru dies in the summer, does that mean Hikaru hasn't died yet?"

When we consider the title The Summer Hikaru Died, are we only considering the 'real' Hikaru?

I know the Japanese uses different characters in the spelling of the character's name to differentiate between the 'real' Hikaru and 'Hikaru', and Yoshiki does this in his head. Which spelling does the title of the series use? All genuine questions that may hold no water, but has been interesting to think about.

I also have pretty strong feelings about Hikaru's character, if you couldn't tell. And not just 'Hikaru', but the 'real' Hikaru and how his understated and very grounded characterization and emotions inform the 'Hikaru' we know. I think the author is extremely talented to be able to convey so much about him when we have been shown so little of him so far, and I think I understand him fairly well.

The most important thing to note right off the bat; I believe Yoshiki's feelings for the 'real' Hikaru were mutual. Which, I didn't at first! And Yoshiki certainly thought his feelings were completely one-sided as well. But after contemplating their characters and the dialogue, I've come to believe that their depth makes it easy to misinterpret.

I will once again insert a disclaimer that I am working on memory alone, so feel free to correct me at any point if I am mistaken, but my reasoning is as follows:

In the oneshot pilot that serves as a first draft of the series, 'Hikaru' explains when asked that he likes Yoshiki and believes his new body played a major role in influencing his feelings, since it already liked Yoshiki before he came to occupy it. As the 'real' Hikaru is dying, he regrets that he is unable to tell Yoshiki how he really feels, and asks the entity that possesses him to tell Yoshiki that he likes him, too. 'Hikaru' also mentions the curse; that the Indou's lovers are inevitably stolen away, that it has happened in the past between two men (which, on an only semi-related note, I have a ton of other questions I won't even touch here about the previous generation of Indous and Tsujinakas, and this may be entirely off-base but I can't shake the feeling there was...something similar going on between Yoshiki's emotionally distant father and Hikaru's dad, who was his best friend), and that the 'real' Hikaru saw himself reflected in that and was frightened by it.

But that was all a part of the first draft of the story, and we know not everything carried over to the story we know now. But I do believe we can still use it to gain some insight into the author's intent.

Yoshiki describes the 'real' Hikaru as mature and not oft to show big emotions. He wasn't the type to cry, but I have come to interpret his character as somewhat numbed and depressed, and the type to deflect with humor. Here's what I think did carry over; 'Hikaru' certainly likes Yoshiki (in his own, unique way), but in dialogue expresses that he's unsure if those feelings are entirely his own, and doesn't know what pieces belong to who between the two individuals known as Hikaru. The 'real' Hikaru was scared of his feelings for Yoshiki, for a few reasons. He could become a victim of the Indou family curse, he wouldn't be able to marry Yoshiki to prevent the curse befalling him given that they are both men (Hikaru's father makes it a point to tell him that the only way to stop the curse is to marry the one you love quickly), and growing up in the country, they have witnessed second-hand the consequences of not conforming in a town where everyone knows everyone's business (more than once, but specifically: "He's not sick, he's a homosexual.")

Hikaru's father was dead, he most likely felt that he needed to suppress his feelings of love for his best friend and had no way to move forward (my mind always goes back to how Hikaru, in a flashback at the start of vol. 1, turns away from Yoshiki when telling him he could probably find a girlfriend easily if he only tried), and carried the burden of performing whatever their family ritual entailed. He didn't commit suicide, but he died carelessly and only regretted that he would be leaving Yoshiki alone, as he was the only other person to truly understand how Yoshiki felt. And maybe his death was one means of protecting Yoshiki since he couldn't deny his feelings for him.

[mad-hunts]

starting off this sunday with a sad fact, and that is often whenever barton smells this cinnamon, but as a part of a specific blend with... something else he can't quite identify? barton is reminded of marcy because she used to wear a perfume that had that sort of scent to it.

[hanasnx]

ᯓ★ “ I WANNA FUCK WITH THE LIGHTS ON ” — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: this movie isn’t out yet but i can’t wait that long to take advantage of my superman kick and fuck this man. unfortunately i don’t know much about his characterization other than the trailer content. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ dick riding ノ objectification ノ p in v ノ praise ノ clark has huge dick syndrome.

“Just… take it slow.” CLARK KENT encourages, but it’s said more so for himself than you. A large, flattened palm emphasizes his instruction, gesturing for you to relax without grabbing you to take over your actions. You stop, his eyes flickering to meet yours questioningly, until he takes a shot in the dark. “Please.” It’s delightfully endearing, and it loosens you up a little.

“It’s not that, Clark, I’m just—you’re just so… you know,” Big. You try to hint at it without blurting it out. Hovering over his lap too long, a tremor builds in your thighs, and you bite down onto your lip as you let it pass through you in a shudder.

His expression adjusts as the realization dawns on him, “Ah,” he exclaims thoughtfully, and he tests the waters, bringing his hands to your body to rest in comfortable places. Your waist seems appropriate, and your fingers fiddle with the muscle in his shoulders as you keep chewing your lip. “Do you want me to take over?” the question is punctuated with a shift of his hips, arranging himself in a better position to begin, but even the marginal movement has you whining with need. It alerts him, tensing up instantly as he freezes while your pretty face twists in pleasured agony. You’re still wrapped around his reddened tip, and it’s a burning kind of stretch that makes you wish you could just shove him in all the way—at the cost of ripping you in half.

Through your heavy lids and thick eyelashes, you manage to meet his gaze with darkened pupils that don’t want to cooperate. You hum a pitiful “uh-huh” while you nod your head, signaling to him that he’s right. His thumbs on your torso stroke at your skin comfortingly, big hands clamped around you as he raises you. The lip of his head catches on the rim of your pussy, and you suck in a breath as an emptiness replaces what used to be filled.

“We’re gonna take it nice and easy,” Clark talks you through it, but even his exhale hitches when cold air hits his slit. Carefully, he lowers you back on, feeding his dick back into your silken walls before taking it away again—all to introduce your hole to his size little by little. The method chips away at your tightness, and you try to follow his movements with yours even if you’re weak in the knees. “Wanna look at me, duchess? Let me see your eyes?” He tilts his head, his curls falling over his forehead as he chases your gaze. You do your best to peel your eyes open one-by-one, granting him his wish as you pant through your open mouth taking his cock one agonizing inch at a time. The sight of you barely holding on when he’s not even halfway in, stretches a smile onto his face, and if you were more coherent, you’d say it’s one of pride as well as endearment.

One hand cautiously releases your side, while the other takes your weight entirely, bobbing you up and down as if you were no heavier than a fleshlight. His other slides between you two to seek out your pretty bud, resting his thick fingers on your thigh while his thumb comes to stroke at that clit. The new sensation slicks you up as quickly as it occurred, and you gasp at how elevated it all feels from a simple action like that. “That’s what you were missing. Right, baby? It’s hard to loosen up without it. You’re so tight…” You know he didn’t say it like it’s a compliment, but it makes your insides jump anyway. Your muscle contracts and suddenly he can fit a lot more in. “Does that feel good?” he asks, his thumb leisurely circling your bud as your pussy drools around him.

Desperately, you nod your head with a couple of “mm-hmm’s!” that lead him to speed up—introducing you to more of his length as he picks up the pace on petting your clit. Your hands abandon gripping his shoulders for stability and instead overlay his. Yours are dwarfed by him, but he takes your guidance, absorbing how you’re putting pressure on his knuckles and replicating it against your poor pearl, getting puffy from the stimulation and the lack of getting railed. It all lights a fire under your ass, and your body moves for you, bouncing in place to try and force more of his cock into you. You can’t overpower the Superman, but he does let you take it all down to the hilt—his strength making a sex toy out of you.